Ghosts in the Attic (3 page)

“But this is the correct address,” the boy said, holding out the scrap of paper with Grayson’s address scribbled on it, as if that proved something. “That’ll be fifteen ninety.”

“I didn’t order any fucking pizza!” Grayson shouted and slammed the door in the boy’s face.

Grayson waited by the door until he heard footsteps retreating down the walk, then an engine revving and a car pulling away from the curb.

“Damn stupid kid,” he muttered, returning to the den and Bond, James Bond.

* * *

The next morning, when Grayson stepped outside to retrieve the paper, he found a pizza box sitting on his doorstep. Raising the lid, he discovered a cold veggie pizza inside, a large fat slug squirming along the edge of the crust.

“Unbelievable,” Grayson said, closing the lid and taking the box to the trashcan by the driveway. “The kid is nuts.”

* * *

Grayson was taking a Sunday afternoon nap on the sofa when he was awakened by the doorbell. He stretched languidly and stumbled to the door.

“Extra large Meat Lovers,” the delivery boy said. He was wearing the same outfit, and the same megawatt smile. “That’ll be thirty-one eighty.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me?”

“No, sir. That’s fifteen ninety for the Meat Lovers, and fifteen ninety for last night’s veggie.”

“I threw that damn veggie in the trash.”

The boy shrugged. “It’s not my business what you did with the pizza, sir, but you still have to pay for it.”

“I didn’t order that damn pizza,” Grayson yelled. “And I didn’t order this one either.”

The boy pulled another scrap of paper from his pocket and said, “Is this 409 Prescott Road?”

Grayson snatched the paper from the boy’s hand and ripped it in two. “Look, son, either you’re playing some kind of joke on me, or someone is playing a joke on you. Either way, I did not order these pizzas and I will not be paying for them.”

“That’ll be thirty-one eighty, sir,” the boy said as if he hadn’t heard a word Grayson had said.

Grayson had the overwhelming urge to punch the boy right in the face, but he resisted it, just barely. He scanned the boy’s shirt, cap, and the pizza box, but none of them had any kind of logo printed on them. “What pizza place do you work for, son?”

With his ever-present smile, the boy said, “The same company you called to order the pizzas, sir.”

“I didn’t call
anybody,
but if you don’t stop bothering me, I will be calling the cops on your sorry ass.”

Grayson slammed the door and stalked through the house to the kitchen. Flipping through the phone book, he found three pizza places in town that offered delivery. Snatching up the phone, he dialed the number for the first one.

“Pete’s Pizza Palace,” a female voice answered. “How may we help you?”

“Yeah, I need to know if you sent a deliveryman to my address this afternoon and also last night.”

“What is the address?”

“409 Prescott Road.”

A pause then, “No, sir, we did not. In fact, you live outside the city limits. We don’t deliver outside the city limits.”

Grayson hung up and called the other two places, with the same results. They had not sent a deliveryman to his house, and neither place delivered outside the city limits.

Grayson walked cautiously through the house back to the foyer. Peeking out the small window by the door, he saw that the delivery boy was gone, but he could also see the pizza box sitting on the doorstep. It soon joined the other one in the trash.

* * *

When Grayson got home from work the next day, he found two large pizza boxes on his doorstep. On top of them was a bill for sixty-three sixty.

“Motherfucker!” Grayson shouted, kicking the pizzas into the bushes. He stormed into the house and called the police.

“This is Officer Andrews. What seems to be the problem?”

“Yeah, I’m being harassed at my home.”

“Okay, is someone threatening you?”

“No, not exactly. This guy, he keeps leaving pizzas on my doorstep.”

A pause. “I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?”

“A guy keeps leaving pizzas on my doorstep, four so far.”

A laugh then, “If only I could get harassed like that.”

“This is serious. This guy is posing as a delivery boy, but he doesn’t work for any of the pizza places in town; I’ve already checked. He keeps insisting I ordered these pizzas and demanding money for them.”

“Okay, sir, give me your address and I’ll have an officer come out to take your statement.”

“Thank you,” Grayson said, giving his address then hanging up the phone.

