I release Whiskey from his crate and take him outside to relieve himself. Conscious of the risk I’m taking, I keep an eye on my surroundings, ready to bolt inside if need be.
While he sniffs the ground, I contemplate the idea now swirling in my head, as well as the potential danger involved.
“How would you like to go on a trip to my apartment?” I ask the furball. “I’ve got some Christmas decorations there.” As well as protection that I didn’t think to retrieve the last time I was there with Landon. “I could go get them and decorate your place. Then it would feel more Christmas-y. What do you think?”
He gives a happy bark…and takes a dump.
After I finish picking up after him, we return inside, and I grab my car keys. Since Landon won’t be back for two hours, I don’t bother to leave a note or text him.
I lift Whiskey into the front passenger car seat, and he makes himself comfortable.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I tell him. “You need to stay right there while I drive.” Even though Landon is only Whiskey’s temporary home, we’ve been working on training him. So far, it’s still hit or miss if he listens to us.
Traffic isn’t my friend today. It moves slower than a crawl. I’m sure even Frank, with his walker, could move faster than this. It takes over an hour to get to my apartment building.
I park my car and carry Whiskey inside. “Some of the stuff is in my apartment,” I tell him. “The rest is in my storage locker in the basement.”
I sneak him into my apartment first. The place looks exactly how I left it.
Just dustier.
But there’s no time to worry about that now.
I find my penknife in the kitchen knickknack drawer and slip it into my jacket pocket. Next, I locate the box of my most prized decorations, the ones I didn’t want to risk leaving in my storage locker. These are the ones from my childhood—the ones I made for my father and stepfather.
Deep down, I know I should throw them away, that I’m a glutton for punishment, but I haven’t had the heart to do it. At one point, these simple decorations, which I’ve had to fix a few times over the years, were precious to the two men.
I take the box to the car and load it into the trunk. Whiskey and I return inside and head to the basement.
The light is already on when I step inside the eerie place.
I swear the basement’s haunted, which is why I usually avoid it whenever possible. I hold Whiskey tighter to me even though I know I’m being irrational. I can thank Nikolai for my fear of all things paranormal. He used to tell some of the spookiest stories. If he ever decides to write horror novels instead of being the head of the mob, even Stephen King would concede that Nikolai is the king of all things creepy.
Usually, the basement light is turned off, unless someone is already in here or the last person forgot to turn it off. I strain to hear a sound to indicate that I’m not the only one in here. Nothing reaches my ears other than the typical old building noises, such as creaking pipes.
It’s not a ghost. It’s not a ghost. It’s not a ghost.
At my locker, I lower Whiskey to the concrete floor and unlock the door with my key. “All right, let’s find those Christmas decorations.”
It doesn’t take me long to locate the two large boxes filled with all kinds of holiday decorations, buried under everything else. “I really need to go through this place and get rid of some of this old junk,” I mutter to myself.
Soft, hesitant footsteps approach from behind. The good news is that ghosts don’t have footsteps. The bad news is that creepy clowns like Pennywise do.
Whiskey releases a puppy bark, and I spin around. A man I’ve never seen before is standing a short distance from us, a medium-sized moving box in his arms.
My heart rate speeds up, my palms grow slippery, and my breath slams on the brakes.
I toe the locker door shut and snap the lock together with one hand, all the while keeping my gaze glued on the man. One side of the box balances preciously on my hip.
Oh, fuckadoodle. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all.
A voice in the back of my head replies,You think?I ignore it.
The box slips on my hip, and I tighten my hold on it with my free arm.
The man lurches forward. “Let me help you.”
I let out a small shriek, which riles up Whiskey. He runs between my legs…then changes his mind and runs around them, tangling me in his leash.
