THE LAST GASP
Marianna Heusler

[21 may 2002—proofed for #bookz]

She was awakened by a dull thud.
At first Joan thought it was merely part of a dream, a fragment of a nightmare; yet, in the pitch black darkness, terror gripped her, as she bordered on the edge of wakefulness and deep sleep.
But no--there it was again. Joan Morris knew the house; she had lived in it for over sixty years. She recognized every sound, every creak.
She had never before heard this particular noise.
Perhaps it was Mrs. O'Leary, the tenant who lived upstairs. Maybe she had fallen and needed help. The green glow of the digital clock read 2:13AM. The thought of climbing out of her warm, cozy bed and navigating to the second floor was not an appealing one.
Besides, it really wasn't up to her to look after Mrs. O'Leary.
When Mr. O'Leary came to examine the second floor apartment in the two family house for his mother, Joan almost handed him the lease on the spot. The previous tenants were ghastly; four noisy teenagers--with a multitude of friends, blasting music at all hours, driving cars in and out of her driveway, tossing beer bottles in the hall. And they didn't even pay the rent. It took Joan ten weeks to evict them.
Months dragged on before she could find a suitable tenant. The entire block was pressuring Joan to sell her house to builders, who planned on zoning the strip for fast food restaurants. Joan couldn't deny that the once wealthy neighborhood had sadly deteriorated. Break-ins were frequent. Joan's daughter also wanted her mother to sell the house and to buy one of those fancy condos for the elderly. If Joan couldn't find someone to rent the upper floor, she would be forced financially to abandon her family home.
Mrs. O'Leary, a quiet, older lady, seemed to be the answer to Joan's prayers. But when her son signed the lease, he didn't tell Joan that his mother was dependent on oxygen tanks. Nor did he mention that she was agoraphobic. Joan's daughter was not comforted at all by the presence of the new tenant. She would have preferred that Joan get a German Shephard.
Mrs. O'Leary's son assured Joan that the two elderly ladies could care for one another--Mrs. O'Leary with her emphysema, Joan with her heart condition. Although how much aid Joan could expect from someone too frightened to leave the house was dubious.
There it was again--that thump. In horror, Joan finally identified the sound: a window--opening in the outside hall. Thank God that her inner door was locked. She could only hope that Mrs. O'Leary had the good sense to do the same with her own entrance.
The wisest thing to do, Joan reasoned, would be to escape from the back door and to run to the nearest neighbor (which would be difficult, since Joan could hardly call the people living in the tenement next door--neighbors). But surely they would call the police for her.
She could always get in the car and drive away. But it had been years since she had driven at night.
One thing was for certain. Joan had to--do--something, and it was best that she leave the house immediately. She rose quickly and decided against putting on the lights, alerting the burglar that she had woken. He might be frightened enough to flee--or to kill her.
Instead, she lit the small fragrant candle that she kept by her bedside and grabbed the bottle of pills off her night stand. In the dim light, she found her way into the kitchen and out the first set of doors. Her hand searched the top of the backdoor frame for the key to the outside door, which was secured by a deadbolt.
The key wasn't there. But it has to be, Joan thought frantically--it's always here! The key must have fallen, she reasoned. She placed the flickering candle on the floor and kneeling, inspected every inch of the ripped, uneven linoleum.
Nothing. Had Mrs. O'Leary taken it and forgotten to return it to its usual place? But that didn't make sense because Mrs. O'Leary never ventured out.
Joan's face flushed with the sudden exertion; perspiration ran down in rivulets from her neck into her nightgown. She felt dizzy, sick. She reached into her pocket and took out a tiny white pill: Isosorbide Dinitrate. So much better than the Nadolol, she was glad the doctor had finally changed her prescription.
In minutes Joan felt a surge of energy. She could definitely move on--but where?
