A Birthday Wish

Ashley looked beautiful for a girl who'd been dead eighteen months. She smiled brightly at Roger, her face radiant with useless optimism. Her gray-blue eyes held that characteristic sparkle that lovers' gazes are supposed to reflect. Her whole face was clear, smooth and lovely, its features unmarred by a single blemish. Her ears peeked out from the folds of her wavy, velvet hair. She was wearing large, looped earrings. Silver earrings. The earrings Roger had bought her. "I love you, Roger," he heard her say.

But Ashley was no longer pretty. The last time anyone had seen her face it was mutilated, barely recognizable, probably full of cuts and gashes. Roger imagined her fair, white teeth split and broken, her comely features mangled and bloody.

Roger shuddered. He closed his eyes tightly and drew a slow, deep breath, trying to shut out the pain that was flooding into him. It had been eighteen months. Eighteen months was a long time. He had tried to forgive himself for what happened. He had tried to stop dwelling in the past, and get on with his life. He couldn't.

The ringing of the telephone rudely summoned him back to the real world. Roger stood up and walked into the kitchen to answer it, leaving the photo album open on his desk.

"Hello?" he said.

"What's up, dude?" exclaimed a familiar voice.

"Hey, Roy!"

Roy and Roger had been best friends since fifth grade. In the fourteen years that they'd known each other, people had unmercifully bombarded them with roast beef jokes. 

"So, how's the new job?" Roy asked.

"Oh, it's there," Roger replied.

"It can't be that bad," his friend said.

"It's all right, if you don't mind listening to people bitch all day because their new VCR or Compact Disk Player doesn't work. But I guess that's what Customer Service is all about."

There was a lapse in the conversation.

"So, are we on for tomorrow night?" Roy said, changing the subject.

"Yeah, sure. I guess so," Roger said. "Say, who's gonna be there anyway, Roy?"

"Craig, Becky, probably Mike."

Roger liked Roy's cousin Craig, and Craig's fiancee was nice enough, too. Mike, on the other hand, was one weird dude. While Roger didn't actually dislike the guy, he didn't really like him, either. He didn't know anyone besides Roy who did. But Mike was basically harmless, and Roger supposed he could humor his best friend for one night.

"I'll pick you up at six, then," Roy told him.

"Six o'clock."

"Yeah. We should still be able to make happy hour. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, Roy, it's fine."

"Okay, see you tomorrow."

"So long," Roger said.

Roger hung up. April 1st! What a day for a birthday! He'd have to keep on his toes the whole night with Roy there.

Roger was alone that night. He sat back in his old leather recliner, his legs stretched out on the footstool in front of him. A can of beer was cupped lazily in his right hand. He was barely watching whatever program was on TV.

Roger was often alone Friday evenings, by choice. Roy was always trying to talk him into going somewhere, doing something, and last week Roger had actually broken down and gone to a topless bar with his friend. "Watermelons, Roger, we're talkin' watermelons!" Yeah, right. Watermelons. Roger wasn't impressed with the place and hadn't expected to be. The next time Roy wanted to go to the Shangri La II, he could go there himself.

Roy meant well, though. He was Roger's best friend. He was practically Roger's only friend. But Roger supposed that that was nobody's fault but his own. He tried to be sociable, but it seemed that his get-up-and-go had got up and left. He'd go out tomorrow; he had to on his birthday. He used to spend his birthdays with Ashley. Sometimes they'd go to a cafe, or a discotheque, or play miniature golf -it didn't matter what they did, as long as they were together. They'd spent a lot of time together in three and a half years. But that was all over. 

Roger downed the last of his beer. Crushing the can, he tossed it toward the waste can next to his desk. A perfect miss. Roger cursed. Heaving himself out of the recliner with a groan, Roger walked over to the desk, picked up the Budweiser can and neatly dropped it into its place. It clanged loudly upon striking the steel bottom, as if protesting being used and discarded.

Roger looked down at the desk. Ashley was still there where he'd left her that afternoon, smiling up at him from her glossy, two-dimensional world.

"You waited for me, huh?" Roger said.

