The Flat: A Novel of Supernatural Horror Read online

  The Flat

  By Jack Douglas and Rick Chesler

  Copyright © 2016 Rick Chesler and Jack Douglas

  Cover art by J. Kent Holloway

  eBook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information email [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  The city of Lisbon has a dark side, one that is marked by betrayal, jealousy, and gut-wrenching heartache. It is expressed in a musical style distinctive to Lisbon known as fado. Listen closely. You are hearing this country’s soul.

  –Anonymous (Scrawled in Craig Devlin’s Guidebook)

  From the Desk of Amaro Dias Silva

  Casey Morton-Blaine Literary Agency Empire State Building

  350 Fifth Avenue

  New York, New York 10118 United States

  Attn: Jenna Bagetta

  Dear Senhora Bagetta:

  I understand that you are the literary agent representing Craig Devlin, my most recent tenant here in Lisbon, Portugal. I am, therefore, taking the liberty of forwarding to you your client’s completed manuscript, as it was left behind when Sr. Devlin vacated my flat. As you may know, Sr. Devlin and his fiancée Amy Berdan left no forwarding address.

  It should be noted, given the circumstances, I have also forwarded copies of this manuscript to Portuguese and American authorities, as well as to the brother of Senhora Amy Berdan, who contacted me several times with regard to his sister’s whereabouts.

  With respect to Sr. Devlin’s manuscript, in my humble opinion, the story is quite good, though perhaps too disturbing for an American publisher. In any event, I leave it with you to do as you will. I am certain you will find the book a good home.

  Sincerely yours,

  Amaro Dias Silva

  P.S. If you are ever to consider Lisboa as a spot to spend your holiday, please feel free to contact me if you require somewhere to stay. I am certain I have the perfect place.

  Chapter One

  It started about three and a half hours into the flight. It was a painless sensation, a heavy rhythmic thumping like a heartbeat through a stethoscope. A throbbing in his right ear. At first he ignored it, dismissed it as a trick of the altitude, a minor disturbance resulting from a change in air pressure. It started to dull then faded altogether. But minutes later it returned as loud and unremitting as ever. He pinched his nose and swallowed hard, stretched his jaw in a yawn but it had no effect. His ears seemed to pop, but the pulsating continued.

  He leaned to his right and slipped his fingers into Amy’s icy hands, but she didn’t stir. It didn’t matter whether she was in a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton or cramped in a middle seat in coach at thirty thousand feet; when Amy slept, she slept like the dead. Craig frowned. Shifted and loosened his seat belt. Eyed the clouds beneath the airliner’s wing and briefly imagined dropping through, hurtling toward the earth in a frenzied free fall without a chute. Another four hours and they would touch down in Lisbon, claim their luggage, hop a taxi and travel through the city to their flat.

  One year in Portugal, which would serve as the setting for his next book, a novel tentatively titled Letters from Lisbon. A love story, a love tragedy he hoped would set the literary world afire. He had failed in three previous attempts at book-length fiction; three attempts in two grueling, near-suicide years in which Amy had packed her bags and left him twice.

  Finally a nonfiction manuscript earned him some success. A memoir titled Libations & Infatuations, which chronicled his twenties, a decade of debauchery, of endless drinking, drugs and sex. It was a story he had never intended to tell, a writing that began as a suicide note, ran for four hundred pages and later landed on his literary agent’s cluttered Manhattan desk. It earned him a second shot and a modest advance, enough to carry him and Amy—his on-again, off-again fiancée—away from hellish Gotham for a while, for twelve long months of peace, recuperation and relative solitude.

  The turbulence hit without warning; the air became angry and violent. The cabin lights flickered and the in-flight movie blinked off. Jarred, Craig reached into his right pants pocket and plucked from it a bottle of Xanax. As the plane rocked, he dry-swallowed a pill, unfastened the seat belt and tugged at his collar.

  It felt as though they were losing altitude.

  Craig launched himself from his seat, but just as he did, the seat belt sign jingled, thwarting his attempt for the aisle. He sat, re-fastened his belt and took deep breaths, willing the Xanax to kick in. He gripped the armrests as hard as he could, pictured himself in a wide open field. But with each second that passed, the seat felt that much smaller, the belt tightening against his waist, the passenger in front of him reclining, pressing like a hot iron against his knees.

  In a near-panic, his eyes darted to Amy. Her eyes were closed, her mouth ajar. The slightest bit of drool was sliding down her chin. Wake up, he thought, but she didn’t. She never did at times like this. In the pitch dark, in the dead of night, as he lay in bed, gripped by paralyzing anxiety, she’d breathe in and out, in and out, mocking him with every unconscious breath for his chronic inability to sleep.

