Baxter Brown tightened his grip on the icy doorknob of Apartment 1620 and kicked the frost from his boots onto the welcome mat. That was about the last thing Baxter felt, ‘welcome’, that is, and for the first time in his own complex. It was a cool thirty-six degrees in Washington County that day and, of the all the things he might’ve expected to hear bitchin’ about — like a cold shower or the stair rail stingin’ (like he could do anything about it) — the smell of something burnin’ would’ve been his last guess. Then again, it was Thanksgiving, after all, and Lord knew if it wasn’t for Monica’s way around that new, fancy-pants conventional oven that he had installed in every last unit of the place, the White Bear Luxury Apartments might’ve gone up in flames years ago.
“Burnt the bird, Missus Campton?” Baxter was reciprocating the same, soft smile of the old woman, but something told him that neither of them were truly happy to be there. If truth be told, he’d’ve rather been downstairs with Monica or his son stuffin’ breadcrumbs up to the brim of a gobbler’s ass, but this was one of those ‘landlord duties’ he was nicely accustomed to in his autumnal years. Besides, the Camptons were old friends.
“Bird?” Missus Campton asked, nudging him further into the apartment which was just as cramped as she was. Baxter’s smile widened as he plopped himself into the cushioned recliner that sat silently in the corner — Rick’s chair. It had been there ever since they moved in, some twelve years prior after those Algonquin folks moved out, on a day just as gloom and nippy as this one, where the wind outside gusted with high-pitched whistles and the pine trees scratched along the window glass.
“Turkey,” Baxter finally said. “Speakin’ of which,” he nestled into the cushion, “where’s that old man of yours?” Baxter grinned from ear to ear as his eyes strayed from the old woman and across the room. Judging by the lack of warmth on his ass, Rick hadn’t been in his perching spot all day. And now that the crisp of November was left at the door, Baxter could get a whiff of something burnt to a crisp inside. It was a strong, sharp stench that made him clack his tongue and sit up a bit straighter.
“Old man?” There was a tremble in the olden voice.
Baxter bit his lip. Teresa might’ve finally been losing it. He only hoped that ‘it’ wasn’t her dearly beloved, wherever the hell he was.
“Rick,” Baxter said, listening as the clatter went on in the kitchen. He stared forward as the boob tube played the parade on mute and awaited the old woman’s response, which took an agonizing minute of silence to get to. The clatter in the kitchen had stopped without him realizing it, and the rest of the apartment was dead silent.
“Oh, Rick,” she said in realization. The clatter continued.
“Yeah,” Baxter replied, attempting to look over his shoulder but only meeting his cheek with the soft brush of the headrest. “Where is he?” The smell was nearly unbearable now. Baxter was about to sit up when he felt something crunch against his thigh. He shoved his fingers, finally warmed up, into the cushion and fiddled around until something brushed against his thumb. It was some kind of wrapper, twisted around a broken butterscotch. A Rick Campton favorite, ‘specially during Thursday night poker, where the only other thing he’d be suckin’ was the pot dry. Obviously, the boys would be taking the night off for the holiday, but come early December, the best perk of livin’ on a reservation would mark their calendars yet again, and Baxter would find himself a dollar closer to paying off the White Bear’s mortgage.
He smiled, a genuine one this time, and shoved the candy into his pocket, checking the other side of his ass for more. When his fingers eventually met with something, he had, for a momentary touch, assumed it to be another of the candies. But it wasn’t. It was the television remote, and it was suspiciously wet.
“He’ll be done soon,” Teresa finally said, answering the question that Baxter had forgotten he’d asked. As he raised the clicker, the slickness of the visibly red substance spread across his thumb, and his chest rose with breath.
“Done with what?”
