By Leo Dudley
June 7th
Woke up to the window open, the one facing my bed. Just a crack. Almost not enough to notice, except I know I locked it before I went to sleep. Hell, I’m sure of it. Sarah thinks I just forgot to shut it all the way, but that’s horseshit. I don’t forget.
Very tired. I woke up lightheaded today and I think I slept through all my alarms, too. Will double check the lock tonight.
June 8th
Maybe I did forget. Won’t be telling Sarah. Still feel like crap though, might be coming down with something.
#
The beer was really starting to get to Johnny. He squinted over his cards at Paul, who met his eyes with a pizza-stained smirk. Or maybe it was Paul that was getting to him. It was Paul that kept changing the rules on him after all, not the beer.
Johnny wasn’t too sure what game they were playing anymore. He was pretty sure he was a hand down. He knew he was as close to shit-faced as he’d been in a while. And he was absolutely certain that if whatever game they were playing didn’t end in the next five minutes, he was going to flip the damn table over—cards, pizza boxes, beer cans and all.
Paul cleared his throat. “Call.”
“Whaddya mean, call?”
“Shit, I call.” Paul’s tone indicated it should’ve been obvious. “You’re up.”
“We’re playing Blackjack.”
“What?”
Johnny threw down his cards. “Naw man, that’s it. I’m through.”
Paul snickered and began to paw through the empty cans. “Through is through, I guess. Through with you,” he said, raising one to his lips. He gulped down whatever dregs he’d found and tossed the can over his shoulder.
“Just get a fresh one, man.”
Paul burped and leaned back in his chair.
“Alright.” Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s about time this mess got cleaned up. You helping this time?”
“Fine, fine—oh hey wait, just hold on a second!” Paul leapt out of his chair and scrambled down the hall to his room. He reemerged a few moments later with his backpack in one hand, digging through it with the other. “I went to an estate sale today.”
“Why?”
“Happened across it on a stroll.” He turned the backpack upside down and shook its contents onto the floor. A slim leatherbound book slipped out amongst pull tabs, receipts, and gum wrappers. “Aha!” He tossed the backpack onto their couch, scooped up the book, then sauntered back over to Johnny and held it out triumphantly.
Johnny took the book and began to flip through its pages. “What is this?”
Paul grinned as he settled back into his seat. “You remember that murder on the news, like a month ago?”
“Not really. This looks like a journal.”
“Yeah, because it is. You really don’t remember? Woman kills sister—dies in accident speeding away?” He paused to gauge Johnny’s reaction. “Whatever, dude. That woman’s name was Lucy Williams and this is her private fucking journal.”
“No shit.” Johnny gave the book a harder look. “What was this doing at an estate sale?”
Paul shrugged. “It wasn’t supposed to be sold, I’ll say that much. Was sitting at the bottom of a desk drawer with some of Lucy’s other shit. No one noticed it was there, so…”
“Who’d notice if it wasn’t?” Johnny laughed. “You stole a dead murderer’s journal.”
“Cool, right?”
“Oh, sure.” Johnny cleared his throat and began reading, “April 24th. I think Dad’s doing a little better, although it’s gotten hard to tell these days. Sarah says I should go to a bar with her tonight. Don’t want Dad to be all alone—”
Paul snatched the journal back, giggling. “Why’d you pick a boring part, man? Come on now.” He licked his thumb and began flipping through the pages.
“What, there’s a good part?”
“She killed her sister. Of course there’s a good part. See, I was curious when I found it, so I’ve read a bit already. And yeah, most of it’s boring as hell, but it gets good around June 7th.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“She was batty, man. Right before it all went down? Off the walls batshit nutty.” Paul stopped turning the pages and his eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah. This is a good one. Let me read it to you.”
#
June 9th
I checked the window twice before I went to sleep last night. It was shut and locked. So how, when I woke up this morning, could it have been cracked open again? I don’t think I opened it at all yesterday.
Also I feel like shit. Sarah was quick to point out that I look like shit, too. And… sure, she’s not wrong, but that’s still a whole lotta talk coming from somebody who won’t move out of my guest room. Maybe I’ll ask her to switch rooms for the night. Dunno what’s going on with that window. It’s kind of freaking me out.
(Later)
She hardly looked up from her phone when she refused. I asked if she would at least sleep on my floor for the night. She told me to get a grip.
Found Dad’s old toolbox in the attic. After Sarah went to bed I nailed that window shut. But right before I could drive the last nail home, she stormed in and demanded to know what I was doing. She didn’t give me a chance to respond, but I think she knew. I wasn’t hiding anything. That window needs to stay shut.
