Safe Storage

Connie couldn’t abide the incessant clatter from next door any longer. She swore and snapped her laptop shut. Her online dating profile would have to wait.

She threw open her front door, almost colliding with her neighbour, as he bumped a bulging garbage sack down their shared concrete steps. Her heartbeat accelerated to match the rhythm of his inconsiderate rattling.

She raised a fist, then dropped it. One of her goals this month was to express her innermost feelings. Should she give him a piece of her mind?

But Bob’s eyes had the haunted look of the recently abandoned. His comb-over flopped the wrong way, exposing his glistening scalp, and his shirt was patched with sweat.

Connie settled for, “How’s your move going?”

Speedily, she hoped. Otherwise, she’d have to force herself to get dressed, spackle on makeup, and go to the store to buy some ibuprofen to ease her roaring headache.

He shrugged and offered an apologetic grin. His teeth glinted like kernels of frozen corn. She returned his smile only after he closed his lips.

 After a pause, he said, “Actually, I wonder if you could do me a favour.”

 Connie took a small step backward. “What kind of favour?”

Last month Bob’s wife had left him, soon after he’d lost his job—something high up in the university’s Science department. Everyone agreed that Eriko had to be a grade-A bitch for deserting him when he was down and out.

Connie’s husband had departed last year, too, but she’d never heard anything from her neighbours other than platitudes murmured in suppressed monotones. Too bad; she would have relished an occasional, “What a bastard!” or, “You’re better off without him.” A pat on the shoulder or a hug wouldn’t have been unappreciated, either.

“Could you drive me to my storage unit tomorrow?” Bob examined his feet as if they might valiantly leap to his aid. “Unfortunately, Eriko took the car when . . . well, you know.”

Connie nodded.

She’d barely ever said more than hello to the woman, but she hadn’t been surprised when Eriko dumped Bob. The man had married way above his geeky station. Eriko was blessed with symmetrical features and a supermodel’s flowing hair, not to mention a steady paycheck. Every morning at eight she left for work, returning ten hours later. She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she’d been as reliable as Connie’s monthly EI payments—until the night Eriko hadn’t come home at all.

Poor old Bob.

Connie suppressed a sigh. “What time will you need me?”

The next afternoon, dressed in her most presentable tracksuit that minimized most of her bulges, Connie drove her aging van out of the laneway and parked in front of Bob’s semi. She beeped her horn. While she waited, she tuned in to Spotify to listen to her current audiobook.

“Your thoughts are powerful,” the book’s reader intoned in a lofty British accent. “Visualize what you desire most. Experience joy, as you draw the object of your desire toward you.”

Connie mused. What did she want most? A boyfriend? A job? A huge lottery win?

Her budding but vague image of romance and riches vanished, as the passenger door swung open. Connie grabbed her phone and smacked at it to halt the recording.

“Could you pop the hatch?” Bob asked.

She stayed put while he trundled up and down the stairs. It was a hot day, and his skin shone, then dripped, as he transported his belongings and placed them in the back of the van.

Gossip had it that he and Eriko were serious collectors of Japanese artifacts, with a collection worth a lot—maybe tens of thousands. Not that Connie had ever been invited inside their house to see it in the three years they’d been neighbours. Eriko and Bob hadn’t been hostile, but they hadn’t been Mr. Rogers-style hospitable, either. They’d never offered her as much as a cheap glass of wine, although she’d often glimpsed other folks entering or exiting their home.

Why was she the one stuck doing this grunt work today, anyway? Just because she was temporarily jobless didn’t mean she didn’t have lots of important priorities. Her dating profile, for one, and following up on last week’s interview—the one that had been so promising until Connie mentioned how unfairly her last employer had treated her. Like so many other recent conversations, it had ended abruptly.

Caught in her rear-view mirror’s reflection, Bob stowed away a snarling Samurai mask, handling it with the tenderness of a mother for her infant. Connie shivered. It might be worth a small fortune but it was pretty darn scary. If the whole house was filled with stuff like that, she wouldn’t have lasted five minutes there. Mind you, she could have easily knocked back a glass of wine before excusing herself.

