I was overdressed and sweated profusely in my “safari” outfit comprised of khakis, two shirts, boots and thick socks! I also wore a blue and red bandanna. My hat was like the one Indiana Jones wears in those popular flicks everyone has seen. I’d drunk from my canteen every fifty paces. I’d swatted this and that pest. The miasma of vines had tried to overwhelm me the whole journey. Juan, of course, was accustomed to it all. He’d been born in the jungle, so, his struggles were only difficult outside it. That’s where I came in handy. Here, he was fine and surrounded by the familiar.

He motioned for me to follow him to a clear stream. It was deep. He said we could wash up. Also, he had something to show me. Something to try. Hmm, I thought. When Juan says try, I get tense. Attribute it to experience. But out in the jungle miles from civilization, one doesn’t argue with the guide. He fished a package from the stream and opened it. He took out what seemed a bite-size chunk of meat and offered it.

“Laura,” he said. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

Laura had been one of our mutual friends. At the mention of her name, I recalled I hadn’t seen her lately. I motioned for Juan to wait, scurried behind a nearby tree and barfed violently.

One midday grandmother had answered the door and received a delivery. Marsten, as she referred to him when talking to family and friends, never missed a thing, so it wasn’t long before he rang.

“Who was it at the door, Florence?” he asked grandmother.

“It was a delivery, Mr. Marsten. A single rose. I have it here.”

“A rose?” he said. “Hmm, how odd. I hope it isn’t Dorothy’s rose.”

“Dorothy’s rose? Why should her rose come here?” Grandmother asked.

“Stranger things have happened, Florence. Could you find out?”

“Of course. I shall ring this minute.”

Grandmother had said more than once that Marsten had heard that the American baseball great, DiMaggio, had had a single rose sent regularly to the California grave of his deceased wife, the famous actress Marilyn Monroe. Marsten had quite liked the idea and, since he could certainly afford it and had his own deceased wife, Dorothy, had decided to imitate DiMaggio. The village florist, Carusso, stopped by the graveyard himself on a weekly basis and left Dorothy her fresh rose.

When grandmother returned to Mr. Marsten’s study, he could see she was not herself.

“What did you find out, Florence?”

“The florist didn’t deliver Dorothy’s rose this morning, Mr. Marsten. He said you rang up a few days ago and asked for the next rose to be sent here.”

“That’s a lie! I never rang him up!”

“I mentioned it was a strange request,” Grandmother said, “but he said he distinctly recognized your voice.”

Marsten wasn’t himself either the rest of the day. That night, after sunset, he answered the telephone himself. It was a stranger.

“Did you receive your rose?” the strange voice asked.

“Who is this?” Marsten demanded. “What do you want?”

“I want you to have the rose,” the stranger said. “The rose for memory’s sake.”

“Memory? Who are you and what kind of a joke is this?”

“Tomorrow you will be a memory, Mr. Marsten. Before sunup. Goodbye now.”

Of course, Grandmother said she didn’t think Marsten slept well that night. But she never got the chance to ask him about it. He did, indeed, pass away. The coroner said it was his heart. That it had just worn out. Grandmother never agreed with that. To her dying day she didn’t.

First he looked in the kitchen. Sometimes when one of them couldn’t sleep they made a cup of hot tea. No. She wasn’t there. Then he looked in the master bathroom, even pulling back the shower curtain. She wasn’t there, either. That left the guest bathroom. The light wasn’t on, so he was a little doubtful. But he had to look. No choice. No, she wasn’t there. Where, now, could she be at this hour? He hoped she hadn’t gone outside for some reason. The temperature must be near freezing. He checked both front and back doors and looked out the windows. Nobody moving out there that he could see. Both doors were locked and secured, just as he’d left them when they’d turned in for the night. Arthur checked the study. Was she reading a book? No, no sign. He began to feel faint and to tremble slightly. He closed his eyes a moment to try and regain his composure. He’d have to call Cindy, his daughter. Like it or not. What was it–3 a.m.? Something like that.

