The Dark Sacrament (5 page)

Bernadette should have read the danger signs but evidently did not. She became pregnant twice more by Dessie; two boys were to join Heather in the unhappy family. Dessie abused them as well.

His alcoholism grew steadily worse; home life grew correspondingly unbearable for Heather and her siblings. They found themselves having to flee the home frequently—often in the middle of the night—and finding sanctuary with a succession of relatives. By all accounts, the relatives were not much better than the children's parents. Bernadette, as a result of her husband's abuse, simply could
not cope and spent lengthy periods in mental institutions. From time to time the children were given over to foster care.

When Heather turned five, an event occurred that, tragic though it was, ensured that the children found a more permanent “home.” Dessie died in a car accident. Bernadette, freed at last from her husband's tyranny, left the children in her mother's safekeeping and went to England to find work. In this she was successful. She sent “Nan Sal” regular payments from her salary, on the understanding that she would return by and by.

We do not know if the children fared any better under the eye of Nan Sal. The grandmother's home was a dilapidated cottage outside of town. Given the family background and the horrors they had endured from the beginning, one can assume that their day-to-day reality continued to be one of bleak dejection and fear.

What we
do
know is that a strong bond developed between Heather and Nan Sal. It was not, however, the healthy, loving bond one might expect, but something altogether more sinister. In the years she lived with her grandmother, the child would become initiated into a world of evil—an evil that was to pursue her for the remainder of her life.

In all, the children spent five years with their grandmother; Nan Sal died in 1978. Bernadette returned to her children, took up with another man, and the family became a stable unit. Or so one might hope. But evil has the uncanny knack of seeking out the weak and the vulnerable. The “stepfather” turned out to be far worse than Dessie Mitchelson. According to Heather, he was a serial child abuser. To complete the picture of depravity, he seemed to have her mother's tacit approval to do whatever he pleased with the children.

Given such circumstances, Heather and her brothers stood little chance of ever leading normal, well-adjusted lives. The boys emerged into adulthood as aggressive and violent as their father. Like Dessie, they abused alcohol—and drugs—and were frequently in trouble with the law. Heather, for her part, withdrew into herself; she developed an eating disorder, tried to kill herself twice, and, like
her mother, suffered prolonged periods of depression that required hospitalization.

It was while she was undergoing treatment, having survived her second suicide attempt, that she had the good fortune to meet Joe Kilmartin. He was visiting his sister, who shared Heather's hospital room. When Heather was well again, Joe looked her up. Romance followed. They set up a home together. Heather, for the first time in her life, felt settled and happy. Having endured an abusive father, deviant relatives, and a pedophile stepfather, she had found a “normal” man.

Her happiness was to last a little short of two years. In 1992, she had her first experience of the preternatural.

The encounter took place after dark. Joe was not at home; he often worked nights. Heather was roused from sleep.

Her bedside clock told her that it was close to three in the morning; it was still dark, and would be dark for hours yet, this being late February.

Standing at the foot of the bed was the figure of an elderly woman, clearly visible by the light given off by a street lamp close by Heather's window. The figure was stooped, the lined face set in a smile.

Heather was alarmed, and with good reason. She was looking at the woman whom she had not seen since the age of ten. Nan Sal had been dead all of fourteen years.

The grandmother was wearing what could have been a pale blue nightgown but might equally well have been a ball gown; it was a long, flowing garment with a frilled neckline and cuffs. Heather wanted to scream but was too frightened to do even that. She shrank back against the headboard.

“Nan Sal,” she ventured, surprised that she could even find her voice, “what do you want?”

She hoped that, by speaking, she might cause the vision to disappear and prove it was nothing but a dream. The last thing she expected was for her dead relative to answer her. Like most people, Heather had grown up with the notion of ghosts being no more than moving images, phantoms that do not as a rule interact with the real
world of the living. Now the phantom was proving her wrong, and the words her dead grandmother uttered filled her with abject terror.

“Heather,” the vision said, “soon you'll be with me.”

As if that were not frightening enough, the ghost of Nan Sal went further. It raised its hands to its throat and made strangling motions.

There were no more words spoken. As the hands were lowered, Heather saw a ring glinting on the old lady's middle finger. She remembered that her grandmother used to wear a ring of striking appearance, but in her agitation did not consider if it was the same one. The apparition was disappearing slowly, fading away to nothing—as ghosts sometimes do. Heather was shaking with fear. For there could be no interpretation of the words other than that Heather was soon to join her grandmother in the afterlife.

She stumbled out of bed, desperately calling out for Joe. But her voice rang through the dark, vacant house, making her feel even more frantic and helpless. He would not be returning before noon that day. She had to face this alone.

Sleep was out of the question. She ran from the bedroom, pulling the door shut. Whom could she call? It was after three. They'd have me locked up, she mused grimly, recalling her mother's record of committal to institutions and her own suicide attempts. She vowed to spend the rest of the night on the couch. She would keep calm, watch some television, drink tea—a lot of calming tea.

