Two weeks ago I got the call that my brother had committed suicide. It came as a complete shock to me. I know it’s a cliché, but Jerry really didn’t seem like the suicidal kind, if there is such a thing. Sure, he had problems just like we all do. He was in a bad car wreck in college, and he battled depression for months after he realized that surgery and rehab was only going to give him most of his mobility back, not all.
But that was seven years ago. He hardly even limped any more, had a good job, and had just started dating a great girl a few months earlier. He hadn’t said anything concrete, but I could tell from talking to him that they were in love; that he thought Laci was the one. She was the one who called me first, and she sounded crushed.
I drove out that night, and amid funeral arrangements and spending time with my parents and Laci, I was so busy taking care of things that I didn’t have time to stop and really let it sink in. My brother, one of my best friends since I was born, was really gone. It wasn’t until I was sitting in his empty house, surrounded by belongings that I had to pack up or throw away, that I broke down and began to cry.
I was crying so hard, so focused on my newfound grief, that I didn’t hear the doorbell at first. When I did, I debated not answering it, as I rarely answered my own door. Still, Jerry had always been more friendly and outgoing, and it somehow felt wrong not to honor that and be hospitable while I was still in his last home. Wiping my face, I went to the door and opened it on an older couple.
“Hi there! I hope we’re not interrupting.”
I looked at them confusedly for a moment. “Um, I…Jerry’s not here.”
The woman frowned. “Oh, we know honey. We heard what happened to him.” The man leaned forward, as though to whisper, though when he spoke, his voice was loud and harsh in my ears. “Terrible thing. Good guy. Terrible thing.” The woman’s frown deepened as she glanced at the man and then thrust forward a covered dish.
“We live just next door, but we didn’t know him well enough to come over during the funeral and what-not…and we’ve been out of town recently as well. But we did want to do something, and we saw that someone was over here…um, cleaning up, so I thought we’d bring over this casserole.” She paused before adding. “It’s a bean casserole. My recipe.”
I took the offered dish numbly. This wasn’t the first food offering I’d had to take in the last few days, and I admit to being relieved that this was the purpose of their visit. It meant they’d go away, satisfied they’d helped in some nebulous way by giving food no one asked for or wanted. Except they didn’t go away, at least, not yet.
“Everything going okay? Got anyone helping you?” The woman’s eyes were roving past me into the shadows of Jerry’s foyer. I quickly found my faint gratitude souring into annoyance. So was that it then? Nosy neighbors wanting a peek at the horror show?
I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve got it handled. My brother was a neat guy, so it’s mainly just a matter of figuring out what to keep and what to throw away.” I was about to launch into the wrap-up speech about how I better “get back to it” when the man interrupted.
“Have you run across anything strange so far?”
I stared at him blankly. “Um, no. What do you mean?”
He looked away. “Oh, I don’t know. They say you don’t really know someone until you go through their stuff, right?”
Gritting my teeth, I started pushing the door shut. “Look, I need to go. Thanks for the casserole and…” The man blocked the door with his foot.
“We mean no offense, friend. Want us to come in and keep you company for a bit?”
I pushed against the door harder and felt the wood flex slightly, but it didn’t budge. “No, I wouldn’t like that. Please move your foot and go on.”
The woman gave me a thin smile as she nudged the man in the side. “Sorry to keep you. We’ll let you get back to it.”
The man reluctantly moved his foot back and I immediately shoved the door shut with a solid thump. Fuck me. What was their deal? Were they just that pushy?
I jumped as my phone rang. It was the number of the detective that had worked Jerry’s case. “Miss Sanchez, this is Jim Truett. How are you doing today?”
Swallowing, I backed away from the door and returned to the living room where I’d been packing. “I’m fine. Packing stuff up. Anything I can help you with?”
“Well, I’m closing out your brother’s file and we have a few personal effects that we need to either release to you or destroy.”
I felt my legs growing weak, so I sat down between a table and a half-full packing box. “Um, you mean like his clothing and stuff?”
I could hear how uncomfortable Truett was over the phone. “No, not his clothes. They were…well, they’re considered a biohazard due to their condition, so those are typically burned once we’re done with them. But he had a wallet with various cards, a couple of photos, and fifty-seven dollars in cash. He also had his cell phone…and the keys I already gave you…and, well. The note he left.” He paused and then rushed forward quickly. “Not that you have to take the note. Or any of it. People feel different ways about that kind of thing, and we’re happy to do whatever you and your family want.”
The air felt heavy around me, making it hard to move or think. I knew what the note said. I’d seen it the day after I’d arrived in town, and despite being in a plastic evidence bag, I’d been able to tell Detective Truett that it looked like Jerry’s handwriting, even if the words made no sense.