A sleepy-voiced Cindy answered the phone.

“Cindy, your mom. I can’t find her anyplace. I woke up and she wasn’t in the bed. I don’t know what to do.” Arthur began to cry.

“Daddy,” Cindy sighed. “We’ve been through this before. I love you very much, but you know you don’t have a wife. Mom died four years ago. When are you ever going to get used to that?”

“I do have a wife, Cindy,” Mr. Bremen sobbed to his only daughter. “I’ve always had a wife. I just can’t find her right now. Please, can you come over. Can you help me find her?”

“Listen, Dad. Go back to bed and go to sleep. I’ll stop by later on the way to the office. Now stop crying and do as I say. Are you listening, Daddy?”

Arthur wiped his eyes. “I’m listening, Cindy. I’ll try. I’ll try to sleep. But I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Daddy. I’ll see you in a few hours. Everything is normal. I’m going to ring off now.”

Both rang off. Cindy rose a little earlier that morning so that she could stop by her dad’s place for fifteen or twenty minutes before getting to the office. Poor man. It was the least she could do. He’d taken good care of her and her mom for so many years. As she was about to leave the house, she noticed she had a message on her answering machine. That’s strange, she thought as she pressed the PLAY button.

“Cindy, it’s Mom. Don’t forget today’s your father’s birthday. Do try to come by this evening, you and Jeff. I’ll get the cake so you don’t have to bother. Also, dear, if you want a gift idea, I suggest a red sweater. You know how your dad loves turtlenecks.”

Since Jeff had already left for his classes, no one was there to catch Cindy’s fall as she fainted.

“This place is creepy,” she told Matt. “I feel like someone’s watching us.” He just laughed. Then he spoke.

“Honey, this is the safest place in town, if you want to know the truth.”

“Maybe you think that,” she said. She couldn’t, however, resist Matt’s charms and candy breath and tongue. He was the best boyfriend she’d ever had and she didn’t intend to lose him. After they’d got in the back seat, he began caressing her top to bottom and she began dreaming of their idyllic life together in the future.

“What was that noise? Someone’s out there!” she said after a while. Her body tensed.

“It’s a tree branch, honey,” Matt said. “It’s brushing against the windshield a little. The wind’s doing it, nothing else.”

A few minutes later, both heard a thump on top of the car. They froze.

“And that?” Christie asked, poking Matt in the ribs.

“I’m not sure,” Matt answered. “Like a thump?”

Christie held Matt’s chin in one hand and looked into his Sinatra-like blue eyes. “I know it was a thump,” she said. “I’m asking what caused the thump.”

“I’d better get out and look,” Matt said.

“Maybe you’d better,” Christie said. “It wasn’t a pine cone, that’s for sure.”

Matt defogged the windows with a cloth he kept in the glove compartment then opened the door on his side and stepped out. He looked on top of the car. With the speed of something like a sleek impala, he jumped into the driver’s seat and switched the car engine and lights on. The Mazda backed out from under the tree and sped away. Matt noticed someone had half-closed the entrance gates when they approached them. Instead of stopping, he swore under his breath and drove right through them. Fortunately, they were aluminum gates painted black and not genuine wrought iron gates.

A relieved Christie, buttoning up, climbed over the front seat and sat in the middle near Matt.

“I told you someone was there,” she said in tears. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

When Matt pulled the Mazda to the curb in front of Christie’s house, she spoke again.

“I’m not getting out of this car until you tell me what you saw,” she said firmly. “What was it on top of the car and don’t say bird shit.”

“Okay, okay,” Matt said. His body still trembled slightly. He hugged Christie and caressed her face. “If you want the truth, it was a squirrel. A bloody, decapitated squirrel.”

“How do you people manage to get all the luck?” Jill asked.

“Be patient,” Kathryn said. “You’re bound to get a new guy soon on that floor.”