But her smile was somewhat subdued now -not as bright, not as radiant. Roger was sure of it. And there was a definite trace of sorrow in her eyes. Gently picking up the photo album with both hands, he carried it over to the recliner and sat down again. He turned to the beginning and began leafing through the pages slowly, lovingly, thoroughly digesting each photograph. Roger and Ashley. Wildwood, New Jersey. July, 1984. He was holding her in his arms, as if he were about to carry her over the threshold. She was wearing her pink bikini. She had taken out her earrings. She always took them out when she went swimming. She was laughing, laughing so happily. Why the hell was she always so happy? Roger thought bitterly. Busch Gardens. April, 1985. A candid shot. Chocolate fudge smeared all over her face. Say "cheese." Oh, no, Roger! Not now! Bentham Memorial Park. October, 1985. A sexy pose. Stretched out on the bench, propped up on her elbow, her head resting on her hand. A tiny, mischievous smirk on her face.

Three sharp knocks sounded on the front door. Roger looked up abruptly.

"Who is it?" he called sharply.

Receiving no answer, he repeated the question. 

"It-it's me, Roger," a female voice responded. 


Setting the photo album on the floor, Roger went to the door and somewhat nervously undid the lock.

A young woman stood before him, about the same age as Roger. She wore a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a pair of tight blue jeans. Her face was clean, fresh and attractive. She smiled at Roger.

"Hi!" she said cheerfully.

"Oh, hi, Tricia," Roger said. He stepped aside. "Come on in."

"Thanks," she said, accepting.

Tricia lived on the fifth floor of Roger's building, two floors above him. She had moved in about two months ago. Roger chatted with her occasionally in the laundry room downstairs, and even went up to her apartment once to help her move some furniture. She was obviously quite fond of him, though Roger wasn't sure why.

"So, Tricia," Roger began. "What are you doing home on a Friday night?"

"I could ask you the same question," she replied coyly.

"Well, I-I just didn't feel good."

"Awww, poor baby."

"Uh, you wanna sit down?" He motioned toward a small sofa against the wall. 

"Okay," she said, trying to sound seductive. Taking a seat, she crossed her legs elegantly and folded her hands on her knees. "Actually," she confessed. "I was supposed to go out with my girlfriend and her fiance tonight, but they never called me. So I'm stuck here. I thought I'd pay you a visit if you were home."

"Well- that was nice of you," Roger stammered. 

"What're you watching?" she asked, glancing at the television.

"Oh, nothing," Roger said. "There's nothing good on tonight. Would you like a beer or something?"

"Okay," she said.

Roger brought two beers from the kitchen, one of which he gave to Tricia. Reluctantly he sat down next to her and tried his best to politely converse.

An hour passed, and Roger wished he'd never answered the door. He had trouble keeping up his end of the conversation; he didn't know what to say to this girl who had the hots for him. Tricia was persistent, but finally saw that Roger was unresponsive.

"Well, Roger, I'd better get going," she announced. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks," he said. He saw Tricia to the door. "Goodnight, Tricia."

"Goodnight, Roger," she said. "Come up and see me sometime."

"Okay," Roger said.

Roger closed the door. He sighed. There was nothing wrong with Tricia. She was a nice girl, a pretty girl. But she wasn't his type. She wasn't- Roger banished the thought.

Roger stood barefoot by the side of a highway, his hands tucked into his jean pockets. It was late, very late, and dark. There were no cars on the highway. No cars save one -a small red sports car speeding by in slow motion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red blur zip past him across the darkness of the empty road, like a streak of blood on a blackboard.Then he turned and looked directly at the car, and saw it creeping slowly down the highway, its wheels spinning furiously. The dull roar of the engine sounded far away. Then it was the highway that was moving -the cold steel guardrail zooming by into the silent night. But Roger was not moving, and the car continued to roll forward until it was directly across from him. It stopped, as if floating ethereally on the blackness underneath it, the motor still revving, the tires still spinning.

The window rolled down. Roger couldn't see who was behind the wheel, but he crossed the highway without trepidation and stood by the door.

A face leaned out the window. A beautiful face. And Roger was not afraid.

I love you, Roger, the words echoed.

A hand waved in farewell. The face disappeared. And the car rolled forward once again. 

A terrible panic seized Roger. "No!" he cried. "Stop!"

But no sound came out his mouth. Up ahead Roger saw a huge wall of flame, bright orange, leaping a hundred feet into the air. It crackled wickedly. 

"Nooooo!" he wailed. "Please don't!"

But the car continued on. It passed into the fire, never faltering in its steady, determined drive. It disappeared into the conflagration, flames licking hungrily at its doors and windows.

Roger sat up with a sharp yell. His covers were drenched with sweat. He was shaking all over.

