Date: 2021-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Mark and Lizzy have been battling their demons for years. After finding each other in a drug rehab facility, their love has become a band aid over an infected wound. A wound that left untreated, will certainly kill. Mark wakes to find Lizzy's lifeless body after a late-night bender. However, she continues to walk the halls of Apartment 16, beckoning, pleading, haunting him. Mark desperately wrestles with his options as he struggles to figure out what he must do with Lizzy's body, and how to deal with her ghost. But for Mark...the struggle has just begun.
Publisher: lastwaltzpublishing
Rights: All rights reserved (#1556974019361487)

The Dead Girl

By

Daemon Manx

Last Waltz Publishing

5 Midland Avenue

Pompton Plains, NJ 07444

Owned: R. R. Chiossi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Daemon Manx

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address:

lastwaltzpublishing@gmail.com

Edited by: R. R. Chiossi

The Dead Girl

Winner of the Baba Yaga Award

Best Short Story of the Year runner-up

With the Horror Authors Guild

Originally published in The Green Shoe Sanctuary Magazine

Summer Writing Prompt Contest

www.daemonmanx.com
author@daemonmanx.com

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Abigail by Daemon Manx

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The dead girl stood at the window, her grey features in silhouette by a despondent December moon. The frail shadow cast by her hopeless figure lay on the floor like an old, discarded blanket, a doleful reminder of a fleeting existence.

She slowly turned toward the boy on the couch. Her hair hung limp and knotted, nearly covering her face—nearly. Her skin was wan and waxen, except for her cheeks and beneath her eyes, which were sunken and sallow, a purple so dark it was almost black. Cloudy eyes fixed on the boy and glared at him accusingly.

“I’m sorry, Lizzy,” he whispered.

The boy watched as she crossed the room and sat beside him. He shivered. Although she had been there for nearly two days now, he had still not gotten comfortable with her presence; it was more than unsettling. She had appeared late Friday night, shortly after he had found her lifeless body. Now it was Sunday, and soon he would have to decide exactly how he was going to handle the problem in the bedroom. For now, he sat in the dark and cried. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

The dead girl stared at him in silence.

After regaining a sliver of his composure, the boy, who was twenty-two, and by all rights a man, stood up and crossed the apartment. He checked the thermostat. It read 50, bottomed out at its lowest reading. He imagined it was probably much colder inside than that. The power had been off since he found her, and it was December, after all. A bleak, miserable December at that. He flicked the light switch, it did nothing.

“It’s probably for the best,” he muttered, hoping that the frigid air would help keep the body from revealing itself, at least until he was ready to deal with it. He walked to the front door and tried the knob. It held fast and would not budge. The deadbolt lock would not turn either, no matter how hard he tried.

“I deserve this.”

He had tried to leave the apartment shortly after discovering her lying there, then again when she appeared the first time. In fact, he had tried to escape no less than several hundred times since Friday night. He had become a hostage; she was holding him here. This is what it is like to be haunted, he thought. “I deserve this,” he repeated.

He turned to find her standing threateningly close to him. Her eyes were no longer accusing. They were just sad, the broken-hearted eyes of a senseless death. She looked at him and opened her mouth, her cold lips parted as she attempted to speak...there was nothing.

The clothes she wore appeared to have lost all property of tint and tone as if she had been cast in black and white. Dizzying shades of grey mottled together, evaporating into one another. The result was a grainy texture that was difficult to look at. The same was true for her physical self as well; she had lost all the essence that had bound her to this world. However, at times, she seemed completely tangible. Mark knew that if he were to try, he could reach out and take her hand. There was no translucent quality to her at all. She was in no-way see-through. The gravity of her presence was profound.

Contrarily, at other times throughout the weekend, she had displayed the ability to easily pass-through solid walls and doors as if they had not been there at all, as if they belonged to a separate reality than the one she occupied.

Her outstretched hands and beckoning grey eyes called to him like sirens. The pull of her will was virtually as powerful as the magnitude of his guilt. Wiping the tears that coursed down his face, he navigated a wide berth around her. Carefully avoiding contact, he mindlessly entered the hallway and found himself at the door to the bedroom.

***

After work on Friday, Mark had cashed his check and been at “The Spot,” a good hour ahead of rush-hour traffic. The Spot, as it was commonly referred to, was Straight St. and MLK Blvd, a place where you could find just about anything if you had the cash. Lizzy and Mark had been using rather heavily for the past year and a half and had been chipping away towards larger habits well before that. The fact that they had met at St. Claire’s Hospital on the substance abuse wing, where both had been attempting to detox, was not only a testament to their common struggle but an ill-fated omen of their impending ruin. But, since birds of a feather tended to flock, they had hooked up and had been flocking together ever since.