I’ve had enough. Good bye. Love you all, Jerry.
I felt fresh tears springing up in the corner of my eyes and I fought them back. “I…well, the wallet and stuff, yeah. But the note…I don’t want the note. None of us want that.”
“Okay. Fair enough. I’ll have the rest up front for you to pick up whenever you like. Just tell them that…”
“Are you sure he did it?”
“Huh?” The man sounded younger when he was caught off-guard, and it took him a second to process what I was asking and respond. “Did what, commit suicide?”
“Yeah. It just didn’t seem like something he’d do.”
His voice was softer and tinged with sadness now. “Look, I know why you feel like that. I…well, I’ve never told anyone outside of my family about this, but when my grandmother died a few years back, it was a suicide too. She was eighty-seven and had bone cancer, so I could see her reasoning even if I didn’t agree with it. But there was still a part of me…and my dad too…that had trouble accepting that she’d done that to herself on purpose. I guess my point is that you never really know what other people have going on inside and what they’re capable of. And it’s not your responsibility to save them from themselves.” He cleared his throat. “Not trying to preach at you. Just want you to know that what you’re feeling is natural and will pass with time.”
I sighed and wiped at my face again. “I appreciate it. Thanks for your help.” I hung up, and it was as I was leaning forward to set my phone on the floor that I caught a glimpse of white under the table next to me. My first thought was that it was warranty paperwork or something similar that the maker of the furniture had stapled to the underside of the table and that Jerry had never noticed and removed. But as I looked closer, I saw it was a small white envelope that had been taped there.
My mouth was dry as I reached for it and gave it a tug. It was well-secured, and it took three yanks to free the envelope without tearing it. Once I was holding it, I studied it for a moment. There was no writing on the envelope, and it looked fairly new—new enough that most likely Jerry had put it there during the nearly three years he had lived in the house and had this furniture. Licking my lips, I gently opened the envelope.
Inside was an instant camera photo and a short note. I felt my stomach lurch as I recognized Jerry’s handwriting immediately.
If someone finds this note, please know that if I have died or gone missing, it was not of my own free will. They keep finding ways in. I don’t know why they keep coming, but I know they do things to me while I’m asleep. The door keeps popping up. I took a picture of it. They’re growing angry and I don’t know what to do. Please help me if you can, or if it’s too late, please get away. Get far away.
I read the note five times before turning to the photo. It was a picture of what looked like one of the walls in the dining room, and in the middle of it was a tall door of dark wood and black metal. I’d have to check, but I didn’t remember any door like that in the entire house.
First though, I needed to call the Detective back. Tell him what I’d found. Pushing redial, I clenched my phone hard enough to make it creak when his voicemail picked up. I left him a vague but urgent message, but after I hung up, I was unsure what to do. I could call 911 or go to the police station, but odds are they would just give me back over to Truett any way since he’d worked Jerry’s death. And I was angry and scared, but there was no reason to think that waiting a few minutes or hours would make some huge difference to anything now.
So I went over and laid down on the sofa, planning to just rest and organize my thoughts for a little while before trying to call the detective again. Before I knew it I was asleep, and when I woke up, night had fallen and the house was dark except for dim patches of light streaming in from the street lamps outside. I began to sit up when I heard a noise coming from the kitchen. It was a stealthy, furtive noise, and my first thought was a mouse or rat.
Shuddering at the thought, I got up and began easing my way through the house. I knew the layout of the furniture well enough to avoid the chairs and tables, but the scattered boxes were a different matter. I stumbled on three between the sofa and the dining room. It was as I looked back up from bumping into the third that I thought I saw a quick movement in the shadows across the dining room and heading into the hall. I froze for a moment and then fumbled for my phone to turn on the light.
I shined the light across the far end of the dining room and the hall beyond, but I didn’t see anything. I thought and also checked the walls of the room. No door like in the picture either.
Hearing blood pounding in my ears, I found the switch and flipped on the light. The light made everything feel less menacing, but I still felt dull dread as I opened the door to the kitchen and shone my light around on the floor. I hated mice, and if it was a roach big enough to make that racket, I didn’t want to…
It wasn’t a mouse or a rat or a roach. It was a folded piece of paper.
Finding the kitchen lights, I flipped them on before bending down to pick it up. I found myself hoping it would just be an old receipt, an invoice from the tombstone company, or some other scrap of what remained of closing out Jerry’s business. But it wasn’t any of those things.
It was a note, in what looked like my handwriting, signed with my name.
I’ve had enough of everything. Good-bye. Love you all, Connie.
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Credits
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