Fading Flowers: A Collection of Nightmares

By Joanna Kushner

Each story, as I perceive it, is a tale not so much of terror but of the unknown. Weird things happen to ordinary people and the unexpected, frightening occurrences in each tale uncovers the possibility that none of us is immune to the horror that resides within our so-called mundane lives. Some of the tales, like FADING FLOWERS, should appeal to older folks who either live alone or within the confines of senior facilities. Night terrors do not happen only in childhood but accompany us into every phase of our lives. No longer is the terror confined to the creature who lurks beneath our beds in the darkness of night nor in the closet that slides open on creaking hinges. The danger might be awaiting us the next time we step into an elevator as it asks, GOING DOWN?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456899080

Joanna Kushner

I'm a widow, mother of four, grandmother of 10. When my children were still quite young the bedtime stories they requested and which I invented, took a turn toward the macabre! They were scared and fascinated at the same time and begged for more. The eerie the tale, the more enthused were they. Since 'things that go bump in the night' have always been the genre I most enjoyed, I was happy to oblige. I've done free lance writing, served as a school director at our local district and volunteered at a nearby hospital in its library. Reading is my passion, a gift my children and grandkids have happily inherited. This book of short stories, I hope, will be a sort of legacy for them to share with the own families.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Joanna Kushner.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4568-9907-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-9908-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

96367

CONTENTS

Fading Flowers

Limbo

Going Down?

SISTERS

The Diary

The New Neighbors

Epilogue

BY NIGHT

Preface

My Inheritance

Where Is Granma?

Fat Luke

Here’s Larry!

Later, Still Alive

The Neighbor’s Dog

The Waiting Game

FADING FLOWERS

They were gathered around white wicker tables underneath colorful umbrellas. Blue-white heads scattered among the fading hues of red and brown. The mood was as frothy as the fruity smoothies on the tables before them. I counted 23 women and 5 men; all of them in varied states of physical condition. Several walkers, (a cane or two, leaned against the backs of chairs) but there was such an air of relaxation it was hard to determine which of my new neighbors was truly in bad health. Blooming flowers in all their aromatic beauty surrounded the short wall enclosing the patio giving the overall scene a perfect picture of a summer day. Laughter and chatter added to the gaiety and, without knowing, gave my heart a lift.

This was my new home as of the past week and I still felt a modicum of trepidation at the enormous change in my once-settled life. From wife to widow, the change was significant and over-powering as well as sorrowful.

But this latest move from home owner to apartment dweller would take some getting used to. Selling the house, dividing most of the furnishings among relatives and friends, downsizing from 8 rooms to three. It took a steely determination to make such monumental decisions and then follow through. But I was here now and, the old saying is right, today is the first day of the REST of my life. However long that may be.

My small apartment is at the end of the lengthy hall, snuggled between a sweet old guy name Joe on one side and MaryLou on the other. Directly across is Agnes who pushes her walker up and down the corridor each afternoon in a valiant attempt to work her arm and leg muscles. I am still trying to remember all the names of my new neighbors but, as a whole, they appear to be a normal mix of elderly souls not content with waiting patiently for the Grim Reaper but determined to meet the creature on their own terms.

Card playing, Bingo, movie afternoons, casino day trips, even bowling using a tv/computer game. The front lobby is a gathering place for anyone wishing to socialize for an afternnon and the same little group meets there most days.

Two Majories, one Helga, Tom and Mike, Aggie and June, a seemingly sweet and sunny mix. Maybe a bit nosy… well, somewhat intrusive to tell the truth but it’s easy to overlook the prying (Where are you going? Or Do you go shopping EVERY day?). They are elderly, house-bound and a bit on the lonely side. I mind but then I give myself hell for minding. I can walk comfortably, drive—too fast at times—and have a host of friends to socialize with. Who am I to pass judgement? Besides in just a short time I’ve grown quite fond of several of my new pals like Rosie, Ella and Dottie.

Bright caring women still with a love of everything living from the bees that buzz around their heads when they sit on the patio to their collection of beautiful grandkids.

