217 Babel Street | Apartment 19
TThe doorbell rang in Heston's dreams.
The room flickered and broke into pieces. He felt faint and crouched on the floor with his head on his knees, shaking. What strange hallucinations: the moon, the howling, the fur, the saxophone. No, the saxophone was real. It was playing now and he wasn’t hallucinating now. But had he really howled? Perhaps someone was ringing the bell to complain. Surely he hadn't howled louder than the saxophone. How embarrassing.
Another ring. He flinched.
His head was beautifully clear. That stuff about the corpse talking to him. He tried to laugh at himself but felt too weird.
It was time to get a grip. Heston stood and gulped some air. It wasn't fresh. The flat was a mess: a treacle tin on the floor, CDs, papers and books everywhere. It all looked sticky but he could clean it up.
Why isn't he coming?
The voice of a child, the girl perhaps. Heston felt nice and normal now. He felt he could talk to anyone, perhaps even go out to the shops.
No, but he couldn’t. Ah – it wasn't all a hallucination. The horror remained and it lay in a sheet a metre away from him. After a week, he still had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do with a dead body if you lived in a top flat.
It smells horrible. What do you think it is?
It's probably the drains.
Ugh.
Never mind. I’ll leave it for now.