The dust hung suspended before her, twirling in mid-air, and she saw his face within the cloud. Dallas smiled at her, and even though it was gray and powdery, it was still his smile. The one she had fallen in love with. More of the cloud took shape now; shoulders, arms, his chest. Each muscle was chiseled perfectly from the dust.
“I want to hold you, Dallas.”
She reached for him and her fingers passed through his center. As suddenly as it had begun, the winds stopped and the ashes dissipated, floating to the floor. Laura pulled her hand away. The center of the dust cloud was cold, and the tips of her fingers turned pale. It reminded her of when she’d been a little girl, and built a snowman without wearing her gloves.
“Dallas?”
There was no answer. She knelt to the floor and scooped the ash in her hands, letting it sift through her fingers. Another gust of wind blew through the room, gently carrying the dust away.
“I miss you.”
She went back out into the hall and knocked on Doris’ door.
“All set dear?”
“If it’s okay with you, Doris, I think I’m going to hang around awhile.”
“I understand, Laura. Take what time you need. It’s important to do so. I’ll be off for the hospital then. Jack will be grumbling if I don’t get back soon.”
“Give him my best?”
“I surely will. And you must come see him soon, yes?”
Laura nodded, unable to speak.
She went back to her apartment and shut the door, waiting for the sounds of the old lady’s departure. When she was sure Doris had gone, she rummaged inside her shopping bag and pulled out the gas can and the pills. She swallowed the pills first, and waited for them to kick in. Then, as she grew drowsy, Laura unscrewed the lid and splashed gasoline all over the floor, the walls, and the furniture. It carved little rivulets in the dust, and the smell of it wasn’t at all unpleasant. It was welcome. The odor blocked out the stench coming from the pit below.
She was getting sleepy.
Laura lit the match.
“Dallas.”
The wind answered her with a sigh, and the dust began to move again, caressing her arms and face.
She was asleep before the flames touched her.
***
The fireman wiped a grimy hand across his brow. “Christ, like we needed this on top of everything else?”
“Least the building wasn’t re-occupied yet,” his partner said. “And the fire was contained to just a few apartments.”
“Wasn’t re-occupied my ass! What do you call those? Squatters?” He pointed at the two mounds of dust on the floor. They were both human shaped, lying together side-by-side. He let his eyes linger on them a moment longer, and swore that the dust piles were holding hands.
The other man shrugged. “Optical illusion? A joke? Fuck, do you know how hot it had to be in here to reduce a human body to ash like that? Couldn’t have happened, man, or else this entire building would be toast.”
“So what the fuck are they?”
“Just one of those weird things, like the photos you see in
“Well, it still gives me the creeps. Let’s go.”
***
After they left, the dust began to swirl again. Sheets of heavy plywood had finally been put into place, sealing up the burned apartment, but the air moved. A wind blew through the room. It came not from the windows or from the hall, but from somewhere else.
The mounds of ash rose and embraced. Then, still holding hands, they fell apart; floating away until there was nothing left.
***
***
***
FADE TO NULL
She woke to the sound of thunder, lying in a strange bed with no memory of who she was or where she was, and panic nearly overwhelmed her. Her stomach clenched. Her breaths came in short gasps. Frantic, she glanced around the room for clues, but familiarity eluded her. The room was small, equipped with a dresser, a writing desk, and a chair with one leg shorter than the others. Atop the dresser sat a slender blue-glass vase with some flowers in it.
The flowers soothed her, but she didn’t know why.
She studied the rest of the room. Looming overhead were the cracked, yellowing panels of a drop ceiling. The carpet was light green, the wallpaper pastel. Framed prints hung on the wall—Monet, Kincaid, Rockwell. She wondered how it was possible that she knew their names but didn’t know her own. The closet door was slightly open, revealing a stranger’s clothes. There was only one window, and the blinds were closed tight. If the room had a door, other than the closet, she couldn’t see it.
The sheets were thin and starchy, and rubbed against her skin like sandpaper. They felt damp from sweat. Clenching the sheets in both fists, she raised them slightly and peered beneath. She was dressed in a faded sleeping gown with a dried brown stain over one breast. What was it? Gravy? Mud? Blood? Except for her underwear, she was bare beneath the gown.
She considered calling for help, but decided against it. She was afraid—afraid of who, or what, might answer her summons. Despite the fact that the room seemed empty, she couldn’t help but feel like there was someone else in here with her. Someone
The thunder boomed again. Blue-white light flashed from behind the closed blinds, and for a moment, she saw glimpses of other people in the room with her—a man, a woman, and a little girl. They were like the images on photo negatives, stark against the room’s feeble light, but at the same time, flickering and ghostly—composed of television static. The man stood by her bedside, dressed in a white doctor’s coat. A stethoscope dangled around his neck. He held a clipboard. The woman stood next to him, wearing a simple but pretty blouse. She seemed tired and sad. The little girl sat in the wobbly chair, rocking back and forth on the crooked legs.
The voice was distant. Muted. An echo. And female.
She tried to scream, but only managed a rasping, wheezy sigh.
The three figures vanished with the next blast of thunder, blinking out of existence as if they’d never been there at all.
Maybe they hadn’t.
She was dimly aware that she had to pee.
When the drum roll of thunder sounded again, the drop-ceiling disappeared as quickly as the ghost-people
