Sabotage in the Sound Booth

The axe was heavier than it looked. A Fiskars splitting axe with a composite handle, orange and black. Graham had bought it three years ago to "clear the property line." He had used it exactly once, to chop a fallen branch, before hiring a landscaping crew.

Since then, it had lived in the garage, gathering dust and spiderwebs.

But now it was in my hands.

The weight felt good. Grounding.

I stood in the center of the basement studio, my chest heaving, the adrenaline singing in my veins like a high-tension wire. Graham was gone. Dr. Aris was gone. They were upstairs, getting the tarp. Getting ready to dispose of the body they thought was me.

I looked down at the dead woman. The Replacement.

In the dim light of my phone, she looked peaceful. The red slash across her throat was dark and congealed. She had died terrified, but now she was just... gone.

I felt a pang of grief. Not for her, exactly. But for the waste. She had been used. Just like me. Just like Elena. We were all just disposable parts in Graham’s machine.

But the machine was broken now.

I walked to the door.

I listened.

Silence.

No. Not silence.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Coming down the stairs.

Graham.

He was coming back. To wrap the body. To finish the job.

I tightened my grip on the axe.

I stepped back into the shadows, behind the door.

The handle turned.

*Click.*

The door swung open.

Graham stepped into the room. He was holding a large, blue tarp.

"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's get this over with."

He walked toward the body. He didn't look around. He didn't check the corners. Why would he? I was dead.

He knelt beside the Replacement. He started to unfold the tarp.

"Sorry, darling," he whispered. "Nothing personal. Just business."

He reached for her arm.

And then he saw it.

Or rather, he didn't see it.

He saw the jeans. The hoodie.

He frowned.

"What the..."

He pulled back the hood.

He saw her face.

He saw the white dress balled up in the corner.

He realized.

He spun around.

"Merritt?" he whispered.

I stepped out from behind the door.

I didn't say anything. I just stood there, the axe resting on my shoulder.

He saw me.

His eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He looked from me to the dead woman. Then back to me.

"You're... you're supposed to be..."

"Dead?" I finished for him. "Yeah. I get that a lot lately."

He scrambled backward, crab-walking across the concrete floor. He dropped the tarp.

"Stay back," he said. His voice was high, thin. "Stay back, Merritt. I have a gun."

"No you don't," I said. "You left it in the storage unit."

He patted his pockets. Empty.

"Dr. Aris!" he shouted. "Help!"

"He can't hear you," I said. "The soundproofing. Remember? You paid extra for it."

He hit the wall. He was cornered.

"Merritt, listen," he said. He held up his hands. "We can talk about this. We can fix this."

"Fix it?" I asked. "Like you fixed Elena? Like you fixed her?"

I pointed at the body with the axe handle.

"That was an accident," he said. "She... she came at me. I was defending myself."

"With a knife across her throat?"

"She was unstable! Just like you!"

"I'm not unstable, Graham. I'm angry."

I took a step forward.

He flinched.

"Please," he begged. "Please, Merritt. I'll give you anything. The money. The house. You can have it all. Just let me go."

"I don't want the money," I said. "I don't want the house."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to admit it," I said. "I want you to say it. Out loud. For the record."

I pulled the burner phone out of my pocket. I held it up.

It was recording.

"Say it," I said.

Graham stared at the phone. He licked his lips.

"Say what?"

"Say you killed her. Say you tried to kill me. Say you stole the money."

He looked at the axe. He looked at the phone.

"If I say it," he whispered, "will you let me go?"

"Maybe," I lied.

He took a breath.

"I... I killed her," he said. His voice was shaking. "I killed the girl. Because she quit. Because she was going to talk."

"And Elena?"

"I sent her away. To Switzerland. I paid them to keep her quiet."

"And me?"

"I was going to... replace you. With her. So I could access the trust."

"Good," I said.

I lowered the phone.

"Now we have a finale."

Graham’s eyes narrowed. He saw my guard drop.

He lunged.

He was fast. Desperate.

He grabbed the handle of the axe. We wrestled for it.

He was stronger than me. He shoved me back. I stumbled.

He ripped the axe from my hands.

He stood over me, panting. A wild, triumphant grin on his face.

"You stupid bitch," he said. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

He raised the axe.

"Now," he said. "We do this the hard way."

He swung.

I rolled.

The axe blade sparked against the concrete floor, inches from my head.

I scrambled up. I ran for the door.

He was between me and the exit.

I ran the other way. Toward the corner. Toward the crawl space.

"There's nowhere to go, Merritt!" he shouted.