  Craig twisted the control above his head and took in the small bit of air it offered. As suddenly as the fear came, it went. The anxiety dissipated, the chair widened, the belt loosened, the passenger in front of him moved up in his seat. The airliner steadied and Amy woke, opening her eyes and wiping the spittle from her chin.

  She didn’t say anything, of course. She seldom did. She spoke when she was spoken to, but rarely started a conversation. Her faded green eyes fell on him for just a second, then advanced to the aisle, as she folded her arms against the chill.

  He leaned in and kissed her shoulder. He would prove to her over th
e next several months that remaining with him wasn’t a mistake. That a year in Europe was just what they needed. That this last leg of their long engagement would be the happiest, most intimate period of their lives— the perfect prelude to their long-awaited marriage.

  “Halfway there,” he said a few minutes later.

  Amy’s face was now buried in a battered paperback, her eyes glued to a yellowed page. She lowered the book after several measured seconds, swept her hair behind her ear and said, “I have to call my mother as soon as we land.”

  Her mother. It was always about her mother and no one else. If she wanted to kill a conversation—and Craig often thought she did—she need only mention her mother. Her mother, who had arrived all too eagerly each time Amy packed her bags. Her mother, who’d poisoned Amy against him from the start. Her mother, who’d barked about Craig getting a “real job” when he spent ninety hours a week hunched over a laptop computer.

  “Are you excited?” he asked.

  “Sure.” The same answer she’d supplied repeatedly over the previous ninety days, ever since they’d booked their flight and secured their flat. Sure, with the faintest hint of sarcasm and now the unequivocal tone of regret.

  Craig gazed out the window and took another deep breath, entranced by the incessant pulsing in his ear. He reached into the seat pocket for his iPod Shuffle and placed the tiny white buds into his ears. He punched up the volume and watched out the window at the blue sky above, the gray clouds below. For the next three hundred and sixty- five days, he’d leave behind his problems and worry over nothing but his writing. He and Amy would soak up some Old World culture and hammer out each of their issues long before they returned to New York.

  He reached over and took her left hand, warming it between both of his. He allowed himself to close his eyes and lean back in his seat. He daydreamt of their first nights in Lisbon, of dining at outdoor cafés and imbibing in quiet, dimly lit taverns. Of strolling home arm-in-arm with only the moonlight and stars to guide them. Of rushing up the stairs and fumbling for their keys, of bursting through the door and shedding their clothes, of making love on the floor of their new flat.

  Craig drifted off, half-thinking, half-dreaming, as the music drowned out the sound of the pulse and the hum of the plane. And before long he was sleeping, and the airliner was descending, and Amy was awake and reading, and in his ears, Ozzy was going off the rails on a crazy train.

  Chapter Two

  Amy waved Craig off and lifted her overstuffed suitcase into the dusty trunk of the taxi herself. Then she climbed into the rear of the cab and sat idly in protest, her hands folded in her lap. She’d wanted to call her mother but Craig had hurried her out of the airport, anxious to catch a taxi and make their way to the flat.

  It had been like this ever since they started dating, Craig trying to drive a wedge between her and her parents—especially between her and her mother. He had never even given them a chance. Dodging her parents the first three or four times they were supposed to meet. Amy showing up alone at restaurants in the city after her parents drove for more than two hours from their home upstate, making excuses for Craig: Oh, he’s sick. Or, he’s got a big trial starting tomorrow morning.

  By then, of course her mother was biased against him. Of course she was none too thrilled when he proposed marriage after only two and a half months of serious dating. Of course she was horrified when Amy first announced they were moving seven thousand miles away to Hawaii.

  Now, in the rear seat of the taxi, Craig fumbled with his guidebook, flipping pages and muttering sounds, attempting to answer the driver in Portuguese.

  “Onde?” the driver said again, impatiently. He watched them through the rearview, and his gaze made Amy feel uneasy. His skin was dark and prematurely wrinkled, his eyes narrowed and bloodshot, as though he had spent the afternoon drinking on the beach.

  Amy surreptitiously sniffed the air, sure she picked up the faint scent of wine. She leaned over to Craig to whisper in his ear but kept silent. He would only shrug off her concern anyhow, she decided, accuse her again of trying to sabotage their precious trip.

  Instead she sat quietly, huddled in the corner, watching the bustle on the street. The sky was gray and threatening dark. It was disorienting, since back home in Manhattan it was only two o’clock. She’d slept some on the plane but was still fatigued. Worn mentally and emotionally. Still torn over her decision—a decision she didn’t really make until the moment she stepped onto the plane.

  “Aqui,” Craig said finally, jabbing at the map. “Here.” He rattled off their address in the Alfama quarter.

  “Porquê?” said the driver, shaking his head.

