Dead Water

Mike Thompson had just moved to Holden, MA from Portland, OR. He was trying to put everything that happened there behind him. Cutting from his past wasn't a new thing, he'd done it before. Mike just didn't like it that much.

The sign in on the median read Entering Holden. “Holden, Massachusetts, incorporated in 1741, eh … “Considering the age of the place and the historic quaintness of it all Mike re-shouldered his bag and stepped on through the cool September afternoon.

Leaves were beginning to change colors and the air was just starting to have that touch of chill that heralded the final days and weeks of summer. While he enjoyed the turning of the seasons Mike wondered what it might be like to spend a winter or two in Daytona or perhaps on a beach in Hawaii.

The sun was still above the horizon, but the temperature had notably dipped, when Mike found the address he was looking for, a large boarding house standing back from the corner of the cross street. The limbs of the tall stately oaks and elms shadowing the house seemed to be either holding the ancient house back or warding people away. Mike wasn't sure which it was.

Time was showing it's impact on the outside. Windows had that yellow stain in them and seemed to be melting in their frames. The white exterior of the house was more like the sun bleached bones you find spread out under the desert sun, Briarwood Boarding House stood there as if it were sizing him up in the same manner he was sizing up the building.“Can I help you?” An older man, in his 60's, appeared from far corner of the house and lit a cigarette.

Mike studied the man for a few moments before answering. He was 5'6”, 220 to 230 pounds, nearly completely bald, and, clearly, a smoker. “I'm here about a room.” Mike paused to get a printed paper from his jacket pocket.

“Thompson.” The man said as he started towards the steps going up to the porch. He moved slowly and with an exaggerated waddle. “You didn't drive, how'd you get here?” The guy didn't even look at Mike as he asked this, he just ambled up the steps slowly and painfully.

“I took a bus in and walked from the depot.” Mike answered out of respect. He figured that there was little chance of the old guy hearing.

“That's quite a walk. Had to take ya at least three hours.” Years of smoking made his voice as creaky as the porch planks that he was now ambling across, the two sounds nearly harmonizing. “That puts ya comin' off the 1:15. You was in Chicago this mornin'.”

Mike smiled in spite of himself, the old man was on the ball. 'Impressive, Sir.” The screen door creaked open and then screeched before slamming shut in front of him. Those same sounds were repeated as Mike went used the door. “You must be Larry Humphrey, “ Mike said upon entering the hallway which was notably, eerily empty.

“I'm in here, Mike.” Larry's voice came from the living room. It was a large room with old furniture. It could have been antique had it been cared for, but these chairs and the couch, love seat, the rug, and other other pieces all showed signs of wear and the ravages of time.

The room itself had wood paneling and a chair rail with a fancy wall paper above it that, at one time, was likely a very expensive and classy pattern. Now, it was old and looked as if the printed patterns wanted to fall off and blow away with the draft that filtered through the room.

Larry sat in one faded chair with several papers fanned out on the coffee table in front of him. “These here are y'all's lease papers and the rules of livin' here.”

As Larry went over the pages Mike was paying closer attention to the man's voice. His accent, the words he used, the tempo, as well as his body language. Mike also took a full survey of the room itself. Smoking was clearly permitted inside for a while, if not just for Larry as he ran the place. The room temperature in the room was comfortable, but something was off, not right. There was a chill to the air that just wasn't right.

“I've never not gotten my security deposit back, as you can see from the letters of reference.” Mike offered copies of the letters.

Larry took the letters from Mike, looked at them in his hand for several seconds, then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh as if under an enormous weight. “I read yer letters and checked y'all out and that's why I agreed to your lease without having metcha.” Larry finally looked Mike eye to eye, “Go ahead an' initial the paragraph where there's blocks ta an' sign on the bottom of the last page an', “ leaning back and digging into his pocket Larry produced a key on a tag, “ya got a place ta call yer own, fer a while.”

The barracks bag somehow seemed heavier, maybe the walk in from the bus depot caught up to him. Whatever it was, Mike felt like he was now carrying an extra ton as he shouldered his bag. The number on the key tab was 302. The idea of dragging his bag up to the third floor suddenly seemed dauntingly impossible.

As he headed upstairs a woman was coming down. She looked to be in her late 30's, shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a casual ponytail. She smiled nervously in passing and glanced away quickly after looking into Mike's eyes for a moment. There were shadows under her eyes, as if she were tired or had not gotten much rest lately.

His room was small, but as big as he needed. It was big enough for a couch, a small table with room for two in one corner of the room, a small chest with two drawers, and a double bed pushed into a nook back in one section that receded along the same wall as the door. The one piece of furniture in the room to sit on was a simple black fake leather couch.

The double doors along one wall were clearly the closet. As Mike checked out his room and the appliances he went to those last. Finding the light switch to the right on the inside wall the closet was a walk-in with a dresser, a small set of shelves with some rough towels and sheets, and a rusty frame fold out single bed. It smelled like dry, dusty wood, moth balls, and something else. Something that he couldn't quite place. A smell that was clear and definitely out of place, but, he sniffed deliberately, somehow undetectable now. The more he tried to focus on it, the harder it was to find it.

Just then he noticed other smells and sensations. His own body odor and hunger. “Pffft, I need shower and something to eat.” Four days on buses from Portland will make anybody funky and he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

The bathroom was small, little more than a sink, toilet, and a glass enclose walk-in shower. “At least it's big enough to turn around in.” Mike was not the largest of people, but he was still bigger than average standing at 6'1” and weighing 210 pounds. The shower gave him enough room to turn around in. Once inside, he felt strangely trapped, as if locked in. Several times during his quick shower he opened the door slightly just to see that would open. Each time it opened the magnets that sealed it shut against the water clicked it tight.