Both women were riding down in elevator car number 6. It was nearly 7 PM and the number of occupants in the building at that hour had greatly decreased. Kathryn worked for Gunn Financial Services on the forty-eighth floor and Jill worked for the city’s large firm of Grisham, Cato, McMahon, and Myers on the forty-ninth. They’d met several years back and had been good friends since that time. Occasionally they had lunch together. The striking building they worked in, Mercer on the Park, was the envy of half the office workers in the city.

Kathryn was headed for her car in B3, the third underground basement floor, while Jill would exit at the main entrance of the building, o the street floor.

“Just love those shoes,” Kathryn told Jill. Jill wore red leather pumps, charcoal nylons, a black skirt and belt, black blouse and a necklace of marble-sized red balls.

“I was so lucky,” Jill said. “You know, nobody else in the world wears a 5.”

“Forty,” Kathryn guessed.

“Forty! I never would’ve bought ‘em,” Jill laughed. “I don’t earn that much.”

“Twenty-five, then.”

“Keep going,” Jill said.

“Okay, I give up.”

“Thirteen. Only thirteen dollars,” said Jill.

“C’mon, you’re lying,” Kathryn said.

Jill shook her head. “Believe what you want,” she said.

Just that moment the elevator stopped. Street floor.

“Take care. See ya tomorrow,” Jill said, exiting the car.

“Lunch next week, right?” Kathryn said.

“Tuesday,” Jill said, waving, without turning around.

The elevator car continued descending. It reached the basements but did not stop at B3. Kathryn immediately wondered why it hadn’t and pressed the button again. There were six basement levels in all. The car headed for B6. There the car stopped, but the doors did not open. Kathryn didn’t press the open button. Figured she’d go back up to B3 then press it. Crazy machine, she thought. When did one ever work perfectly?

The now ascending elevator failed again to stop at B3. Instead, it continued upward. Then it left the basement area and began the climb through the higher floors again. Kathryn realized she’d pressed the buttons for ten or twelve floors. Many lights were on. Maybe that had “confused” the machine. She didn’t care. And she didn’t care which floor it stopped on. She just wanted out quick. There was always the stairs. She’d take those. Up or down, whichever. She remembered the emergency stop. Red. She pressed that button but nothing happened. Suddenly, the car went completely dark but it didn’t stop moving. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Later, in her desperation, Kathryn panicked upon the realization that the car had been up and down the entire building more times than she could count. She remembered swearing never again to work another day in that building before she blacked out.

“Come in,” Pam said.

“I can’t sleep in there alone,” Annie said as she entered. “Mind if I sleep here for tonight again?”

“Help yourself,” Pam said and pointed to the extra twin bed. “Same noises?”

“I know it sounds silly, but yes, they haven’t gone away. And I know I’m not imagining them.”

“Well, it is an old wood-frame house, you know,” Pam said. “Creaky boards and things. Maybe one day they’ll have some nice brick residence.”

“I’m worried about here and now, not one day in the future,” Annie said. “Night.”

“Night,” Pam said. “Don’t worry any.”

Annie and Pam were Chi Omega sorority sisters at FSU in the Florida capital. Annie had been living in the sorority house for a short time only. Pam had been there a while and had said repeatedly that little “bumps” in the night never fazed her. While she didn’t doubt Annie’s words, Pam did admit, however, that she did not hear the noises Annie had referred to. The two ate breakfast together the next morning before both had to rush off to classes. That’s when Pam told Annie about the house’s past.

“You’re kidding me,” Annie said. “Ted who?”

“Bundy. I swear it’s true. He killed two women right here in this house. Bludgeoned them. Tried to kill four, but the other two survived.”

“And you have no problem sleeping here?” Annie told Pam. “Well, you can have it, hon. I’m getting out of here soon as I find a place! One with no history!”

The day Annie moved out, Pam stood in the door smiling and waving at her after having helped her load the Mazda.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Annie yelled as she started the car.

“Of course we will,” Pam said. “Don’t worry about it. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I’m sure I will,” Annie said. Then she drove off.