She started yelling about how I haven’t been right since the service and how I wasn’t doing anyone any favors by projecting my issues onto a window. She took my hammer away when I turned to finish off the last nail.
It took her a few minutes to cool off, and by then she was looking a bit deflated. She went back to her room after making me promise that I was done hammering. But I was basically done when she interrupted me, anyway. I was kind of still hoping that she might stay with me for the night, but I wasn’t about to ask again.
Beginning to nod off. Hard to write with gloves on anyway. Hands are just so cold.
#
Johnny and Paul spent the next half hour flipping through the journal. They kept drinking, and soon enough got the idea to take turns acting out certain passages to the other’s recital; always the same few from the days leading up to Lucy’s death, always given more and more bravado with each successive performance. At one point, Johnny got too invested in his acting and nearly tripped over their coffee table, causing the both of them to erupt in fits of drunken laughter.
Paul tossed him the journal. “Find me a random one. I want a challenge.” He shuffled towards the coffee table and began to move it out of the way. “More space!”
Jonny was about to offer to help since Paul looked like he was struggling, but then he got a better idea. He clapped the journal shut and gave Paul a wild look. “You want more space? Let’s go outside.”
“Oh come on, this is fun. What’s outside?”
“She is.” Johnny grinned wolfishly. “Betcha we could find her if we wanted to. Maybe we could read to her. Wanna?”
#
June 10th
Had a nightmare last night. I was lying in bed and the window was open, but it felt like dream-me was sort of half-asleep, so I was staring at the thin gap between window and sill without really knowing what to make of it. A breeze curled in, the blinds clacked together. And suddenly, I realized I wasn’t alone. In the corner of the room, a shape stood in the darkness. I could only make it out because the moonlight was hitting it from the side, and it looked like a man… mostly. Had these red eyes, though. Shiny ones.
Woke up late. Still don’t feel like I slept at all. Window was open, nails scattered across the carpet. Splinters stuck out of the wood around the nail sockets, but the window was otherwise unharmed. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but when I did, the nightmare came back to me with a sudden jolt of terror. I sat up so fast that my head went all bubbly, and I guess I fainted because next thing I knew, I was on the floor and Sarah was shaking me awake.
That nightmare felt too real. When I saw the open window, I was convinced that… well, it sounds stupid now, but I was really convinced that maybe it wasn’t just a dream. I tried and failed to get to my feet, Sarah tried to help but I pushed her away so I could point at the window, at the scattered nails, at the corner where the shape had been standing in my nightmare. She slapped me and in the brief, stunned silence that followed, told me that last night, she discovered me using the hammer to pry the nails out one by one. My eyes had been closed while I was doing it—she said I was unresponsive, but once the last nail was out, I cracked the window open and went back to bed.
So apparently I’m sleepwalking.
Sarah supposes I’ve been doing it for days, at least as long as my complaints about the window have been going on. She told me that she thinks it’s because I have a poor grasp on how to process grief, but I dunno about that. I don’t see her sleepwalking for grief, and there’s no way she’s better at handling her emotions than I am. But then again, she never was as close with Dad as I was. So maybe she doesn’t have as much grief to process.
She also said I look anemic. Told me that I should get my iron checked. I’m too tired to go to a doctor’s office, though. Just need some good sleep.
(Later)
Moved the wardrobe in front of the window. Fresh coat of paint, too. Nice and wet.
#
Johnny found Lucy’s obituary online, but he didn’t bother reading the boring parts. “Look, Paul—cemetery’s only a few miles away.”
They bared their teeth at each other. Paul grabbed the journal and stuffed the last two beers into his pockets. Johnny laughed and then they were out the door.
It was a muggy but otherwise pleasant night. A full moon hung low in the sky. Johnny and Paul chatted loud and shamelessly and howled after passing cars, their voices carrying through the night air like the yipping of wild dogs. And even as drunk as they were, it wasn’t long before they found the cemetery.
They turned their phones’ flashlights on and jostled each other towards the old chain-link fence, but after they dropped onto the other side Johnny’s smile began to dip. The cemetery was a landscape of off-white stone nubs peeking out from fields of untended grass and wildflowers; rows upon rows of headstones curling into the distance, cut from the black by moonlight and crowned by the sagging, foliage-cloaked arms of willow trees. And maybe it was because he was drunk, but it looked like a landscape of teeth. He shivered.
“Hey.” Paul turned towards him suddenly, eyes wide with excitement. “Wanna make a game of this?”
“Come again?”
“Like, if you find her first, I’ll buy the beer next time. But if I find her first, you’re buying.”
