Room For One More

Room For One More
Red Burton

Author's note:  This short story is loosely based on a folk tale retold by Alvin Schwartz in "Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark," HarperTrophy, 1981.

1
         Dan Findley's mind was wandering as he stared out the window of the 747.  The day was bright, the sky was blue and clear, and he could see farmland stretching for miles thousands of feet below him, looking like the pattern of some huge quilt.
         "Sir?"
         He was en route from Atlanta to Chicago, heading to his company's corporate headquarters for the annual meeting.  Dan viewed the meeting as most forty-plus men view their yearly visit to the proctologist: a necessary evil that is the brunt of many off-color jokes. 
         "Sir, would you like something to drink?"  The flight attendant was looking at him impatiently.  In the midst of his day dreaming, he had failed to notice her.
         "Umm.... no thanks.  I'm fine," he said, and offered his best diplomatic smile.  She returned it, out of rote, and proceeded to the next row. 
         Under ordinary circumstances, he hated to travel.  He loved his home and his wife, and was always saddened when he had to go away on business, even if it was only for a few days at a stretch.  This time was different though.  Things had been, well, a little tense between him and his wife as of late, and he knew that he was the one to blame.  Over the last two weeks, the house had been, like the old Creedence song went, looking like a rummage sale.  Not only looking, but feeling. 
         One night three weeks earlier, he and his wife had had a little too much wine after supper, and they got to talking about the old days--friends they had, things they'd done.  They had been introduced by mutual friends during Dan's second year of college, and had dated casually for a year or so before getting serious.  During their drunken reminiscing, his wife had told him about something she'd done during that first year.  It shocked Dan so completely he hadn't known what to say at the moment.  It was so out of character for her--she had always been sweet and innocent, but the story she told him made him think otherwise. 
         And that's what started it all.  Or so Dan hypothesized.  He couldn't go a single waking moment without thinking about it.  It consumed every thought he had.  He would replay his mind's movie of the event over and over, trying to figure out what it meant, why she had done it, and other questions.  It burned him up inside. 
         And then at night, there were the dreams.  They were the worst part, because he had no control over them- they just came as they pleased.  He would lay awake staring intensely at the ceiling, actually afraid of falling asleep.  He felt like a drowning man fighting off the inevitable with no hope of rescue.  The tendrils of sleep would grab him lightly by the toe, teasing him, making him think he might have a fleeting chance of getting away, before they yanked him under into blackness.
         He knew that it was part of the past and should be forgotten, because it didn't matter at all.  It had absolutely no effect on he and his wife's relationship.  But all the same, he just couldn't forget it.  He let it burn inside him like a cancer, slowly eating away at his insides and his sanity until he was certain (or so he supposed) that there would be nothing left of him but a shadow of the man he had once been.  It pissed him off that he let it piss him off.  Or something like that.
         The worst part of it was what it had done to their relationship.  Dan could not recall, in four years of dating and six years of marriage, a single time she had gotten angry with him or yelled at him.  He loved her for this, and they never fought.  But lately, he had, simply, been a dick to her--because every time he looked at her, the thing that she had told him would flash in his mind like a cheap Polaroid.  She would ask him if he wanted more coffee. He would tell her if he wanted more coffee he would ask, and to leave him alone.  She would start to rub his back while watching the Braves at night, and Dan, reveling in his newfound attitude, would say: Don't fucking touch me.  It was really taking a toll on her, because she hadn't the slightest clue as to why Dan had taken up a new hobby of being such an asshole. 
         He pushed the thoughts away. 
The remainder of the plane ride was like any other- the occasional attendant asking him if he wanted anything, the vague smell of jet exhaust that always seemed to give him a damn headache, and the tired voice of the pilot announcing that they would begin to land soon and to please put on your seat belt and secure all items overhead.
         By the time he had landed, searched for his luggage on the conveyor belt (He had accidentally grabbed another man's suitcase that looked similar to his own, but the man chased him down and grabbed it back like Dan was a thief.  Dan smiled sheepishly at the people looking at him, feeling like a douche bag), waited in line at the Avis counter for a car, and made his pilgrimage to the Hampton Inn just outside of the city on I-55, it was dark.
         Traveling always made him tired, and he found himself too tired to drive anywhere to eat.  So he sat on the bed of his motel room, looking out the window.  He was wishing he was at home, where he could get a nice home cooked meal.  Black-eyed peas, cornbread, iced tea, and maybe some roast.
          As if God had sent him a miracle, his eye caught the sight of a Cracker Barrel across the parking lot.  It ain't as good as Sarah's, he said to himself with an interior grin.  But it's damn near close.  He set off to the Cracker Barrel, whistling softly to himself and feeling a little better.
2

