Dwelling (25 page)

CHAPTER 23

SABBATH

Jake

The yellow church Volvo puttered along El Dorado. The sun was a glimmering, dying god ushering the last morsel of rays. The days were getting shorter, the nights terribly longer. Jake refused to return to his apartment located beside St. Hubert’s. He slept in the borrowed Volvo or he slept in the many random motels scattered in the vicinity of steady bars and lonesome underpasses. He desired little to return, but he could put it off no longer.

The return to St. Hubert’s was tiring. His eyes felt incredibly heavy as he turned onto Clear Lake Boulevard. The crest of the giant brown building peaked from the top of the palm trees that stood as sentinels beside the road. With the city lights and the moon playing and intermingling, those tall aliens very well looked like cartoonish conjoined twins. The palm leaves were a shade of hubris red; the trunk, iceberg blue. The taste on the wind was bitter cold, not entirely unusual for this time of year, with all the holidays approaching. Tonight smelled unusually pungent, an eerie aftertaste.

Jake accelerated through a yellow light. The Volvo jerked slightly and then obeyed, a wisp of grey dust coughing out of the tailpipe. His conversation with Johnathan ran through his mind. Conversations of dead people.
What could it all mean?
Certainly, none of it was real, or so he thought. It was the mind working in collaborations, the subconscious leaking into the conscious state. What secrets lay in the dark abyss of ourselves, he dared not dream. But maybe, curious, like a child sneaking a glance under the bed at night. What would be under his bed? He prayed that maybe there was a stronger resolution of his faith in God underneath. He doubted, though. Whatever
this
was, it was not of God. Not
his
God, at least.

Then what?

Guilt?

Pain?

Remorse?

All of the above?

What could he have done? Private Renfield was not his fault; the soldier died as many had died before. What concern, what moral entanglement was he to him?
Jesus, tell me please? Why is this boy’s memory haunting me? What have I done? What slight have I made? Should I have run after him? Died beside him…? Maybe I have and this is all some horrible afterlife revelation, like purgatory is for the Catholics.

Jake giggled.

He shivered at the sound of his laughter.

The Volvo trudged along. Passing Loomis Street, St. Hubert’s shadow grew taller. The parking lot was abandoned, expect for one Ford pickup near the office entrance. One of the elders, he knew, waiting for him as requested. Jake parked the Volvo and killed the engine. The car shook violently and then lay dormant. There was a knock on his window. He didn’t look. Exhaling deeply, collecting what it was he was going to say to the elder, hoping, praying this was one of the nicer ones and not brother Haywood who had a nasty reputation for cycling out ministers before their due.

Exiting the Volvo, Jake found no one waiting for him. The hood of the Ford felt cold to the touch. No one was there, yet he had the feeling someone was watching.

“Hello?” he called.

No answer.

Strange
, he thought and made his way to the office entrance door. A chilly wind blew on his backside. His skin crawled with goosebumps. His shadow looked thicker, as if someone was following closely behind.

He turned.

“Hello, Padre.”

“Not you.”

The dead face of Private Renfield glared, his milky eyes glimmering with the moonlight. The odor of death foul like some sealed tomb unleashed for the first time in eons. Jake stumbled backward, the words, a scream perhaps, choking in his throat. The dead soldier reached out and took hold of him. The boy’s hands felt like ice, but strong as oak.

Jake couldn’t move. His feet dangled from the ground.

“I thought I told you, Padre?” growled Renfield. He snared, his blackened teeth gnashing and nipping toward Jake’s face as he spoke.

“You’re not—”

“—real? Yes. Afraid so.”

“What did I do?” pleaded Jake.

Nip. Nip. “
What did I do, what did I do
,” sung Renfield, his voice a song a mockery.

“Please…”

“Where was
this
sympathy for me?”

“What?”

“When
I
was killed, who cared? Did you?” Nip. Nip.

“Of course I did.”

“You cared for yourself, liar.”