My tiny apartment has a small but well appointed kitchen, a large livingroom and a cozy bedroom. Lots of cupboard space, closets and generous windows that look out over a verdant field of well maintained lawn. I was well on my way to an almost bearable sense of contentment when things slowly but drastically altered.

Ned who lived one floor below mine had made a habit of knocking at my door once or twice a week. He was a politcal junkie and, since we are both unashamed liberals, we had a lot to commiserate about. Then a week went by without any significance. When half way into week two, I suddenly realized Ned hadn’t been by. I recalled that I hadn’t run into him in the corridors or the parking lot. Nor did he congregate with he outdoor bunch in the coolish mornings on the patio. Even then I let another week slip by before I stopped by the office to ask if good old Ned was away. Or perhaps ill?

Mrs. Mooney, the Manager waved me in when I knocked at her door.

She had been the boss for nearly twenty years and the keeper of the tenants day to day schedules. Her gray bobbed hair cupped her full cheeks that were always a bit rosy whether from embarrassment or rosacia, I couldn’t tell. There was always a no-nonsense look emanating from those hard brown eyes, something every successful manager must cultivate. Just a bit intimidated by the suspicions stare, I swallowed quietly and asked, I hate to bother you, Mrs. Mooney, but I haven’t heard from Ned for a while and I wondered if anything is wrong,

Was I imagining it or did her cheeks get a bit redder. She sat back in her chair and paused before deigning to answer my question with one of her own. What do you have to do with Ned?

Wow. I caught myself stammering, Uh, well, he dropped over to my place from time to time to discuss current affairs but hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks. And, you see, I got to looking forward to our discussions. And I, uh, just miss the old guy. I finished lamely.

She smiled and then shot off a zinger. Ned is staying with his daughter for the present time. He was becoming senile, you know. It was decided he should spend the rest of his time with relatives. Now if you’ll excuse me, my dear Ms. Allas, I have work to do.

Ned? Senile? Those questions roared through my head. That dear old soul with a mind as sharp as Wisconsin cheddar was anything but senile! He could talk rings around anyone else I knew whether we discussed the latest bill before Congress, the Dow Jones Average or that nasty Newt Gingrich and his counterpart, Sarah Palin. And just when, I pondered, did Ned do his little disappearing act?

I drove my three friends to lunch one day. They agreed, after a lengthy and loud discussion, that the Olive Garden was to be our destination. It proved to be a fun time since these gals had altogether different personsas away from the retirement community. They laughed at anything and everything, sometimes the conversation became a bit bawdy. If they could have this much pleasure when they eat out, I made up my mind that I would be sure to add occasional outings to my calendar. After the plates were cleared from our table and there was a quiet moment, I brought up Ned’s hasty departure. Everyone had her own opinion of what could have happened that caused Ned to be transferred to his new home,

What do you mean ‘transferred’? I asked. Ned was perfectly capable of driving to his daughter’s home or anywhere else. He was a sharp cookie."

I don’t recall which of my companions spoke first but her opinion brooked no arguments from the others. Finally, laying to rest what happened to poor Ned, I heard, Ned had been slipping for a good while and he almost set fire to his place while heating up some soup. Mr. Mooney had a devil of a job cleaning the place up. It’s still not ready to be rented to someone else. No, this is the best move for good old Ned.

Hold on, I interjected, MR. Mooney? Who’s Mr. Mooney?

Ella laughed at the expression on my face and the others joined in. Really, Joy, I wondered when you’d get a look at that man but I had no idea you didn’t even know about him! Of course, he’s the husband. Both the Mooneys have worked here for years. She handles the office and her husband manages the maintenance department. He does keep a low profile though. Frankly, I don’t think the man likes people and he has little patience for older ones. But he does his job and keeps Rory and John busy, busy, busy. Those two are the heart and soul of our building. So, Honey, if you have a little problem—you know—clogged sink or whatever, you won’t have to deal with cranky Mr. Mooney.

So, with Ned in good hands, I let the subject drop. The nagging feeling deep in the pit of my stomach when I let myself dwell on what may well be in store for me down the road, helped to put unpleasant thoughts on the back burner. (Ouch.) Life in the fast lane went on without further incident. Same old schedule but a busy one that I relished. Between free lance writing for a few periodicals, volunteering at the nearby methodone clinic and outings with my cadre of friends, my life was full.

