Loss, a paranormal thriller (3 page)

"Where are you taking me?"

Paul laughed, but didn't answer.  She still had no idea what was going on.

Though he blindfolded her long before they arrived at their destination, she felt safe.  The car ride from his bungalow had been perhaps twenty minutes by her guess.  After parking in a gravel lot, they'd been walking for another ten minutes.  Excitement tingled through her, raising the hair on her arms.  The moment was building, not just because it could be THE moment, but also because surprises just weren't Paul's style.  He was always so straightforward about everything, almost to a fault.  But that was one of the many reasons why she loved him.  Since they started dating ten months before, she could look into his dark brown eyes and see his intentions, his deepest thoughts, clear as day.

He may have been predictable, but was that such a bad thing when the predictable behavior was all she ever wanted? But this, the blindfold, the picnic basket he'd brought along, everything, this was a new wrinkle to the Paul she'd fallen in love with.

"Here, watch your step," Paul said, still holding her hand, guiding her up a flight of stairs.  "Good, two more."

She was dying to know where they were.  Perhaps a lookout point?  Wine her and dine her with his basket lunch, sit with his arm around her as they gazed out over some tremendous view?

Their relationship started almost on a whim, and came very close to not happening at all.  They lived two blocks apart; she lived in an apartment on Winterbourne Lane, while Paul had a small bungalow on Wichita Street.  She had never set eyes on her future boyfriend before the day of their first date.  Even so, she had formed a well-detailed picture of the mysterious man from two blocks away for at least a year.

She heard a door opening on a rusty hinge.

"We're here.  Are you ready?"

2.

The whimsical nature of their meeting came into play due in part because of their mailman's inattention to detail.  Her address was 1301, Paul's, 1310.

Since she moved in a year prior, Angie had received occasional misplaced mail meant for 1310 Wichita.  The first was a post card from the Grand View Fire Department (Generic but for a scrawled message at the bottom in blue ink:
Paul, Thanks for all the time and effort this year!  Our charity auction wouldn't have been the same without you!
).  Paul sounded like a decent man.  Probably a retired gentleman happy to lend a helping hand to those who do the same on a daily basis without much fan fair.  She could picture him: wearing a light tan windbreaker over a blue button-up shirt, soft, well worn jeans, white straight hair parted on the side, a thick, well trimmed mustache.  The next few misplaced pieces of mail didn't change her mental image.  A woodworking magazine, the type for people who know the difference between a miter joint and a dove tail.  And then, in one day, she received two misplaced pieces: a National Geographic magazine, which kept the image intact, but then also, the new issue of Mother Earth News.  The second magazine shifted her mental image of Paul to a generation younger.  He was still older than her by quite a few years.  An aging hippie, perhaps.  He still cared about his community, still had his own woodshop with a tool for any possible need, but he also passed his formative years in the era of Woodstock and Viet Nam.

A week later a final piece of mail arrived that sent her on the short walk to meet this unknown neighbor.  An entry form for a local adventure race held in Grand View State Park.  She loved The View, as the locals called it.  It was one of the main reasons she had moved from Chicago to take an office manager job in town.  As she made her way down the sidewalk from Winterbourne and walked past Collins Avenue, and on to Wichita, she scanned the entry form.  It was a single sheet of glossy paper, tri-folded, the race information embossed over an impressive photo of the rugged dirt trail winding through a steep uphill.  Since high school she'd had the on again, off again habit of running a few miles on the indoor track at the local YMCA.  She'd often tell her coworkers that she'd tried exercise, again and again she'd tried it, but it just wasn't taking.

This was a fifteen kilometer race on trails.  If her math was correct, that was around ten miles.  The race crossed three streams and touted the roughest stretch of trails this side of the Mississippi.  A long injury waiver took up most of one side of the form.  It also had small photos of the winners from the year before.

Under the blurry photo of the male winner: Paul Chandler, 31, Grand View.

She found the house, a charming split level, and rung the doorbell.  When the door opened, her long-crafted image of Paul Chandler became charmingly moot.  She had been so far off base she was left tongue-tied.