He went to throw away the two new pizza boxes then decided to leave them. Evidence. Maybe the cops could dust them for the boy’s fingerprints. One way or another, Grayson was going to put a stop to this shit.

* * *

The next night, while Grayson was having a beer and surfing the ‘net, the doorbell rang.

“There you are,” Grayson said and bounded down the stairs, wrenching the door open to find the delivery boy holding several boxes.

“Three extra large pepperoni. That’ll be one hundred eleven dollars and thirty cents.”

“Fuck you,” Grayson said and lashed out. His fist connected with the boy’s chin, finally wiping that satisfied smile off his face.

The boy dropped the pizza boxes, the pizzas spilling out onto the ground. “You’re still going to have to pay for those,” the boy said, his bottom lip bright with blood.

“I’m not paying for shit.” Grayson pushed past him and ran to the street. A dark blue four-door Honda Accord idled at the curb. Grayson hurried around it to check the license plate number, just as Officer Andrews had suggested. As Grayson rounded the car, he stopped abruptly, his smile withering. There was no license plate.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” the delivery boy said, storming up the walk, “but you’re racking up quite a bill for these pizzas. Accounts will come due, sir, and you will have to pay what you owe.”

“I’ve called the cops; I’ve given them your description.”

The boy got into the car and slammed the door. “I’m warning you, pay what you owe or else.”

“Or else what?”

The delivery boy stuck his head out the window and fixed Grayson with a glare so dangerous and full of poison that Grayson actually stumbled back a few steps. Without another word, the boy started his car and drove away.

* * *

Grayson came home from work the next day to find five large pizzas waiting on the doorstep, along with a bill for one hundred ninety dollars and eighty cents. Grayson took the top pizza, tossed it on the ground, and jumped up and down on it like a petulant child.

Grayson called the police again, asking for Officer Andrews.

“More pizzas?” Andrews asked in a weary voice.

“Yes, more pizzas. Now he’s asking for almost two hundred dollars.”

“I’m really not sure what more we can do for you, sir.”

“I want this guy caught.”

“Well, we have no name, no license plate number.”

“I told you what kind of car he drives.”

“Yes, a dark blue Honda. Do you have any idea how many dark blue Hondas there are out there? You couldn’t even narrow down the year of the car for us.”

“Excuse me for not being an expert on cars. Look, can’t you just have an officer patrol my neighborhood?”

“When? According to you, he comes at different times throughout the day. Without an established pattern, what do you suggest? I can’t keep someone out there twenty-four hours a day.”

“So you’re just going to do
nothing
?”

“Sir, what do we really have here? Someone is leaving you pizzas, lots of pizzas. He has not attempted to break into your home, has not laid a hand on you—“

“He threatened me,” Grayson interrupted. “I told you, last night he threatened me.”

“I believe you told me he said you needed to pay up
or
else
. Not exactly the most ominous threat in the world.”

“It was the way he said it, and the look in his eyes. I’m telling you, this kid is unstable.”

“I’m sorry, we have the description, we’ll do what we can. Honestly, sir, I simply cannot spare anymore men on this. We have higher priority cases.”

Grayson opened his mouth to protest, but the line went dead as Andrews hung up on him.

“Sonofa
bitch
,” Grayson said, slamming the phone down.

* * *

That night, when the doorbell rang, Grayson didn’t answer it.

He was sitting in the den, eating a microwave meal, and the familiar chimes drilled into his brain like needles. He tried to ignore the bell, to block it out. It seemed an incredibly childish tactic—
ignore him and maybe he’ll go away
—but he didn’t know what else to do.

He squealed and dropped his meal on the carpet when he heard a banging directly behind him. Grayson whirled around and gasped to see the delivery boy’s face at the window behind the sofa. He was smiling in at Grayson, but the smile did not touch his eyes.

“Go away,” Grayson said, wishing his voice sounded more threatening. “I don’t want any of your damn pizzas.”

The delivery boy’s breath fogged up the window glass. “Oh, no pizzas tonight. Your account has come due, sir. I’m here to collect payment.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” Grayson said, backing toward the phone. He grabbed it, punched in 911, then held it up to his ear to discover a dead line. He let the phone drop to his feet.