         He woke up sometime in the middle of the night.  Brushing off the weariness of sleep, he rolled over and looked at the clock.  3:01 AM.  Well that's great.  T-minus 5 hours until the bullshit begins, he thought.  He turned back over, relaxed, and was almost in the comforting arms of sleep again when he heard a sound, coming from outside his window. 
         "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.........."
         He froze.  Goosebumps broke out over his entire body, and his heart leapt into his throat and began to dance.  Just your imagination Danny boy. You done scared yourself shitless.
         The sound came again, louder this time.  It sounded like his name.
         "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNN........!"
         He was sure the sound was coming from outside now.  His room had a balcony that overlooked the beautiful scenery of the motel's back parking lot.  Whoever—or whatever! his mind screamed—was calling his name was out there in that parking lot.  Instinctively, he pulled the covers up over his head like a child, praying it would leave him alone. 
         "Come here, Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaannn...."
         The voice was definitely closer now.  It's Death, he thought wildly.  Death has come to beckon me.  He summoned every ounce of testicular fortitude he could muster, and got out of bed.  He crept slowly over to the window and paused when he got there.  He held his breath for a second, his hands trembling like two snakes.  He pulled the curtain back and peered out, wincing as if expecting a blow.
         What he saw was the oddest and most frightening thing he had ever seen in his life.  It was indeed Death, but not the faceless scythe-bearing specter he had expected.  Death had come in the form of a hearse. 
         It was parked just below his window, encased in an aura of fog.  The engine was rumbling smoothly, but only one headlight was burning, and it barely gave off any light at all.  The inside of the hearse gave off a demonic orange-red glow.  He could also make out several humanoid shapes inside. Several of the shapes looked vaguely familiar.  Faces and shadows of the past..! something in the abyss of his mind proposed.  As he stared bug-eyed at the hearse, his gaze fell upon the front license plate.  In gold embossed lettering, the tag seemed to scream: DAN'S GOLDEN OLDIES.  The driver's door of the hearse opened. 
         He was sure that Death was going to step out of that door and beckon him.  But what he saw step out was a pallbearer.  Or what used to be a pallbearer.  The figure was wearing a black suit, and had a slight hunch to his posture.  His black hair was matted to his forehead and looked filthy.  A lone half-decayed maple leaf hung from the hair above his left ear.  The skin on his face was torn away in some places, and rotting in others.  His upper lip was missing, revealing a set of crooked teeth that seemed to be eternally stretched into a grin.  Dan realized with a faint horror that he could smell the pallbearer, even through the closed window.  He smelled like carrion; he smelled like cinnamon.  It smelled like both, horribly—impossibly—at the same time.  His eyes were a demonic glowing red, and he stared up at Dan.           
         "Daaaaaaaaaaannnn..." the thing croaked.  It lifted an arm, and beckoned him. He noticed a college ring on his hand, with a red stone that gleamed in the primeval glow of the streetlights.  Bloodstone. 
         Dan, in an ecstasy of fear, tried to speak, to tell the thing that no, he didn't want to come, that what he would like to do was get the fuck out of there, but all that escaped him was a croak. 
         "Dan....." The dead man opened the back door of the hearse like a chauffer. His voice was thick and raspy, but Dan understood what he said: "There's room for one more." The dead man's horrible grin seemed to widen.
         And with a dawning horror, Dan realized that part of him wanted to go down and get in the hearse.  Maybe not to take a ride to hell and back, but just to look inside and see what the shadows were that seemed to be peering up at him with evil yellow irises.  But he was fairly certain if he got in the hearse there wouldn't be much hope of getting back out- ever.
         That broke his paralysis.  "Nooooo!" he screamed, and bolted for the bathroom.  He had just made it when his supper came up in a rush.  He sat by the toilet for some time before he got up and went back to the window. He looked out, scared out of his mind.  But the hearse and its otherworldly driver were gone, leaving nothing but the empty parking lot, brooding and silent.

