Never Heard Of

Part Two

"Marsha?" He called out for his wife as he opened the seven foot tall door made of dark oak wood and stained glass. There was no response besides the echo from his voice. This was no surprise. She had not been home much lately during the midday, and sometimes she would not come home until later into the evening. Much later. There was a point in time where she would be there every day when he returned home. She would even greet him with a kiss and take his things for him while the smell of herbs and spices would float up his nostrils. Now he is greeted by no one and carries his things to his study himself, and will find a note saying there are plenty of frozen meals for him to choose from.

When he asked her once where she had been going, she told him she just goes into town. She said that sometimes she shops and other times she's at the garden club where she spends time with her gals. Most of the time when she returns she carries no bags, and there is not a speck of dirt on her all white Marc Jacobs suit. He has noticed but has not cared enough to ask questions. Since she has been going out more, she has been hounding him less about retiring and spending more time at home. Even though he missed having a home-cooked meal every night he was thankful for the alone time.

The knob on the door to his study turned with his hand, and then was quickly ripped out of his grasp as the door violently swung open. He had left the window open, again. The room was cold enough to make the bumps on his skin rise. He did not mind. The sounds of his steps were silenced when he walked onto the thick white sheepskin rug that made a sea around the island that is his desk. He was relieved to sit down and see no numbers flashing at him on the answering machine. For a moment the atmosphere was peaceful, that was until he heard a noise. One so intense and sharp that it made him clasp his hand over his ear and twist his body to the side. Wilson had warned him about this but it was not what he had expected. The noise went on for a few more seconds and then he heard nothing at all. It took him a minute to shake off the shock and for his hearing to return.

Snap. The locks on his briefcase unlatching were like music to his ears after that horrible sound had sung its tune. He pulled out some papers and began to flip through them; jotting an initial down here, and one over there, and a signature here. Then the pen stopped moving and he sat there as stiff as a board. He had an ominous feeling he wasn't alone but looked around and saw no one. That is when he listened close enough to hear it; breathing.

"Who's there?" he turned his head hastily back and forth. There was no one in the room, he was alone. "But I could have sworn," he brushed it off and got back to work, his heart still beating hard in his chest. A cool breeze came in through the window and blew across the back of his neck. He turned on a dime. Another breeze came in, this one like a cold slap to the face. Sighing as he stood, he went over and closed the window with a little more force than needed.

"Damn wind," he thought.

Some time had passed since he got home but still no sign of his wife. His TV dinner has been heated and eaten, the oven already back at room temperature. The glass of brandy he had poured himself is nearing its end, as is the news program he had been watching. He chucked the rest of it back and wiped the beads of liquor off his lips with the back of his hand. The news reporter was going on about some water crisis in Michigan and James was only half listening to what he had to say. His eyes were glued to the news ticker pumping out stock quotes quicker than a fry cook slinging burgers. They were rolling by so fast that he almost missed it, but caught a glimpse at the last possible moment. MMI is at 70.65. Excellent.

His knees cracked when he stood. It was becoming more difficult for him to get around, but he would not accept it. The thought of going shopping for a cane or walker was something he shoved way down into the recesses of his mind. He shuffled over to the bar to make himself another drink; something stronger this time, he had put too much ice in the last one. The clinking of glass rang throughout the room as he lifted the two hundred dollar bottle of Macallan with unsteady hands. He made a generous donation of whisky to his glass and returned the bottle to the cart, the cap loosely screwed on.

It did not take him long to polish off that glass. He thought about pouring himself another. Why the hell not? It's not like his wife was here to stop him. She would have cut him off and suggested he have some Jasmine tea instead. As he began to turn around, his balance almost betraying him, the hall clock chimed. It was eleven o'clock, a time he was rarely still awake at. He swatted a hand at the collection of liquor as he headed towards the stairs. Sleep was all that was on his mind now. He climbed the staircase in great discomfort, putting weight on one arthritis afflicted foot after the other. If it was not for the fact that it would be the first thing a guest would see when entering his home, he would get a stair lift. An elevator was in his budget, but his masculinity might still be in question. Marsha is much younger than him but once she starts to struggle he can use that as his excuse.

After the seemingly endless journey to his chambers he plopped down in the center of his empty California King bed, his body engulfed in a mound of silk sheets. He undressed and tossed his clothes aside. As his trousers headed towards the floor the transmitter for his hearing-aids flew out of the pocket. With a loud thud followed by a couple smaller ones, it crashed down onto the hardwood and landed far out of reach. He stared at it with no intention of getting up, slid under the covers, and pulled them up to his neck. Besides the faint sound of the wind blowing gently against the window, the room was silent. He felt himself steadily drifting off to sleep. Another couple of minutes and he would have been dreaming about memories almost forgotten but now he finds himself scrambling to sit up in a panic. The sound of breathing was clear as day. This time it was deeper- heavier. He darted his eyes around the room, sweating all over. A chill crept up his spine like a spider in a spout. Then, fear washed over him as he heard a man speak.

"I know what you've done. All those people, dead because of you," the voice said, menacing and low. It sounded like a whisper but seemed far away. He turned on his bedside lamp, almost knocking it off the nightstand as he anxiously searched for the switch. The room was partially illuminated, leaving only a few shadows to lurk in. There were not many things to hide behind but soon enough James was out of bed, cautiously checking everywhere; even places that wouldn't conceal a child. He checked the room two more times before considering he was hearing things, although that was not satisfying either. He could blame it on the alcohol, but in his fifty years of drinking, no matter how much, voices were not something he just heard.

Although he was still uneasy, he made his way back to bed. As he walked, swaying slightly with each step, his foot came in contact with something hard and cold. He jumped back in fright, only to discover he had stepped on the transmitter. His eyes widened with sudden realization and he quickly reached down to grab it, coming back up slowly with a hand on his already sore back. Was this the cause of his distress? He turned it over in his hands looking for the power button. Hitting what he presumed to be the switch he was looking for, the device shut down and the room became quieter than before. He put the transmitter on the night stand and climbed back into his bed, not taking his eyes off of it. They stayed open for some time as hundreds of thoughts went through his head. He would have to see Wilson tomorrow, first thing.