I need help. I remembered him again today. I told him he needed to go, but he just laughed. Make Reggie leave.
That was the note that I received in my brother’s handwriting last week, slipped under the door of my apartment on a folded square of index card. It wasn’t signed, but I knew I was him—aside from the writing, it reminded me of when we were little. I’d been bad sick for over a year when I was in middle school. Couldn’t see people if they even had a sniffle. There’d be days or weeks at a time when my brother Mark couldn’t visit, but every day he’d sneak and slip me a little note under my bedroom door. A funny drawing or a joke, something to let me know he was always there for me.
We weren’t as close now. It’s not that we don’t get along anymore…we do. But we’re both busy—he’s working as a mechanical engineer at the base outside of town and I’m swamped with applying to grad schools for next fall. It's not strange for us to go a few weeks without talking and a few months without seeing each other, and he had never been to my apartment since I’d moved in two years earlier. Why would he come all that way and not knock or text me? And what was the note even talking about?
So I called him to find out.
“Hey, man. what’s up?”
“Um, did you leave this note under my door? At the apartment, I mean?”
There was a pause and then, “Note? What kind of note?” Another moment of silence and then before I could answer, Mark blurted out. “I don’t know about anything.”
I felt myself frowning as I held the phone to my ear. Why was he acting so funny? “Um, I got a note slipped under my door. It was weird, but it looks like your handwriting. Kind of reminded me of when we were kids too.”
“Ah…um, I don’t know, man. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t me.”
I could tell he wanted to get off the phone, and I almost just cut it off there, but then I remembered the other reason I thought the note was from Mark. “Hey, wait a second.” I picked up the note and read it out to him. “See? It says Reggie.”
Mark was silent for several seconds this time before he responded. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”
My frown deepened. “Reggie man, remember? The dirt-bag roommate you had for a few weeks last year? Disappeared all of a sudden and left all his junk behind? Stiffed you with having to pay his half of the rent when you couldn’t find another roommate? That douchebag?”
“Oh…Yeah, I guess I’d forgotten. Um…Paul, I have to go. Good hearing from you.”
And then the line was dead.
I don’t claim I’ve always been the best little brother. I can be immature and selfish, and I know I started more fights growing up with Mark than was my fair share. But I love my brother. And I knew something wasn’t right with him. He sounded more than just off.
He sounded scared.
I waited until that evening to head across town to his apartment. It was in a nice area, but unfortunately for Mark, that also meant it was more expensive. He’d been close to not re-signing for a second year when I’d suggested he just find a roommate. Mark had resisted the idea at first—he liked his space and solitude, and the idea of inviting a stranger into his home wasn’t very appealing at first. A few weeks of looking at worse neighborhoods and longer commutes had changed his mind though, and by the end of last August, he was telling me about his new roommate Reggie.
I never met the guy, but according to Mark he was a weird dude. Quiet and clean, you barely knew he was there most of the time, but when Reggie hung out in the common areas of the apartment, it kind of gave my brother the creeps. Mark said he would just sit, reading or watching t.v., but constantly humming some tune under his breath. And the whole time, you would have a sense that he was just pretending to look at his book or show. That what he was really doing was studying you.
Weird, yeah, but Mark can be overly dramatic. Plus, he really did need the help with rent, and I couldn’t afford it. Money didn’t seem to be a problem for Reggie, however. He’d paid two months in advance and said he’d pay the rest of the year after he got back from his next lucrative job “abroad”. Mark never knew what the guy did for money or where he was traveling to—I joked once that he was probably a drug mule. The worried timbre of my brother’s laugh made me stop making Reggie jokes after that. Maybe he was worried that Reggie really was sketchy, or maybe it was because this was last October, a few weeks after Reggie had gone “abroad” and never come back.
Had he returned all these months later? Was he really refusing to leave and scaring my brother or something? I considered calling the cops before going over, but what could I tell them when I knew so little? And if Mark wouldn’t talk to me about it on his own, my best bet was to just catch him by surprise and see what was going on over there.
When Mark opened the door, his eyes widened with surprise as his mouth drifted open. There was a moment, almost imperceptible but still there, when he started to just close the door back in my face. But then he seemed to catch himself and gave me an awkward smile instead.
“Shit, man. This is a surprise.” His eyes shifted sideways as though he was fighting the urge to look behind him. “Um, but this…this isn’t a good time, okay? How about I call you and we meet up for lunch tomorrow or some…”
I gently reached out and put my hand on the door, my arm steady despite the hammering of my heart. Oh God. Something was really wrong. He was terrified. I could see it on his face. Was he being held hostage or something? Catching his gaze, I spoke barely above a whisper.
“Are you in danger? Is there someone in there with you?”
Mark’s eyes got even wider as he started shaking his head. “No, no. Just head home, man. Nothing is the mat—”
I pushed past him, rushing into the apartment and trying to look everywhere at once. I half-expected to hear a gunshot or get jumped by someone, but there was nothing other than Mark’s increasingly loud protests. Standing in the front hall with a partial view of the kitchen and the living room, nothing looked out of place.
“Paul, I need you to get out of here. Right now.”
I looked at my brother. He was trying to sound stern and angry. The way he used to do when he was left to watch me when our parents went out somewhere and left us at home. The adult voice. The daddy voice. The voice that said I know best and its my way or the highway.