He was right. I was trapped.

But I wasn't helpless.

I reached into the acoustic foam.

I grabbed the wire.

The live wire.

When I was rigging the "haunted house," I had cut the power to the outlets in the studio. But I had stripped one of the main lines running behind the wall.

It was a 220-volt line. For the HVAC system.

I had left it exposed. Just in case.

Graham stalked toward me. He raised the axe again.

"Say goodbye, Merritt."

I grabbed the wire with my sleeve covered hand.

"Goodbye, Graham," I said.

I thrust the wire at him.

He swung the axe.

The metal head of the axe connected with the live wire.

*CRACK-ZZZT.*

A flash of blue light. A smell of ozone and burning hair.

Graham convulsed. His body went rigid. The axe flew from his hands.

He was thrown backward. He hit the wall.

He slid down.

Smoke rose from his hands.

He didn't move.

I stood there, panting. The wire dangled from the wall, sparking.

I kicked it away.

I walked over to Graham.

His eyes were open. Staring.

He wasn't dead. I could see the pulse in his neck. But he was out cold.

"Cut," I whispered.

I walked past him. I walked out of the studio.

I climbed the stairs.

I walked into the kitchen.

Dr. Aris was standing there, holding a roll of carpet.

He looked up. He saw me.

He saw the blood on my clothes (the Replacement's blood, smeared on my jeans).

He saw my face.

"Where's Graham?" he asked.

"He's taking a nap," I said.

I picked up the landline. It was working again. The jammer must have shorted out with the surge.

I dialed 911.

"Emergency," the operator said.

"My husband just tried to kill me," I said. "And there's a dead woman in my basement."

"Ma'am, what is your address?"

"402 Sylvan Ridge," I said. "And bring an ambulance. The doctor is here, but I don't think he's practicing anymore."

I hung up.

I looked at Dr. Aris.

He dropped the carpet. He ran for the back door.

I didn't stop him.

The police would catch him. Elena had the bank transfers.

I walked into the living room.

I sat down on the sofa.

I waited.

Ten minutes later, the sirens started.

Blue and red lights flashed through the windows.

The front door burst open.

"Police! Show us your hands!"

I held up my hands.

They were shaking. But they were empty.

Detective Vance wasn't with them. It was the State Troopers. The ones Toby had called.

They saw me. They saw the blood.

"Mrs. Coe?" a trooper asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," I said. "I'm alive."

They searched the house. They found Graham in the basement. They found the Replacement.

They found the crawl space. The photos. The pills.

They found everything.

An hour later, I was sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket.

A car pulled up.

Elena got out. She was holding Leo’s hand.

She walked over to the ambulance.

"You did it," she whispered.

"We did it," I said.

She squeezed my hand.

"Is he...?"

"He's alive," I said. "But he's not going to Rio."

Graham was brought out on a stretcher. He was conscious now. He looked groggy. Burned.

He saw us.

Me. Elena. Leo.

His eyes went wide.

He tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

They loaded him into the ambulance.

As the doors closed, I saw him looking at me.

And I smiled.

Not a sad smile. Not a brave smile.

A real smile.

The next morning, the sun came up over Sylvan Hills.

It was bright. Clear.

I stood on the porch of the Vivarium.

The police tape was still up. The crime scene unit was still working.

But the house felt different. Lighter.

The silence was gone.

I could hear birds. I could hear cars. I could hear the wind in the trees.

Toby pulled up in his van.

He jumped out. He ran to me.

"Merritt!" he yelled. "You're okay!"

He hugged me. He smelled of stale coffee and fear.

"I'm okay," I said.

"I saw the news," he said. "It's everywhere. 'The Wife Who Wouldn't Die.' You're trending."

I laughed.

"Trending," I said. "Great."

"What are you going to do?" he asked. "With the house? With the money?"

I looked at the glass box. The cage Graham had built.

"I'm going to sell it," I said. "And I'm going to split the money with Elena. She needs it for Leo."

"And the studio?"

"I'm keeping the studio," I said. "But not here. Somewhere loud. Somewhere messy."

I reached into my pocket.

I pulled out the orange pill organizer.

I opened it.

I dumped the sugar pills onto the driveway.

I crushed them under my heel.

*Crunch.*

A perfect sound effect.

I looked at Toby.

"Let's go," I said.

We got in the van. We drove away.

I didn't look back.

I wasn't Merritt Coe, the victim. I wasn't Merritt Coe, the ghost.

I was Merritt Coe, the Foley Artist.

And I had a lot of noise to make.

**[