The voices wouldn’t stop, and somehow the brick wall drew my eyes. It was a comfort for some reason, maybe because it was still and cool in a noisy room. I imagined that brick wall in my mind, thick and tall, containing the wild cacophony of voices, and suddenly...the voices went silent. The only noise I was hearing was the club noise again. Music was pumping through the club’s system, and there was a general din of conversational noise with random roars of approval and anger over whatever sports game was currently playing on the screens.
With a sigh of relief, I turned back around, shaky and sweating. I didn’t know what was happening, but I was scared and still had another two hours of customers and one hour of behind-the-bar cleanup. And then what? What was wrong with me? I’d have made a joke about needing to be committed, but I was too afraid that it was true. I didn’t even know how to explain what was happening to me, much less whom to talk to about it. Maybe I needed to call my aunt and ask if there was any history of mental illness in the family.
“You okay?” Barry, my fellow bartender, came over to me with a look of concern. He was a guy in his forties, had kind of a Hawaiian visage with long black hair tied in a ponytail, dark, happy eyes, you know? Smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He was a guy who liked to laugh. He also liked to eat. He had a slight paunch in his midregion. “You sick or something?”
“I’m okay.” I ran a hand over my forehead. “Just a headache.”
“Need to go home? Johnny could fill in for you.”
Which was true about Johnny. He jumped in whenever one of us had a crisis. “I’ll be okay.”
“All right. Let me know if you start feeling worse. Don’t be a tough guy.”
“I promise.” Such a sweetheart of a guy.
The rest of the evening went by in a blur as I did my best to keep up with the orders coming in, though half my brain was preoccupied with trying to figure out and find an explanation for what was happening to me. By the time it was last call, Barry said he’d cover me and told me to go home and get some rest. He said he’d handle the cleanup on his own, and I wasn’t going to argue with him. I was anxious to get home and start worrying some more about what was wrong with my brain. I figured I could look up my symptoms online and see what came up. Probably schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder.
I had to park a couple of blocks away from the apartment. It was a short hike back to the security gate, and though I was feeling pretty freaked out about what I was starting to think of as my medical condition, I still kept my wits about me. It was two in the morning, time for the weirdos to be out and about. I had a moment when I wanted to chuckle, thinking I fit the description better than anyone else around. I seemed to be the only one hearing voices.
All was quiet as I made my way up to my apartment building. Lights were out in all of the apartment units except for a few that had the eerie blue glow of TV lights flickering here and there against darkened windows. I made as little noise as I could coming through the security gate, making sure it closed softly. I went upstairs to my apartment and thought about Ryder living next door. I wondered if he was already asleep.
I realized as I went upstairs that I was coming home to an empty apartment for the first time in over a year. Cynthia was always home, and she always left a light on for me on nights I had to work so late. Tonight, the apartment was dark, which gave me a moment of pause. I should have left a light on. Oh, well. I’d have to remember that for next time.
I touched key to lock, but the door just pushed open a crack, as though I’d never closed it. I stilled.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. A chill chased down my spine. You know that feeling when something really bad either could happen or did happen, but you aren’t sure which yet?
I knew I hadn’t forgotten to close my apartment door, so I wasn’t imagining things. I was sure it was locked when I left.
Goose bumps rose on my arms.
I backed away slowly, trying not to make a sound, and turned to hurry away, almost stumbling over my own feet in my quiet panic to find help. I quickly snuck along the outer corridor, ducking under Cynthia’s windowsill. Continuing around the corner, I knocked gently on Ryder’s door, not wanting to alert my possible intruder that I was around.
No answer.
My heart pounded. I knocked again.
C’mon, please!
Still no response.
I broke into a sweat as I thought frantically about what to do. Should I call the police?
Footsteps echoed along the outer corridor, just out of sight. I spun around, looking in the direction I’d just come. My breath turned ragged with mounting anxiety. Someone was coming from my apartment. Where I’d just been standing. Had someone been behind me? Following me through the security gate?
Loud. Heavy. Deliberate footsteps had my heart jumping into my throat. I raised my keys, ready to stab someone with them.
“Who’s there?” Ryder’s cold, menacing voice made me think of the Dirty Harry movies, when Clint Eastwood was just about to shoot someone, and he’d taunt them in his raspy voice. Relief poured through me. I was so glad to hear his voice. “It’s me,” I squeaked.
Ryder loomed out of the shadows. He looked dark and dangerous, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he tried to see who was standing in the dark outside his door. Confirming who I was, he took a visibly deep breath, sticking something into the back waistband of his pants.
“Shit.” He tilted his head up to the sky, his eyes closed as though in silent prayer, then frowned at me and said, “Are you okay? It’s late. I wasn’t expecting you.”
My breath came out in a whoosh. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it in. “Ryder, I need help.”
“You’re shaking.” With growing concern, he reached out and rubbed the sides of my arms gently. “What’s wrong?”
In a low voice, I said, “I think someone’s in my apartment! I tried to unlock the door, but it was already open, and I tried to come get you, and I thought maybe I should call the police or something.” I said all this in a rush of relief that I wasn’t dealing with this alone.
He frowned, looking in the direction of my apartment, and pulled out his keys. “Come inside,” he instructed firmly as he unlocked the door. I followed him in. “Wait here,” he ordered. As he turned to leave, I saw what looked like a gun in that same waistband he’d shoved something into a moment ago.
Had he had a gun pointed at me in the dark? Holy shit! Who was this guy?
Before I could fully think through this new information, I found myself staring at his closed door as he stepped out and left me behind. I tried to listen but could hear nothing. He was being stealthy. After a few minutes, there still wasn’t any great ruckus, so I figured whoever had broken in hadn’t stayed. Was anything stolen? I’m not rich, and I don’t get help from family members, so everything in my apartment is hard earned.
Imagining that someone had gone in and just helped themselves to whatever they wanted was making me queasy and giving me a sense of despair. Knowing someone had been there felt, again, like being violated, and within a few moments, anger overrode my despair and displaced my fear. Twice in a day. First my car. Then my apartment. What. The. Hell.
Just when I was ready to go storming over to see what had happened, Ryder came back, looking grim. “They’re gone. You’ll have to see if anything’s missing.”
I started for the door determinedly, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm and a cautionary look.
“It’s a real mess, Taylor. It’s all tossed. It’s like they were looking for something.”