Fallen Stones (11 page)

“Inheritance?” he asked, “How much?” It was the first thought he had and he had blurted out the words without even thinking. Then he realized how crass it was to ask such a question and said, “I mean, I know it was probably in bad taste to ask something like that, but I assume you didn't even know this guy, this Emerson Washburn, right?”

She said, “No I never heard of him. I had no idea he even existed. Apparently he was my father's estranged brother, and I assume he was single with no kids. He must have thought I was his only living relative. So it looks like he must have either known about me or learned about me somehow and for some reason chose to leave his estate, whatever that might be to me.”

"Speaking of which, what about your brother Chuck? I wonder why he wasn't named in the will," Jason asked.

Stephanie thought for a moment and then said, "That's a very good question. Maybe Washburn didn't know about him or for some reason chose to exclude him. I would have thought it was possible that Chuck might have gotten a similar letter, if this one didn't specify that I was the sole heir to his estate. Maybe we will find out more a little later on during the whole settlement process."

"This is so weird" Jason added, "I mean the whole strange series of coincidences. First, I all but get canned from my job... and the only spot available for me is with the division in Ashton. Then you get this inheritance letter from some unknown relative, also from Ashton...and you are left an estate with property in the area of Ashton... I mean this is so unbelievable it seems like the type of setup you would find in a movie or maybe a novel."

Stephanie replied, "I have to agree. There are so many strange coincidences all coming together at one time; it almost feels like someone else is controlling our destiny; like we have no say in the matter."

Jason said, “Luckily, I don't believe in such things, even though I was the one to point it out. I suppose it is just a weird set of coincidences that happen sometimes, and now it is happening to us...hopefully with very positive results. Do you realize, depending upon how much money is involved, this could change everything?”

“Yes.” She replied, “And maybe that's one of the reasons why I'm laughing. I've spent all afternoon thinking about the letter, the inheritance and what to tell you. And I realize you've been struggling with how to tell me your news as well. So depending upon how this turns out, all of our worries might have been for nothing and our troubles may be over." She laughed again, but then suddenly her face took on a more serious expression.

"I hope you realize it might not be worth much, maybe not much at all." She cautioned, "I mean who knows what land or property is worth up north. I suspect a lot less than here. But if by some miracle it is a lot of money... Oh my, just imagine... then we will have the freedom to do whatever we want. You could simply take the layoff and try to find another company locally to work for, or take some time off to relax. I know manufacturing type jobs are few and far between nowadays but this inheritance might be enough to carry us for a while. Or you could even start that private consulting firm you have been dreaming about. Who knows?”

“No matter how insensitive this might sound, I have to wonder how much is actually involved in the estate.” Jason said. “I mean is it land, is it property, money jewelry, cash, whatever?”

“I don't know.” Stephanie confessed, “I only received the letter late today and the whole idea hasn't really sunken in yet.”

"Have you spoken with the lawyer or were you waiting to tell me first?" he asked.

"No, I haven't called him yet," Stephanie replied. "I didn't want to call him until after we spoke."

Jason said, “Well then, we have to give this Armstrong guy a call and see what's what. You know, this could be really big.”

“I was going to try to call tomorrow, but then I was thinking tomorrow's Saturday and he may not be in the office until Monday,” Stephanie explained.

“Monday?” Jason exclaimed, “There's no way we can wait until Monday! I mean this is like when we play the lottery and fantasize about how we would spend the money if we won. This is too important to wait until Monday. We have to try him first thing tomorrow. Maybe we could leave him a voicemail at the very least. If he checks his messages he might get back to us sooner. Hey. What about email?” Jason again skimmed the document looking for an email address and with a disappointed look said, “Crap! No email, but I just got another idea. What time is it?”

Stephanie looked at the wall clock behind Jason and replied, “It's about 5:45.”