Teresa didn’t answer. Instead, his question was met with silence from the kitchen. Baxter aimed the tiny remote at the television and, with a press of his finger, the Rockettes blipped into blackness and, suddenly, he could see himself: his scruffy, doubled chin, his belt buckle that held up his corduroys, and his boots that still dripped with melting snow. He lifted his eyes just beyond the reflection of his head until they locked with the gaze of the feeble, old woman, just standing still all by her lonesome in the kitchen and staring off blankly, as if she had no idea where or who she was.
“Done with,” she started up, repeating what he had said, “done with,” and then, as if jolting from a dream, spasmed with her neck. “I don’t know.” She had said those final words with a higher inflection, as if tickled by them in her throat. The woman’s head then began to turn in his direction and, with an impulsive tug of the wooden handle on his right side, Baxter dropped back as the recliner reclined, popping into its second position.
“Ricky?” that same, higher-pitched tone said from the kitchen. Baxter silently stared for a moment, up at the ceiling, the dust that had accumulated along the crown molding, and the black dirt ring where the smoke detector ought to’ve been.
“It’s Baxter, Teresa.”
“Baxter?” He could hear her shoes shuffle across the tile floor until they reached the carpeted hallway.
“In here,” he said, pushing the wooden handle forward. Somehow, her new tone sounded welcoming, now. Within a blink, the old woman stood before him before dropping onto the couch just across the room. She let out a cough and, with a sniff of the air, puckered her lips.
“Where’s Rick? And what’s that awful smell?”
Baxter gulped a hot swallow of spit down his gullet and rocked forward in the chair. “That’s what I’ve been askin’ you.”
The woman rapidly blinked and sniffed the air again. “How long’ve you been here?”
“‘Bout five minutes. Maybe ten.”
The woman’s eyes wildly darted around the room. “And did you-?”
“My turn to ask the questions,” Baxter said, cutting her off and remembering the wetness on his thumb. Teresa reluctantly agreed with a frazzled nod, and Baxter licked his chops as the chair squeaked like a chipmunk. “Why’d you remove the smoke detector?”
The old woman’s eyes bounced to the ceiling and then back down. “I didn’t.”
Baxter nodded, unsure of whether or not he believed her. “What’s in the oven?”
“I don’t know.”
Baxter sighed and scratched his two chins. The chair rocked until it couldn’t anymore, and then he leaned into her, smelling the same stench of the kitchen all over her hunched body, stained with everything plus the kitchen sink.
“If there’s something going on,” he said in a deep whisper, “you’ve gotta tell me, Teresa.”
The woman shook her head until tears began streaming down her reddened cheeks, and she could now see the stain on Baxter’s fingers. “I-I don’t know,” she trembled, both with her voice and hands, “I thought it was a dream.”
“What was?”
“What happened.”
“What happened?”
The old woman glanced around her and realized it was only them in Apartment 1620. “Rick was acting funny—“
“Funny how?”
“Well… it wasn’t funny. It was awful.”
“What was?” The chair squeaked again, and Teresa flinched. That smell was beginning to get to the both of them.
“Rick was… looking sick. He was colorless and his eyes were sunken.”
“When was this?”
“Last night. I had made some last-minute stuffing and was gonna wait until today to give it to him but-“
“You gave it to him anyway.”
“Right,” the woman said. Her hands were now clasped together as if in prayer, and her face was twisted into a question. “Why are you here?”
“Got some complaints. Thought you might’ve needed help in the kitchen. Guess I was right,” Baxter said, but he didn’t smile. “What happened after you gave Rick the stuffing?”
She winced and squeezed her own hand until it was red. “His mouth dropped open.”
“While eating?”
Teresa nodded. “I thought he had choked but he hadn’t. There were words coming out, but the stuffing never flung — his tongue didn’t move, neither did his eyes.”
Baxter leaned back into the chair. “Where was this?”
The woman lifted a pointed finger, which seemed to wilt more than it did extend. “You’re sitting in it.” A chill went down Baxter’s spine and forced his ass up a bit. His stomach was churned like butter and the smell about the room was now edible — tangible.