There was a timid knock at my door one slow afternoon when I was supine on the couch with my favorite author (his latest book, not the man). Reluctant to leave a climatic part, I pulled myself to my feet. Before I could get to the door, another knock. As I turned the knob, the door was pushed open quickly and Dottie sidled in. Her face was ashen, frightened blue eyes filled with unshed tears.

I pulled her into a chair, poured some water into a glass and handed it to her. What’s the matter, Dot?

Now the waterworks started with sniffling and runny nose. I had the urge wrap her in my arms but that would have encouraged a more lengthy burn-out. Handing her a tissue I sat silently and waited. Ready? I asked when she blew her bright red nose.

The tale began thusly: Poor Dot was in bed the night before last when she was disturbed by loud noises from across the hall in Mrs. Koposki’s apartment. (The little old lady had lived in the senior residence since the place was first built but had become somewhat of a recluse due to deteriorating health.) Dottie made it to the door on tiptoes and peeked through the spyhole. Several figures moved stealthily around Mrs. K.’s open door.

As she watched, a litter was rolled into the apartment, being led out a few minutes later by Mr. Mooney, with a sheet-covered form on top. Her field of vision being limited, she didn’t see where the litter went but, since she soon heard the elevator arrive then depart hastily, it was obvious Mrs. K.’s body had been removed.

The door was being closed when two other dark shapes appeared carrying hoses and large cannisters and pushed their way into the apartment. By this time my friend was beside herself but she had the presence of mind to rush into her bedroom which had a clear view of the parking lot in back of the building. As she watched in the darkened room, the ambulance was just pulling away. Mr. Mooney watched as it disappeared then retreated back into the building.

Dottie got no sleep the rest of the night but sat in her dead husband’s old recliner and said her rosary for the repose of her old neighbor’s soul. After a short nap the following day, she approached the office and expressed her sadness and confusion. Just I had experienced when I asked about Ned, she was given a haughty brush-off. The story slightly different from the earlier one was that Mrs. Koposki had suffered a heart attack and was pronounced dead at the scene. Then Dot hesitantly but bravely inquired about the men and their tools who entered after the body had been removed.

Mrs, Mooney’s unashamed answer: The cardiac infarction took place because, Mrs. K. had been cooking and the skillet caught fire, causing her to panic. That’s when she suffered the attack. That was her story and the witch was sticking to it!

Stunned, I couldn’t speak. Dottie and I sat in silence for what could have been a few minutes or longer before we found our shaky voices. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out her cell. Dialling Ella’s and Rosie’s numbers, she invited each to meet with us here. I put on the coffee, laid out cups, saucers and a plate of stale brownies (all I had left in the cupboard) when raps came at the door. Rosie and Ella sat at the table and listened to the weird story told by Dottie with interjections from me about my earlier experience with Ned. Within seconds the cups were drained and the only thing left on the brownie plate was a mess of crumbs. And, strangely, I was too upset to suffer one bit of embarrassment on the poor table I had set!

When the sad tale ended, Rosie looked at Ella with a strange expression.

We HAVE to tell them now, she uttered. Ella nodded and sat back waiting for Rosie’s confession. "There was another time when something similar happened. A year ago or maybe a bit longer than that, another tenant disappeared in the dead of night. When questions were asked, the same story of a fire was given as the reason the tenant moved out. I don’t recall whether it was to move in with a relative but the poor soul was gone. Poof!

Any mention of the man was met with indifference if not outright hostility."

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Indignant, I asked why I was not told about this when I told you three about Ned moving in with his daughter and the charge of senility that made no sense? Why did they not cue me in on the doubts they had each time I mentioned Ned?

Ella answered, "Okay, okay, you’re right! Listen, Kate, you know what a swell deal we have in this place. Rent affordable, mainentance perfect, a number of great activities, good company. We were afraid if we shook the tree too hard a few rotten apples would drop out. Besides how could we know Mooney wasn’t telling the truth? We are all seniors who forget our car keys, cell phones and, yes, we don’t always turn off the gas on the stove when we should. And, yes, both Mooneys are arrogant, impatient and just plain obnoxious. Even if we wanted to check out their stories, how would we go about it? Who would we call that wouldn’t start an investigation that might turn this place on its head? Selfish? Yeah. So, that’s water over the dam.