“No.”

“I saw you, Padre.
Quivering
.
Hesitant
.”

“No.”

“
Unwanting
.”

“I was scared…but…but,” Jake stuttered.

“You could have saved me,” Renfield howled.

“How? What could I have done?” moaned Jake, struggling against the dead soldier’s grip.

Nip. Nip. “You could have run after me.”

“Then we’d both be dead.”

“Would that be so bad?”

Jake found momentum and kicked outward. Renfield grunted, losing his hold. Jake fell to the ground. The soldier glared with eyes that, if not dead, would have burned with hellfire. He pointed his index finger outward.

“You killed me,” Renfield yelled.

“No!” Jake protested.

“You could have saved me,” the dead boy soldier hissed, walking towards him.

“Please…” Jake cried out.

“Where’s your God now, Padre? Where was your God when I lay dying in the mud? Where? Why? Why, Padre, why? Why didn’t you help me?”

“I didn’t…”

“Save me.”

“I’m sorry.”

***

Haywood

Pat Haywood received a call from Bud Hawkins a little past six that evening. The fellow St. Hubert’s elder mentioned something about having to take his wife to the airport or being sick or whatever excuse he’d come up with and asked if his good buddy Pat would be so kind and sub for him in a sit-down with Jake Williams, one of the new congregational ministers. Pat’d heard about Jake. His sermons often leaned a little too progressive for Pat’s tastes. He borrowed the church Volvo without signing it out. He wasn’t married. No kids. And he was constantly missing church, forcing one of the B-squad ministers to step up to the pulpit. His latest exploits surmised that he’d missed the last two Sunday services.

For a lack of a better word, Pat Haywood considered Jake Williams to be nothing more than a good-for-nothing shifty dosser. An unfocused young person. Or perhaps even worse, a hypocrite of the highest order. The rumors circulating the church certainly testified to that, though Pat knew he’d never get any kind of direct proof. No self-respecting woman would confess to something like that, and Pat was sure to rather burn in hell than find himself in a lonesome saloon.

Pat was no sinner.

If he was to be honest, though, Pat could have admitted that there was something else that bothered him regarding Jake Williams. It was in the young man’s eyes. A look Pat’d seen before, with his daughter, Beverly, and the gruesome murder of her husband, Tom. But no, he’d dismiss the thought before allowing it to settle in his mind. Jake was a trained minister, his daughter was not. Jake, if being a proper minister, should be equipped with the proper tools to deal with whatever came from
that
look in his eyes.

Not that Pat really cared much. His job was to run the church, and a part of his administration was handling the ministerial staff. Jake Williams, for all intents and purposes, Pat judged unfit to tend to the spiritual matters of the flock of St. Hubert’s.
If the boy cannot handle his own affairs, how can we expect him to handle the internal affairs of the church body? It simply cannot work.

Pat’s plan this evening, after agreeing to Bud Hawkins’ request to handle Jake, was to tell the young ministe
r—
ask the minster, for his resignation. But when the minister in question came bursting through the church doors, his navy polo untucked and wrinkled flapping in the wind in torn sheets, looking as if he’d seen a ghost or something much worse, being in shock no doubt, Pat couldn’t help but see his daughter in those terrified eyes. And with such a connection, his frank stern resolve evaporated.

“Do you see him?” panted Jake, heaving and swallowing gobs of air.

“See who?” asked Pat, obviously unsettled by the sudden turn of events.

“The boy, the soldier. Do you see?”

“There is no one there.”

“Are you sure?”

Pat waiting for a moment, watching, studying the minister before him. He thought and then decided.

“Listen, Jake, the elders have been thinking about your situation here at St. Hubert’s. We believe it’d be best if you took some time off. To regroup. Collect yourself. To be frank, I don’t think you’re in much condition to be leading this flock, do you?” Pat reached out and touched Jake’s shoulder. He ignored the slight flinch. He gestured toward the bench out in front of the church secretary’s office. Leading him, they both sat on the cold wood.