There is a saying, “two Sickies don’t make a Wellie.” That had been true of Lizzy and Mark. Together they had honed their skills and had become efficient enablers of one other. Their combined efforts had succeeded in keeping the beast at bay, or at least the bag full—most of the time. Putting food on the table and keeping the lights on was another story. At least they had managed to stay up to date on the rent.

Weekends had become a routine celebration for the young couple as if merely surviving another week was occasion enough. When Friday finally rolled around, it was game on. They would spend the two and a half days extremely high—actually, extremely low, snacking on Frosted Flakes and nodding out in front of the television in the bedroom.

Monday morning always arrived too soon, like a cold slap to the face. At that point, they would peel themselves from the sheets and attempt to put the needle aside for the remainder of the workweek. But the ability to maintain was a feat that had become harder and harder to pull off. Every junkie knows that maintenance never lasts long. Like a house of cards in a hurricane, it is destined to come crashing down.

Mark had scored two bricks of something called “Vapor Lock,” and it had been straight fire. These days you had to be extra careful about what you bought, with all the garbage dealers were using to cut their product. Fentanyl was especially one bad hombre you had to steer clear of. Junkies were dropping like flies from that shit. For that reason, Mark preferred to deal with only one connection. Trap, his main source, could be at the ready within minutes of his call. Reliability, as well as quality, were two commodities that were severely lacking in the drug trade. Trap was usually good in both departments.

Mark and Lizzy had done everything together. They hit the needle as soon as he walked in the door. From there, it was a contest to see who would nod off first. This time, Mark figured it had been him.

He woke at 10:30 to find Lizzy fast asleep, face down in the covers.

“Wow, that was some strong ass diesel, babe,” he said. She hadn’t moved. Mark shook her by the leg, but Lizzy didn’t so much as stir. “Babe,” he called again as he took her hand. Mark recoiled at the icy touch of her fingers. Rolling her over, he noticed the ragdoll, sack of flour way that her body flopped in response. Her mouth was agape; her lifeless eyes stared blindly toward the ceiling. The color of her skin was wrong; it was ashen and grey, almost anemic. Lizzy had been dead for hours.

He had a vague memory of attempting to breathe life into her no longer functioning lungs and intermittent moments in which he could recall beating on her chest. Now it was all a blur. As he desperately tried to bring her back, the world began to spin out of control. The room tilted and heaved like the deck of an old wooden ship in the grips of a catastrophic storm. His actions were fruitless.

He had picked up his cell phone, dialed 911, but never hit send. There was a lot of dope in the house. He pictured himself being arrested for her murder, at the very least, criminal negligence. Mark panicked, dropped the phone, and cried. For hours he cried. Finally, he found himself in the living room with no recollection of having left her side. Prayer had escaped him, hope abandoned, and reality overwhelmed.

He wanted a smoke and had a notion that a couple bags might help settle his nerves. However, both items were in the bedroom, and there was no way he was going back in there. The power had gone out, as it often did when he was late with the bill, which he probably was but couldn’t remember. So, he sat in the dark with his head cradled in his hands, staring at the bedroom door.

At first, his eyes blurred and watered as the shadow crossed his view; a trick of twilight taking advantage of his impaired condition. But, as he focused, he quickly realized it was neither deception nor hallucination. He watched as Lizzy passed through the bedroom door into the hallway as if she were nothing more than smoke. The dead girl walked down the hall and joined the boy on the couch.

***

Now, standing in the hallway outside the bedroom, he was even more uncertain of his next move than ever. Lizzy once again appeared in front of him. She placed her hand on the doorknob and nodded longingly at Mark.

“I can’t go back in there,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

She raised her arm and slowly extended a finger in his direction. Lizzy shook her head from side to side.

“I know,” he said. “I’m ashamed of myself. But I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back in there and see you like that. I just can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

The dead girl hung her head as if the weight were simply too much to bear. She let her hands fall to her side.

For some time, he stood there looking at her. He had let her down, and he knew it, not only in life but in death as well. Had he been half the man he wanted to be, or a tenth of the man he imagined he could be, he would have done everything in his power to get her the help she needed, that they both needed. He should have stopped at nothing to get her clean. If he had truly had her best interests at heart, wouldn’t he have done the right thing, even if the right thing was them not being together? Wouldn’t he have done just that if he truly loved her? Wouldn’t he have called the police right away, without fear of consequence? Could he disrespect her memory any more than by doing nothing? He thought not.

The vessel that had been Lizzy lay in a tangle of dirty sheets behind a closed bedroom door. What remained now wandered the floor of Apartment 16 as a lamentable reminder of his ruinous life.