Where do we go from here?"

Do you know who Mrs. K’s relatives are? Or how we can reach Ned’s daughter?

Dottie spoke up in a somewhat choked voice, "Ned didn’t have a daughter.

He was a bachelor and enough of a curmudgeon that no woman ever saw fit to marry him, she said quietly. I felt the urge to smack all three of them for helping to abet the Mooneys in their lies. I was too shocked, too irate to speak. After counting to ten, I referred to Mrs. K and the men from the previous event. Tell me, please, I need to know."

Well, yeah, sure, they were also alone in ther world. No one to mourn them, no one to answer to for their untimely disappearances. I remarked that had Dottie not witnessed the removal of Mrs.K’s body, we would have been given the same run around if and when we made inquiries!

Before the ladies left we made a pact that we would be silent but on guard.

It wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion with the Mooneys but neither where we prepared to pass off this third disappearance as another senior moment. This wouldn’t be easy for me to do, just sit back and wait, but it appeared to be the best non-action to take. For the time being.

We didn’t have to wait too long. There was a big flaw in our plans. Rosie, dear Rosie, put on her cloak, grabbed her dagger and skulked the halls. When I found out she was endangering everything I sought her out. There she was, in the laundry room, leaning against a thumping dryer, whispering to some old guy from the second floor! Sporting a nasty smile, I closed the distance between us, put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me. What the hell are ou doing? My whisper was loud enough to be heard in the Middle East. She hung her head but was brave enough to answer back. We’re never going to find out what’s happening, Joy, if we don’t ask questions. Before I could yell at her, Rosie lifted her head, stared at the laundry room door and turned about as white as mortician’s newest corpse.

I turned quickly but the space was empty. Rosie, what’s wrong? Who was there?

Rosie burst into tears, turned and practically flew out the door down the corridor and out the Exit door to the stairs. I ran for the elevator, pushed the button and when it finally arrived, made for Rosie’s apartment. She had just reached the top of the stairs when I caught up with her. A little on the rough side, hardly lady-like, but I glommed onto her arm and pulled her to a stop.

Don’t you take one more step, young lady (I was really upset), I barked.

She leaned against the wall, pasty-faced but prepared to lock horns with me.

You just don’t understand, do you? Mr. Mooney’s been following me for a few days now. Everywhere I look, there he is, just staring at me. Joy, I’ll bet I’ll be the next one to disappear, she sobbed pitifully.

What could I say except that I told her to keep her trap shut and wait? Still she was a sad sight and I did feel a twinge of guilt. Listen, that monster wouldn’t dare lay a hand on any one of us. Just let him try! My blood pressure was on its way into the stratosphere but I took a few deep breaths and settled her down. Tell Ella and Dottie what’s going on. If we stick together we’ll get to the bottom of this. Yeah, right.

Things seemed to have settled down when things got weirder. Each night when I snuggled down in my cozy bed, strange noises in the walls disturbed my sleep. Scratching, scampering across the ceiling, down the sides. After night #2 of sleeplessness, I put on my robe and headed south to the lion’s den. I knocked at the door until, at last, it was opened by the Keeper. Yes? Haughty as usual. Until I shared with her the events of the two nights. Mrs. Mooney stepped back and slipped into her desk chair. Her complexion went from pink to crimson as she muttered something under her breath.

Well, I insisted, are you going to tell me what you’re going to do about the wasps or bees or whatever’s infesting this place?

She found her voice, There’s been no sign of infestation, none. No insects or . . any others, Now why don’t you contain your unwanted curiosity, Ms. Allas, or perhaps you would be happier in another senior facility?"

What sheer unadultrated nerve! Are you threatening me, dear Mrs. Mooney?. If so I can very easily get in touch with the agency that leases these apartments, you know? Perhaps you would enjoy hearing from them?"