“You don't suppose he might be working late tonight do you? I know it's Friday night, but he could be still in the office,” Jason suggested. “I mean its Ashton for Pete's sake. Nothing happens there on a Friday night other than almost everyone is going to bed early, hanging out at the fire company social hall or working late. Being a lawyer, I would go with working late. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try and see if he is in, would it?”

Looking surprised and at the same time exhilarated, Stephanie said “You mean call him… tonight… right now?”

“No time like the present.” Jason suggested, “We might as well find out where we stand before we spend the whole weekend imagining what we might do with a would-be fortune only to discover it might be nothing more than a few dollars.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” Stephanie agreed. “It wouldn't hurt to give him a call and at least introduce ourselves and see what we have to do next.”

Jason handed the letter with the lawyer's phone number to Stephanie who already had her cell phone in hand. She quickly dialed the number and told Jason excitedly, “It's ringing.”

After only two rings, the phone was picked up, and Stephanie was stunned to hear a man's deep baritone voice say, “Good evening, Mrs. Wright, this is H. Mason Armstrong. I've been expecting your call.”

Chapter 5

 

“Jaaaaaaaakkkk.” Jack heard the mysterious voice calling once again. He wanted to run, to escape to somewhere safe, but his feet felt as though they were frozen in place as they often did in horrible nightmares. But this was no nightmare; as least not one of the sleeping variety as he was very much awake. He instinctively knew if he were to try to take a step, it would feel as if he were walking in a bog of mud several feet deep. This too was another sensation he recalled from some of the worst bad dreams he had experienced. This preternatural feeling enshrouding him was very much like that of a surrealistic nightmare. He started to turn as if in slow motion, feeling like he was trying to do so in an atmosphere thick with gelatinous fluid. Both of his feet seemed to plod heavily, as he suspected they would, but eventually he managed to turn completely around and faced the inside of the bedroom once more.

He was uncertain if he actually wanted to discover who had been calling his name in that strange ghostly, whispering voice, but he was unable to resist looking. He could not imagine what type of force other than perhaps his own subconscious and irrational fear, which might have had the capability of causing his feet to feel and behave as if they had turned to lead weights.  On the surface, he didn't think he had fallen into a state of paralyzing fear over what he might discover, but it was possible he was mistaken. Maybe on the surface he believed he was not afraid, but perhaps at some subconscious level, he might actually be terrified; he just didn't know. Regardless, his curiosity was still very strong although it had taken on a more cautious, ominous edge as if he was straddling the line between circumspection and impending terror.

As he looked into the near darkness, his flashlight being the only source of illumination in the dismal room, his eyes immediately focused in the direction of a large dressing mirror across the room. It was about six feet tall, constructed of wood, perhaps once polished and fine looking but now worn, dull and scratched. It was oval and was suspended in a rectangular framework with two large supporting feet anchoring it to the tattered carpet. Halfway up the weathered frame two iron handles, their black paint chipped and tarnished held the mirror in place and allowed it to tilt as necessary, enabling the user to attain the best view possible.

When Jack had first observed the mirror upon entering the room he noticed it had been tilted back slightly, however now it was slowly moving into a vertical position, as if someone were standing in the darkness behind the piece pushing it into a specific position, although he could see no one. He suspected if a person was actually hiding behind the mirror somewhere in the shadows, then that person would likely be the one who had called his name, perhaps trying to spook him, to frighten him into leaving the property. Jack slowly reached around to the small of his back, each movement feeling as awkward and cumbersome as if made while neck-deep in quicksand, and carefully removed the revolver he had stashed there earlier. Then he laboriously brought it around to be ready to use on whoever might be found lurking in the darkness.  

The now vertical surface of the mirror suddenly seemed to change before his eyes; looking less like a mirror and more like the surface of a reflecting pond. From a point in the center of the mirror a series of ever-growing concentric circles seemed to emanate, resembling the ripples one sees after dropping a stone into a still body of water. “Jaaaaaaakkk” he heard the voice call somewhat louder and more distinct than before as if to suggest whoever was summoning him was getting closer. Unbelievably, the voice with its liquid quality seemed to be coming from deep inside the mirror itself. Jack's common sense told him such a thing was not possible, yet regardless of what he believed, it truly was nonetheless occurring.