  Amy could tell Craig was growing flustered, red rising up his neck. “No compreendo,” he sputtered. “I don’t understand.” Then, “Please, por favor, go now, take us to the Alfama quarter, to our flat.”

  The driver sat mute, still staring into the rearview, his bloodshot eyes trained on Amy. Then he reset the fare, shrugged his shoulders, shifted out of park, and stomped on the accelerator, flinging Craig back against the torn vinyl seat.

  The taxi merged into traffic and Amy stared out the window, still somewhat stunned to find herself in Lisbon. It was her first time in Europe, her first time abroad unless you counted the day-trip she and her family once took to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.

  It wasn’t for her family’s lack of desire to travel. Certainly not her mother’s. No, Diana Berdan would have been the first to say, “Let’s rent one of those over-the-water thatched-roof bungalows in Bora Bora.” But that was pretty difficult to do on a teacher’s salary, and her husband, Amy’s father, was of no help at all.

  Sure, Johnny Berdan had big dreams at one time. Not unlike Craig. He had had an entrepreneurial spirit, Amy’s mother said. He was going to open the finest bar and grill in Pawling, and follow it up with one in Poughkeepsie, one in Newburgh, one in Waterbury and another in Naugatuck. Then he and her mother got married, had Amy, and soon after Amy’s brother.

  Instead of owning a Pawling bar and grill, her father began working at one, slinging drinks at Dooley’s over on Dutchess Drive. Five bucks an hour plus tips. A Pawling Gazette paper route on the side.

  So much for Johnny’s big dreams. So much for Diana’s.

  Amy’s eyes grew wide. Portugal’s capital city wasn’t at all what she had expected. It was old, sure, yet spectacularly beautiful. Elegant with rolling hills—a striking contrast from the flattened landscape of Manhattan.

  And the streets of Lisbon were surprisingly eclectic. The taxi swept past contemporary buildings nestled between baroque cathedrals and old boutique specialty shops. Ornate archways fronted cold, hidden doorways. Narrow cobblestone alleyways displayed working old-fashioned trams. The roads were lined with small tavernas and neighborhood cafés, the riverbanks with restaurants advertising fresh seafood and fine wines. Every building, every storefront, seemed to shine despite the tired gray sky. And the pedestrians moved slowly, in no apparent hurry, actually taking the time to acknowledge one another on the street.

  The cab coasted smoothly along the uncrowded city thoroughfare. The driver, once agitated, now seemed calm and unhurried, his bloodshot eyes finally focused not on the rearview but on the road ahead.

  Craig was uncharacteristically quiet, surveying the city, jotting notes in the margins of his travel guide. He, too, seemed oddly serene. No doubt relieved that he had actually made it to Lisbon with Amy at his side.

  She knew he didn’t trust her. Not after what had happened in Honolulu.

  She looked away from him and sighed.

  The driver didn’t signal, just suddenly jerked the steering wheel to the left. Amy’s stomach leapt like it had on the Kraken, that goddamned roller coaster Craig finally conned her into riding last month. She lost her balance and crashed into him, as Craig braced himself against the door.

  The cab veered down a narrow side road. The wheels bounced along the broken pavement, jolting the pair like
Mexican jumping beans. Amy reached for the front seat to steady herself. Her eyes settled on the set of red rosary beads swinging like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.

  The driver seemed oblivious, his right foot glued to the accelerator, his left hand adjusting a chipped and peeling Jesus statue stationed on the cracked blue dashboard.

  Amy pulled her eyes from the rosary and watched through the windshield at the fast approaching intersection. The taxi roared toward it without slowing. She caught a glint off the fender of an approaching vehicle, and then she screamed and shut her eyes.

  The taxi screeched to an abrupt halt. Amy’s face was flung forward as though through a slingshot into the front passenger seat. A fierce pain shot up through her nose.

  Next thing she knew, Craig was leaning over her, holding a handkerchief to her face, cursing the driver from one side of his mouth and reassuring Amy from the other.

  She opened her eyes and saw the white hanky turn crimson. She gasped and shuddered and held onto Craig’s arm as he lifted her head skyward to ebb the bleeding.

  She worried that her nose was broken. Imagined spending her first days in Lisbon with a splint down her face and two black eyes. Pictured herself returning to her parents’ place in Pawling, fractured and doped on painkillers, falling into her mother’s arms, sobbing, conceding she’d been right all along.

  “Do you want to go to a hospital?” Craig asked.

  Amy shook her head and blinked back tears. She breathed deeply, more shocked than pained. She pleaded, “I just want to go home.”

  Craig nodded. For a moment she thought he would ask the driver to return them to the airport. That they would purchase tickets and board the next flight bound for New York. Instead he instructed the driver to proceed to the Alfama, but slowly. The driver bowed his head as though he suddenly understood ingles and rolled the taxi back onto the street with an exaggerated caution.