Leap of Faith

Flo and John Stanton

It was hard to believe the monster he was running against was Maureen. The Maureen that Tyler Zweig knew and—let’s admit it, still loved—would never bribe voters with swag and parties and outright cash. She wouldn’t dream of strong-arming his supporters and blackmailing his closest advisers. She couldn’t possibly make such ridiculous promises or spread so many outrageous lies.

Tyler shook his head. All her machinations backfired. Maureen’s numbers plummeted while his skyrocketed.

But Maureen Gibbons had never lost a contest, not since winning her first pageant at age two, and she wasn’t about to lose this one. She surrounded herself with the medals, ribbons, awards, and certificates of past victories. Tyler had to admit he kept all his merit badges and soccer trophies.

 

Three days before the election, Tyler stepped into the living room of the abandoned house, eyes and ears alert. Strange rustling sounds came from back rooms shrouded in shadow, and he never quite saw what moved out of the corner of his eye. Legend held that a child-eating witch lived there decades before, and kids of every succeeding generation dared one another to breach its walls. Maureen was always the first one in, leading the way through the sad and empty rooms.

He walked through to the kitchen, remembering games of hide-and-seek amid the sagging ceilings and storm-stained walls. Maureen always won. Was that why she wanted to meet there? To relive those glory days? Or to recapture something they once had? They were more than classmates, better than friends. “Such a cute couple,” people said when they saw them strolling down the street hand-in-hand, the blonde beauty queen contrasting prettily with the dark soccer star. All that ended with the election.

He started at a rasp from above. Tyler cautiously sidestepped broken bottles and moldering soft spots to the foot of the stairs. He knew she was in the back bedroom, the one with the big hole in the floor.

They used to play a game around the jagged rent, one they made up just for themselves. Starting next to each other and going in opposite directions, they would creep around the opening as close as they could to the serrated edge. When they met, one stepped off on solid floor and let the other pass. Where the hole widened by the far wall the one who needed the leap of faith took the jump first, then the ritual resumed. They invented it the day Tyler’s baby sister died. The last time they played was the night Maureen’s father walked out. It was a silly game, for neglected children.

He crept up the broken stairs and down the hall, listening for sounds of movement or her voice. But he knew where she was.

When he got to the bedroom door, Maureen stepped out from the shadows and took his hand. It was hot and clammy in her cool one. He gasped as she drew him into the room. She was still the golden girl, still made his heart race. Locks of flaxen hair framed her heart-shaped face and she smelled of honeysuckle.

“Remember?” she said, her eyes shining, enticing him to play the old game. The hole loomed behind her, bigger than Tyler remembered. The gap between them had widened with age and decay.

She stepped lightly to the hole and placed her tiny feet close to the edge. He took his position beside her. She gave a nod and he started inching along the rim, counterclockwise. She would go the opposite way.

They made their way slowly around. When Maureen reached the big gap before he did and jumped over, Tyler was stunned. Their covenant dictated that he leap first. He was the one who needed to trust her. Then he jumped and left her on the other side.

On the second loop, Tyler stepped gallantly aside and let Maureen go around him. She passed too close and bumped his shoulder. He started falling into empty space but regained his balance and made safe purchase again. She flashed him her pageant-winning smile. He felt safer. This was the old Maureen. Then she jumped the breach ahead of him again.

On the next circuit, they reached the gap at the same time. A cold look told him Maureen was going first once more. He stepped to the side, still close to the rim, ready to grab her if she needed help. She leaped across, nailing the landing squarely. As she stepped forward, he slid into position and prepared to spring. Something was wrong. She should have been standing next to him.

Tyler shot a look over his shoulder. Maureen was standing directly behind him, hands outstretched over his shoulder blades.

He straightened and pivoted to face her. She slowly dropped her arms to her sides. Their eyes locked for a moment. As he stepped to his right, she moved forward and turned around until they faced the same direction. They stared at the floor.

Slowly she turned her head up to look at him and forced a thin smile. Somehow the weak smile was more terrifying than the cold look on her face seconds before.

Maureen fell backwards, crossing her arms over her chest. Tyler lunged for her but caught only empty air. He watched her descend in slow motion.

With a sick feeling, he peered over the edge.

His old love lay sprawled amid the rubble below, a section of rebar obtruding from her chest. Maureen had found several nice pieces and wedged them into the pile of debris directly under the hole in the ceiling. He was bound to hit one of them.

Funeral services for Maureen Gibbons forced the postponement of the Presidential election in Miss Holland’s third-grade class by a week. The win was recorded as unopposed in the archives of Shady Creek Elementary. To Tyler Zweig, victory tasted of stale air, of rust, of copper. He did not finish his term in office.

 

 

John and Flo Stanton are writers/photographic artists who live in Indianapolis, Indiana. Together they stalk abandoned warehouses, factories, graveyards, and other sites amidst the haunted Midwest, where they find inspiration for their bizarre photographic, audio, and literary creations. Their work has appeared in a variety of publications, including The Indianapolis Star, True Police, Not One of Us, Mt. Zion Speculative Fiction Review, Black Petals, Static Movement, etc. One of Flo’s short stories is in Traps, a new anthology from Darkhart Press. You can find more of their work at their website, www.3AMblue.com.