Sean Paul Murphy, Writer

Sean Paul Murphy, Writer
Sean Paul Murphy, Storyteller

Tuesday, February 5, 2019

CHAPEL STREET - Chapter 11 - Suspended


Here's another sample chapter of my upcoming book Chapel Street.  Keep checking back for more!


Chapter 11

Suspended


Monday.
The alarm clock buzzed at seven o’clock as usual. I didn’t hit the snooze. Instead, I slowly inched my head up and looked around my bedroom. Under the bright morning sunlight pouring in through my windows, the events of the previous night seemed utterly implausible.
Maybe I dreamt it all. A wave of relief swept through my mind and body with that thought, but I quickly pushed it aside. No. Lenny, or whoever he was, was right. Even if everything I had experienced was only a dream, it was a dangerous dream that hinted at mental illness. And I knew I wasn’t mentally ill. I was completely sane; only my circumstances were insane. For some reason, a dead woman wanted to kill me—or more precisely, she wanted me to kill myself. I had to keep my guard up regardless of how implausible the situation seemed.
I headed to work, which proved reassuringly ordinary. I found my job repetitive and boring, but today, I reveled in its normalcy. The smiles and nods from my co-workers as I walked toward my desk were so soothing, as was the constant ringing of the telephones. This was heaven compared to what I experienced over the weekend. My first goal that morning was to log onto Resting Place and delete the Kostek memorial, but instead, I allowed myself to be lulled into complacency by the warm camaraderie of the office.
I got a call from Bob Burgess, one of my oldest friends. He wanted to set up a lunch with Mike Phelan, another one of our old schoolmates, and me. Mike recommended the Cheesecake Factory in Harborplace, Baltimore’s touristy waterfront Inner Harbor marketplace, which was near his office in the World Trade Center. Bob, a buyer for a supermarket chain, said he’d pick me up on his way downtown. That was great. I wouldn’t even have to pay for parking. The call kept the battle out of my mind completely until I got a text message from Teri. Your Kostek memorial is getting some hate.
I cringed. I never wanted her to see that memorial.
I didn’t respond immediately. I needed to see what she was talking about. I went to the website, but the landing page looked different. I had been logged out. I quickly typed in my username and password and hit return. A pop up window appeared saying my account had been suspended for a Terms of Service violation.
WTF?
I couldn’t believe it. I went to my personal email account and found a message from Resting Place. The form email said my account was suspended pending a Terms of Service investigation resulting from complaints concerning the Kostek memorial. I turned back to the Resting Place website. You didn’t need an account to access the database. I typed Elisabetta Kostek’s name in the search engine, and her memorial appeared. I was shocked by the response it was receiving.
Resting Place lets users leave digital “flowers” on memorials, usually accompanied by messages of condolence. Flowers flooded the memorials of famous individuals. The memorials of veterans, particularly those killed in action, were sought out and honored. The memorials for police officers and fire fighters were equally recognized. Generally, however, the vast majority of online memorials received no such recognition. That’s why I was shocked by what I saw on the Kostek memorial. In less than two full days, she had received fourteen flowers, which was more than any of my other memorials.
Even more surprising than the number of flowers were the accompanying messages. They were all negative. People called the memorial “an abomination” and pleaded with me to “take her down” because “she’s evil.”  I was dumbfounded. I had never seen negative comments about a deceased person on the website before. They were a violation of the Terms of Service. Resting Place didn’t allow people to speak ill of the dead, but the messages soothed me on one level. They proved that I wasn’t alone. The photograph of Elisabetta Kostek adversely affected everyone who saw it.
I picked up my phone. I decided to call rather than text Teri. She didn’t pick up. I got her answering machine instead. I left a quick message: “Hey, this is Rick. Thanks for the heads-up, Teri. I think I’m just going to delete the memorial. Call me later. Bye.”
Now, more than ever, I knew I had to delete the Kostek memorial. I went back and looked at the Resting Place email. It had been sent at 10:23pm EST. That meant if I had deleted her memorial as soon as I got to work, my account would have never been suspended. But I got distracted. She had beaten me again.
“I’m playing checkers, and you’re playing chess,” I said softly with disgust.
This was nuts. Over the course of a single weekend, I had gone from being a perfectly happy rationalist to not only believing in ghosts but even believing that a ghost could manipulate a website in order to stop me from deleting her memorial. Come on. Even if you acknowledged the possibility of her ghostly existence, why the hell would she even care about some stupid website?  The flowers at her grave showed she was already getting more than her share of attention at the cemetery.
My cellphone rang. It was Teri. As I answered, I stepped away from the prying ears around my desk.
“Hi Teri, it’s me,” I said, wincing at both my informality and the functionality of my words. We weren’t dating, but I still wished I could have come up with something wittier or more sophisticated.
“Sorry I couldn’t answer when you called, but I was giving an exam,” she replied.
“In June?” I asked.
“We’re making up for some snow days. We have the girls imprisoned until Thursday,” she answered before continuing. “Did you delete that memorial?”
“No, I couldn’t. My account has been suspended.”
“Why?”
“Because of complaints about the Kostek memorial.”
 “No offense, but I can see why.” She paused for a long time. “There’s something wrong with it. Really wrong with it.”
“I know. I want to delete it, but I can’t. It’s like something always stops me.”  I hated hearing those words come out of my mouth. I was venturing a little too close to the border of Crazy Land.
Silence.
“I had the worst nightmare last night,” she said finally.
“Did you dream about someone who died?” I asked. I had no idea why. I wasn’t normally an intrusive person, but the words just tumbled out of my mouth on their own volition.
“Yeah, my uncle Hank,” she replied quietly.
“Did he kill himself?” I asked again, cringing at my lack of discretion.
“Yes,” she said after some hesitation. “Why did you ask?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’ve been having these really vivid dreams about my brother Lenny since I first saw that picture. He killed himself, too.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m sorry about your uncle.”
Silence. Then she added, “Hey, I’ve got to go, but we’ve got to talk again later. Okay?”
“Okay,” I replied.
I hung up and looked at the clock. It was almost time to meet Bob on the street outside my building. Good. I needed some fresh air.

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