“Paul.”
His face went red with rage. “What the hell else can it be?”
She took a step back. “Will you call her, please?”
“What are you talking about? This is not a fucking psychological problem. I need a goddamn exorcist or something. That thing is possessed. There are people that do that. I’m sure of it. They come in, they get rid of evil spirits. It should be easy in this case. It’s not a house. It’s just that thing.”
“If you won’t call her, I will.”
“You’re not getting this at all.”
“I think I am.”
She turned for the door, went back into the house. As she was mounting the stairs, the door behind her opened and Paul started coming up after her.
“You’re not calling her,” Paul said.
“You can’t stop me.”
“It’s the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake!”
“I don’t care.”
Paul gained on her, grabbed the hem of her shirt to stop her progress.
“Let go!” Charlotte said, stumbling to her knees. Her left one hit the edge of a stair. “Jesus! You’re hurting me!”
“Please, please, don’t.”
He was holding her down, keeping her from moving farther up the stairs. She flung back blindly with her arm, catching Paul in the side of the head. It stunned him enough that he fell over to one side and let go of her. He rubbed at his temple.
“Oh, God,” she said, realizing where she had struck him. “Is that the same spot where—”
“It’s okay,” he said, taking his hand away from his head.
“I’m sorry. But, Paul, you need help.”
She got back on her feet and managed to reach the kitchen without him attempting to grab hold of her again.
“I don’t need help,” he mumbled as he followed her.
“Yes, you do. Help from me, help from Dr. White. We all want to help you.”
“Christ, don’t be so fucking patronizing. How the hell do you think that typewriter got up two flights and parked itself right next to my fucking head? How do you think that happened?”
“What did it do, Paul? Did it walk up? Did it fly? Did it use its tiny fucking keys to turn the knob on the garage door? Did it go through walls?”
“It did something!” he said. “If it didn’t get itself up here how the hell did it happen?”
Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. “Please don’t make me.”
“Don’t make you what?”
“Please don’t make me say it. I’m here to help you, to support you.”
“Did you feel me get out of bed?”
“I was drunk,” Charlotte said. “We could have had an earthquake and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Don’t give me that. I was right up next to you. I had my arm around you.”
“I didn’t feel you get up before you found that thing next to your bed. Maybe you got up one other time. I’m just saying, Paul, we have to consider the possibility...”
“That I’m losing my mind?”
“I did not say that.” She threw her hands into the air. “I don’t know what to do! What should I do? You tell me.”
“For starters, you can get that fucking thing out of the house.”
“Fine. Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it right now.”
She stormed up the second flight, Paul in pursuit. “What are you going to do?” he demanded.
“Just watch me.”
She returned to their bedroom, went straight past the bed to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the small balcony. She first drew back the blinds, then unlocked the door and slid it open. Cool air blew into the room, and the sounds of waves lapping at the beach became a soft soundtrack.
“Charlotte?” Paul said, standing at the foot of the bed.
“Get out of my way,” she said, pushing past him.
She got her fingers under the typewriter and, with a grunt, lifted it off the bedside table.
“It’s heavy,” Paul said. “Let me help—”
“I told you, get out of my way.”
She had to put her back into it. She arched her spine and tilted her head back as she struggled to carry the machine across the room and out the door. Once she reached the balcony, she took a deep breath and heaved the Underwood up and onto the railing, balancing it there.
Charlotte glanced back at Paul, who stood in the doorway, seemingly mesmerized by her actions.
“If you think this thing is alive, well, I’m about to kill it,” she said.
“Wait,” Paul said.
She looked stunned. “Seriously?”
“Just... wait.”
The typewriter teetered precariously on the railing. All she had to do was take her hand away and it would plummet to the cement walkway below.
“I... appreciate what you’re doing,” Paul said. “I do. But what if...”
“What if what?”
“What if they have more to say?”
Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, signaling she had reached her limit.
“I know, I know. I’m all for getting it out of here. I am. I’m just not sure it should be smashed into a million pieces.”
“What, then?” she asked. Before Paul could come up with a suggestion she had one of her own. “I’ll put it in the trunk of my car. And then I’m going to put it someplace where it won’t be found. How about that?”
Paul considered the offer. “Okay, yes. Okay.”
“But I’m doing it on one condition. You have to call Dr. White.”
Paul hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t see what she can do.”
“I’ll let this go,” she said, nodding toward the typewriter. “Believe me, I don’t care what happens to this thing. I’m happy to see it busted into a billion bits. You should be, too, but I’m willing to do it your way. Pick up your phone and call her.”
Paul looked back into the room. With the typewriter off the bedside table, he could see the time. He thought it had to be around three or four but was surprised to see that it was only 1:23 A.M.
“It’s late,” he protested. “I’ll be waking her.”
“So what?”
“I’ll do it. But let’s put that into your trunk first.”
“Fine,” she said. “But do you think you could carry it? I just about broke my arms getting it this far.”
Paul came out to the balcony and carefully took the typewriter from Charlotte. He felt a chill as he took the Underwood into his arms, cradling it as though it were some demonic infant.
“Let’s do this quickly,” he said.
Charlotte got ahead of him on the stairs, grabbing her car keys from a bowl in the kitchen along the way. She held the front door for him, then hit the button on her remote to pop the trunk on her car. The lid swung open a few inches, and she lifted it the rest of the way.
Paul leaned over the opening and set the machine onto the trunk floor. There was a small tarp rolled up in there, which he took and draped over the typewriter, as though smothering it. Then he slammed the lid.
He dusted his hands together and rubbed them on his boxers, as if somehow touching the machine had contaminated him. He turned and looked at Charlotte.
And fell apart.
“Oh, God,” he said, and started to cry. He put his hands over his face. “Oh God what is happening, what is happening, what is happening.” The cries turned into racking sobs.
Charlotte took him into her arms and squeezed. “Let it out,” she said. “Let it out.”
His arms limply went around her. “I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t.”
“It’s going to be okay. We’re getting rid of it. It’s in the car.” Charlotte suddenly found herself crying, too. “I’m so sorry.” She buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”