Except that voice was trembling. And as I met his eyes again, I saw how terrified he was now, how afraid he seemed to be of something that was happening. How badly he didn’t want me to be there. So I shook my head and started down the hall.
“Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere until I make sure you aren’t in trouble. That nobody is hiding back there or some shit.” I shot him an angry look as I prepared to open the door to the guest bathroom. “And then I want you to tell me why you’re acting like this. Why you lied about dropping me that note.”
He kept protesting as I went through his apartment room by room, but it got fainter and feebler as we went. I saw nothing weird or sinister—no signs of trouble or someone else being there. Completing my circuit in the kitchen, I looked at him confusedly.
“So what’s the deal, man? You on something? You’re freaking me out, but I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Mark had grown increasingly tired and sad-looking as he’d followed me around the apartment, and by this point he looked like a deflated balloon. Only his eyes, restlessly roaming from corner to corner of the room, had any life left in them. He seemed on the verge of saying something before changing his mind and shrugging.
“I…I think it’s just stress, man. Yeah, I left you that note. It was just a practical joke. Something like we used to do, y’know? I miss my little brother and it got my mind off shit at work for a little while.” He gave a dry laugh. “Sorry it freaked you out, though. I just thought it’d be funny.” He lowered his eyes, his voice quieter as he added. “But I love you for caring and trying to help.”
I still didn’t believe him, but I didn’t know what else to do either. “Are you sure? None of this sounds like something you’d normally do. Are you positive you’re telling me the truth?”
He nodded, still not meeting my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just got deadlines at work. Making me squirrelly. And I really do miss hanging out. I don’t have time to make many friends on the job any more.” Glancing into the corner again, he started moving toward the front hall. “I’m beat tonight, but if you have time I’d like to get together this weekend. Just text me and we’ll figure something out.”
I followed him to the front door. He was getting rid of me, but I decided it was better to let it go for now and talk to him more about it this weekend. See if I could figure out a way to get him to open up about what was really going on. I had walked outside the threshold of the apartment and was turning around to say bye when I heard it for the first time.
Humming.
It was faint but distinct, some strange tune drifting out of the darkness behind Mark. I expected him to ignore it or maybe even look angry or surprised. Instead he stepped forward and grabbed my shirt, bringing his face close to mine.
“He’s back. He makes himself unseen most of the time, but he’s back and he won’t leave. You need to go. You need to get away and not come back. Don’t trust me if I call you again. He can make me do things. Make me forget I’ve done them.” He shook me with a strength I didn’t know he had. “Do you fucking understand, Paul? I'm too far gone. You do not come back here, not ever.”
I was on the verge of tears that lay somewhere between anger and terror, shaking my head as I tried to pry his hands loose from my shirt. “No, fuck that, you sent that note because…”
Mark yanked me close again, his own eyes shimmering as he pressed his forehead against my own. “I didn’t send you that fucking note. He did.”
With that, he shoved me back hard enough that I hit the far wall in the hallway and staggered to my knees. By the time I looked back up, he had already shut and locked the door. I beat on it for a few minutes, but there was never any response at all.
That was three days ago. I’ve called and texted Mark repeatedly since then. I’ve called our parents, who haven’t heard from Mark in a few weeks but didn’t have any idea anything was wrong. I almost told them everything, but something held me back. Maybe it was just the strangeness, the unbelievability of it all. They’d think I was just being silly, oversensitive because me and my big brother have grown apart.
Or maybe it was the sense that’s been growing the last couple of days. The feeling of some unseen weight or pressure weighing down on me. At first I thought it was just worry for Mark, and I’m sure that’s part of it. Another part is this sensation of…well, of not being alone.
I’ve started seeing things out of the corner of my eye. There’s something there…lurking in the corner of the room, in the shadows just out of sight. If I turn to look or flip on a light, it’s gone. Or…well…I guess it's more accurate to say I can’t see it. Because I never lose the sense that it’s there, watching me.
I woke up last night from a terrible dream. I don’t remember all the details, but I was on a grassy plateau glowing with orange light. There were six stone tables and someone was singing and I was so afraid and…then I was awake.
I got up and went to the kitchen, fixed a peanut butter sandwich I didn't really want, and stood eating it woodenly as I stared out the window over the sink. It was the middle of the night, and in the orange haze of a distant street light, I could see it was beginning to rain. And here I was, needing to be up in three hours and instead of sleeping, I was standing here like a fucking…
The song from my dream began behind me, though not in the clear and fragile notes I’d heard on that bright and terrible hill. This was a lower, deeper version, rumbling out slowly as something hummed it from the shadows of the nearby hall. My skin prickled as my breath caught in my throat.
There was something in the reflection of the window, some vague figure caught between the light of the kitchen and the cold rain outside. It could have been my imagination, except for the humming. It could have been a trick of the light, except it was creeping up behind me with purpose.
An image of Mike’s sad, scared face came to me then, and in the flash of anger that followed I spun around, wanting to confront the thing that had tormented my brother.
There was nothing there. The kitchen was empty and the humming had stopped.
My hands shook as I found the sink behind me and leaned back on it for support. I could feel the thing, whatever it was, still there with me. I wanted to name it, to curse it, to tell Reggie to leave Mike alone.
But somehow, I didn’t quite dare.
Instead, I washed the remains of my discarded sandwich down the disposal. I went back to bed and, improbable as it seemed, I started drifting off immediately.
And if some small and screaming part of myself heard the humming start again as I sank into sleep?
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