Annie had found another house about a mile away. Three women students lived there and were looking for a fourth. It would actually be a little cheaper than the deal she had at the Chi Omega house. She was glad about that.

On the first and second nights in the “new” house, Annie didn’t hear the little noises that came from the kitchen although her bedroom was located fairly near it. Now, that wouldn’t do, he thought. He’d wait patiently another night or two, then make sure they were loud enough for her to hear them.

They were driving home after Tim, eleven years old, had played video games better than two hours at a place for kids in the mall. He was lucky his Uncle Bill could take him places. It seemed the whole world worked and was always too busy to do things with kids.

The question broke Bill Cato’s trance. He sometimes went into one then he’d find himself in the middle of some activity without the slightest notion of when he started the activity, how or why. That included driving scores of city blocks.

“You’ll tell if I say why,” he said.

“No way. I won’t, Uncle Bill. Haven’t you trusted me before?”

“You’ll tell your mom. You’re a mama’s boy.” Bill said.

Tim was quiet a moment.

“I don’t think I’m a mama’s boy, Uncle Bill.”

“I was watching a game. Remember a boy with freckles and red hair on my left?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “He was playing on the yellow machine.”

“That’s him,” Bill said. “It was a game about death. Called ‘You Die Tonight’ or ‘Tonight You Die.’ Something like that. Anyway, the victim was running from this grayish blob type thing, breathing and bleeding, up and down different streets and alleys in the city.”

“So?” Tim said. “There’s stuff like that in a lot of games.”

“The weird thing was the victim, a guy, was wearing exactly the same clothes I’m wearing this minute. Same shoes even.”

Tim swallowed and looked closer at his uncle.

“Wow,” he said. “Kinda freaky, right?”

“Kinda freaky,” Bill Cato said. “Hope I forget about it soon.”

“You will, Uncle Bill. Don’t worry about it. Can we put the windows down? It’s nice outside tonight.”

Bill turned off the air and rolled down his and Tim’s windows as well as the two in the rear. The wind felt great. Must have been a perfect 70 degrees.

“You’re right, it’s nice,” he said. “I always liked sticking my arm out in the wind—like this.”

The 11 PM phone call that night from Phoebe Cato, Bill’s wife, woke Tim up. The next day was a school day and he’d gone to bed at 9:30, his usual bedtime. Tears filled his eyes as he listened from his open bedroom door. He felt he could hardly breathe. His mom was crying and telling his dad that Bill, her older brother, had slipped in the shower and hit his head quite hard. He was at Smith-Bynum Memorial Hospital this very moment. Condition: critical.

The doctors had asked Phoebe how long her husband had been without an arm. She looked at them incredulously.

“What do you mean?” she said. “He’s got two arms.”

“Have you seen him in the ICU?” the doctors asked.

Henry quickened his pace a bit, but at eighty-two years of age and toting a bag from the supermarket, the bit wasn’t enough. The homeless fellow caught up with him.

“Hey, Pop. Would you be Mr. Houston by any chance? My old biology teacher?”

Henry didn’t answer but kept going. The man walked by his side.

“Did you hear what I said, Pop? I’m Alex. Alex Mercer. Jefferson High. C’mon, man. You taught biology there twenty-five years if you taught a day.”

“Never heard of ya,” Henry said.

The man shook his head. “I think you have, Mr. Houston. You failed me. Then I had to repeat a year with you. Biology two years with the same fucking teach!”

Henry didn’t speak or stop walking.

“Remember saying I’d never amount to anything Mr. Houston? Remember, Pop? Well, I did. I’m something today.”

Henry looked more intently at the younger man. “What did you amount to?” he rasped. “What are you today?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Houston. But first I want to give my old teacher a gift. Something for a sizzling July day.”

Blood spurted in several directions and the feeble retired teacher dropped his paper bag of groceries as the former student rammed the ice pick up Henry’s nose. Staring into unblinking eyes, the stranger whispered sharply: “I’ve become a killer, Mr. Houston. That’s what I amounted to.”