Her heart leapt in terror, as she heard the intruder's footsteps in her kitchen. He had obviously found a way into her apartment. Joan couldn't possibly return there. The only place to go, then, was up the winding staircase into Mrs. O'Leary's home. Joan would bang on the door and hope that Mrs. O'Leary would answer.
Once Joan reached the top of the staircase, she discovered that Mrs. O'Leary's door was slightly ajar. Had the intruder been there first and had somehow harmed the old lady? Joan had no choice; she had to go in. At the very least, she could make her way through the house and exit down the front staircase.
Joan hadn't been in the apartment since Mrs. O'Leary moved in. So, although Joan was familiar with the layout, she wasn't sure of the placement of the furniture. With the candle growing dimmer by the minute, Joan was terrified that she would bump into something.
"Mrs. O'Leary?" Her own voice echoed in the darkness of the kitchen, as she locked the door securely behind her.
"Mrs. O'Leary, I need to use your phone." So as not to alarm her elderly tenant (who was probably in a deep sleep), Joan added, "Mine isn't working."
Joan maneuvered her way into the dining room and then decided to turn on the light. She ran her hand up and down the wall, looking for the switch, all the while calling for Mrs. O'Leary in a strained, anxious voice.
Someone was breathing in front of her--gasps in erratic spasms. Maybe poor Mrs. O'Leary was without her oxygen tank, maybe she had misplaced it, or maybe someone had taken it from her--and left her alone to die in the darkness.
"Don't worry, Mrs. O'Leary, I'm coming," Joan said as she flicked on the light and then blinked, blinded by the scene before her.
She was alone in the dining room. What Joan found particularly odd was the absence of furniture. The room was barren--not a chair, a table, a rug, or a picture on the wall. Only the paint cans and a half container of opened turpentine lay on the floor. Mrs. Leary had never bothered to remove the ladder or the drop cloth.
From where she was standing, Joan caught a glimpse of the empty living room. What's going on, she thought, had Mrs. O'Leary moved out without telling her?
A sliver of fear ran through Joan as a alarming thought occurred to her.
Had Mrs. O'Leary never moved in?
No, that's ridiculous; Joan thought, she's been paying rent for three months. But Joan had actually seen Mrs. O'Leary only once, on the first day of the lease, when she mounted the stairs, with her oxygen tank in tow.
"Joan."
A whisper--chilling in the dark. Someone was close by. Someone who knew her.
Joan stood frozen, too horrifed to move. When her name was repeated in that ghostly voice, she spun around and, in the dim light, saw Mrs. O'Leary. Or was it Mrs. O'Leary--it was difficult to tell. For a moment the figure looked like her son.
"Joan--"
Joan's heart beat faster, as she tried frantically to come up with an explanation. What was happening?
A man with a white wig stood there in the dark, holding an oxygen tank, sneering at her. Joan heard strange little noises coming from her own mouth. She put her hand over her heart to stop the pounding. If she hadn't taken her pill before climbing the stairs, she would have been dead of fright.
"Looking for these?" The man who claimed to have been Mrs. O'Leary's son held out Joan's bottle of Nidolol. "I borrowed this from your medicine cabinet. Too bad the pills are all gone."
He dropped the oxygen tank on the floor. It landed with a soft thud. "Empty," he shook his head. "No help for you there either."
"Why?" Joan whispered.
"Did you think for one moment that we were going to let a little old lady like you hold up a million dollar deal? All the owners of the houses on the block were willing to sell. All except you. Big mistake, Joan. Big mistake."
Joan's mind was working fast. Maybe she could pretend to have a heart attack, but she doubted that she could ever pull it off.
She was trembling so violently that she suddenly lost her grip on the candle. It dropped quietly into the bottle of turpentine. In a matter of seconds flames soared to the ceiling.
Joan turned and fled, running down the stairs, two at a time, into her apartment. Surely now there would be no problem fleeing out the front door.
Joan heard an agonizing cry, as she reached the safety of her own home.
She couldn't help but think that if Mr. O'Leary had only bothered to put oxgyen in the tank, it might have saved his life.