Within minutes, Bob packed the back of the van. He finger-combed his flopping hair into place and re-tucked his damp shirt before climbing into the passenger seat. Suddenly, the car reeked of his sedentary professor’s perspiration—a tinny, chemical odour, much less manly than her ex-husband’s sporty muskiness. Connie blinked away a tear and tried not to inhale too deeply as she pulled away from the curb.

At first, she attempted to make polite conversation. “Perfect weather for moving your things.”

“Indeed,” Bob replied. “Careful—there’s a sharp corner ahead. If you could slow down slightly—ˮ

They were already going well under the speed limit, but she gently squeezed the brakes. Simultaneously, she pushed her tongue against her lower teeth, bottling up the words she’d like to say. So much for her monthly goal of vocalizing her innermost feelings.

Bob was fragile, though, and it would be kinder to save her frankness for someone more resilient, like her husband. When he’d huffed off for the last time, he’d told her to get a life and a backbone. He’d been a lousy listener, but he’d never had an issue expressing himself. What he didn’t put into words he communicated eloquently with explicit gestures and eye rolls.

Except for rustles from the cargo in the back, the van glided onward in silence. Occasionally, when Bob flapped his hands, Connie decelerated even further. After what felt like an interminable half hour, she parked at the storage facility and unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel.

Bob got out but stuck his head back inside. “Why don’t you relax, while I move my belongings into the locker?” The lenses of his glasses fogged up, making him resemble the wacky professor on The Simpsons

Connie cranked down the window and reclined her seat. Gradually, her muscles loosened. She yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth. Time passed. Visions of men in expensive suits tangoed through her head.

When the whine of a distant siren jerked her awake, she stretched and got out of the car. Blinking against the sunshine, she adjusted her elastic waistband. It got tighter every day.

Maybe there’d be a coffee machine in the rental office. Nobody was sitting behind the metal desk, but a Bunn coffee dispenser hummed on the counter. Connie helped herself to a paper cupful of liquid tar, adding three creamers to make it drinkable. While Bob continued to organize his possessions, she strolled along the alley of identical units and sipped, grimacing at the bitterness. For a while, she recited positive affirmations. “I am wealthy, and my credit scores are excellent. I am sexy . . .”

She threw her empty cup into a nearby bin and checked her watch. An hour had passed. She walked to Bob’s unit. The door was partly open, and she rapped on it, pausing a few seconds before entering.

Her runners squeaked on the polished concrete floor. After a few steps, she stopped, waiting for her vision to adjust to the dimmer indoor lighting. Disturbing ranks of centuries-old Japanese armor loomed. Her pulse fluttered. Darth Vader-style headpieces glowered from their mountings, some with flamboyant tusks protruding from their evil faces and others howling noiselessly at her. They seemed ready to pounce. Goosebumps ridged their way down her spine.

A bulky item in a shadowed nook caught her eye. Its rounded shape was out of place in this eerie, sharp-edged menagerie. It looked more human than monster.

Connie’s breath jammed in her throat. It couldn’t be. She crept forward. Good god, yes, it was. The shape was undeniable.

A woman slumped forward over a crate. Long, dark hair dangled across her face, partially obscuring her features. Inconceivable—but she looked an awful lot like Bob’s estranged wife, Eriko.

Behind Connie, the door to the unit slammed shut, the boom drowning out her shriek. A key scraped in the lock. She hovered in total darkness, frozen in fear, praying that Bob didn’t know she was inside—and that she may have just discovered his wife’s body.

Disjointed thoughts hurtled through her brain. Should she cry out for rescue? She hadn’t seen another soul on the property. And how could she yell without alerting Bob to her presence—if he wasn’t already aware of it? Had he deliberately trapped her inside to decay, alongside his dead wife?  

Connie’s mind raced. She had to act. As her ex had said, get a backbone.

And then it came to her. In her pocket, she had a cellphone. She pulled it out and, with a shaking hand, punched in 911. No signal. She choked back a sob.

She fumbled for the phone’s flashlight, and a miniscule beam appeared. It illuminated the weird Japanese samurai masks, making them appear creepier than ever. 

Then Connie made herself do it: she shone the tiny light on the thing that might be Eriko and inched her way as silently as possible toward it. She sniffed the air. No scent, other than her own fabric softener soured by sweat. Maybe Eriko was injured, but still alive—not decomposing, at least not yet. Connie gritted her teeth, as she extended her hand to push back the brunette hair. 

