Blood Lite

Sam whopped him over the head with Big and Tall, then threw it to the floor. "He tried to kill us," Sam said.

"Ooooh. Fags."

The bathroom was so small you could take a crap on the toilet and puke in the bathtub at the same time (Sam had done it before, the night Samantha dumped him because Casper had given her an atomic wedgie). With three people, the room was even smaller. So Sam stepped into the tub and made room.

Dave hopped up and down a little on the seat.

Sam frowned. "Done yet?"

He shook his head. "Dangler."

"It stinks like a bagful of assholes in here," Jess said. He put on his glasses, which sat crooked on his face, the light arm bent away from his head. One of the lenses had popped out, and Jess squinted with the affected eye. "How do I look?"

Sam smirked. "Like a dangler."

There was a plop, and Dave sighed. He reached for the toilet paper. "If there's really a ghost," he said, "why don't you move?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Because. I signed a lease. Besides, it's never been this bad. He was just a pain in the ass before."

"What's his problem anyway?" Dave asked, mummify­ing his hand in the paper; he was good at clogging toilets.

Sam ignored him and stared at his shampoo bottle. "I told you already: he's an attention whore."

"The landlord says he was a lonely old fart," Jess pitched in. "An old card shark. No friends, no family, just a goldfish: Gold Bond, or something like that. Dude, tell Dave about the goldfish."

Sam sighed and looked down at his hands. "Fine," he said. He sighed again, feeling that heaviness in his chest like the last time he'd told the story, or like those nights he sat on the love seat alone, watching Ninja Turtles or something. "Casper—I can't remember his real name, but... he liked to pour Coors or Smirnoff or whatever he was drink­ing into Gold Bond's fishbowl. Liked to shoot the shit with the fish, talk about the weather and the Seahawks—"

"Liked to argue with him about who'd do the dishes," Jess said.

Sam nodded. "Guess the landlord saw dirty forks and spoons in the fishbowl a couple times. And he found cards in there, too, an unfinished game of go fish.

"Anyway, one night Casper poured too much Everclear into the water and found Gold Bond belly-up—"

"The landlord heard all this from the police," Jess explained. "They kind of filled in what they didn't know."

"That's right. So Casper gets all smash-faced and decides to give Goldie a good old funeral flush. But before he can send him out to sea, he gets real sick, starts throw­ing up. He passes out, falls into the toilet, and—"

"Wakes up with a ghastly hangover," Jess said, grin­ning. "And the sad part is Gold Bond wasn't dead. Just blacked out."

"Really?" Dave asked, breaking off the toilet paper. "Yeah," Jess continued, "the cops found him feeding on Casper's puke."

Sam nodded. "End of stupid, pointless, and totally depressing story."

Dave frowned at the floor, toilet paper still wrapped around his hand. "Damn," he said. "It's kind of like . . . Romeo and Juliet. So what happened to Gold Bond?"

Sam shrugged and picked at some soap scum on the shower stall, suddenly taking an interest in cleaning after months of ignoring the buildup.

"We don't know what happened to him," Jess said. "But we made a killer bong out of his fishbowl."

"And who really gives a shit?" Sam interjected.

"Well," Dave said, lifting one buttock to wipe, "Casper obviously gives a shit. Have you ever tried being nice to him? Maybe he just needs a friend."

Sam chuffed. "What he needs is a quick trip into Egon's containment unit. You know what? Just drop it. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Well," Dave looked at the strip of toilet paper he'd just used, "if this were my house and there really was a ghost, I'd give him a big old hug and—" He shot up off his seat, flipped, and landed headfirst in the toilet. The water bubbled and churned, muffling his scream. His bare ass poked up in the air.

"Crap!" Sam said. He stepped out of the tub, reaching for Dave's legs. Dave kicked aimlessly; his sneaker cracked the bridge of Sam's nose.

Sam stumbled, tears flooding his eyes, hot blood gush­ing down his chin and soaking his shirt. He cursed, slapped a hand to his face, tasted something coppery.

Holding his glasses on with one hand, Jess went to help Dave, as well. Dave accidentally kicked him in the throat. Jess fell against the wall, clutching his neck and wheezing. Sam's robe, hanging from a hook on the door, strangled Jess with its sash.

Sam's vision was blurry from the tears and the shock, but he couldn't let that stop him. He spit blood off his lips, reached for Dave.

The lid of the toilet tank flew at his head. He ducked and it shattered against the shower stall. The shower curtain wrapped around him like a flour tortilla. He wrestled one arm free.

Dave's legs thrashed less and less; the bubbles began to peter out. Jess was about to pass out, too.

Sam lurched forward—the shower curtain yanked him back. So he lunged, put all his weight into it, his free arm outstretched, and the shower curtain tore away from its hooks. He flew past Dave, his hand slammed the toilet handle, and then he fell between the toilet and the vanity, the plastic trash can jabbing his ribs.

The toilet flushed; Dave gasped and fell back, sitting his bare ass in the tub. The shower curtain loosened around Sam and the robe quit strangling Jess. The only sound was heavy breathing and water rushing into the toilet tank.

Sam lifted himself and shucked the shower curtain. Jess, his eyes a little watery, was picking himself up and rubbing his neck, hacking dryly. Sam went to Dave and bent over him. "You okay?"

Dave glared; his hair dripped toilet water and brown smears sullied his cheeks—one of the smears resembled a pe

"Dave," Sam said, "I'm sorry. He never comes into the bathroom, he—"

"I'm leaving," Dave interrupted. "I've had enough of your spook house." He shoved Jess aside and reached for the door.

"Dave, no!"

But he had already opened it.

Somewhere in the hall, the fishbowl rattled its egg-beaters. And suddenly knives darted into the room. Dave ducked and Sam dove into the tub, but Jess didn't react in time—he was too busy adjusting his glasses.

One of the blades stabbed into his arm. Two more sank into his belly. And the last one—the last one sliced open his neck and severed an artery. The blood, bright and red, sprayed the vanity mirror. Jess fell against the back wall.

Dave ran screaming and Casper didn't stop him. Sam heard his DVD dresser crash to the carpet, heard Dave run out the front door, screeching into the night.

Sam got out of the tub, his hands and knees shaking so badly he could barely stand. "Bro," he said, kneeling next to Jess. "Shit—hang in there, bro. I'm going to—shit, fuck—I'll get you an ambulance."

Jess stared at him, his eyes glazing, his body squirming less and less. He took Sam's hand, greasing it with blood, and pulled him closer. He opened his mouth as if to say something.

"What is it?" Sam said. "What?"

Jess started to speak but cleared his throat, choked up blood, swallowed, licked his lips, pulled Sam closer and closer and closer still, until Sam could smell iron in the blood, and with the whispery wisdom of those legendary last words, Jess said, "Twat." He exhaled and his head fell to one side.

"Jess," Sam said. "Jess!" He wanted to shake him, shout at him, rouse some life in him, but the eggbeater chor­tled and something pressed against Sam's throat: a steak knife.

He tensed and began to shudder and weep. "Please," he said, "I'll do whatever you want. Just—let me have one call. Just one. My friend"—my only friend—"he needs help."