Dead Souls Read Online Free Page A

Expected to travel widely, so we’re working on a new pack, the Istanbul, lightweight with a slim, detachable waist belt to hold a passport, cell phone, cash, and credit cards. I make a mental note to add a small pocket for lipstick and a compact.
    She offers the paper bag. “I believe these are yours.”
    Curious now, I unlatch the chain, open the door a little wider, and take it. The bottom is wet, and soggy. I unroll the top of the bag and inside I find my damp clothes from the night before, neatly folded.
    â€œThey were outside on the front stoop,” says Gloria. “Just lying there in a pile. I folded them for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
    My heart goes cold. The clothes I was wearing were left outside? So I walked, or was carried into my apartment, nake d ?
    â€œAnd I found this in the skirt pocket, so I thought . . . well you’re the only Fiona here, I’m pretty sure.”
    So helpful, and so proud of being helpful, she hands me a business-size card. It’s nice, good, thick stock that feels soft to the touch. Expensive.
    At the top, the words BILL OF SALE in ominous black print, followed by DATE , next to which is handwritten Friday, October 12 . Only when I look more closely at the handwritten part, I see it’s not ink . . . more like the writing has been burned into the card, like a brand. Pyrography. Something my middle school art therapist thought would help direct my destructive tendencies, burning images of horses into square bits of leather.
    SOUL: Fiona Dunn
    TIME : 4:05 a.m.
    FAVOR :
    Nothing written here, a blank space that looms large, dark and oppressive. Is it just my imagination, or does the card carry a waft of sulfur?
    â€œAre you okay?” Gloria asks, and for good reason—I can imagine how pale my face has gone. “I thought maybe it wassome kind of an invitation. And it had your name. That’s your name, right? I got it right?”
    â€œYes,” I manage, tucking the bag under my arm, crumpling the card in my fist. “No. I mean . . . I’m fine. I must have left my laundry on the stoop when I buzzed in. Thank you.”
    With that I rudely close the door, lean against it. There’s a hesitant pause on the other side, as if Gloria’s about to knock again, but then she must think better of it, because I hear the click-click of heels against the hardwood floor, followed by the chime of the elevator.
    I slide onto the floor.
    Impossible. Impossible.

    I FRANTICALLY TRY TO ASSEMBLE the fragments of memories I’m left with, but they blur, they resist. Scratch . What the hell kind of name is Scratch? We’d been joking, flirting— oh God, flirting —and every time I looked at my mojito, it seemed to be full. I definitely had two before he even sat down, I remember him ordering two more, but after that . . . What did he say he did? Sales? But really, why would he tell the truth, why would anyone in a bar tell the truth unless, like me, they were wasted.
    I focus my mind to the moment I do remember, when the glass broke—the floor littered with sparkling pieces, the bartender in the back, patter of rain outside. I visualize myself there. Smell of beer, damp clothes, and cold popcorn. Slowly the memory develops, like a photo in a film tray. He said he was the devil. He asked if I’d be willing to give up my soul.
    I said yes.
    Christ, Christ, now the sick fucker knows where I live. All the news stories over the past decade about a woman meeting a man for a drink at a bar who then was found raped and/or decapitated play through my head. How could I be so stupi d ? Even my parents warned me not to talk to strangers.
    I open my fist for another look.
    Slowly, ever so slowly, the card unfolds like a flower opening to the sun. It then relaxes and flattens into a pristine state, like it’d just been cut from the press, like it wasn’t just balled up in my sweaty palm