Magic in the Moonlight

I looked around at the mound of documents and hoped (for the dozenth time today) that I could flee to the Bahamas. I grinned as I recalled my lunchtime phone talk with my closest buddy earlier in the day. I'd tell him if I went missing that afternoon to start searching on the white sand beaches of Nassau since I was sick to death of the audit at work and anxious about the full day of meetings I had booked for tomorrow. He'd laughed and reminded me that I had a week of vacation coming up as soon as the auditors left.

I would have told him I loved him if I had known that was the final time I would ever see him. Oh, not anymore, not for a long time. But Samuel Nash was the most influential person in my life. He'd been my boyfriend for several years. When that didn't work, what bothered us the most was the prospect of losing our close relationship. Samuel and I made a pact that no matter how tough or distressing the issue was, we would work through it together. He'd been my best buddy since then.

I began rummaging through the heaps of material on my coffee table, wishing I could just walk away from it all. I worked at a cement firm as an accountant and financial analyst. I'd been there for approximately six years, and it felt like the longer I stayed, the more bullshit I had to deal with. I'd been assigned to deal with a bunch of sales tax auditors who were making my life a living hell.

Sales tax auditors only came out once every three years, rather than once a year. I'd heard that some businesses never had to deal with them at all. That, I attribute to heresy and wild conjecture. I'd been handed a list of invoices that the auditors required copies of, and most of them were nearly three years old. All except two had been located. I collapsed on the couch and debated with myself after concluding that the missing bills were not lying in the stack I'd previously sorted twice.

I had a solid notion of where those bills may be kept, but it entailed returning to the office. I was largely prepared for tomorrow's meeting with the executives to finalize the budget specifics. Perhaps I could look for the bills in the morning?

No.

If I was correct, those bills were buried in the basement file room, and there was no way I was going to dig through that muck without looking like something the Swamp Thing vomited up on New Year's Eve. I groaned and dragged myself off the couch. I needed to change my clothing before poking about in the basement at work, which I dubbed the Basement of Horror. I returned to my room and changed into an old, tattered pair of pants that had seen better days. The t-shirt I was wearing had a stain on my left breast from spilling red sangria a few months before, so it'd suffice. I stuffed my feet into my old shoes, grabbed my keys, and walked out to my vehicle.

The apartment building was peaceful. It was a little community with largely senior residents, including me. I'm not that ancient, but I turned forty-three earlier this year, so I fit right in around here. On the top level of my three-story building, I had a spacious two-bedroom flat. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but it was constructed in the 1970s and the apartments were almost soundproof. My neighbors were kind enough, but we largely avoided each other.

My workplace was just a short distance away. I'd always thought it was strange to see a two-story office building amid a field. There were a few homes here and there, but it was mostly agricultural and desolate. The firm had elected to establish the headquarters out here rather than in town to be near the stone quarry and mixing plant that functioned as our operational hub. I didn't mind the surroundings during the day, but when the sun set, the empty environment increased the spook factor.

I parked adjacent to the administration building and carefully secured my vehicle before entering. My parents had taught me that it was better to be cautious than sorry, even if I came from a tiny town. It was strange how missing them would occasionally come as a surprise to me. My father died while I was in my early twenties, but my mother had only been gone a few months.

A new wave of anguish washed over me as I remembered her. I wished I'd picked up my baseball bat and taken it with me out here in the middle of nowhere, with the moon just starting to rise. It was a Christmas present from my mother a few years ago. When I first moved into my apartment, she was concerned that someone would break in and "do awful things" to me.

We'd all laughed as I opened it, but my mother had looked me in the eyes and said solemnly, "Elizabeth Anne Summers, I'd want you to swear to keep the bat next to your bed. I don't want some sheriff appearing on my doorway telling me you're gone because you couldn't defend yourself."

"Yes, Momma, I promise." Since then, I've kept the bat next to my bed.

The agony of loss faded as I opened the front door and entered the building. It seemed strangely silent when no one was present. As I walked up to my office on the second level, I flicked on every light switch I passed. I might have had the bills in my file cabinet. It was worth a look if I could avoid going to the Basement of Horror.

I realized my final hope of success was below in the subterranean file room after twenty minutes of futile searching. I took the key from the wall-mounted storage cabinet and went down to the first level. The basement door was left open, which was not uncommon. It was never shut down. The rear door of the office was slightly ajar, which was unusual. I grimaced as I examined it. When the cleaning woman departed, she must not have locked it. The locks were a pain in the arse, and I had frequent issues with them. Before heading down the basement steps, I tightened the door and double-checked the latch.