"Hello," he said, offering a smile that only hindered her ability to speak.  When she didn't immediately respond, he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms as if amused by her silence.  When his smile widened, creases formed along his eyes.  His bearded face was tan, but more so weathered, as if he spent a considerable amount of time outside in the elements.

This is my dream,
she thought.

That was how it all began.

3.

After opening the creaky door, Paul guided her inside.  The room sounded different; birds still sang a riotous chorus, but it was a muted sound, and the wind had stopped blowing against her face.  She still wore the blindfold he'd put on her before they left his bungalow.  The question now was--where
inside
were they?  She was giddy with anticipation.  If she didn't trust Paul implicitly, she would've started feeling nervous by now.

Still holding her hand, he said, "This is my dream." 

"Can I take this off?"

"Not yet.  Here, stand right... there." He gently guided her with his hand at the small of her back.  "I'm going to tell you a story."

"I like stories," she said then bit her lower lip.  "Is it true?"

"For the most part.  Ready?"

"Go for it."

"The story starts in 1946.  Home from the war and with a new bride, Harvey Winchell bought a hunting cabin in these woods.  He carried Betty over the threshold, setting her down in the middle of the tiny living space.  She opened her eyes, which she had promised to keep closed since they left his second-hand Studebaker.  She was appalled at the sight.  The place was ill-lit and musty smelling.  It was small, and I mean
small
.  A single room with a wood burning stove, two rickety folding chairs and a cot.  Cobwebs hung from the window frames like drapes.  She could see sunlight through the cracks in the walls." 

Angie was listening to the story, enjoying the warm timbre of his voice, but she was also trying to figure out what else he was doing.  While she remained standing where he'd left her, his voice traversed the room, at points sounding inches away, and seconds later, as if he had his back to her on the far side of a large room.

"Their marriage almost ended when she opened her eyes.  Betty was not a country bumpkin.  Half the town had tried winning her heart before Harvey came out on top.  She had high expectations for how she would be taken care of.  And when she opened her eyes, she had no expectations for a future with Harvey.  She left him.  Just like that.  She stayed with her cousins in town, which in those days was quite the scandal in such a small town--a wife living away from her husband."

"Paul, I don't want to live in a cabin."

He ignored her comment, continuing, "Her reaction motivated him.  First, he cleaned the tiny cabin so he could sleep there at night without fear of getting nibbled on by the forest creatures.  Then, he started building."

"Building what?"  She had to know.  She felt like tearing the blindfold off, but didn't want to ruin Paul's plan.  She inhaled deeply, hoping to not smell the mustiness of an old cabin.  She exhaled, only sensing a small amount of dust in the cool air.

"He went to work building his dream home.  Working alone from sunup to sundown, finishing with the first thaw the following spring.  All that time Betty refused to see Harvey, all that time he worked alone, in secret."  Paul paused in his telling.  She could hear him rushing about, opening items from the picnic basket he'd lugged through the woods.  Jar lids, linen napkins, a bottle of wine… no it was champagne, she could hear the fizz of bubbles.  And the flick of a lighted match, followed by its sulfurous smell after he blew it out.

"Can I help you?"

"No, no, no.  Just about... okay.  Done."  He took her hand once again, and this time his fingers were clammy.  He brought her around to a table, guiding her to a waiting seat.  "I'm going to take off the blindfold, but keep your eyes closed."

"So what happened?"

"What?"

"To Harvey and Betty?"

"He won back her heart.  They lived happily ever after.  Now open your eyes."

When she did, Paul was on one knee, holding open a red velvet ring box.  A diamond caught the flickering candle flame and held it in its many angles.  Her breath caught, caught so hard she didn't realize she was holding it.

"This is my dream.  This home, Harvey and Betty's home."

The room sprawled, but only rough two by four studs hinted at interior walls.  The floor was bare to the sub-floor.

"Harvey had a heart of gold, but he couldn't plaster a wall to save his life.  The building is rock-solid otherwise.  When I gutted it, I inspected every inch.  Drywall goes up next week."