3

         Dan sat at a table in the lobby of his company's downtown high-rise.  He was thumbing through a Sports Illustrated, reading an article about the South's version of the Boston Red Sox- The Braves.  It seemed every year the Braves would delight fans by winning the NL East in grand fashion only to lose in the first round of the playoffs.  Dan himself had been a Braves fan since he was a little kid, and viewed the team like the old Hank song went- they only built him up to let him down.
         While reading, he was absently sipping a cup of cheap coffee and waiting on Jim Stephens, his regional manager.  He and Jim were going to give a small presentation on their divisions' fiscal year.  Dan hated presentations- he always felt like a horse's ass in front of all the Armani suit-clad, coffee sipping executives- but Jim had promised to do most of the talking.
         Every so often, his mind would return to the haunting vision he had had the previous night, and a cold chill would pass through him.  He had almost convinced himself that it was just a nightmare, but there was a little voice in the back of his head that made him not so sure.  It was so real, the voice said. There was no way you could have had a dream that vivid.
         And then, the pall bearer's grim invitation: There's room for one more.
         He shuddered and pushed the thought away.
         "Hey fuckwad, you goan sit there jerkin your dick all day or help me get ready for this shit?”
         Jim strolled over and sat down, briefcase in hand, shaking his head.  "Takes half an hour to get half a mile in those fuckin taxis."  He opened his briefcase and began to sort through the clutter.  It never ceased to amaze Dan that such a foul mouthed, disorganized person could give such great presentations.  He guessed that was why Jim was the manager and he was not.