He hadn’t even realized that he had closed his eyes until he opened them; Lizzy was no longer there. Conscious periods had become less frequent for Mark; moments of wakefulness and intervals of restless dreams blurred into one agonizing playlist of desperation. He should have been severely detoxing by now. Why wasn’t he hugging the bowl, sick as a dog, was beyond logic. He usually needed to hit it every few hours. The emotional distress must have something to do with it, he reasoned with himself. He had wanted a smoke as well, but he wasn’t jonsin’ like he should be. For some reason, he felt as if he didn’t need one. This seemed odd but was immediately dismissed by the interruption of a heavy knock.

Thump...Thump...Thump

“Mark, Lizzy, it’s Mr. Flores, hello,” a voice bellowed at the door.

Thump...Thump...Thump

“Mark, I need to check the fire alarms. I have an inspector coming. Is anyone home?”

Mark stopped breathing and slowly turned toward the front door. Lizzy stood beside it, her eyes wide and pleading. She wanted to let Mr. Flores inside. Mark could read it on her face.

“Mark, hello.” There was a jangle of keys from the other side of the door, then the sound of them being tried in the lock.

Panic raced through Mark’s heart as it beat in his chest like thunder. Oh God, no! he thought. Mr. Flores, the landlord, would need to check the fire alarm in the bedroom, and then he would find Lizzy’s body. He wasn’t ready to do this yet. He needed more time, time with her, time with her ghost. Mark knew that once the body was found, Lizzy would be leaving him. More likely, he would be the one leaving, on his way to a jail cell. He needed just a little more time with her. They had done everything together.

The sound of metal against metal resonated as Mr. Flores tried several keys. “Ahh, these are the wrong ones.”

Thump...Thump...Thump “Mark, Lizzy, is anyone home?”

Lizzy stared at Mark and pointed to the door. Mark shook his head no. “Not yet,” he silently mouthed the words.

Footsteps faded down the hall as Mr. Flores turned and left. He would be back, and soon. Mark knew his time with her was nearly at an end...or was it?

Suddenly it became so obvious. Why he hadn’t thought of it before was insane. Their time together wasn’t over; in fact, it had just begun. They would be together for eternity. Mark decided he would kill himself and join her. It wasn’t goodbye at all; it was a new beginning. After he was certain that Mr. Flores was gone, Mark walked to the kitchen. The dead girl watched and slowly shook her head in frustration.

***

In life, she had been Elisabeth “Lizzy” Pulowski, from Passaic, New Jersey; tragically hip and terminally cool; just another one of the countless souls affected by the heroin epidemic. Lizzy could never have been mistaken for a cover girl, but before she had started using, she had had her moments. On a good day, she weighed in at ninety-seven pounds. But now, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, most of her good days were sadly in the rearview.

She had made several half-hearted attempts to get clean, all unsuccessful, and had met Mark during one of them. In him, she had found a kindred spirit, a brother in arms, a soul she could share her struggle with. It had eased the burden greatly. They had instantly fallen in lust with each other, and that graduated to love nearly overnight.

Suddenly, the life she had needed to escape from so desperately had become bearable, almost manageable. Their love had masked the deluge of addiction. Happiness had been a band aid over a seriously infected wound, one that could not heal independently. A wound, that if left untreated, would surely one day kill. Unfortunately, love has a way of hushing even the hungriest of monsters. Sadly, some monsters refuse to stay silent.

***

Dusty morning sunlight desperately attempted to illuminate the apartment. Stubborn shadows clung defiantly to every corner, refusing to succumb. A dull, colorless haze permeated the kitchen, invading the room like a mist. Mark entered and headed straight for the utensil drawer. The sharpest of the steak knives were in there. Surely one of them was sharp enough to open a major vein or artery. How long does it take for the human body to bleed to death? He wondered. He imagined less than a couple minutes if you hit the right one. The left side of the neck ought to do the trick. He reached for the drawer, and she was there, instantly blocking him.

“Let me do this, Lizzy,” he pleaded. “I need to.”

She opened her mouth to speak. Although she said nothing, Mark could easily understand the word “No,” on her lips.

We’ll be able to stay together,” he began to sob. “You gotta let me do this. I can’t live without you.”

Grey phantom tears ran down the dead girl’s cheeks as she stood before him. A melancholy sadness like no other washed across her face. Why couldn’t she make him understand? Why was it so impossible for him to see? Lizzy moved to the side and let him pass.

“Thank you, Lizzy. You’ll see, it’ll be better this way.” He pulled open the kitchen drawer revealing a small collection of knives and various utensils. A large, serrated blade caught his eye, one that appeared exceptionally lethal. He plunged his hand into the drawer. It easily passed through the knives and the wooden bottom of the cupboard itself. He watched as first his fingers disappeared, then his hand, and then his arm.

