Lives Between Walls

A scream reverberated through the cold streets of Boston, where history met modernity at every corner. Detective O’Sullivan raced toward the source, his mind filled with dreadful possibilities. The city seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the revelation of a mystery that promised to expose the sins of the present intertwined deeply with echoes of the past. The guilt egging him on the run faster, if anything had happened to her, it would be his fault, square in the forehead. He would be the scapegoat, crucified for the sins of the assailants. Please let it not be her screams that I hear. Let it be someone else. He knew he would not be able to live with the guilt. He regretted not believing her the first time round. “Angie!” He cried out as he turned a corner. The sound of a barking dog in the background made him jump. Putting hand on pistol like a baton as he strode like he did back in his high school days, doing the 100m sprint relay. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to hand the baton to a corpse that evening. Finally he stumbled at the door of that building, pounding on it violently. “NYPD open up!” He shouted, scarcely able to restrain the tremble in his voice. He was scared. As much as he had been thoroughly trained for moments like these, but training is just that at the end of the day, it’s not real. And this was real, and his faculties betrayed him. “Open up, or I swear I will knock this door down! Angie!” He bashed the door until his white knuckles turned red. His voice echoed into the night sky, as he steadied himself, preparing to knock the door down. “Have it your way!” He ran and flung his 90kg frame into that dilapidated mahogany door which didn’t put up too much of a fight, and gave up at the hinges. Detective O’Sullivan came crashing into the house with a loud crash, as the door crushed the glass designer coffee table, with bits of glass shooting all over that tiny lounge. “Ow!” complained Sullivan as a bit of glass cut right in the middle of his right hand as he had leaned on all fours from his dramatic entrance. He quickly scrambled to his knees while grabbing his M16 from the cold tile floor. So much for the element of surprise, “Angie?!” It was dark, his own voice gave him comfort, it was dark but he could make out that he was in the lounge, by the brown leather recliners that almost filled up the room, the open plan kitchen adjacent, and he could see the spiral staircase at the end of the room. Somehow, he knew that this was where he had to go. His hand was bleeding, the gash on his hand had been more serious than he initially thought. He looked around and grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen sink, and wound it tightly around his hand.

He thought about the events of earlier that night. He had received a call, from this house. “Officer, there is something in my apartment. Please send help quickly,” the female named Angie had said on the other side of the phone.

“What do you mean something?”

“I don’t know. A presence. Something is just not right.”

“Lady I hope you haven’t called me to tell me ghost stories. Filing a false report is an offence.”

Sullivan had slammed the phone down in disinterest. He had enough on his plate, than to deal with a weed head this late. He took one long final pull from his cigarette, and then dabbed it in the plate, putting it out. He was not usually in the office this late by himself but the case of Lauren Hughes had been one of particular interest to him. Or perhaps he was using his work to hide from his family issues again. The last thing he wanted to think about his son, Brien coming out the closet again. What an insult to his masculinity. Had he not done his best to raise his children right? But yet with this thing, he felt like an utter failure. At least in his work he did something right. His trophies cluttered up the office hall of fame cabinet. Detective O’Sullivan was the one who cracked the hardest cases in the county. And Lauren Hughes’ case would be another accolade to add to his list in his twenty years of service. He stroked his long moustache, as he was prone to do when he was perplexed. He paged through the case documents, as with a fine tooth comb, trying to find what he had missed. The light from his desk lamp emitted a strong light, illuminating the whole office in an orange glow.

Suddenly his phone rang again with a ring that made him jump. If it was that Angie girl again, he had some words ready for her, “Listen I told you, stop playing your games – ” his words where cut short when he heard the voice of an elderly man on the other side. He quickly apologised, “Forgive me sir, I… I just thought you were someone else, how can I help?” The man on the other side of the phone explained that there had been a lady who had been screaming in the night in one of the apartments along Beacon Street and causing “a bloody ruckus.” It was only then when he connected two and two together, with a thought that these two phone calls might be related.