From within the undulating ripples in the mirror, Jack saw a form begin to take shape and to his dismay and horror, he realized it was the same image; the same skeletal face he thought he had briefly seen downstairs. He recognized the face as that of his recently deceased enemy, Emerson Washburn. He had convinced himself the countenance in the downstairs living room mirror had been a product of stress or an overactive imagination. However now it was obvious to Jack the thing was far too real.  The creature looking out from the glass was not only as hideous as it had appeared to be earlier, but Jack could see immediately it was far worse than he had thought. It was not quite Emerson Washburn, but was some sort of Washburn-like incarnation born of some unimaginable accursed womb of Hell, now manifesting from the rippling mirrored surface. Its face blurred in and out of focus twitching spasmodically, which left Jack uncertain of what he was actually seeing.

The creature looked to Jack to be skeleton-thin and its flesh seemed to hang in folds, as flesh often does when an overweight person suddenly takes ill and sheds far too many pounds much too quickly. The skin covering the hideous being was mottled, rotting and even sloughing off in places revealing the glistening white bone beneath and resembling some sort of horror movie zombie. Jack could see what appeared to be small white insects; he suspected maggots of some sort, crawling in and out of holes they had bored sporadically about the specter's face. The vision continued to twitch and move in and out of focus, in a jerky motion reminiscent of an old fashioned black and white silent movie. In fact, the image itself appeared to be almost entirely black and white, save for a few slivers of crimson where its flesh was cracking, preparing to slip from its skull and in those places the red was far too pronounced; almost phosphorescent with its eerie ruby glow.

It seemed to Jack that perhaps the unimaginable world from which this atrocious version of the now dead Emerson Washburn was trying to emerge, might be one virtually void of all color except for the vibrant luminescent red which seemed to captivate if not hypnotize him. In his mind he seemed to be repeating the words "red, red, red" as if his brain was unable to comprehend the existence of any other colors save red.

Jack wondered if it could be possible the unholy being might be planting this unimaginable black, white and crimson fantasy in his mind and in reality did not look quite as revolting as the image portrayed. If Jack could bring himself to accept the fact that Washburn had been able to pull himself forth from the world of the damned, then it seemed logical the undead specter could also be capable of creating such an illusion. Before this thought had a chance to completely shape itself into a cohesive idea, something more unacceptable and even more revolting occurred, which Jack was certain was beyond his own imagination's ability to fabricate.

The mouth of the hideous being hung wide open and when it once again whispered his name Jack could smell a vile and nauseating odor coming from the mirror, like that of a dead animal carcass baking in the broiling summer sun along a country road; the smell of decay; the smell of death. Coming back to reality from his near hypnotic state, Jack didn't take the time to consider what he might or might not be seeing; instead, he did his best to muster all of his strength to lift his hand pointing the revolver directly at the mirror. He had made up his mind, if the origin of the ungodly specter before him was that mirror; then he would shoot the glass and hopefully send the Washburn-like thing back to whichever torturous pit in Hell it was trying to crawl from. Then when he regained his ability to move he would go from room to room destroying every mirror until there was no possible way for the creature to manifest itself again.

But he discovered he could not pull the trigger; his ability to will his finger to do so was suddenly gone. Mysteriously, the gun felt as though it weighed a ton as his right hand dropped back to his side, unable to continue pointing, hanging uselessly at the end of an arm, which dangled helplessly like some useless vestigial appendage.

"I see...you found...your precious ring," the image in the watery mirror hissed.  The being sounded as if speech might be something which was very difficult for it to accomplish from deep inside the glass. Jack wanted to reply, wanted to scream and curse at the heinous ghost of the man he had hated for so many years, but he was unable to speak or move.