"My fault," he said aloud. "I never should've let her go out."

He looked around his room. It was dark, quiet and peaceful. He took several deep breaths, lay back down, and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

Roger was ready at six o'clock on Saturday. He slipped on his black loafers, brushed himself off for good measure, and stood up in front of his bedroom mirror.

He had on his light blue slacks, neatly held up by a pair of new suspenders. His red and white striped silk shirt was buttoned to the top. A white leather tie hung smartly from his collar.

"Not bad," he told himself. "Not bad."

Roy showed up promptly 37 minutes late. Roy was usually about 37 minutes late. 

It was nearly seven o'clock when Roy and Roger arrived at Flannery's Pub. The bar wasn't crowded yet, and Roy spotted the group immediately, seated at a booth in the back corner. Roy's cousin Craig sat next to his fiancee, Becky. Mike was across from them, waving his finger in the air, as if giving another one of his "informative" lectures. "You don't seem to understand something," he was saying.

Craig noticed the two friends enter, and motioned for them to join the group. Hellos were exchanged, and Roger and Roy took their seats.

"So, how does it feel to be twenty-four, buddy?" Craig asked Roger, with a slap on the shoulder.

"About the same as it feels to be twenty-three," Roger remarked sagely.

"Just think," Mike interrupted. "If you were Zeus, you'd feel the same when you were a million as you did when you were five hundred."

Mike's companions gazed quizzically at him for a moment, and Roy forced a polite smile.

"Well, how about some drinks?" Roy suggested.

Straightaway a pitcher of beer was ordered. Then two more. After drinking several rounds and toasting Roger half a dozen times, everyone was in a good mood.

Roy thought that his friend looked genuinely happy, and it was a long time since anyone had seen him like that.

It was about 9:00. Roy was skillfully performing his juggling act with three empty beer glass when the waitress rushed over to their table, with an urgent look on her face.

"Roy Cummings?" she inquired.

Roy started, nearly dropping the glasses. "Huh? Oh, yes! What?"

"You'd better get the phone. It's very serious, I'm afraid."

Roy's face grew worried. Setting the glasses down on the table, he hurried off behind the bar somewhere.

"What's going on?" Roger asked anxiously.

"I can't say for sure," the waitress answered.

In a minute Roy returned, looking wan and out of breath. He addressed Craig, Becky and Mike.

"We gotta go to Hanover Street," he said with an air of desperation. "It's Billie again."

Craig showed alarm. "Billie? What's the matter with her?"

"The same old thing," Roy replied.

"Oh, Jesus!"

The three scrambled to their feet. Roger sat there bewildered. 

"Would somebody mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

"Roger, we've gotta run out for a while," Roy told him. "It's an emergency. We'll be back in half an hour."

Roger was not satisfied. "Where are you going?" he insisted.

But his friends were already heading for the door. 

"We'll be back soon," Roy promised him. "Just wait. You'll have to trust me on this one."

And they were gone. Roger sat alone at the table, silent, completely stunned. It was several minutes before he somewhat recovered his senses. He summoned the waitress.

"Who called them? Do you know anything about this?"

"I-I really can't say," she demurred. "You'll have to take it up with him." She turned to go.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" Roger shouted.

"I'm sorry, I have other customers," she answered curtly and walked away.

Roger muttered a four-letter word. What was it with her? What was it with Roy? What was it with all of them?

Fifteen minutes later, Roger's patience had all but dissipated. He got up to complain again when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Roger?"

Roger spun around. He gasped. It was the same face -soft, smooth and round. And the eyes -sparkling and effervescent. And the -no, the hair was too short, and it was the wrong color.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," the waitress said. "Your friend's on the phone."

Roger followed her to the phone, in a small room behind the bar. He snatched the receiver.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Hello?" He slammed the receiver down. He stalked furiously back to the table, his fists clenched. He'd get his jacket and leave!

Then he saw them, all sitting at the table, grinning stupidly at him. All five of them. Five? Who was the girl?

Tricia.

"April Fools, dude!" Roy crowed jovially.

Roger stood frozen to the spot, unbelief etched on his features. 

"Roy," he said confusedly.

"Come on, Roger!" Roy said cheerfully. "It's a joke! Sit down, buddy."

"I shoulda known," Roger said, blushing.

Roger sat down next to Tricia, much to her delight.

"Happy Birthday, Roger," she said and promptly kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you have such a good sense of humor."

