Last Call

Tara’s eyes narrow as she walks around the pool table. She rubs the tip of her cue stick with a cube of blue chalk, trying to find her shot—only two balls remaining. She looks at her friend Kristi, noting the tension in Kristi’s eyes, and grins. Crouching over the table, taking careful aim, Tara draws back her pool stick, holds her breath, closes her eyes, and slides her stick effortlessly through her fingers as easily as releasing a breath. There is a subtle clicking sound as the cue ball glances off the eight ball, sending it toward the side pocket—the eight ball brushes against one of the red-felted corners before disappearing. 

“Damn,” Kristi mutters. She thumps the butt of her stick twice on the concrete floor and pouts; her eyes narrow in defiance, bringing out the thin grooves along the side of her mouth.

“That’s game,” says Tara.

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone for that bank shot,” Kristi says. “It gets me every time.” She tosses the butt of her cigarette onto an unswept floor and crushes what’s left with the heel of her scuffed boot.  She then stuffs her hands into her pockets and lays down four dirty, crumpled twenties on the end of the pool table. She hesitates and places an old silver coin on top of the wadded cash.

“What’s that?” Tara asks.

“It’s an old silver dollar. I won it a few weeks ago, playing some woman in New Orleans. She said it’s worth a lot more than twenty dollars.”

“I don’t care how much it’s worth.” Tara places one hand on her hip and adds, “You owe me twenty more dollars, not some coin you claim to be worth a lot more.”

“But that’s all I have, T. Can’t you at least give me a break?”

The overhead lights flicker twice, signaling Last Call. Tara shakes her head, aware that she is being conned. She disassembles her cue stick with sudden twists and slides it into her wooden case. Her name is brightly embossed in pink cursive letters on the side, a birthday gift from her partner, Samantha.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink,” Kristi offers. “We can settle our differences at the bar.”

“I thought you didn’t have any more money?”

“I don’t, but Lance was kind enough to set me up with a tab.” She cocks her head at Lance and grins.

Tara shakes her head and sighs heavily through her nose. She pockets the eighty dollars, flips the coin before her jaded eyes, and catches it between splayed fingers. It feels heavy and appears old. She notices something peculiar engraved on one side, but the dim lights conceal it like a shameful secret. With reluctance in her heart and veins, Tara inserts the coin into the pocket of her jeans and follows Kristi, carrying her pool case close by her side; the sound of it thumping against her legs echoes with each step.

“What’s your poison, T?” Kristi asks, offering Lance a peace sign.

“Bourbon and water.”

“Whiskey girl. Huh, I always pegged you as someone who prefers vodka.”

Tara shrugs and remains quiet.

Lance places a small napkin and glass before Tara and pours, keeping the bottle’s neck a few inches from the mouth of the glass. He leans forward and eyes Tara; his eyes brim with lust as the whiskey fills the glass. Kristi notices and says, “She’s not into rods, Lance, and I don’t do clams. So, I guess we’re both screwed for tonight.” Kristi throws back her head and laughs hard. She looks at Lance and smiles, but there is no humor in her pale blue eyes. Seconds later, she lights another cigarette, inhales deeply, and jets a thin stream of blue smoke from the corner of her mouth. It eddies briefly and then disappears as if it were a mirage.

Glancing at Kristi, Tara mutters something unkind, not a fan of smoke or liars. She had grown tired of Kristi’s twisted sense of humor forty-five minutes ago. All she wants is to finish her drink, head home, shower, and be with her partner. She had told Samantha that she’d be home by twelve, twelve-thirty at the latest. It is a quarter until one.

The two-game match had gone into overtime, resulting in a tiebreaker. If Tara hadn’t scratched on the second game, she would have already been home, snuggled up in the comfort of Samantha’s willing arms.

Tara downs the rest of her drink and eyes Kristi evenly. “So, how are we going to settle this?”

“As I said, T, that coin’s worth some serious dough. Trust me.”

“Why don’t you keep it and owe me? We can play double or nothing next time.”

Kristi’s eyes drop to the bar’s edge, and then glances at Lance. He shrugs, turns, and begins counting the ones from his till. “I guess I should be straight with you, T. Truth is, I don’t want it.”

“No?”