“What?” He pulled his hand back, and it effortlessly met no resistance.

He grabbed at the knife again and watched as spirit fingers passed through holographic blades. He could touch none of it.’

He turned to Lizzy and shouted. “Why are you doing this to me? I love you!”

She turned her back to him and left the kitchen.

Mark urgently drove his hand back into the drawer in a desperate attempt for the knife. Certain that he would be able to do so since Lizzy had left the room. Once again, his hand penetrated the drawer as if it were no more tangible than smoke. He reached into the porous wood all the way to the crook of his elbow, where the sharp stab of one of the knives caught him. He pulled his arm back from the bite and examined the wound. Dark brown blood had run down his arm all the way to his fingertips. It had dried and cracked as if it had been there for far too long. Mark stared down at the place where the blade had pierced his flesh. A hypodermic hung from his arm in the exact spot he always used to shoot. The soft tissue around the vein had turned a deep shade of scarlet.

“What the hell?” he gasped as terror flooded his brain.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. Mark stood frozen, facing the two men that entered the apartment. Mr. Flores and the fire inspector immediately raised their hands to cover their mouths and noses. “Dear God, what the hell is that?” Mr. Flores gagged.

“Call the police,” the inspector yelled as he used his knuckle to turn on the light switch. A careful gesture applied so as not to disturb the scene.

Mark stood in the entranceway of the kitchen as the soft light illuminated him. He raised his hands in the act of surrender and attempted to speak. He was unable to say a word.

Mr. Flores backed into the hallway and dialed 911 on his cell phone. “What should I tell them?”

“Tell them you’ve found a dead body in one of your apartments and to get here right away.”

Flores backed up further into the hallway, doing his best to avoid the awful smell that was pouring out of Apartment 16. But knew he would be smelling it for a very long time. He did as instructed and placed the call.

With over twenty years on the job, Inspector Gary Gillick was no stranger to the reek of death. He had pulled his share of bodies from the husks of burnt-out tenements and crack houses in his day. Still, it wasn’t a thing you ever got used to. He walked into the apartment, shielding his face as best he could. He passed Mark, never looking at him, and walked directly to the bedroom.

Mark gasped in horror. “No!” He whimpered. It was heard by only Lizzy, who stood at the bedroom door with her arms outstretched for him to join her.

He went to her.

They watched as Inspector Gillick opened the door and entered the bedroom. The bodies lay amidst a tangle of sheets exactly where they had passed on Friday night; Mark and Lizzy had finally found a way to silence the monster. A serene comprehension filled him as she took him in her arms and pulled him close.

They had done everything together.

If you enjoyed reading

The Dead Girl

You will love

Abigail

Strange things come in small packages!!!

Available at Amazon

mybook.to/abigaildaemonmanx

Time is running out…

Hour by Hour…

Minute by Minute…

Piece By Piece

Coming This Winter

By Daemon Manx

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daemon Manx is an award-winning American author who writes horror, suspense, supernatural, and speculative fiction. He is a recipient of the 2021 HAG award for his story The Dead Girl. He is a member of the Horror Authors Guild (HAG) and has been featured in magazines in both the U.S. and the U.K. Daemon lives with his sister, author Danielle Manx and their narcoleptic cat Sydney where they patiently prepare for the apocalypse. There is a good chance they will run out of coffee far too soon.

Follow Daemon Manx at:

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author@daemonmanx.com
daemonmanx@yahoo.com

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Acknowledgments

As always, I would like to thank my family, friends, and all those who have supported me over the years. Of course, many thanks to the horror community, and the Horror Authors Guild for noticing this story. A special thanks to Dawn (Danielle) for all of your suggestions and edits. And to Wendy for always being in my corner and having my back. I couldn’t have done any of this without either of you. And finally, to the reader, since without you I don’t exist. It is your feedback and comments that drive and propel me to search the darkest corners of my heart for that next tale.

As a side note, The Dead Girl touches on a deeply dark, tragic reality that has become far-too ubiquitous within our society. Addiction is a horror that is all too real. On October 29, 2021, I celebrated nine years clean and sober. I don’t say this because I am looking for a cake or a pat on the back. I offer this as inspiration. The years I spent in addiction were a living nightmare. If you, or anyone you know suffers from addiction, there is a way out. You still have a chance to change the narrative and write your own story. Organizations like AA and NA meet regularly and there are people there who have been through what you are going through. They are willing to help. If twelve step programs aren’t your thing, there is Smart Recovery, there are hospitals and detox programs, rehabs, and members of the church who are willing to help. If that doesn’t work, you can simply talk to a friend. A closed mouth doesn’t get fed, and your life is too important to starve to death.

Thank you,

Daemon Manx