“You never buy our beer.”
“And now’s my chance! If you get to her before I do.” Paul grinned and swept his arm to the left. “I’ll go that way.”
“I kind of wanna stick together. It’s a… bigger place than I thought.” Johnny didn’t like the idea of being alone in the cemetery, but there was no way he’d ever hear the end of that. Getting out of the apartment had been his idea, after all.
“Oh c’mon, Johnny. You’re not scared, are you?”
He shot Paul a hard look.
“Better find her before I do, then. Or I’ll make you spend big bucks.” Paul’s grin widened as he stepped away. The dark swallowed him up quickly; his light kept on for a while, but then he slipped behind a copse of willows and that was gone, too.
Johnny stalked off, gooseflesh prickling up over his arms and neck. His phone’s flashlight flicked over each headstone and flat marker he passed. The sooner he found Lucy, the sooner they would leave. And maybe Paul would be good on his bet, too.
#
June 11th
Just woke up. The window’s open and the wardrobe is sitting in the middle of my room. There’s paint smeared on my bedsheets. My gloves, however, are clean. Did I wrap the bedsheets around my hands to pull the wardrobe out of the way?
Checked under my gloves just now. Hands are clean, too. Going to call for Sarah. Maybe she heard… something.
(Later)
She pointed out that there’s paint on my shoulder and collarbones and up near my jaw, too; asked what the hell happened and I told her I have no idea. Didn’t seem like the answer she was looking for. No, she didn’t hear anything last night. But the wardrobe moved several feet. I moved the wardrobe several feet. Shouldn’t she have heard that?
I got up with her help and she took me to the bathroom to wipe the paint off me. I thought it kinda looked like handprints, almost, from my angle in the mirror at least, just smudged and in the process of being scrubbed off by my not-so-gentle sister. I didn’t tell her that, though.
Back in bed now. It’s not even dusk yet. Sarah made me a doctor’s appointment for Friday. She’s worried, and I do look terrible—pallid, sunken.
Told her I want to spend a few nights in a motel, but she refused. Said I shouldn’t be driving and she won’t drive me, neither. I’m too sick. She wants me at home until I see the doctor. I don’t think she cares what I want. Because sure, I know I’m sleepwalking. But I want to get away from that window; at least getting away from it will make me stop opening it in my sleep, right? If I don’t sleepwalk, I’ll sleep better, and then I won’t feel as shit anymore.
(Later)
I’m alone and it’s dark. Sarah’s been asleep. It’s hard not to get a little paranoid. Damn near impossible to keep my eyes from twitching towards the window to make sure it’s locked and shut. My mind keeps wandering back to that nightmare. And maybe I’m just freaking myself out now, but didn’t it feel too… vivid, almost?
Staying up tonight.
#
Johnny found Paul sitting in a patch where the grass hadn’t fully grown in, wiping his mouth against his sleeve and hiccupping with a residual string of laughter. The patch was rectangular, about eight by three feet, with edges that had been cut with a clear and rigid definition. Johnny scrunched up his nose.
“I got your texts.” He tried his best to ignore the yellowish mess of vomit marinating the soil around Paul. The chunks of digested food amidst the thin liquid. How it all glistened in the crossed beams of their phones’ flashlights. “You shoulda—Christ, man—you shoulda called me. What if I hadn’t been looking at my phone?”
Paul grinned up at him, turned and spat. Lucy’s journal was in his lap, flecks of smeared vomit stuck to its cover. “You found us fine. And you know what this means, don’t you? You’re buying next time!”
“You threw up on a grave, sure,” Johnny said over Paul’s triumphant cackling. “But how do you know it’s hers? This one doesn’t have a headstone.”
“Yeah, and who’d pay for it?” Paul angled his light towards the head of the rectangular patch. “Read it and weep.” Something was there, standing in row with the other headstones nearby. It was small, flimsy looking, oblong and green. Reused plastic, probably worth a few cents to the cemetery. It jutted out of the ground at a slight angle and had a clear sleeve on top. Underneath that was a slip of paper scrawled with quick sharpie lettering.
Lucy Williams. 1998—2025.
Johnny knew it wouldn’t be left there much longer. It had probably only been stuck there in the first place so they’d know where to put her. Down there, in the same dirt that Paul’s alcohol-vomit was seeping into. Johnny’s face grew hot with shame, and he suddenly felt a lot more sober than he actually was.
“I think… this was a bad idea, Paul.” The words felt sluggish crawling out of his throat. “We shouldn’t be here. I wanna go.”
