The Bottom of the Sea

Part 34: The Cleaner

He was a good eight feet tall; I could see his outline through the glass door. The elegant doorknob began to twist back and forth, and with a click, the door slowly opened. All my earlier bravery was snuffed out like a candle flame and I scrambled back up the stairs to get away from me. He came inside slowly and shut the door behind him, staring intently at me.

He wasn't a shadow at all, but a flesh and blood man — large, scarred and more terrifying than any paranormal entity. He looked like he could snap me like a toothpick, without even trying. I wondered what had happened to his face; the horrific scars were ancient. He said nothing and neither did I. We stared at each other.

"What happened?" I said finally, pointing to my face. I don't know why I asked him that. I didn't really expect him to answer, since Shane probably sent him to kill me if he couldn't finish the job. I guess I had nothing to lose.

"Childhood accident."

"Acid?"

"My Halloween mask caught fire."

I nodded. "What was the mask?"

"Santa Claus. The white beard caught fire from a sparkler."

It was a gruesome image. "That's awful. I'm sorry."

We stared at each other for what seemed like forever until I realized that if he wanted to kill me, I'd be dead by now. The look on his face was not predatory, more like fatigue or resignation.

"What do you want?" My voice was nervous, and I forced the words out.

"I don't hurt pregnant women," he said, glancing at my belly. I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and breathe. For some reason, I believed this large, menacing stranger.

"Did you do that?" He gestured with his head to Shane's body on the front lawn.

With a bit of help. "Yes," I said. This time, my words were stronger. "It was either him or me — us, I mean." I placed my hand on my belly and used the railing to pull myself up to standing on trembling legs.

"I told him this was a bad idea," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He seemed to stare above my head for a minute or so. I looked behind him on the steps but didn't see anything. "I don't like this house. It's got a bad vibe," he said, still looking past me on the stairs.

"That's what they say. But I like it here," I said, willing my legs to move. "I have to get dressed and check on my friend in Halifax. I think Shane hurt him badly." I couldn't believe I was talking so normally to the giant in my doorway, like we were neighbours exchanging small talk.

"He did. But he'll live," the giant said, stepping towards me. I gasped and jumped until he held out his palm and waited.

"I'll lock up when I'm done and put your keys under the potted plant on the step. And you'll never see me again."

I walked down the rest of the stairs and crossed the room to get my purse. On my phone were a million messages and missed calls from Missy, telling me that Jake had been hurt and what hospital he was in. I clutched the phone to my chest for a second and let the sobs come. Jake was hurt, but expected to make a full recovery, thank God.

I dried my eyes and fished the housekeys out, giving them to the giant before I went upstairs to dress. I avoided my bedroom, throwing on leggings and a sweatshirt quickly before making my way back downstairs again. I half expected the giant to lunge at me and finish what Shane started, but somehow, I knew that wasn't going to happen. Shane was the one who was into games and torture, enjoying the harm he inflicted. It made him feel big and powerful. This guy seemed to treat what he did more like a job. Like there was nothing personal about it.

When I was ready to go, I glanced back over my shoulder and had to blink twice to make sure I was seeing correctly. The stranger was on his hands and knees, picking up shards of glass and cleaning spilled beets and blood from my kitchen floor. He had a bucket and cleaning supplies with him and was even wearing bright yellow kitchen gloves.

I understood then who he was, and his purpose, and a shudder ripped through my body. "I know people — bad people. If I want you gone, all I have to do is snap my fingers, and no one will find a trace of you ever again," Shane would say it to me over and over again, snapping his fingers inches from my face to underline the point.

Not me. Not this time.

I surveyed the kitchen, smashed and gory, and thought the stranger would never have enough time to remove all traces of the night's events.

"Did Shane bring you here for me?" He didn't answer me, just continued on with his work.

Just when I turned to go, he paused and looked up. "I was never here," he said. His voice was harsh like sandpaper and his eyes bored into mine. "Say it."

"You were never here." My voice was firm, and I stared him in the face. An understanding passed between us.

He nodded. "And neither was he." He pointed in the direction of the front lawn.

"Understood," I said, and left, looking straight ahead until I made it to the car.

The highway was deserted as I headed to Halifax, ignoring the speed limit the whole way. I turned on a classic rock radio station and blared the music as the sky began to lighten, blocking out the events of the night before.

I knew there would be no trace of Shane and no sign of a struggle when I returned to the house. I decided then and there that nothing out of the ordinary happened. I thought Jake stood me up, so I went to bed until I woke up, saw the messages from Missy and set out for Halifax to make sure my friend was OK.

That's what happened — I would tell it to myself over again until I believed it. I would take the real story with me to the grave. It was the only way.