Mike sat on the foot of the bed, it was comfortable, surprisingly so. He lay back on the mattress and let it hold his weight. The air eased out of his lungs in a relaxing sigh as his tired muscles really relaxed. His eyes closed lightly and in this gentle darkness he breathed in the air in his new room. It smelled of old wood, some dust, and an antiseptic cleaner that was recently used on the floors.

Kicking off his shoes and using his toes to pull off his socks mike was settling into the space more and more. The floor was cool and smooth beneath his feet. “Time to wash the nasty off of me.” Mike reluctantly got up and unceremoniously dropped his clothes in a small pile near the couch and dug a towel and his shower kit out of his bag.

On the back of the bathroom door was a full length mirror. It was old and missing some bits of silver from the back, the glass was chipped here and there and it looked as if the glass itself was somehow pouring off the door and onto the floor. “Hm, old glass does that over the years,” Mike mumbled to his reflection and the small empty bathroom.

The small pedestal sink had room for a cup, a toothbrush, and a small container of toothpaste. His razor, shaving cream, brush, and comb would all go into the small cabinet behind the tiny mirror over the sink. Mike looked at this oval mirror. Like all the other glass in the old building the glass on this mirror seemed to be slowly, steadily dripping.

“That's gonna hafta get switched out sometime, I think. It's time to update a few things here.”

The porcelain handles in the shower were like plus signs, both stained by years of dripping water. “Yup, updates are gonna happen … “

The shower door clicks shut with a metallic click behind him. The porcelain handles turn roughly with jerks and fits, almost as if they had been left unused for a long while and the moving parts had rusted over some. As if in response to his mental question a few bits of rusted material fell off. Water streamed into the glass enclosed stall.

Mike turned his face up into the streams of water, it fells against his face like a steady, heavy hot rain, stressed muscles began to relax as he let the water run down his body. Stepping to turn around Mike noticed that the drain was stopped up. “Shit,” he mumbled and reached to turn off the faucets.

As he turned them there was a crunching sound and more rusted material fell away. The faucet handles came off in his hands. “That figures,” he sighed. “At least there's a plunger by the toilet.” He had recalled seeing it there on his way around the apartment earlier. He pushed against the shower door, but it would not open. He pushed harder, still it would not move.

Mike tried using his hand to create enough force to push water down through the drain with short, quick pushes as if he were doing CPR on the drain. Something had moved in the pipes as the water bubbled and started to drain. Then, to his shock, the drain began to belch dark water up into the shower.

The glass enclosure was now rapidly filling with water. Mike slammed the glass door with his fist and elbows then his shoulders, all to no avail. The glass held strong against him. “Hay!” he began yelling, “Somebody! Help me!”

The water had quickly reached his knees now. Panic was taking hold. Mike stopped struggling against the glass and took several deep breaths, “Calm down … there has got to be a way out of this … there is a way out of this.” A few more breaths and Mike had his heart rate settled down and he felt more in control of himself. “This much water has to help push the door open. There is no way that it can hold back against this kinda pressure.” With that, he pushed against the door with all his strength again.

The brackish water was now up to his waist. Mike had his back against the door and his feet against the opposite wall so that he could push with all of his strength. The door refused to budge. “Help! Come on! Help me!” His sohuts continued to be ignored

Mike was treading water now, the ceiling inches from his head. He no longer had the room to yell. Still, he tried. “Please, somebody. Help me!”

The skin on the back of his knuckles was torn and ragged from his savagely punching at the glass several minutes earlier. His elbows were also raw from smashing repeatedly against an unforgiving glass surface.

Mike had to tilt his head back now, “Please, someone, please!” he had to spit a mouthful of water out now. “Oh, shit, no.” He gulped in a final breath before the water met the ceiling, closing off his last bit of air.

Terror, absolute terror filled Mike's mind. His heart was pounding out of control. He relaxed his body as best he could.

He knew that he could hold his breath for at least a minute and a half. That was the rest of his life. The idea had taken full hold of his consciousness. Mike only had just more than a minute before his lungs started to burn for oxygen. It would only take a few moments after that before his muscles started to convulse trying to force a breath in spite of being submerged. That breath would flood his lungs with water. Not inhaling was burn, ache, and eventually cause him to pass out, then he would inhale anyway. Either way, he was about to drown.

“NO!” Panic, fear, anger, something more than anger, rage ran through Mike. He struck out against the unforgiving glass barrier again, the water muted his every movement. As he screamed out, bubbles erupted from his mouth.

His lungs empty now Mike had to inhale. When he did, his lungs reacted just as he had expected, they violently rejected the liquid. Mike sat up straight in bed coughing, sputtering. He leaned forward, fell off the foot of the bed. His knees struck hard on the wood floor. His body convulsed in waves as his lungs and stomach pushed out water.

Mike just lay there twitching in the puddle of brackish water. He never heard the door open, but there he was, Larry Humphrey. “Welcome to Briarwood. Remember, y'all signed a lease. This is gonna stick with ya for spell. So, you might as well unpack and git settled.”

The old door creaked and the clicked shut behind him.

Pushing himself up out of the puddle of heaved and vomited water Mike went to the file he brought in earlier. He looked over the lease inside it. “Two years. I signed a lease for two years. Every time I go to sleep, I have to drown for the next two years.”