Outside the locker, Bob called, “Connie?”

She dropped her hand. The door rattled, and Bob called her name again. Connie gasped and backed herself as quietly as possible into the far corner of the locker, before flicking off her flashlight. The door creaked open.

“Connie? Are you in here?”

She shrank farther back into her hiding spot. Bob jerked the door wider. Sunlight flooded in.

“Why didn’t you answer?” He squinted in her direction. “Are you all right?”

Connie bolted out of her corner. She grabbed Eriko’s arm and tugged. It was heavy and cold. Not human, maybe plaster.

Connie moaned and let go. What an idiot she was.

Bob stared at Connie, his forehead creased. “I’m so sorry I locked you in—accidentally, of course. You must have been terrified.”

Connie’s thick tongue couldn’t form words. She’d supposed the worst of this man. Now, he’d reverted to being bland Bob, her neighbour from the semi next door, who loved Japanese artifacts and needed her help to move.

“Nice piece, this,” she finally managed to stammer. She patted the mannequin’s lifeless shoulder.

“Yes, a little out of keeping with my collection, but a charming souvenir of my first student trip to Japan. I’ve kept it for sentimental reasons.”

Although she willed her feet to move, they refused to budge. Bob mumbled something she couldn’t make out and took her arm. Connie flinched, but let herself be led to her car. She got into the driver’s seat and sat there trembling, as he padlocked his storage unit.

On the road home, Bob tried to make small talk, but Connie couldn’t bring herself to respond. Her fingers slid on the steering wheel, and she wiped one hand at a time on her track pants. Mere instants ago, she’d believed this guy to be a homicidal maniac. She’d pictured him stuffing his dead wife into the compartment. Her vision had been so vivid.

If he kept droning on about nothing, she’d go mad.

“Do you mind if I listen to my audiobook?” She was beyond being embarrassed by the book’s new-age smarminess.

Bob politely agreed. Connie pushed the On button.

The reader’s syrupy voice gushed. “Your thoughts are power! Your words are deeds! You are the creator of your success and the master of your world.”

Connie didn’t care if Bob despised the recording. She focused on the positive messages—she was rich! she was successful!—and breathed deeply and deliberately.

When they arrived at their adjoining semis, Connie dropped Bob off in front. He said a gracious thank you and climbed the steps. She turned into the laneway, hurried inside through the back entrance, and double-locked her door. Then she seized a jumbo-sized bag of Lay’s chips from the pantry, closed the curtains, and huddled in semi-darkness, shuddering between salty mouthfuls.

At least she’d made it home. Sweet, safe home, with not a single gruesome Japanese artifact in sight.

Connie avoided Bob after that. He didn’t ask for any more favours. She practiced her positive thinking exercises and thought about applying for jobs. She almost got up the nerve to launch her dating profile. Her clothes got tighter.

Soon, a For Sale sign appeared on Bob’s front lawn, and within a week, he moved away. Every morning after that, she opened her curtains to let in the light—just a few inches at first, but wider each day.

Connie didn’t hear from Bob again. A couple of months later, though, there was word of Eriko. She was all over the news, after a dog-walker stumbled across her decomposing body in a nearby city park. Her husband, yet to be located, was cited as a person of interest.

Connie closed her computer. Her fingers tingled, as she recalled touching Bob’s Japanese mannequin. The jet-black hair had been pure silk. The limbs had been so hard.

She stood and walked to the dining room mirror. “I am strong. I am loved. I am wealthy.” She pointed at herself, and added, “I am safe.”

After a few half-hearted repetitions, she gave up. She wandered from window to window, twitching the curtains to blot out the wan sunbeams that were struggling to brighten the sad little house. Connie was alone and about to run out of EI benefits. It was time to store away her useless affirmations and face reality—maybe not today, but definitely tomorrow.

In her dreams that night, she clutched the mannequin’s stiff arm. Bob’s face loomed out of the darkness. His eyes were blank and cavernous. She screamed and turned to run, but her fingers were immobile hooks, gripping the plaster as it turned to flesh, rotting in her grasp.