Lucy had been a character to him. A face in an obituary, a name on a weird journal that he and Paul had entertained themselves with. But she hadn’t been real. Hadn’t been a person. And maybe it was the cemetery or all that shit she’d written in her journal giving him the heebie-jeebies, but he didn’t want to be any more disrespectful than he already had been.
“What’re you talking about?” Paul scowled and pushed himself up to his feet. “Are you trying to squirm outta buying the beer, because—”
‘I’m going home. Sorry for dragging you out.”
Paul barked out a harsh laugh.
“You coming?” Johnny asked.
“I can’t believe you.” Paul shook his head, the facsimile of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Oh, you weaselly fucker.”
“Paul.”
“No. If you’re feeling butthurt and wanna walk away from the bet, that’s on you. But you said we would read to Lucy. I still wanna do that. And I will. With or without you.”
“Have it your way. Good night.” Johnny turned and walked away. Before he got too far, a crushed beer can sailed overhead and hit a nearby tree.
#
June 12th
It’s dad. I was nodding off at like three in the morning when I heard the window unlock. There was nobody there, and the lock’s on the inside anyway, but the window pushed itself open regardless. Just a crack, like always. Nothing happened for a few seconds and I couldn’t do anything but stare, covers pulled up over my face. Then he slipped in. Folded himself through the crack like how rats will. He was fast. Didn’t give me a chance to scream. I barely had a chance to recognize his face, plus those red eyes from my… nightmare. He got on top of me and the next thing I know, I’m waking up to sunlight.
His teeth were like razors. I know they cut me, but I don’t have so much as a mark or bruise or nothing. It’s hard to feel my pulse when I check it, though. Everything’s cold and sore and my heart feels like it’s sagging in my chest.
Is this all because of what happened with the service? I know I fucked up, but how can he do this to his own daughter? I can’t do another night, I can’t handle this kind of anger from him.
I was never sleepwalking and Sarah had no reason to say that I was. But I’m not surprised she lied. She never took the time to listen to dad either. Always just made things up to soothe his rambling, to protect her own narrative of what the world should look like. But that didn’t stop the cancer, did it? And it hasn’t stopped him from crawling back to hurt me.
Gonna drive away. Need to go far, I think. Far enough that dad won’t follow. Sarah’s probably going to try and stop me. I can see her in the other room watching TV. Doesn’t know I’m awake yet.
I hate her.
I hope she tries.
#
Johnny woke up when he fell off the couch. The blankets tangled around him like clawing hands, and for a second he panicked before he found his bearings against the coffee table. The apartment was dark, and squinting at his phone, Johnny saw that it wasn’t even 2:00 AM yet.
He struggled to his feet and shuffled off to their bathroom in order to pee. He flicked the light on as he walked in, squinting to shield his eyes, then paused halfway to the toilet. Paul’s muddy shoes were in the sink. He scowled and looked around. Prints had been tracked all across the tile and, if he had to guess, had been smeared through the rest of the apartment, too.
He peed quickly. Then, he grabbed the shoes and crept down the hallway to Paul’s room. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and he was going to toss the shoes in and say something—he didn’t know what, just something—but instead he froze. And any words he might’ve said curdled in his throat.
There was a figure covering Paul on his bed. Cut from the darkness by moonlight which seeped into the room through half-open blinds at its back. Its skin was the spitting color of milk that had started to turn, and a mane of wild, maybe reddish hair tangled midway down its spine. Its hands were wrapped around Paul’s head, cocking it to the side as its face pressed deep into the crook of his neck.
The shoes hit the floor with a muted thud. The figure’s head slid upwards. It turned towards him with these awful eyes that burned through the dark like struck matchheads. He needed to run but his legs weren’t working, and it felt like his heart was getting ready to break out of his chest and run away for him. The figure let go of Paul. It began to rise, drifting up into a standing position like a drowned body finding its way back to the surface. Johnny slapped his hand across the wall, fumbling for the overhead light switch as the figure took a step into the air towards him. He flicked the light on and—
And the figure was gone.
The blinds clacked together. He sagged back against the doorframe, breath trembling in his throat. In the instant it—no, she—had vanished, he had caught a glimpse of her face in the light. Skin stretched tight over bone, mouth hanging open to brandish teeth like jackknives. A corpse’s face. But still hers. The same face from the obituary photo.
“Paul?” His voice was weak and he got no response.
Slowly, he approached the bed. The sheets had been pulled back to expose Paul from the stomach up. His skin was missing some color, but other than that, there wasn’t a single hair misplaced on his body. No bite marks, even though her teeth had looked long enough to scratch bone. He was fast asleep, chest rising and falling evenly, a look of mild consternation scrunched into his face.
