Creepy Short Stories

Slum

When quizzed on the subject, Marisol insisted Modesto was crazy. Yes, she was still friendly with her ex-husband, but it was solely for the sake of their son. She had no desire to sleep with him. And besides, the ex-husband lived in Washington.

It was suggested that Modesto had seen a man who resembled Marisol's ex. He got defensive. He strode into Marisol's son's room and came out with a framed picture – the son, with his arm around a (taller, better-looking) man.

"I gotta see this shit every day," he ranted to Nunez. "You don't think I'd recognize this asshole if I saw him?"

It took awhile, but Modesto calmed down and admitted he may have been mistaken. Marisol didn't want to press charges, and the couple was left in peace.

Two weeks later, Nunez and Rusty were called to the same apartment, for the same reason. This time, Marisol was barricaded in the master bedroom and Modesto was brandishing a tire iron, insisting he'd had an enraging conversation with her ex-husband in the lobby.

"You fucked him!" he screamed. "He told me! He said you fucked him on our fucking bed!"

Backup was called. Thirty minutes later, Modesto was cuffed, sobbing, to a chair, while Marisol tearfully paced, on the phone with the ex-husband, trying to prove he hadn't been hanging out in the lobby of The Primrose.

"There!" She cried finally.

Triumphantly, she'd pulled up a picture on her phone and shoved it in Modesto's face. She handed the phone to Nunez. It was of the man from the picture – her ex-husband – standing by a City of Wenatchee street sign, holding a copy of The Wenatchee World with the day's date.

"No way he flew here, fucked me, then flew back to Washington in time to take this picture."

Modesto was asked to elaborate. Maybe he was the butt of a cruel trick. He said he'd been alone in the elevator lobby, checking his mail. The ex-husband stealthily came up beside him, and had described – in graphic, excruciating detail – what he and Marisol had done while Modesto was at work.

This time, Modesto was more difficult to pacify. He'd been suspicious for months, he told the cops. He knew the ex-husband had attempted to reconcile with Marisol. He was uncomfortable with their amicable relationship. And it didn't help that Marisol used her ex to stroke Modesto's jealousy – she'd call him whenever the two of them got into a fight, and constantly talked about how good a father and provider he was.

Finally, they came to a resolution. Modesto went to stay with his brother, Marisol agreed to lock the doors, and a police car was dispatched to the neighborhood in case the ex-husband reappeared (or Modesto got cute).

Nunez didn't know what to make of the two of them.

Modesto was obviously paranoid, but his fury and grief had been sincere. Marisol may have used her ex-husband to make her current beau jealous, but she'd seemed legitimately mystified by his accusations of infidelity. And Nunez highly doubted the ex-husband would have hopped a plane to Los Angeles just to fuck his ex-wife and stick it to her new boyfriend.

And then, there was the man in the elevator lobby. The man whom might have been in the elevator lobby.

Nunez and Rusty passed him on the way back to their squad car – a man, leaning against the wall, face buried in a newspaper. Nunez saw the man and registered what he was seeing, but it took his subconscious a minute to process the information.

Then realization of what he'd seen – and its implications – hit him like a ton of bricks and he'd ran, back through the back entrance, back through the double doors. But the man was gone, and Nunez was left to wonder whether or not it had all been his imagination.