“You want me to go?” muttered Jake.

Pat could see the man’s sanity return, like a soft, dim light coming back on after a storm. Whatever was going on with the minister, it was clearly troubling, and though Pat wanted nothing more than to send the boy packing, he knew he couldn’t, not with those Beverly-esque eyes gazing back at him, seeking, wanting help.

“Consider it a sabbatical, son.” Pat reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. The name Oblates of Holy Cross Monastery scrolled in bold across the top. He handed it to Jake who took it and gazed at it as if the card were some mystical object.

“Great place, really,” started Pat. “Been there a time or two myself. Went there after my daughter Beverly and her husband…well, I’m sure you’ve heard the story. Anyways, it’s a quaint place, real simple and quiet, which is what you need. A good place for solitude and prayer.”

Jake looked at the card intently. “A monastery?” he asked.

“It’ll do you some good, I think. Give it, say, a month. Don’t worry, the elders and I will handle your expenses, what little you have, I’m sure. We’ll get Randy to fill in for you on the sermons.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Best thing, don’t you think?”

Jake looked down the hall, toward the church doors, waiting, silent for a moment, looking as if he expected something or someone to come running in. And then he agreed, “Tonight.”

CHAPTER
24

WHISPERS

Maggie

Maggie squeezed Moxie tight, breathing deeply her dark brown fur.
Why do dogs smell so comforting?
She wondered. And for a moment, she pondered where Moxie had run to in the first place, why she had fled into the tall stacks of wheat out in the field. And her return, though thankful, she wondered why
then
, why
now
and how did the little Shih Tzu even find her in the cellar?

In the cellar? Why was I in the cellar?
She dismissed the pursuit, tired. Whatever had happened, whatever the cause, Moxie was back now, and that’s all that mattered, as far as Maggie was concerned. She had lost Ricky. She couldn’t lose the little
Shit
too. They lay comfortably cuddled together watching logs burn in the fireplace, the expansive living room was filled with a warm crimson-orange glow and a fragrant whisper of thistle and spruce. The fire felt like a much needed blanket, the dog certainly added to the effect, while all around her she had the dreadful feeling of death approaching, reaching out from the shrunken, dancing shadows behind her, shadows with bone-chewed fingers, or worse,
ghosts
. Hairs tickled on the back of her neck. Her eyes shot wide and then drooped, weighed by the constant sleepless nights. It was hard to breath. Oh so hard to breath in this house.

Maggie could not shrug off the suspicion that something was waiting for her, watching her. Nothing was as it seemed here. The house wasn’t what it seemed. Originally, it was to be her refuge, a place for healing, especially after the horrible ordeal with Base Housing on Hood and…
Ricky
. The fear of facing family again was too much.
No
, she couldn’t do it. So, the house had been just that, her refuge, in the beginning.

Though, that business with Duke and his sons was certainly despairing, and dealing with Mr. Eugene Parsons had been, to be frank, unpleasant, it did not cast any kind of lingering shadow over her fresh start, or so she tried for it not to. When the movers arrived and unloaded all that she possessed, taking a grand total of one hour to unpack the truck, the house had filled her soul with a bright glow of hope, starting from those golden stalks of earthly brown wheat and the evening setting sun that she’d found so beautiful at the time, and so very different from the past year.

She’d felt that the house had somehow redeemed her life from that pit, the darkness of grief and anger—was helping her get over Ricky—
finally
. It was peaceful here, quiet. She had ventured into town frequently, at first, but with each passing day those trips became less and less. And as the weeks turned into months, likewise her ventures into town became exceedingly slim. Eyes watching her from unknown places. Whispers in the dark. Ghostly-dead fingers reaching out. And that terrible clicking, scratching behind the walls. Soon, the only reason she’d venture to Jotham was so that she wouldn’t starve. Even so, eventually the want of sustenance became a frivolous desire. The voices whispered to her.