Johnny gently placed the back of his hand against Paul’s forehead. Not as warm as it should have been. He went to the window, shut it and closed the blinds, then took a pillow Paul wasn’t using and made himself as comfortable as he could on the floor. The overhead stayed on, and he didn’t look away from the window until the soft blush of dawn began to bleed around the edges of the blinds. Then, he buried his face into the pillow and let sleep take him.
#
June 4th
Sarah’s mad I didn’t show up today. Guess I’d be mad too, if it were her. I got dressed in black and everything. Just couldn’t do it. Everyone was going to expect me to give a speech, and what, did they all think I’d be able to just pretend like I wasn’t going to ugly cry seeing dad like that? I don’t even remember the last time I saw him in a suit.
I was there for him when no one else was. Not Sarah, not anyone. I was with him right up to the end. Well, almost. But that should still count for something! I know I should’ve stayed until he was actually all the way gone, but he was freaking me out. I had to go.
Time of death was only a few minutes after I left, anyway.
#
Johnny woke up before Paul. It was mid-afternoon at best, but he didn’t get up right away. Dreamlike fragments of the previous night bobbed to the surface of his mind’s eye like scenes from a nightmare he was having trouble shaking. His head hurt like hell, and he kept his face stuffed in the pillow because the glare of the overhead was threatening nausea.
After about thirty minutes, he pushed himself to his feet. His mouth was dry. He kept his eyes down, didn’t look at Paul. Just shuffle-crept towards the door and thumbed the light switch on his way out.
“Johnny?”
He stopped and turned around.
Paul sat up, winced, then slumped back into his pillows. He rubbed his forehead. “What’re you doing in my room?”
“I think I slept here.”
“Why?”
Johhny shrugged and shook his head. “Weird night. I guess I just wandered in here and… fell asleep on your floor or something.”
Paul frowned at the pillow on the floor.
“Listen,” Johnny said, “I’m actually heading out for a bit.”
“Where are you going?”
“Won’t be gone long.” Johnny stepped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. “Get some sleep. You need it, man.”
“Hey—wait.” A little muffled by the door. “Where’d you put my journal?”
Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back against the wall.
Paul continued, “It was on my nightstand when I went to bed, I know that for a fact—”
“The fuck you mean, your journal?”
A pause. Then, “You know what I mean.”
Johnny went to his room. He changed into the nicest clean clothes he could find, put on some sunglasses, then left—following Paul’s trail of dried mud out the door. It was hot out, the pleasantness of the previous night forgotten under the unrelenting stare of the afternoon sun. By the time he got to the cemetery, he had sweated dark stains into his button-up and his hair was slick against his forehead. But it was the thought behind his presentation that would matter. It had to be.
Finding her grave again took longer than he expected. The small piece of plastic was gone. But the dirt was still stained with vomit, and the journal stuck midway out of the ground as if somebody had tried to drag it into the earth with them. He shivered and approached gingerly, dropped to his knees, and began to scrape the dirt back with his hands. He yanked the journal free and put it aside, but kept digging until the hole was deep enough for it to rest within. Getting up, he wiped his forehead, then trudged off only to come back a few minutes later with hands full of wildflowers.
He buried the journal and flowers together, screwed his eyes shut, and spent the next few minutes murmuring an apology. It would strike him later, as he was going through the apartment, checking all the windows before he went to bed, that it’d almost felt like he was in prayer.
The next morning, he woke up early and was surprised to find Paul already on the couch, huddled under a blanket. He turned to stare at Johnny, eyes bloodshot. He looked rough, like an old child’s doll that was coming apart at the seams.
Johnny frowned and sat beside him. “Hey, man. Sleep alright?”
“No. You woke me up, around… midnight I think.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, that’s my bad. I thought I was being quiet.”
“What were you doing in my room?”
“You know, I think that journal got to me bit more’n I let on.” A pause. “I was making sure your window was locked. I made sure they were all locked.”
Paul gave him a strange look, then sighed and shook his head. “Irrational.”
“You been up all this time?”
“Sure. More or less. I think.” He rubbed his neck and grimaced. “Damn near put a crick in my neck though, it’s been bothering me all morning. You’re lucky, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she told me that she’ll be gentle when your turn comes around. As gentle as her dad was with her. Whatever you did, she appreciated it. It won’t be long anyway, if last night’s any indication”—he grabbed Johnny’s hand—“she’ll have you by the end of the week.”
Paul’s skin was ice cold.
Leo Dudley is a BFA student at George Mason University currently pursuing a degree in Creative Writing. He lives at home in Virginia with his dog.