4

         The presentation turned out just as had Jim had promised.  He did all of the talking, while Dan held the laser pointer and directed the audience's gaze to and fro across the Power Point slides.  Once or twice while Jim was talking, Dan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at Jim's choice of words:  “The division had a rather malignant first quarter." Malignant? he laughed to himself.  Are we talking about our sales or the tumor growing on our collective balls?  Because that, Jimbo, is really what we need to be talking about.
         The company had fourteen divisions throughout the US and Canada, and each was scheduled to give a presentation identical to Jim and Dan's.  Luckily, he and Jim had been scheduled to go third, and Dan got to lean back in his chair and relax during the rest of the meeting while the other regional managers made asses of themselves.
         They broke briefly for lunch at 12:30, but it seemed too short.  He felt like a nomad dying of thirst in the Sahara who comes across a rock with a drop of dew on it.  Lunch only whetted his thirst to get out of the meeting.
         The meeting reminded Dan of sitting through class when he was in college at Georgia Tech.  God, it was so boring!  At least these people can speak English, he thought.  His mind raced and wandered.
         As much as he tried to prevent it, his thoughts returned to the situation with his wife.  A snatch of Tool occurred to him- I've been wallowing in my own confused and insecure delusions.  That was exactly what he was doing, to a T.  He felt so helpless, letting the thoughts control him.  It was like he was dangling from the strings of some huge and faceless puppeteer. Hey Dan, the puppeteer said.  I'm your thoughts.  You thought you could control me and live a normal life, but guess what? I have you by the nuts and there's no way in hell I'm letting you go.  So you better get used to it, fuckface.
         And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.  He had to get away.  Where? Anywhere.  Anywhere that wasn't Rock Springs, Georgia, where he lived in a modest two story on two and a half acres of family land, with a girl named Sarah.  Anywhere that wasn't part of his life.  He needed some time to get his shit together, as his dad was fond of saying.  What would he tell Sarah? Business trip lasted longer than expected? No, she'd smell the bullshit from a mile away.  He wouldn't tell her anything.  She could presume him dead and he wouldn't give a shit- he just had to run.  It felt like such a childish thing to do- an adoloscent Dan would have called running away like that pussy, but that Dan was as dead as Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain.  And that Dan wasn't familiar with all the pleasures of adulthood, he thought.  He had to clear his mind, he had to take the mental equivalent of a good dump, and getting away was the only way to do it.
         He pulled out his Nextel Blackberry (company issued- one of the few perks of working for this shitty organization, he thought), and ignoring the scolding glances of some of his superiors around him, he began to type.  He went to Expedia.com and searched for all the flights leaving O'Hare in the next two hours.  After scrolling down and staring intently at the screen for a minute or so, he found what he was looking for: a flight for San Diego was leaving at 430 Central Time- one hour from now.  The meeting was beginning to draw to a close at long last, and he figured if he busted ass he could just make it. 
         As the last division made their presentation, Dan was more and more sure this was the right thing to do.  He would go out to California, rent a hotel room on the beach, relax for a few days, hell, maybe even surf the waves, and clear his mind.  And when he was ready, he would go back home.  Or maybe you won't, a voice inside his head suggested.  Maybe you'll fall in love with the clear conscience that the perfectly blue Pacific Ocean will give you.  Maybe that love will be greater than the love that would draw you back home.
         The meeting finally ended with applause.  Dan got the feeling that the applause wasn't commending the fine presentation of the last division, but was in relief that the meeting was finally behind them.  Everyone stood up and began filing to the door of the auditorium and out into the lobby, where a pair of elevators would take them thirty floors down to the street.  Dan suddenly realized he was at the very back of the crowd, and would likely be one of the last groups down the elevators.  Damn it! I have to get out of here so I can make that flight!
         He tried pushing his way through the crowd to get up to the elevators, but it was no use.  He had managed to pick a seat in the farthest location possible from the doors.  As he stood at the back of the line, waiting for his turn in the elevator, he glanced nervously at his watch.  He calculated that if he got on the elevator within the next five minutes, he could make the flight.
         Two minutes passed, then three.  It seemed that he would never get to the elevators.  Each elevator car held about 20 people comfortably, but it looked like everyone, in their anxiousness to leave, was packing more than the limit into each car.  Good, Dan thought.
         It was almost poetic, but exactly five minutes had passed when Dan finally reached the door of the elevators. 
Both cars were jam-packed.  It reminded him of a TV special he'd seen when he was a little kid.  Some idiots in California or somewhere had been trying to gain notoriety by setting a world record for the most people stuffed into a phone booth.  He remembered seeing nothing but random arms and legs and the occasional head popping up somewhere in the tangled mess. 
         He looked anxiously into the car, praying people would pack in just a little tighter so he could get in.  He was standing at the door, with one foot in the car, making sure the other passengers knew he wanted on this car.
         People were moving around, trying to make room for Dan.  He had to get on this car, or he would miss his flight.  He was sure of that.  Not the next one; this one.  If he couldn't get on this elevator, then he felt sure he wouldn't go to California.  He'd go back home, and things would be just as shitty as ever.
         Dan's eyes met the stare of a man who was standing in the elevator right by the door.  The man was grinning insanely at him.  Dan knew most of the faces in the company after working for them for six years, but this was a new face.  Yet oddly familiar...
         The man's eyes never left Dan's, and the lunatic grin seemed to widen.  Dan had to break his stare...something about the man made him feel cold, like when you were swimming out in the ocean, enjoying the nice warm water, and you swam into a cold pocket.  It was so unexpected it both shocked and frightened you. 
         As Dan's eyes dropped, his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the man's hand.  It was a ring, a big college ring, the kind good ole boys wore in bars in small towns across America.  The stone perched atop the gold band was a gleaming red.  Bloodstone.
         Dan's bowels turned to water.  He looked back up at the man, and at once realized who it was.  It was the pallbearer from the night before, who had driven the hearse into the back parking lot of the Hampton Inn, and beckoned for Dan to join him.  He didn't appear to be dead like he had the night before- his hair was neatly combed and none of the flesh on his face was missing or rotten—but as Dan looked into his eyes, he knew there was nothing alive about him.  He was looking at the face of a homicidal walking corpse.
         Dan's heart did somersault in his chest, and he took a step backward.  The pallbearer's grin widened even more.  It seemed like his head was going to split right in two from grinning.  "Dan…" he said softly.  "There's room for one more."
         Dan tried to speak, but his tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth.  He backpedaled, almost losing his balance, before bumping into a few angry people behind him.  His eyes never left the stare of the pallbearer. 
         "No thanks," he managed.  "I'll get the next one."
         The door shut with a clang.
         All at once he felt safe again.  The dead man was gone.  He was sure he would probably miss his flight to California, but he didn't care.  If he had to get on the elevator with that thing, he would have lost his mind.  It would have driven him bugshit nearly instantly, he was sure of that.  It would have destroyed his sanity in one brutal gutshot, unlike his thoughts- over which he now felt he had some sort of control.
         A huge moaning sound bellowed up the elevator shaft.  Dan exchanged a nervous glance with a few of the people waiting around him.  This was followed by a sharp whap! and then- screams.  There was a terrible huge sucking noise, as if air was rushing to fill a void where it had previously not existed.  Air began to be pulled into the cracks between the elevator doors at an insane speed.  Dan noticed a piece of paper that had been lying on the floor next to the elevator door.  It was sucked up against the crack, and then pulled through in less than a second.  The screams continued.
         Suddenly a huge crashing noise shot up the shaft and the screams were silenced- as if someone had taken a knife and cut them off completely.  Dan felt the floor vibrate beneath his feet. 
         He knew what had happened—but he didn't believe it.  He looked to his left and saw the door to the stairwell.  It was thirty floors to the ground, but he knew he had to get down there.  He pushed aside two men next to him and sprinted for the door.  The dank musky smell that seemed to permeate all stairwells around the world shot into his nostrils.  He began to sprint down the stairs.

