Running Home – Chapter 2 (Penn and Sword)

I jolt upright, searching for a figure in the shadows.

Another creak slices the night-thick air, and another. From above. Simon didn’t tour another floor. But that means… the sounds are coming from the roof. An animal? No, they’re too heavy, too measured. Footsteps.

Several groaning strides approach from the opposite side of the building, step over the crest of the roof, closer, pausing just above my bed. Then—

“WAH!”

Thud!

My heart shoots into my throat as I rush to the window. It takes several seconds to figure out the locks, and I have to half-crawl outside to peer over the gutters to the narrow strip of yard below.

Bushes, a small square garden, a chain-link fence separating us from our neighbors.

And a body.

Splayed out across the grass.

Hand to necklace, I wait for any sign of life.

He doesn’t move.

A robber? A roommate I can’t remember?

Without a thought, I snatch my phone and launch down the stairs, out the door, and around the side of the house below my bedroom window.

He’s still there. Unmoved. Not breathing.

“Uh, sir?” I ask, though he doesn’t look much older than me. Kneeling, I search his wrist for a pulse and find none.

He’s cold to the touch, like he’d been standing in the walk-in freezer back at the diner for way too long. Yet the slickness across his skin seems like the sickly sweat-sheen of a fever. His wild black hair sticks up at all angles, falls over his thin face. His red thread-decorated vest lays torn open, buttons missing. White sleeves roll up to his biceps. Leathery dress shoes cover his long feet.

Why was this fancy guy up on the roof?

I dial 911, heart throbbing too many times between breaths.

As it rings, I search his face for any sign of life underneath his pale death-sheen. Any twitch in his sharp jaw, his blued parted lips. Purplish bags sink under his motionless eyelids. A closer inspection finds the tail-end of a dark tattoo snaking up his neck on the right side. The same black markings trail down his arms, intricate ribbons of black ink made to look like tree roots or cracked glass.

Before I can figure out what they depict precisely, the dispatcher picks up on the other end of the call.

I speak fast on a dry mouth. “There’s a man. He fell off the roof. He’s not breathing.”

The dispatcher asks for the address, and I provide it.

The young man’s red vest captures my focus as the dispatcher rattles off her script. Off-red images embroider the fabric across his sunken chest in overlapping lines. A soaring bird, a reaching tree, a crumbling mountain, a rolling desert, an endless ocean. Dozens of worlds, swirling in scarlet thread. For a breath, I swear the tumultuous waters swell and burst into a spitting wave upon dangerous cliff sides.

“Are you still there, ma’am?” the dispatcher calls.

I stand and shake off my sleepy brain. “Yes, yes, I’m here. I can’t feel a pulse.” Nerves drag my feet pacing through the grass.

“Do you know this man?”

“No, he just… fell. From the roof.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He’s—”

I swivel back.

To find dark grass. No red vest, no tattoo, no fallen stranger at all.

The dispatcher buzzes in my ear. “Paramedics will be there in five minutes. Ma’am?”

“He’s… gone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s… gone. I… How…”

“Ma’am, is he alright? Did he wake up?”

I turn in a circle, shaking my head. “He must have. He’s gone. He was just here…”

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

“Yes…” I suck in a breath, shake myself back to the phone. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.” Ending the call, I turn again. And again. Searching for the man in the red waistcoat and the hidden tattoo. “Hello?” No response. Only the moon bears witness to my confusion. I search the roof, but there’s no sign of his existence anywhere in the night.

No, there… at the top! Something small, something red. The same deep shade as the vest of threaded worlds. Stuck between two roof tiles.

Spine tense, I rush back inside to investigate. I pass a yawning Simon on the front porch. “Did something happen?” he asks, lazily scratching his chest.

Ignoring him, I race back up the two flights to my room and hurriedly climb out onto the overhang.

“Hey!” Simon shouts after. I keep climbing even as he sticks his head out, holds out a hand. “Come back, you’ll fall!”

I trust my balance and feet on the rough roof tiles, thankful for my years of dance practice throughout high school. Gracefully, I scale to the crest of the house.

There, stuck between two roof tiles, a red envelope flutters. Glinting, silver ink shines in the moonlight. I collect the thick paper. The same cool temperature as the stranger’s skin shivers through me. Too cold for this late summer night. I search the roof, but of course, no ice or snow exists.