Roger flushed. "Yeah," he said.

Roger looked at Tricia. "Say," he began. "How did you . . . ?"

Tricia laughed.

"She works with me at Fulton Technical," Roy explained. "I didn't know you two were neighbors. Your name came up in conversation and she told me she lived in the same building as you. So I invited her."

"I hope you don't mind, Roger," said Tricia.

"No, no, of course not," Roger replied.

Roy winked at his friend.

The revelers passed three hours talking, laughing, joking and singing. By midnight Roger was rather tipsy, as everyone had taken the liberty of buying him a drink or two. Tricia sat on his lap, her arm around him. Roger didn't seem to object to this.

Roy was busy recounting one of their exploits of earlier days.

"So Roger says, 'Sure, sure, it's in drive, Roy,' steps on the gas, and goes right through Mrs. Mallory's garage door!"

This was followed by peals of laughter.

"It was through her fence," Roger protested weakly.

"Oh no it wasn't," Roy insisted. "It was through her garage door."

Then came the finale. The waitress approached the table, carefully holding an ice cream cake illuminated by two dozen candles.

"Oooo, look at that!" Tricia cooed. "Make a wish, Roger," she urged him. "Make a wish!"

Roger looked at the faces surrounding him. Then he looked at Tricia, sitting on his lap, her pretty round eyes gazing at him affectionately. The springy curls of her auburn hair rested gently on her large bosom. As Roger blew out the candles, his friends were fairly sure they knew what the birthday boy's wish was.

But they were wrong.

Roy drove Roger and Tricia home. Tricia bid Roger a pleasant goodnight, and trotted upstairs to her apartment.

Roger sat up abruptly in bed. He was shaking all over. A definite chill ran down his spine.

"My God," he whispered hoarsely.

He looked around the room. The red numerals of his digital clock glared angrily at him. 1:37. He lay back down and stared at the dark ceiling above him. He saw strange, amorphous shapes. He wasn't frightened. And the shapes became other shapes, and vanished and reappeared and began swirling around and around. Roger drifted off to sleep.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

The knocks had come slowly, steadily, loudly and had jarred Roger out of a sound slumber. He suddenly found himself trembling again. He looked at the clock. 2:05. Who could it be at 2:05 in the morning? Maybe a mad psychopath with a scalpel. Or the police coming to tell him that his parents were dead. Or maybe . . .

Maybe it was someone knocking at a neighbor's door. Or just another bad dream. Roger closed his eyes tightly, hoping that it would stop.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

No such luck. Nervously, he climbed out of bed and started down the hallway.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

"All right, all right!" he cried. He stopped in front of the door.

"W-who is it?"

No response.

Roger slowly turned the lock, careful not to make any sound. Then placing a hand on the doorknob, he rushed out into the hallway. He looked to his left and his right. No one was there. What the hell was going on? 

Roger went back inside and closed the door. His stomach churned grotesquely. His nerves were on fire. He dashed into the kitchen and rummaging through one of the drawers, took out a carving knife. He returned to the foyer, holding the knife behind his back. He stood by the door, ready for come-what-may. And waited.

Roger was rewarded.

WUMP! WUMP! WUMP!

Seizing the knob and turning, Roger pushed the door wide open.

He nearly fainted at what he saw.

The face was a zombie's face, that of a rotted corpse. The putrid, yellow skin clung loosely to the skull, save for the lower half, where it was completely rotted away. The effect was a sickening, perpetual grin. The stringy black hair hung hideously from its head. One eye was missing, but the other, clear and blue, stared straight at Roger. A hand touched Roger's shoulder.

"Happy Birthday, honey."

"Nooooooo!" Roger screamed with his entire soul. In an instinctive paroxysm of fright, he struck out blindly with the knife, raising and lowering it a dozen times.

"Go away!" Roger screamed. "Go away! I don't want you!"

Horrible, eldritch screams came in response, and fresh blood spattered on Roger's clothes and on the wall.

Roger stopped. He gazed down at the inert mass on the floor. His hand loosely gripped the dripping knife. Then an even greater horror overcame him, if that were possible at that point. Reaching down, he tugged at the latex Halloween mask with his free hand. The face of Tricia stared back at him, contorted in agony, eyes bulging out horribly. A stream of blood trickled obscenely from the corner of her mouth. Roger whimpered. The knife fell from his hand.

April Fools.