5

         Nearly ten minutes had passed by the time Dan finally reached the ground floor.  He burst through the door and into the lobby, sweating profusely, chest heaving. 
         There were police officers milling around all over the place.  Dan glanced outside and could see three fire trucks and several more ambulances parked on the street.  He directed his gaze to the elevator doors.  Several firemen had pried open the doors with the Jaws of Life and were peering down into the blackness.  Dan ran over to the scene.
         Just as he was about to get close to the elevator door, a policeman grabbed him.  "Whoa, pal." he said.  "Police line....you gotta stay out."
         "What happened…?" Dan looked directly into the policeman’s eyes.
         "Nothing...." the policeman said.  "Everything’s under control."  He was obviously trying to get Dan to direct his attention elsewhere.
         "No." Dan grabbed him by the arm and stared directly into his eyes.  "I need to know what's goin on."
         The policeman began to speak, hesitated, looked at him with regret, and started again.  "Some kind of failure in the suspension of the elevator.  Just snapped. The car fell thirty floors and crashed down below us in the sub-basement.  We're certain everyone aboard was killed."

6
         
         Dan took a deep breath of Georgia air as he stepped out of his truck.  He was glad to be home, but most of all, glad to be alive.  The events of the last two days had begun to take on a surreal image inside his head, and he found himself thinking of the whole trip to Chicago as just a dream.  But somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he knew it was real.
         It was Saturday morning, and a damn fine one at that.  The sunlight had that Saturday morning glint to it.  Dan had always noticed, even when he was a little kid, that there was something different about Saturday sunshine.  Something warm- and something good.
         He didn't need a psychologist to gather the meaning of the trip to Chicago.  He knew that if he had stepped on that elevator--and even if the elevator had not crashed and he hadn’t plummeted 300 feet to his death--that his trip to California would have meant one thing: death.  Maybe not in a physical sense-- but the thing he had been sure of before the trip would have indubitably come true: his thoughts would have killed his sanity just as sure as if he had put a shotgun to his head and pulled the trigger.
         He realized now that by holding on so tightly to things in the past, he was doing nothing but hurting himself and the things in his life that counted-- his home life and his wife.  He knew his constant thinking changed nothing.  The past was the past, and there was nothing he could do to change it.  It just had to be accepted, and then forgotten.  The things that were before him now- his house, the beautiful Georgia day, his relationship and his love for his wife--were all that mattered and all he could ever want. 
         He closed the truck door and made his way up the front porch stairs.  He opened the front door. "Sarah?"
         He left his thoughts, his hatred, and his fear outside.  He left death outside, the stinking and rotting pallbearer, never to be let in again.  He had stepped through to the other side. 
         And so Dan Findley left his seat in the hearse empty.