Simon calls for me again. Curling my hand around the letter, I bite my lip. Unsure. The mystery needles at the base of my skull, mind locked on to the stimulating distraction. Honestly, it’s a heart-fluttering relief from constant, tongue-twisting, gut-coiling anxiety. I have to know what’s going on.

The creaking steps had come from across the house, from the mysterious Ghost’s room across the hall. Ignoring Simon’s warnings, I lift over the roof’s ridge and carefully slide down the other side.

I lean close to the matching window on this side and peer into the other room for any sign of the red-vested stranger. A matching twin bed to mine stands underneath the window, sheets flat and pristine on the mattress. Untouched. The dresser drawers are all shut tight. No rug on the floor. No posters on the wall. No papers or pens on the small desk.

There’s no evidence anyone lives in the room at all.

Until… there. Something is sticking out under the folding closet door.

A red corner. Another envelope?

Charged with intrigue, I press against the edges of the window to push it up as much as I can, and thankfully, it’s not locked from the inside.

Carefully, fist still clutched around the envelope, I stick a leg in and step onto the pristine sheets then hush down to the carpet. Turning in the small space, I make doubly sure the strange man isn’t in a dark corner. But, same as my own, the room is too small to hide in. Unless…

I move for the closet door, reach for the knob. My hand shakes. Fear? Excitement? What’s on the other side?

I tug the door open, search for pale lips, a red-threaded vest, strange twisting roots of tattoos.

Nothing. Only white-painted walls and empty wire hangers.

On the floor, as if forgotten in a rush, a red felt blanket lays rumpled. I don’t register it at first. I kneel and press tentative fingers to the soft material.

It looks… an awful lot like my blanket across the hall.

The door bursts open, shocking me enough to scream.

Simon screams too, out of breath, cheeks red. “What is it?” he asks, searching the room. “What’s going on?”

Hand to heart, I stand. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?”

I can’t answer at first, a thrill sizzling down my fingertips. This isn’t like me at all, this feverish need. For a breath, I question if I really saw the red-vested stranger, if I’d been lost in a waking dream from lack of sleep, but the letter is real. In one hand, I still grip it tight, and in the other, I squeeze the corner of the felt blanket.

To hide my embarrassment, I squint at Simon. “You have a key for every room, huh?”

Simon’s lips fumble. “I don’t use them whenever I want. I just… someone has to be able to get in. For emergencies.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“You’re trespassing, so… Yes?”

I nod, turn around the room. “I thought I saw…” The empty room, the empty walls. Of all the things to find in a locked room… why is it a red felt blanket just like mine? “That Ghost guy. What does he look like?”

“Uh, I mean, kinda thin. Tall. Like stretched out. Or a skeleton.”

“What else? Hair?”

“Uh, black, or brown?”

“Does he have…” I drag a finger down my neck, trying to remember the black ink shapes. “Tattoos?”

“What, like a gang member?”

I roll my eyes with a sigh. “I don’t know. But does he wear a vest? Like a really nice one?”

“Uh, yeah, maybe. He seemed a little over-dressed when I met him. Like he was a professor or something. Not a student.”

“Is he a student?”

“I… don’t know, actually. All the paperwork happened really fast. Like with you.” Simon licks his lips. “Did you… see him? Is that why you were on the roof? Was HE on the roof?”

I nod. “I think so.”

“Does no one read their leases? We’re not allowed up there! Liability and all that. You shouldn’t be up there either! Did you not read the rules this morning?”

I gather up the blanket and place it on the bed before carefully closing the window. “Sorry, Simon. I wanted to make sure he was okay and…” Glancing over the letter, I flip it over, finding the silver-inked addressee.

Simon leans in close. “What’s that?”

The looping script shimmers and reads: for the sad girl.

My breath wisps away. Does it mean… me?

I snap it to my chest and start back across the hall.

Simon follows. “What is that—?”

“Night!” I call, closing my bedroom door.

“Wait, Acantha, what did you find—?”

Pressing against the door, I hold my breath and wait for Simon to exhale on the other side, then pad back to his room downstairs. I don’t move until I hear his door snap shut.

I tear the envelope open across the top and tug out a single square piece of red paper. The message is brief, in the same looping, silver script as the envelope.

Duck.