“No,” Kristi repeats.

“Why?”

“Because it’s supposedly cursed.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I played a strange woman in New Orleans ’bout two months ago. The short of it was … I won. She claimed I cheated and paid me with that coin.”

“And you accepted it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because money is money, and you know me, I was down on my luck.” She looks at Tara with an odd expression and adds: “Besides, I don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo crap—it’s used to scare the tourists.” She pauses and takes another drag, this one deeper, and creates a smoke ring. It hovers before her like an ominous omen and then breaks apart. She then takes a brief sip, meets Tara’s eyes, and explains what happened by justifying her actions. “I figured she was mad at me because she lost the match. But I didn’t cheat, honest, T. I really didn’t … she was simply a poor loser.” Kristi glances over at one of the pool tables as if recalling the match and imagines seeing the plastered look of disdain etched across the old woman’s face, accusing her of being a cheat.

Lance clears his throat; the sound disrupts Kristi’s uneasy thoughts. Turning, Kristi blinks and says, “And I remember something the old woman said that sounded strange.” Kristi makes a harsh noise in the back of her throat that sounds like a trapped lump of fear; her eyes reach Tara’s impassive face, and for a moment, it looks like Kristi has swallowed something unpleasant. But after studying Kristi acutely, Tara recognizes that expression, the look of someone about to say something bizarre. “She told me les gens de l’ombre will follow me home and take someone I love,” Kristi whispers.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I believe it means Shadow People or something like that ... I’m not exactly sure. I had to Google it, but I might have gotten the translation wrong. You know how Google sometimes fucks up shit?”

“Shadow People?” Tara repeats faintly, unsure if this is Kristi’s way of playing some sick mind game.

“Yeah. She threatened me, going all stupid and crap,” Kristi elaborates, throwing up one hand. “Afterward, she started raving like a lunatic and flung her arms in the air, saying, ‘I’m gonna lose someone close to me.’ ” Seconds later, Kristi reveals a vast grin. She snorts with laughter and pounds one hand on the bar. Lance hesitates from counting the fives and turns to Kristi, shaking his head, his eyes showing that she’s nuts. “But what the bitch didn’t know is I don’t have anyone I love—and I don’t fall for superstitious crap, especially from the likes of her. You should have seen her get up, T. It was something out of a cheap horror movie. With all that spikey hair and makeup, she could have been a Halloween decoration.”

Tara removes the coin from her pocket and slides it next to Kristi’s elbow. “Here, you take it.”

“No, I won’t,” Kristi says flatly. She finishes her drink, flips her glass upside down, bringing it hard onto the surface, and stubs her cigarette into a dingy ashtray. The noise startles Lance. He brings over the bottle, but Kristi waves him away with a quick flip of her wrist. She turns back to Tara, eyeing her gravely. “Now listen, T. Don’t go squirrely on me like that crazy New Orleans bitch.” She falters for a moment and licks her lips. “I told you, she was pissed because she lost the match. I’ve had that coin for over a month, and nothing bad has ever happened. Hell, in Georgia, it brought me a spot of good luck. I scored over four hundred bucks in one night. Can you believe it? Four hundred fucking dollars.” She holds Tara’s eyes for a moment before dropping them. “Fair is fair, T. You won, so now it’s yours.” She slides the coin to Tara and pauses to stare at a tiny callus on the side of her index finger, a side effect from shooting pool nearly every day for over a decade. “Hell, if you don’t want it, take it to a pawn shop,” Kristi offers. “I’m sure you’ll at least double or triple what I owe you.”

Thinking about the pawnshop two blocks from her apartment, Tara sighs and drops the coin into her pocket. It appears to hum, creating an odd sensation, and then it suddenly stops, almost as if it were making a call and decided to hang up. “Fine,” Tara says crossly. “But if the dealer gives me a tough time, you owe me. Are we clear?”

  “Yeah-yeah. But they won’t. As I said, it’s worth plenty of dough.”

“It had better be.”

Kristi nods, looks at Tara momentarily, and drops her eyes. “See you next Friday?”

“Count on it.” Tara seizes her wooden case, hops off the stool, and leaves in a huff.