“What was he saying?”
The old woman shook her head as her earrings rattled. “It wasn’t him talking. It was some kind of other voice — other language, maybe several.”
“Like Spanish?”
Those earrings rattled again. “I’ve heard Spanish before.” Her voice began to crack and then the tears began to flow. She rose to her feet and Baxter followed her up. “Oh, Baxter, please, you’ve gotta help us—”
“Lemme check the bedroom,” he said, as calmly as he could. “We’ll figure this out.”
Teresa grasped his arm and nodded silently, watching as he passed her and approached the dark bedroom across the apartment. From even a good ten feet away, he could hear the buzzing of flies emanating from the doorway. There was another feeling in his gut that told him he ought to’ve turned around and left 1620, but his sheer curiosity compelled him forward and into the frame. He felt along the smooth drywall until his index finger flicked the light switch hidden in the blackness. The bedroom was instantly flooded in a warm white from the lamp in the corner, and harsh shadows stretched across the cold room. Resting on the bed before him, atop the covers and swarmed with dozens of buzzing flies, was a raw, slow-rotting turkey.
“Shit.” Baxter nearly belched bile into the sleeve that had found its way across his nose and mouth, his other arm slamming the door to the bedroom with a loud thud. Some of the hanging photos along the wall rattled, and he turned to Teresa to apologize for his language only to be met with an empty living room and reclining chair. The sight shot the hairs on the back of his neck straight up like toy soldiers at attention, and immediately he surveyed the apartment, back and forth. It was empty and quiet, aside from a familiar sound: clatter in the kitchen.
As Baxter turned the corner from carpet to tile, the clinking and clanking of metal and wood reverberated off of the walls that seemed to ever-so-slowly close in. The stench of the oven was overwhelming, now, and just to breathe Baxter had to cover his reddened nose.
“Teresa?” he called out. All that clanging abruptly stopped with his voice. He took another step into the kitchen and watched as the still-standing woman faced the oven door, foul-odored smoke rising from its depths.
“In here,” her voice rang. The words were choppy and deeper like before, and nearly sounded as if they were spoken by a dozen mouths at the same time, and as if none of them had any idea as to what they were actually saying. Baxter stopped cold in his tracks, halfway across the room beside the fridge. Teresa, or whatever the hell she was, now, still faced away from him.
“This is not how I wanted to spend my holiday,” Baxter grumbled to himself, planting his feet firmly onto the tile floor.
“There is nothing ‘holy’ about it,” the voices from somewhere within Missus Campton said.
Baxter puffed his chest. “I don’t know who or what you think you are,” he said, deepening his tone and knowing he wasn’t talking to Rick’s wife, anymore, “but you’re going to get the hell off my land.”
The old woman’s head, by degrees, twisted to face him, and the voices that emitted from her stagnant lips, wet with saliva, were unrecognizable and barely coherent. “This was never your land, white man. You claimed it. We claimed you.”
The oven timer dinged, and Baxter nearly tumbled to the ground as he rushed for the front door, hearing the colony of voices within Teresa Campton’s body howl over his shoulder. There were three distinct thuds that rapidly rushed across the tile behind him but, just as title turned to carpet, Baxter slammed the door to Apartment 1620 and nearly leapt over the frozen guard rail that stretched across the way.
A blend of ice and fallen autumn leaves snapped between the concrete and his boots as Baxter descended the stairs and raced toward his apartment, ready to grab Monica and their son and get as far away from White Bear as possible. He plunged the key into the freezing, metal knob and twisted, gripping it as hard as it gripped back. When the lock clicked, Baxter thrust his weight through the door and felt the warmth of the Thanksgiving feast wrap him like a smoky blanket. The door slammed behind him, and a howl, maybe of wind, pierced through the foggy windows, but Baxter didn’t hear it.
He was too distracted by the smell, and the dribble that had found its way down his chins.
Written by MakRalston
Content is available under CC BY-SA