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Sue had no classes that day, and the board meeting
didn't start until 4pm so she went home to catch up
on some reading and some sleep. She had no money and
her Metrocard for the subway and bus had no credit left,
so she flew. She returned home cold and tired to find
the door of her apartment open. From twenty feet away
she could see light spilling out into the hallway. She
blinked herself invisible and moved forward to investigate.
She found what she expected: Norman Baughton, her landlord.
She already suspected he went into the apartments when
the tenants were at work. One time she arrived home
and noticed that her underwear drawer was open just
half an inch. She was sure she hadn't left it like that.
She made a quick inventory and discovered a couple of
missing items. They might have gone astray at the laundromat,
Susan had to admit, but she doubted it. She felt fairly
sure she knew where they could be found, and she felt
certain, more certain than she had ever felt about anything
in her life, that she didn't want them back.
She knew for a fact that Baughton went into rooms to
borrow tape measures, pens and scraps of paper. He'd
done all of these things on the day they first met,
as he showed her around. Without a hint of embarrassment
he'd unlocked someone's door and borrowed a pocket calculator,
explaining that the tenant was a mathematician so he
was sure to have one. His sense of entitlement was staggering.
He pleaded poverty, and it was true that his only visible
assets were a faded pair of jeans and a faded Chevrolet.
Nevertheless, slowly but surely his tenants were buying
the building for him and he would retire a millionaire
thanks to the vulnerability of his customers and the
twin pleasures of compound interest and continually
rising property prices.
Right now he was in the process of transferring Susan's
few belongings into a brace of dirty cardboard boxes
that he'd ranged along one wall. He ripped sheets from
the bed and bundled them roughly into a box. He threw
her books on top.
Susan watched for a moment and formed a plan. Very
quietly she began to breathe aloud. Baughton threw a
pair of shoes into the box. Susan increased her volume
just a little with each breath. Baughton added a coffee
mug to the box and then suddenly stopped and looked
towards the door. Evidently puzzled he grunted, scanned
the room, and then resumed his work. Louder still, Susan
breathed again. This time when Baughton stopped he looked
straight at her. He walked to the door and checked the
hall. While he was gone, Susan took the shoes and the
mug from the box and returned them to their proper places.
It was clear that Baughton had heard something. He
came back into the room looking suspiciously around
him. He reached for the mug, threw it into the box,
scanned around for the next item to pack, and then froze.
He stared into the box and very slowly lifted his eyes
towards the shoes that sat on the floor next to the
bed. He swallowed.
Baughton's grubby bag lay next to the stove. Sue gave
another breath, easily loud enough for him to hear this
time. He turned slowly to her. Beads of sweat had begun
to form on his forehead. Susan reached down and, infinitely
slowly, she lifted his bag into the air. The man watched
as the bag floated upwards, one foot, two, three. Finally,
when it was level with her head, Susan stopped. The
bag hung in the air for five long seconds, swaying slightly,
and then fell. It hit the floor loudly. Baughton crumpled
to the floor a moment later, in a dead faint.
Susan waited quietly for him to recover. He opened
his eyes and sat up, still groggy. She reached towards
him carefully. She didn't want him to catch her. His
greasy hair was standing on end. She grabbed a single
hair and pulled sharply, plucking it from his scalp.
Baughton screamed and looked around in panic. "No.
Leave me alone."
He grabbed his bag and fled the apartment. Susan flew
silently after him, keeping a safe distance between
them. He got as far as the small parking lot and headed
for the sanctuary of his car. He was still twenty feet
away but he slowed his pace a little and tried to catch
his breath. Susan saw her opportunity. She darted ahead
of him, threw out a foot, and tripped him elegantly.
"Leave me alone, God dammit," he threatened.
He snatched his bag up again and noticed that his hands
were bleeding from the fall.
He reached into his pocket for his keys. Susan gave
a long loud breath, the kind of noise that phone perverts
are supposed to make. Baughton took another couple of
unsteady paces, and then noticed something that he really
should have spotted earlier. The car was no longer there.
A moment ago it had been there. He'd seen it. He knew
it was there. But now there was no sign of it.
He turned around, disoriented. When he looked towards
the car again, it stood exactly where it was supposed
to be. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Before
he could move again he heard another chilling breath
and the car vanished.
Baughton fainted for the second time and on this occasion
he lost control of his bladder.
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