Near Death

Suspense Stories | Aug 26, 2013 | 8 min read
36 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Lola Murphy had been my neighbor almost three years before I actually spoke to her. Her husband had recently passed on and she, much to my chagrin, chose me to unload on.

I had just returned from the market and noticed her sitting on her stoop. I nodded in acquaintance as I shifted my bags searching for the door key. "Hello, Mr. Bianchi, how have you been?"

I paused, startled by her words. She had never spoken to me before. She had always treated me as though I were dirt. Once her husband had come to complain about a noise from my apartment, that noise is redundant now, he forced his way inside when I answered the door. "You stop whatever you are doing now Bianchi, or else."

Or else what? I had wondered but was not really intimidated enough to care. I bit my bottom lip and refused to respond. "What is that horrible stench? My God man, you should clean this hovel. You better not be attracting vermin that invades our home."

I sighed and grinned sardonically. "Fine. Just get out. You won't hear anything else tonight." I offered as I led him toward the door. "Now, you leave or I will call the police for trespass."

He left and that was the last anyone in the neighborhood spoke to me. I heard some women talking at the market a week or so before saying he had died in a horrible accident at work. I won't deny I got a sick pleasure from it. I hated that bastard and his superior attitude. I hated the fact he looked at me like scum every time we crossed paths.

Yet, here was his widow speaking to me as though I were an equal. "You have a moment to sit and talk?" she asked. The old resentment tried to dominate but the new curiosity prevailed. I found myself sitting beside her on the stoop.

"You know Carl never meant you any harm, right?" she began. I nodded, though I knew better. He wanted me out of the neighborhood at any cost; but he could never get anything on me that would hold up in court. "He was just concerned for me. He thought he was protecting me, which, in a way, he was, though a lot of the neighbors came to hate him for it.

You know, it is funny he died in a freak accident. When I was 10 my cousin and I were playing by Balch Creek. We were swinging on one of those rope swings over the water. The rope broke when I got on and dropped me into the shallow water. I hit my head on a rock and almost drowned before my cousin got to me. Even then I had a brain injury. I had a near death experience that day. After weeks in the hospital and a lot of rehab I got to go home.

Since then I have never taken advantage of life," she said as she watched the traffic crawl slowly past us. "You ever been married, Mr. Bianchi?"

I shook my head, "No, and you can call me Jaime." She smiled and called me by my name. Then she started talking, after a while, I could not even hear her anymore. I was thinking about her near death experience. How she had cheated death. She cheated it, and it, in turn, did what? It obviously wasn't like the movies and came after her. It did nothing? Years later her husband died, no, too far apart to be connected. There had to be at least thirty years between the two.

The darkness crept toward us an inch at a time. It consumed the landscape leaving an empty, black, wall looming over us. I watched it, imagining what it would be like to hurl someone into the blackness. My thoughts suddenly inverted themselves back toward Lola Murphy. She should be part of that darkness. Who had taken her place?

She startled me by grabbing my arm just above the elbow. "I'm sorry. I have been rattling on and on for two hours. You must have other things to do. I'll see you later," she patted my arm gently then stood quickly and went inside.

I sat just a few minutes longer; my legs were stiff from sitting. Eventually I got to my feet and limped inside. I locked the door and took a manila envelope from a drawer in the kitchen. I opened it with reckless anticipation.

The glossy photographs spilled out in a macabre rainbow of skin tones and blood. I arranged them into categories that would probably only make sense to me.

My father was a police officer. For years I had been stealing crime scene photos from him. The blood was an all consuming delight. The positions of the bodies made me wonder what their last thoughts were. Some were evident; especially those in a fetal position attempting shield themselves from their attacker.

Knife wounds in the hands and forearms excited me. They fought for their life, what a rush it must have been to take them out. To exercise that power over them. I hitched a deep breath and held it as I looked toward the laptop. There were so many nice pictures there too. It would be at least a week before I could see them. I had to pay the outstanding bill first. Unless...

My mind began to drag me downward, spiraling out of control in directions I had barely let myself dream of before. Lola was alone now, and really, she should not still be alive, right? Right. I nodded as I confirmed this to myself.

I leaned back and wondered what pretext might get me into her apartment. One conversation was not enough to make us trustworthy to one another, was it? Then again she was a recently widowed woman, obviously lonely enough to talk to me.

I hurried to the corner deli and ordered some hot sandwiches. The place had the best loose meat sandwiches in town, the world as far as I was concerned. She would have to let me in for one of them.

I knocked softly, not wanting to get anyone else's attention. The door opened just a crack "Who is there?" Lola called as she opened the door as far as the chain would allow. "Oh, Jaime, is something wrong?" she asked. Was it my imagination or did she sound suspicious?