He paused and looked into her eyes.  He looked so vulnerable, on one knee, opening himself to her.  She could see the importance of this moment in his eyes.  "Angie, I never knew how incomplete I was until I met you.  From that first day, I knew I wanted you in my life.  I want you to be my wife."

Finally she could breathe, and it felt like her heart would burst.  Her chair tipped over when she jumped into his arms.  She held his face and kissed his forehead and each cheek before finding his lips.  His lips, how she loved to kiss his lips.  He fell over and she pinned him to the ground.  He started laughing.  Her tears of happiness fell, mixing with his own.

"Um... I'm not sure I heard an answer."

"Yes, yes, of course, yes!"

4.

Paul, a year before he revealed his dream to Angie, held the door to his bungalow open.  He had said hello twice, was going on a third, before she could say anything.

"This is going to sound really strange..." she said, not sure how to continue.

"You mean, like Paulie Shore reciting Shakespeare?" Paul deadpanned.

Before she could say anything, Paul started laughing, and she quickly found herself joining in comfortably.  "That wouldn't be strange.  More like a sign of the apocalypse."

"Like plagues of bugs and the rivers flowing red?"

"Exactly," she said, her tension forgotten, never to return.  "Actually, don't hate me, but I have your mail."  She handed him the racing form, and he took it, smiling.

"Why would I hate you?  You're not the mailman.  He's much taller and has a bum knee that keeps him from climbing my steps on snowy days."

"Funny, he does that with my mail too, but it seems to happen on some cloudy days, too.  I'm afraid this isn't the first piece of your mail he's put in my mailbox."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I think he sees the thirteen in the address and just puts it in the pile for my apartment.  I don't want you to hate me because there's been like, a lot of mail."

"A lot?"

She glanced at his left ring finger and felt a surge of embarrassment when he caught her looking.  Could this situation get any more awkward?  "Not tons, but I'd have to put it in the pound category."

"Oh, I bet it was just junk mail, right?  If it were bills, you would've been here much sooner," he said with a false sense of grave understanding.  She found his amiable nature instantly likeable.

"I'm glad you understand."

He was staring into her and it was hard for her to look away.  It was several silent seconds before she realized neither had spoken.

He spoke to break the silence.  "You're younger than I imagined.  I expected a dowdy grandmotherly-type."

"Really?"  She wondered what he was talking about, but felt comfortable enough with him to go along for the ride.

"And your name, Angeline, it sounds like from an earlier time."

"Actually, it's Angie."

"Nice to meet you, Angie.  I'm Paul Chandler."

He extended his hand and as she accepted it, she said, "Yeah, I know.  You're thirty one, live in Grand View, and you like to race up mountains in your free time.  And since you know my name, I'm guessing you're either a stalker, which would make this a very uncomfortable meeting, or the mailman is careless all over town."

He released her hand and held up an index finger.  "Wait right there."  He stepped inside, still talking, "Angie, I like that name by the way."  He came out with a box in hand he'd taken from a nearby shelf.  "Makes me think of Angels." 

"Aren't you the corny one?"

"Guilty as charged.  Here's your mail.  I figured, with the Cat Fancy and the quilting magazines, you'd be pushing a walker if you ever came over.  You know, sometimes reality paints a better picture than the imagination."

She felt herself blush.

"If you felt guilty about not coming over sooner, imagine me.  I was going to wait on some aging shut-in to come to
my
place."

"Is that really what you think of me?"Her blush washed over her cheeks and higher, until her scalp itself tingled.  She was embarrassed, not only because this stranger had seen into her personal life and labeled her bland and boring, but also that he had kept her mail in a box, unopened, waiting to hand it over to her.

"I... I threw out your other mail."

"Think of all the time you saved me."  He patted his pockets as if making sure he had his wallet.  "Listen, can I buy you a coffee?"

"No."

"No?"  His smile vanished.

"No, I'm going to buy you one to pay you back for all your mail I tossed out."

The day of their whimsical meeting, they also had their first date.  Their bond had been so strong from the beginning that Angie felt like she had always known him.  Even before she started receiving his mail.