Glass exploded into the den as the delivery boy smashed through the window, crawling over the couch, heedless of the shards that dug into his hands. His smile had mutated into something predatory and hungry.

Grayson ran for the kitchen, digging through the cutlery drawer, coming out with the biggest butcher knife he could find. He whirled around just as the delivery boy pushed through the swinging door.

“Stay back,” Grayson yelled, holding the knife out toward the boy. The blade shook violently in his hands.

The delivery boy laughed. “In a game of rock/paper/scissors, a gun beats a knife every time.” He then pulled a .45 and leveled it at Grayson’s chest.

Grayson dropped the knife and pawed his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out all the cash and tossed it at the delivery boy. “Take it, take it all. You win, I’ll pay.”

The boy advanced on Grayson, the barrel of the gun never wavering. “Sorry, sir, it’s a little late for that.”

Grayson backed into the corner, sliding down the wall until he was huddled on the floor, crying and holding his hands up in a silent plea for his life.

“We’ve gone far beyond mere money,” the delivery boy said, his serene smile resurfacing. “Way beyond. It’s going to take more than cash to settle your account, and I’m here to collect.”

WASTED ON THE YOUNG

He comes into the store every Tuesday. Sometimes he only browses, perusing the shelves for a half-hour or so and leaving empty-handed. Other times, he brings armloads of science fiction and horror novels to the counter, paying with crumpled one-dollar bills.

At first he says nothing, answering my pleasant chatter only with nods and monosyllabic grunts. I understand; young people don’t really enjoy talking to old-timers like myself. But eventually he relaxes around me enough to open up a little. He tells me his name is Daniel, and he lives three and a half blocks from my store. He is fourteen, and he proudly informs me that he owns close to three hundred books.

He is rather sad, to be honest. Shy and, I suspect, friendless. Underneath it all, he may be a handsome boy, it’s hard to say. His face is covered by an unfortunate explosion of acne that is painful to look at. Angry red anthills of pus, it looks almost as if his face is cocooned. Will he someday emerge as a beautiful butterfly? It is a pleasant fantasy, but life seldom hands us such happy fairytale endings.

After a few months, he starts coming in twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. As if to make up for his initial reticence, he now spends hours in the store, talking to me almost nonstop. It grows irksome after a time, but I simply smile and let him go on. It is obvious that he has no one else to talk to, and I am probably the closest thing to a friend he has ever had.

He tells me his parents are divorced, his father living in Florida with his new girlfriend. The man never visits and rarely writes his son. I assure Daniel that the divorce was not his fault, but secretly I believe his father probably ran away from his son as much as from his wife. Daniel is just one of those boys whose every action is designed to disappoint fathers. Daniel’s mother works two jobs and leaves her son on his own a lot. They live in one side of a duplex, having lost the house when Daniel’s father walked out on them.

Daniel talks mostly of books. He favors science fiction epics that take place on other worlds, peopled with exotic and beautiful alien life forms. He also enjoys horror, preferring the surreal to the grisly. I make the mistake once of telling him I’ve gotten in a series of novels based on the television show
Star Trek
. He gives me a superior smirk and informs me that he does not read
Star Trek
novels.

It is obvious from what he tells me that Daniel spends almost all of his free time reading. He does not go to movies, hang out at the mall, attend football games. He does not talk to friends on the phone or go to school dances with girls. The only people he socializes with are the characters in the books he reads. As the owner and proprietor of a used bookstore, I of course encourage and celebrate reading, but there are times when books can become a crutch, a hiding place, a way of avoiding real life. People like Daniel use books as a shield to deflect the world.

After a while, Daniel’s presence becomes an annoyance. I begin to understand how his father must feel, repelled and baffled by a son who seems as alien as the fictional characters he reads about. Daniel’s father probably thinks his son is queer. To me, Daniel seems asexual, a being devoid of carnal urges and erotic longing. If anyone else comes into the store while he’s there, he tends to clam up, hiding behind one of the shelves, waiting until the other customers leave before reemerging.