You cannot not leave.

She hopelessly wanted to get away.

No, stay.

And so, despite her plans of reaching out to her childhood friends over the holidays…the motivation fizzled out in the end. Maggie spent Thanksgiving and Christmas alone, well, except for Moxie. And thank God for the dog, without her Maggie certainly would have gone mad…But even the comfort the dog afforded was dimming, like the fading flicker of candlelight. Soon. Very soon. Maggie felt as if the madness would return, waiting on her doorstep shrouded in black ready to take her home once and for all.
Home? What does that mean?
Madness would no longer be a glimmer; some melancholy past event that once was, but an active agent in the here and now. Madness could be her friend, if she so choose.

I cannot be alone forever.

After the first appearance of the spectral man, the hobbling, rotting corpse, or whatever he was, other strange events had transpired within the walls of the
House
on 1475 Oak Lee Road, as if the haunting—if you believe in those sorts of things—was not strange enough. He—
It
—whatever, appeared numerous times over the holidays. Walking the halls. The terrible thump of his wooden leg pounding the wooden floor. And, despite herself, she would always go and find him, no matter how scared or terrified, she would go and find him. Sometimes he would be in the study, looking out the window as he had during their first encounter or in the living room, sitting idly in an unfamiliar chair, staring into the dying fireplace, watching the last bit of coal and ash solder into a wisp of grey smoke. She had also discovered the wretched, colonial-looking phenomenon in the kitchen, staring with blank, hollow eyes at the door which led into the cellar.
The cellar…? Why was I in the cellar? What’s down there? Have I been there before?
During the kitchen appearance the specter stood from the table, without even giving much attention to her presence, and limped toward the door.
He looked nervous
, she remembered. His wooden leg thumping, shuddering the walls with its monstrous echo. Then he would reach for the doorknob, and the vision or glimmer or hallucination
(chances are high toward the latter)
would disappear. And Maggie would find herself alone again, goosebumps stinging, pricking her flesh.

The more Maggie put into the occurrences, the more she came to realize that his presence, as some mystics call these spectral events, had never truly interacted with her. No. It was as if he was acting out some scene from his—
its—
life. The encounters in the study were the closest thing one might call interaction, but the thing could very well have been reaching out for someone, something, else, or so she’d hoped.
No, he looked at me. Smiled at me. He knows I’m here. Sees me
.
Wants me to do something…but what?

Moxie began to snore in her arms. Maggie petted her, gently stroking her brown fur, watching the fire flicker, listening to the muffled crackle of crisp burning wood. She wondered if tonight her spectral guest would return again. With each passing day and week and month, those strange encounters had transpired more and more frequently.
A visitation tonight seems very likely then
, she shuddered.

She rested her head against the sofa, wallowed in the weight of her grief and the terrible dread of purchasing the house.
Did I jump too soon? Should I have called Karen, at least? Should I…? What should I do?
And with those thoughts her loneliness multiplied and festered, spreading through her like some atrocious pathogen. Despair came next, nesting in her heart like a shroud, eventually congealing into resentment and anger—resentment for her plight, resentment for
Ricky
, anger for her so-called family and friends living comfortable lives free from such burdens as hers.

What was Ricky to them? Nothing.
The clicking behind the walls sang faintly under the roar of the fire.

—No. That’s not true.

How can you know? Where are they now? Not here. Not here.

—I shut them out.

So. Couldn’t they have found you if they’d really wanted?

—Maybe…no, it doesn’t matter. They are respecting my wishes…to be alone…

Did you ask them? Did you tell them you wanted to be alone?

—Yes…no, maybe, I mean…I think so.

Really?

—I can’t remember.

It’s because you never did. They’re not not here because you asked them to stay away. The reason why they refuse to come, to be with you, to help you, is simple enough.

—Why?

Because they do not care.

—No! They’re my friends…they care. They love me.