And here he was in this house where the scream came from, desperately trying to right his wrongs. “Hello?” He called out as he creaked up that old timber staircase that looked like it would gladly give way anytime. He held on tightly to the balcony as he cautiously made his way up to the loft. When he reached the room, immediately his nostrils were flooded by a smell of musky perfume – or that is what it seemed like to Sullivan. Definitely the scent of a woman’s perfume, who was getting ready to leave the house. There was no one there. The bed was a mess, with blankets strewn this way, and pillows on the floor – either a signs of a struggle, or someone in the process of making their bed. Sullivan refused to believe that a woman could leave their room in such a mess deliberately. He scanned the room looking for a light switch and he flicked it on. How could there be no one there? He had just heard someone screaming from this flat fifteen minutes ago. How could they now just vanish. Sullivan felt a chill running down his arm as he recalled the panic, and the desperation of Angie’s words over the phone, “there is something in my house… a presence.” Then he shook his head, “No, there’s no such thing as ghosts.” He continued scanning the room, looking for any clues that could clear his frustration. He saw an open book on the credenza unit, the book was entitled, “Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.” Clearly whoever lived here was not dumb, and so far he hadn’t found any signs of weed or intoxicants. He picked up the book to inspect it, to see if could pick up any clues, or fingerprint smudges. He looked at the shelf overhead and saw that this person had a number of books. Why had they been reading this specific one? He read over the title again, “People in a hurry…?” He scanned the room again, it was a mess, like it belonged to someone who must have been in a hurry to be somewhere.

Then his eyes where drawn to a small silver ball in the corner of the room, near the built in cupboard – about the size of his thumb. He made a bee line for it, and picked it up without hesitation. It looked like one of the marbles Brien used to play with as a child. But the silver was like nothing he had ever seen before, it was almost as though it could turn into liquid mercury in any second. It was so clear, it almost seemed like it was at a resolution higher than real life – such that it looked like a two dimensional picture. Sullivan let it roll into the palm of his hand, and then to his amazement, it started vibrating. He immediately wanted to throw it onto the floor, but he couldn’t – it was almost as though he was in a trance of sorts, watching this thing vibrate in the palm of his hand wound up in the dishcloth. It felt as though his body was vibrating as well, as if being electrocuted by a steady current. The whole experience lasted over 3 minutes but it felt like a lifetime to Sullivan. He must have held his breath for the whole experience because he exhaled violently after it was over. He felt different, but was not sure what had happened to him. He examined the ball again, it hadn’t changed. He marvelled at it, “What the hell?” Suddenly he had the impulse to check the wound on his hand. So he quickly unwound the dishcloth from off his right hand, expecting to see the bleeding gash, instead he saw a completely healed hand. “Oh!” an involuntary exclamation escaped his chapped lips as he dropped the marble to the carpet floor with a thud. While he was processing this, at the corner of his eye his saw the curtain ripple. He swung himself to face the curtain while pulling out his pistol and pointing towards the figure behind it, “Look Angie, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but I’m going to need to you to come out of there with your hands behind your head before I blow it off!” The curtain rippled again, but no one responded. Sullivan strode towards the curtain and pulled it back violently, to reveal a French Door that opened up to a Juliet Balcony. The gentle evening breeze from the open door must have been causing these curtains to move. Sullivan took a deep breath and tucked his gun back into his waist. So much for trying to keep his stress levels down, they didn’t pay him enough for this at the force. He slowly pushed the curtains back and walked out onto the balcony. He feared the worst as he went to look down from the edge of the balcony – his fears where confirmed, in a pool of blood on the cobbled street below.

Afterwards the scene was lined with red tape, and a battalion of policemen swarmed the scene, looking for clues. “It’s a shame Sully boy,” replied the Chief Constable as he watched the coroner pull the zip over Angie’s body, “according to that gal’s parents, ol’ Angie was not really playing with a full deck. So most likely a self slaughter case if you ask me.”

“So it’s confirmed that it’s a suicide?”

“Well of course Randy still gon’ do an autopsy. But from what the facts are giving, and the testimony of her folks, it will probably end up being suicide.”

O’Sullivan didn’t tell the chief about the book that he found open on her drawer, and definitely not about the silver marble with healing powers he had taken from her room. If he revealed that, then he would have to also tell them that he had hung up on the girl who is now dead, when she asked for help. But since that day, insomnia became his best friend. The guilt would simply not let him sleep.