:m a g n u s:
The first thing I did after losing the connection was check the cord that attached the base to the phone jack in the wall. It was pulled out. I wasn't stupid enough, after all these years, to ask how that had happened or wonder if I had pulled it out somehow by accident from across the room. In stead, I tried to ignore that one plaguing thought about why I hate this house so much by plugging my phone back in and staring at it, setting it carefully back on the base where it belongs. And I backed away. From the first moment I set foot in this house, I knew that there was something wrong with it. There was this eerie pressing feeling, like I was being watched, and sometimes things moved on their own. There was the occasional voice or unexplained cold spot, lights would flicker and small objects went missing only to turn up in the most unthinkable places. Yes. That's right. I'm suggesting that the house — at least, my apartment — is haunted. So what? Ghosts haven't been scientifically proven to exist, no. But they haven't really been disproved, either; and when you live in a house like mine... you know. I don't care how many skeptics there are in this world... I know my apartment is haunted, and that's all there is to it.
No arguments.
I traveled out onto my balcony in my sock feet, realizing only a second too late that it was covered in a layer of snow, which both soaked and froze my feet almost instantaneously. I had looked out there only seconds before and missed the snow that I thought I had shoveled last night, and maybe the fact that it had snowed last night too had slipped my mind. I felt like an idiot. It happens at least once a day, that I realize how stupid I feel and must look and it's slowly chiseling away at what pride I have left. I used to be filled with it. Pride, I mean. When I was younger, I used to own the playground. Legit. Owned. As in, I walked around with so much pride and so much conceit that the other kids adopted me without permission as a leader, and it probably went to my head. For a long time, meaning until I graduated from elementary school, there was a section of the playground — the two sanded areas where the jungle gyms stood and the swings more than the field and the paved areas — that the others literally referred to as Magnus' Playground. When you told the teacher about someone misbehaving and were telling her where that person was, you told her, "He's over on Magnus' Swings," or "She's playing on Magnus' Slide." It seems odd to me now, but back then I had felt like I was the King of the World, and no one could tell me otherwise. At least... until I met Monika. Lots of things in my life can be reduced back to Monika. Monika, Monika, Monika. Grava. That's his last name. Monika Grava. After so long, I should know that, and I feel bad because I know he remembers my name, and probably my phone number, and my parents' number, and all my life's hopes and dreams, and my allergies.... And my favourite foods, and my least favourite food, maybe even the certain brands of shampoo and cologne I use.... I wouldn't be surprised at all if he knew everything about me that I had ever told him, and could recall it on command. He does that with his siblings, and I think I might be his best friend, so why not for me too?
I leaned on the railing of my balcony and stared into the backyard where a few brightly coloured plastic toys — among them was a lemon yellow rocking horse with faded stickers for eyes and forest green handles sticking out of the sides of its head (I had named it Frankenhorse, and I always had to tell my neighbours to keep it off my porch), and one of those red cars with the yellow roofs and the open bottom so kids can propel it forward with their feet (I think they should stop making those, because I swear my neighbour, Christa's son has broken his ankle at least once when other kids try to push him in it and he has his feet down. Serious safety hazard.) — sat neglected in the snow, scattered about the lawn like useless ornaments. The shed sat locked and unused in a corner of the lawn, and just outside it were two racing bikes that Christa had bought at a yard sale for herself and her boyfriend, Jeremy. Not that they ever used them. Both bikes just collected rust; it was a sad waste, because honestly bikes are one of the best modes of transportation in Vancouver, unless you’re taking the Sky Train. I always hear her downstairs complaining to Jeremy about how she wasn’t able to get her kids — Mitchell and Jaycee, respectively four and three — to daycare on time because of traffic and was therefore late for work. Seriously, lady…. You know what traffic is like. Fucking walk. Okay? Okay. Good.
I heard something then, staring out into the lightly snow-covered backyard, and I turned to look back in through the sliding glass doors. My phone was ringing. Is the carpet company calling back? Of course they weren’t. The ring was distinctive, set for one special number that was forced to call my house number ever since my cell was stolen from me on the street. You think muggings only happen in the movies? Think again. And even if they don’t happen quite as often as they do in movies, I seem to get mugged at least twice a year; most of the time I come out unscathed, they just grab the first valuable item they can find on me and run. People freak out, someone calls the cops, and once again I look like an idiot…. Daily life for me, really. Part of me wonders why Alessia is still calling me, despite all my bad luck and the subsequent idiotic appearance, because she really shouldn’t. A beautiful woman deserves someone who can actually take care of her, even if for just a friend. I really think I’m being unfair to her, but she keeps calling back. And I keep calling her…. Every time I tell myself that I have to let go for her own good, I end up calling her again. And asking her over. For coffee and cake. And to see my new photos. Ever since I had this heinous carpet installed a few days ago, I’ve told her she’s not allowed over at all. And I drive over to her place with my camera in the passenger’s seat… accompanied by cake, and this really expensive gourmet coffee blend that I only buy to drink when she comes over. Yeah. Aww…. He’s so squishy. Laugh about it a little bit. It's so funny — I buy special coffee to drink with special people.