I was bluffing but she didn’t know it. The color drained from her once florid face. That won’t be necessary. I’ll have our mainentance men take a look at your place this afternoon. Now, please allow me to continue my work. She rose from her desk, went over to a file cabinet and turned her back on me. I was DISMISSED!

My afternoon was spent in the nearby library while Rory and John puttered around the outside on my apartment. They spoke very little while I was there but their expressions were kind, their few words polite. Somehow I sensed they had been through all this before. But I took myself out of their way until I knew their shift was over. It wasn’t easy returning to the building, a feeling of revulsion accompanied me as I prepared a light supper, did a bit of reading and slipped into bed. I was pretty exhausted what with the shoot-out that morning with Mrs. Mooney, sleep washed over me like high tide at Myrtle Beach.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by something crawling over my feet. Atop my feet and in between them. Screaming I leapt out of bed and watched horrified as dozens of large, ugly rats swarmed off the bed, over the carpet, and onto my feet, legs, torso! The sheer weight of the creatures knocked me to the floor. I lay there, helpless, as they began tearing into my nightgown with massive hellish teeth, gnawing into my frozen flesh. Blood oozed out of the small wounds but the rats lapped up the fluid as they continued the attack. I don’t remember screaming after that first time but I must have made enough noise to attract attention. Through the onslaught I was barely aware of a banging at the apartment door. Someone was hammering on the wood, yelling my name. I couldn’t move, unable to push the vermin from my torso, out of my hair, away from my eyes.

The door splintered as my hopeful rescuers reached in and unlocked it. What happened then I didn’t learn until later. Blessed unconsciouness stole its way over me for many, many hours afterward. My saviors, Rory and John got me out of that nightmare, into an ambulance and to the nearest hospital, at the same battling the pack of rats. They were careful to block the entrance to the apartment to isolate the creatures, pull me to safety, call 911. and The e.r. doctors induced a temporary coma as they worked furiously to save my life.

There were 97 bites overall not including the punctures on both eyelids. When I was finally considered out of danger the transfer was made from intensive care to a regular private room where my three good witches took turns sitting with me, day and night. Three weeks later, I was told the whole sordid story, partly from the surgeon who saved my life, partly from John, who came by with his wife a number of times when I was able to receive visitors. Bit by bit the story of my rescue unfolded:

Mr. Lars Mooney kept rats! In the basement apartment, his own home the devious, insane man had cages filled with his babies. He was so sure of his ability to control his pets that he sometimes let them run free as he cleaned their cages. That’s when the troubles began. Somehow they found their nasty way upstairs and into apartments. Luckily for Lars the rats only entered places where the tenants had no living relatives, no one to check on them. When the catastrophes occurred, Mooney used ‘senility’ as a cause for the sudden disappearance of the victims, setting up the poor people for causing their own troubles. Ned went to live with his daughter after setting fire in his kitchen, Mrs. K. gave herself a heart attack when she ‘accidentally’ set fire in HER kitchen. The first time the evil critters escaped their downstairs cages, they foraged into the apartment of the old man I had heard about earlier. Again, he had no family who knew or cared what happened to the poor guy. Lucky for good old Lars.

"Rory and I were really suspicious when old Ned was accused of setting fire to his kitchen. If that man was senile, then so am I! But the thing that bothered us was why we weren’t asked to clean up the place after the so-called fire. When we came to work the day after Ned went to his daughter’s house, the apartment walls were painted, carpet scrubbed. Lars gave us some story of how he had to call his sons in to help out so the other tenants wouldn’t know about a fire that could have caused the whole building to go up. Rory was ready to phone Ned’s sister but we couldn’t get a number to call. She wasn’t in the book. We couldn’t ask Mrs. Mooney.

So we let it go.

The only reason we were working the night Mooney let his rats loose was because we had to install a new toilet in the apartment at the end of the hall. New people were moving in the next day and the plumbers didn’t show up to do the job. So Rory and me, we started our shift at 2:00 and planned to stay all night if we had to. Thank God we heard you scream, Ms. Allas.

I asked what made him think the rats had been turned loose on purpose for his words chilled me.

He looked over