Heading to her car with a mind full of questions, Kristi’s words follow Tara like an unpleasant smell. She peers into the moonless night and shudders; it’s cold and breezy. Tara’s black hair dances across her pale face as she glances at her watch. “Damn,” she mutters.

---

It is one forty-two in the morning when Tara pulls into a parking slot reserved for her car. She turns off the engine, eyes shut, head beginning to ache, racing mind thinking about what Kristi had said. It’s probably nothing. There is no curse. Take it to a pawnbroker tomorrow and see what you can get. She exits her car and climbs the stairs, her wooden case thumping against her right thigh with each step.

Their apartment is on the third floor; it offers them a gorgeous view of downtown Tampa. Initially, Tara had opted for a downstairs apartment, but after Samantha had brought her up for a spectacular view and some time to embrace, Tara conceded. It was as if Samantha had some power over Tara’s mind, something Tara despised. But for some reason, when she’s with Samantha, she doesn’t care. In a way, Samantha is someone Tara has been searching for since she left home at seventeen. It had taken her over ten years to meet Samantha, but in her mind, the wait was well worth it. Now, she feels completely and utterly happy. Having someone she loves waiting for her when she walks into her apartment is pleasant.

Tara opens the door and notices all the lights are off. She curses under her breath, sensing her partner is asleep. Samantha likes to be up by seven to start her Saturday morning. Typically, Samantha frequents farmer’s markets; she’s a salad junkie. Before meeting Samantha, Tara ate cheeseburgers smothered in bacon and onions, and fries covered in cheese sauce. She was about twenty-five pounds overweight. Now she weighs 135, which is pretty good for someone half an inch shy of six feet.

She saunters past their bedroom and enters the kitchen, walking softly like a cat entering an unfamiliar room. She stops for a second and brings the tips of her hair to her nose. The smell of stale cigarettes greets her like an insult. She presses her lips and creates a look of disgust. She doesn’t want to crawl into bed smelling like a used ashtray. Instead, she turns and tiptoes into the bathroom. She hears something and turns around; it’s Samantha. She grins as Samantha brings the covers to her neck—something she never grows tired of seeing.

Leaning into the shower, Tara turns the cut glass knob to the left. Warm water cascades from the showerhead in a gentle stream. She strips out of her clothes and opens the bathroom door. Samantha’s light snores are easily heard but are quickly silenced when Tara enters the shower. The shower feels soothing and long overdue. And best of all, the tension in her head is lifting like the morning fog. She lathers up, fingers digging into the mesh pouf, enjoying the jasmine-scented soft soap. It was a gift Samantha had bought her last weekend at a quaint store that sold organic soaps, shampoos, and raw honey.

Once she finishes rinsing off her long legs, she slides the glass door open and reaches for a towel, but there isn’t one on the shower rod. Faintly, she hears a voice coming from the bedroom.

“You need a towel, hon?”

Apparently, Samantha wasn’t asleep, or maybe I woke her, Tara thinks. She holds her arm out stiffly, the cold air caressing her skin like a lover’s embrace. “Yeah, Sam, thanks.”

“No problem.”

The mist whirlpools about the bathroom, making everything around her unclear. Tara exits the shower stall and senses the towel touching her hands. “It was starting to get cold in there.”

“I bet,” says Samantha serenely. “How’d you like the new soap?”

“Fantastic.” Tara brings the towel to her nose. “It has a light, floral scent. I love it.”

“Good to know.”

Tara wipes off her back and arms, runs the towel across her face, flips her hair back, and freezes—her eyes wide, her mouth a sagging O of fear. What is standing before her is not Samantha; it’s a shadowy figure. Its hair hangs limply in front of its face, obscuring its features, but Tara can detect a familiar shape through the hazy figure. It looks like Samantha. Tara squints and sees Samantha flopped over the bed. Her throat is slit open from ear to ear, blood running toward the floor in fresh torrents.

“Do you need anything else?” the shadowy thing asks, mimicking Samantha’s voice. Tara remains frozen, unable to talk; the towel drops by her feet. Her eyes are fixed on the creature’s sharp talons, dripping with blood. At that moment, Tara realizes Kristi’s recount of Shadow People on Google is correct, and the curse is true. A cold shiver passes through Tara like an ill breeze as the shadowy thing advances.