Special people.... The only person I'd ever try to claw my way through a glass door for. No... that's not exactly how it happened. I went to open the door and it was locked. I don't remember locking it before going outside. I don't even remember closing the door after me, for that matter. I probably did. It's force of habit, closing doors — Maman was anal about keeping doors closed for some reason. To this day, I still can't figure out why. My Maman was always kind of strange, but that's alright, I guess. Papa love her, so she must've done something right. For a moment, I was stunned in disbelief, staring inside helplessly as Alessia tried to get through and I couldn't somehow tell her what had happened. Of course, I remembered — when the phone rang again and woke me from my traze-like state — that there was always the front door.... So began the race down the wooden ladder that was propped up against the house (surprisingly enough not for me, but for getting Christa's cat off the roof of the shed because the thing is retarded and jumps up there from the fence, then can't figure out how the Hell to get down), and into the snow in socks that were already soaked through. I didn't even care anymore. First priority? Get that phone.
I wouldn't've been surprised if the front door had been locked as well. But it wasn't. I threw the door to my apartment open and raced up the stairs, rushing through the door that separated my unit from the other two and grabbing the phone off the base just before it stopped ringing. One more and it would have gone to voicemail. Why is it such a big deal? Because voicemail sounds so... awkward... and I'm not the biggest fan. Plus, I may or may not have forgotten the password to my mailbox.
"Al...." I was out of breath. "What's up? How are you?"
It was then that I glanced over at the balcony door and realized something. It wasn't locked at all. I might have been trying to slide it open the wrong way, and that's explain more than half of my difficulty.
I'm such an idiot.
The first thing I did after losing the connection was check the cord that attached the base to the phone jack in the wall. It was pulled out. I wasn't stupid enough, after all these years, to ask how that had happened or wonder if I had pulled it out somehow by accident from across the room. In stead, I tried to ignore that one plaguing thought about why I hate this house so much by plugging my phone back in and staring at it, setting it carefully back on the base where it belongs. And I backed away. From the first moment I set foot in this house, I knew that there was something wrong with it. There was this eerie pressing feeling, like I was being watched, and sometimes things moved on their own. There was the occasional voice or unexplained cold spot, lights would flicker and small objects went missing only to turn up in the most unthinkable places. Yes. That's right. I'm suggesting that the house — at least, my apartment — is haunted. So what? Ghosts haven't been scientifically proven to exist, no. But they haven't really been disproved, either; and when you live in a house like mine... you know. I don't care how many skeptics there are in this world... I know my apartment is haunted, and that's all there is to it.
No arguments.
I traveled out onto my balcony in my sock feet, realizing only a second too late that it was covered in a layer of snow, which both soaked and froze my feet almost instantaneously. I had looked out there only seconds before and missed the snow that I thought I had shoveled last night, and maybe the fact that it had snowed last night too had slipped my mind. I felt like an idiot. It happens at least once a day, that I realize how stupid I feel and must look and it's slowly chiseling away at what pride I have left. I used to be filled with it. Pride, I mean. When I was younger, I used to own the playground. Legit. Owned. As in, I walked around with so much pride and so much conceit that the other kids adopted me without permission as a leader, and it probably went to my head. For a long time, meaning until I graduated from elementary school, there was a section of the playground — the two sanded areas where the jungle gyms stood and the swings more than the field and the paved areas — that the others literally referred to as Magnus' Playground. When you told the teacher about someone misbehaving and were telling her where that person was, you told her, "He's over on Magnus' Swings," or "She's playing on Magnus' Slide." It seems odd to me now, but back then I had felt like I was the King of the World, and no one could tell me otherwise. At least... until I met Monika. Lots of things in my life can be reduced back to Monika. Monika, Monika, Monika. Grava. That's his last name. Monika Grava. After so long, I should know that, and I feel bad because I know he remembers my name, and probably my phone number, and my parents' number, and all my life's hopes and dreams, and my allergies.... And my favourite foods, and my least favourite food, maybe even the certain brands of shampoo and cologne I use.... I wouldn't be surprised at all if he knew everything about me that I had ever told him, and could recall it on command. He does that with his siblings, and I think I might be his best friend, so why not for me too?