Friends? Love? Really?
The clicking hissed in a rattle that could be mistaken as laughter. The sound of old wood moaning caught her ear from behind.

He’s here, the ghost?

Maggie turned away from the fire. The corpse had returned, standing idly by the study. He watched her with sunken black eyes. Flicking his cracked, blueish tongue, he talked to her without the use of such frivolous things as lips or words. No. He spoke to her from within her own mind. He stood uncomfortably on his crude prosthetic, his ghastly hue shaded in the crimson fire. His hair and beard was as long as ever, his garments from some other time. His manner reeked of confidence and power, yet sadness and misery. There was something sinister about him other than the fact of his otherworldly nature, his ghostly (if you can believe)
presence
, talking with her in front of the roaring winter fire.

Do not worry. Your friends will be here soon. They will all be here soon.
The clicking told her…or was it from the sad dead man?

“My friends?” Maggie said, her voice hoarse and strained in the heat from the fireplace.

Yes. The invitations have been sent.

Maggie felt clouded. A great fog bled across her mind’s eye. She could not think for any prolonged amount of time without strain. She rubbed her temple, closing her eyes. “Invitations? I sent the invitations…?” she whispered painfully.

We sent them for you.
The clicking erupted.

“We?”

Yes.

“I don’t remember…” Her head throbbed. Focus was nothing more than jumbled ruined memory, purpose, and identity.

We sent the invitations for you, Mrs. Smith. We’re here for you, to help you.

“We?” Maggie looked up at the dead man.

He smiled a gruesome grin of rotted, moldy teeth. Red-eyed cicadas crawled out and hid inside the cloak of his vestment.

Yes.
The clicking chirped and rattled throughout the room.

“Who are you?”

Come and see.

The maddening clicking danced, vibrating the walls, the furniture, and the paintings.

The apparition dislodged from his standing place, and then with a cane in hand,
It
shimmered in the crimson-orange glow of the fire and moved toward the kitchen. Maggie clutched Moxie once more, yet the dog did not stir. Her stomach knotted in cold spasms. Hot tears ran down her face, burning her eyes. She had the terrible feeling she’d never see the dog again. Carefully, she laid her on the sofa and stood to join the otherworldly guest.
Or am I the guest, really
?

Come and see.
Clicking hummed behind the words.

The dead man beckoned for Maggie to follow. She obeyed, following him into the kitchen. With blueish white hands he turned and opened the cellar door.

Come and see.

Clicking.

He led her down the wooden stairs. The thump of his prosthetic peg resounded inside her heart. Pounded against her temples. He beckoned. She obeyed.

“Where are we going?” she whispered faintly, her strength fleeting.

Come and see.

“Who?”

Us.

The walking dead man opened the great seal in the floor of the cellar. Maggie blinked, hardly registering if she’d ever noticed it before.
Has that always been here?
And though rational sense told her to run, run away, take Moxie and go, she could not. The presence terrified her, yet she felt oddly consoled. Comfortable. Safe. There was solace here with this…man, ghost, corpse…whatever he was. She was sure the pain was going to end—he was going to take her to a place without suffering. There would be no more memory of Ricky. No memory of lost friendships. As the saying goes, it was a blissful ignorance. Warmly welcomed, for the alternative would shatter her, knowing what’s down below the cellar, the things that click inside the walls. The moaning rattle of thousands of red eyed demons.

The rotting ghost smiled and descended the stone staircase leaving a trail of mire and molded stench in its wake. He was whistling some tune, gospel sounding.

And below his voice, the sound of clicking.

She followed.

“Who are you?” she asked dreamily.

Nashirimah…
the corpse chirped.

“
Nashirimah
?” Maggie whispered, pleasantly confused. She followed down the stone steps and into the cave. The darkness was consuming and seemed to breathe with its own pulse. Beyond, in the distance, a dirty, sand-like, yellow bioluminescence began to glow. Faint, at first, it then took on a fever, brighter and brighter, until she disappeared entirely in its furious hue.