"I ran down to Rowan's and got a sandwich. I thought you might like one too." To my delight the door swung fully open and she stepped aside to allow me in.

She led me into the kitchen and bade me sit. Her house had the exact same floor plan as mine, but the place was so different. Hers was bright and airy, decorated with bright colors and floral prints. Mine was dark and almost foreboding.

Pictures of family members adorned the walls, many were children but none hers. For some reason the Murphys never had kids. Why? I was not interested enough to know. It was merely a random fact she had mentioned earlier. If an explanation had been offered I had tuned it out.

I sat and removed the sandwiches from the paper bag. Lola had placed a plate in front of each of us. She had placed a cutting board in the center of the table and sliced some tomatoes and pickles. I bit into the sandwich. I could not get the images of blood and death out of my head. Lola had triggered something deep within.

She had no right to be alive, she didn't, yet here she was talking to me and being alive. I had to do something. She robbed someone else of their life I was sure of it.

I read a book once where a soul merged with a dead baby and resulted in reincarnation. I wondered if that were the case with Lola.

I noticed her watching me, the sandwich tasted like rubber. It was normally tender and delicious but today it tasted like an old tire. "Well, did you?" she was asking as the sound returned to my world. I had allowed myself to go to deep within.

"What? Sorry. I was just thinking how nice your house is. Sometimes I kind of get lost in my head when I think about pretty things."

"Well, that is understandable. I asked if you eat at Rowan's often."

"At least once a week. I don't like to cook for just me either." Before I was fully aware of what I was doing the knife from the cutting board between us was in my hand. I brought it down hard, but I was not fast enough. Lola threw up her arms and I stabbed her through the palm of her left hand. She howled in pain and tried to run. I leapt at her and managed to knock her off her feet.

The breath rushed from her as I landed on top of her. All of those years and all those images were insignificant now. I watched the blood pour freely from the wound in her hand. It was real now. It was magical, beyond anything I dreamt of while looking at those pictures and it could only get better.

I sat straddle of her and cut away at her dress. I took the piece of cloth and gagged her. I could not have her screaming again. Her breathing became ragged; her eyes betrayed the stark horror. I pushed the tip of the blade into her throat over her larynx. Blood welled around the blade but did not spill until I pulled it slowly free.

Lola thrashed like a wild animal trying to rid herself of me. This only excited me more. My favorites of the pictures had been the ones who fought. I thrust the knife into her chest just above the breast plate and worked my way down.

It was difficult and I almost gave up. Lola could never be accused of having her knives too sharp. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she became still, a quivering little rabbit. Had she sensed my pleasure?

"Away! We know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?"

I whispered the partial stanza from Byron. "Oh, I bet you were beautiful when you were young. Soft skin, pale blond hair shimmering in the sun. I imagine you in a field of wildflowers, your beauty rivaling theirs." My eyes met hers, in fact, I would not let her look away from me.

"What's wrong? You don't like the truth? It is bad enough you did not even recognize Byron. You lived when you should not have. You robbed someone else of their life and you wasted it! You did nothing with your life. You had no kids; you did not even learn great literature. You..."

I had not even thought of these things up until that point and it enraged me. She wasted it. The knife came down into her warm flesh. I wretched it free and drove it forward again, and again. At least twenty times before my rage subsided and exhaustion set in.

I felt drained emotionally and physically as the life drained from her. For a moment I feared she had found a way to drag me with the exhaustion was so complete, yet sudden. I did not touch too much, so removing my prints would not be hard. A pair of gloves lay by the sink, the kind women use for cleaning. I pulled them on and set to work.

I spent an hour detailing the apartment so no one would suspect me. I found three hundred dollars, after a bit of debating I kept it. I waited until the street was deserted before hurrying back to my own apartment.

That night I dreamt of death and cheating it. I dreamt of cheating it and of the thousands, maybe millions that were cheated.

I awoke that morning in a cold sweat. I had slept badly for the most part. Later I sat with a cup of vapid coffee. The television was blaring the morning news but I did not notice. An idea, the best idea I had ever had, began to form. I threw my cup into the sink, pausing to marvel that it did not break and hurried to dress.
I used Lola's money to pay my internet bill and was assured it would be back on shortly. Lola had not put her life to good use but her death, and her money, would serve a purpose.

I was delighted to see the internet was back on when I arrived home. I typed in the phrase ‘near death experience support groups'. To my delight two were in the vicinity and three more attainable without too much effort.

I wrote down the address and started out the door. As I walked down the street I wondered what alias I would use and how many thieves there were in the first group.

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