I leaned on the railing of my balcony and stared into the backyard where a few brightly coloured plastic toys — among them was a lemon yellow rocking horse with faded stickers for eyes and forest green handles sticking out of the sides of its head (I had named it Frankenhorse, and I always had to tell my neighbours to keep it off my porch), and one of those red cars with the yellow roofs and the open bottom so kids can propel it forward with their feet (I think they should stop making those, because I swear my neighbour, Christa's son has broken his ankle at least once when other kids try to push him in it and he has his feet down. Serious safety hazard.) — sat neglected in the snow, scattered about the lawn like useless ornaments. The shed sat locked and unused in a corner of the lawn, and just outside it were two racing bikes that Christa had bought at a yard sale for herself and her boyfriend, Jeremy. Not that they ever used them. Both bikes just collected rust; it was a sad waste, because honestly bikes are one of the best modes of transportation in Vancouver, unless you’re taking the Sky Train. I always hear her downstairs complaining to Jeremy about how she wasn’t able to get her kids — Mitchell and Jaycee, respectively four and three — to daycare on time because of traffic and was therefore late for work. Seriously, lady…. You know what traffic is like. Fucking walk. Okay? Okay. Good.
I heard something then, staring out into the lightly snow-covered backyard, and I turned to look back in through the sliding glass doors. My phone was ringing. Is the carpet company calling back? Of course they weren’t. The ring was distinctive, set for one special number that was forced to call my house number ever since my cell was stolen from me on the street. You think muggings only happen in the movies? Think again. And even if they don’t happen quite as often as they do in movies, I seem to get mugged at least twice a year; most of the time I come out unscathed, they just grab the first valuable item they can find on me and run. People freak out, someone calls the cops, and once again I look like an idiot…. Daily life for me, really. Part of me wonders why Alessia is still calling me, despite all my bad luck and the subsequent idiotic appearance, because she really shouldn’t. A beautiful woman deserves someone who can actually take care of her, even if for just a friend. I really think I’m being unfair to her, but she keeps calling back. And I keep calling her…. Every time I tell myself that I have to let go for her own good, I end up calling her again. And asking her over. For coffee and cake. And to see my new photos. Ever since I had this heinous carpet installed a few days ago, I’ve told her she’s not allowed over at all. And I drive over to her place with my camera in the passenger’s seat… accompanied by cake, and this really expensive gourmet coffee blend that I only buy to drink when she comes over. Yeah. Aww…. He’s so squishy. Laugh about it a little bit. It's so funny — I buy special coffee to drink with special people.
Special people.... The only person I'd ever try to claw my way through a glass door for. No... that's not exactly how it happened. I went to open the door and it was locked. I don't remember locking it before going outside. I don't even remember closing the door after me, for that matter. I probably did. It's force of habit, closing doors — Maman was anal about keeping doors closed for some reason. To this day, I still can't figure out why. My Maman was always kind of strange, but that's alright, I guess. Papa love her, so she must've done something right. For a moment, I was stunned in disbelief, staring inside helplessly as Alessia tried to get through and I couldn't somehow tell her what had happened. Of course, I remembered — when the phone rang again and woke me from my traze-like state — that there was always the front door.... So began the race down the wooden ladder that was propped up against the house (surprisingly enough not for me, but for getting Christa's cat off the roof of the shed because the thing is retarded and jumps up there from the fence, then can't figure out how the Hell to get down), and into the snow in socks that were already soaked through. I didn't even care anymore. First priority? Get that phone.
I wouldn't've been surprised if the front door had been locked as well. But it wasn't. I threw the door to my apartment open and raced up the stairs, rushing through the door that separated my unit from the other two and grabbing the phone off the base just before it stopped ringing. One more and it would have gone to voicemail. Why is it such a big deal? Because voicemail sounds so... awkward... and I'm not the biggest fan. Plus, I may or may not have forgotten the password to my mailbox.
"Al...." I was out of breath. "What's up? How are you?"
It was then that I glanced over at the balcony door and realized something. It wasn't locked at all. I might have been trying to slide it open the wrong way, and that's explain more than half of my difficulty.
I'm such an idiot.