At eight o'clock, she called in sick. She had to tell somebody about her frightening experience. She tried Joe's sister, but could not reach her. She knew her friends would ridicule her. As a last resort, she called the person who had been closest of all to Nan Sal: her mother, Bernadette.

“Ah, you were only dreaming, daughter.” There was, as expected, a lack of concern in the voice. “I wouldn't worry about it.”

“No, I was
not
dreaming, Mommy. I was wide awake and she was standing right beside the bed.” Heather was annoyed at her mother's unsympathetic tone. “She was wearing a blue gown of some sort and
I saw that ring she always wore. You know the one—with the big garnet or whatever it was.”

There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.

“Mommy, are you still there? Mom?”

“I might as well be honest,” Bernadette said at last. “Your granny was buried in a blue nightgown, and the ring went with her, too.”

“Oh, my God, I'm going to die!” Heather cried. She broke into sobs. “I don't want to die now. I never want to leave Joe. I'm so happy with Joe. What'll Joe do?”

She waited to hear some consoling words but knew in her heart that they would not be forthcoming. She dried her tears.

“Mommy, are you still there?”

“Don't be such a bloody idiot,” the mother said and hung up.

It was the last straw. Heather's nerves, raw after her sleepless night, got the better of her. She broke down, slumped to the floor, and wept uncontrollably.

She had been here before. Twice. Heather felt the old fears returning, the ones that had driven her to the edge of despair on two occasions, that had been responsible for her choosing the ultimate escape route. Twice she had attempted to cut short her life; twice there had been somebody on hand to save her from herself. Now she was alone.

She heard something. It was something Heather had not heard in two years, and she had hoped never to hear it again. But there it was.

The voice—the man's voice.

It only ever spoke to her when she felt hopeless and despairing. In the past she would hear it sometimes inside her head, at other times outside. It was coming from somewhere down the hall.

“
The blades are in the bathroom, Heather
.” The words were delivered in a calm, authoritative tone. “
Go and do it now. You know it makes sense
.”

Heather looked down the hall, rigid with fright. There was no one to be seen. The voice came again, this time more rapid and urgent than before, beating out the words in a lilting meter.

“
The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now
––”

“No!” she screamed, clamping her hands over her ears. But now the voice was inside her head and getting louder.

“…
do it now, do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. Now, now, now
––”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands and curling up into herself.

All at once, just as suddenly as it had started, the voice stopped. She lowered her hands, slowly, unsteadily. Was she safe now?

“
You know it makes sense!
”

She jumped. The voice was close, next her ear, whispering in her ear. “
You know it makes sense!
” There was a strong smell of nicotine. Heather screamed.

Uncle Seth, her mother's boyfriend, had always said that, and usually after having perpetrated some vile act on her. “Shut up!” he would say as she howled in pain. “Keep quiet about this, Heather. No one else is to hear about it. You know it makes sense.”

But Seth had drowned himself six years past. How could it be him?

She struggled to her feet—and surprised herself when she discovered that the act of getting up made her immediately feel better. A calm was enveloping her whole body. She was no longer afraid. She knew what she had to do.

“
Do it now. Do it now.
” The voice continued to whisper in her ear. It was no longer strident, but slow and soothing. “
You know it makes sense. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Do it now. You know it makes sense.
”

“Yes…yes,” Heather heard herself say. She felt tired; lack of sleep was taking its toll. She moved to the bottom of the stairs, with the voice in her ear—the languid and soothing voice.

She placed her foot on the first tread, listening to the hypnotic voice. She was still in her nightgown and barefoot.

“
The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Do it now. You know it makes sense.
”

She started to climb the stairs. The hypnotic voice seemed to keep time with her steps.

“
Do it now. Do it now. Do it now!
”

She kept her eyes fixed on the open bathroom door. There, in the bathroom, she knew, lay blessed release. Death seemed so natural. All her anxiety had drained away. The words were so very reassuring.

She was almost there. The bathroom door stood open, beckoning. Heather looked down at her wrists. Each bore a double ring of raised, hard skin, like the cicatrices she had seen once on a
National Geographic
show. The people of some primitive island or other did that to themselves; they cut themselves, watched the blood flow. They did it in the cause of “beauty.” It was the most natural thing in the world. Heather had done it to herself; twice before. She could do it again.

“
Do it now,
” the voice whispered again. “
Now. Do it now. Now. Do it now. Do it now
.”

She stood inside the bathroom door, staring at the cabinet.

“
Do it now. You just know…you just know it makes sense.
” The voice—Uncle Seth's voice—was coming in waves, washing over her, pulling her closer and closer toward the “beauty” of oblivion.

She reached for the cabinet handle with the same yearning the alcoholic feels when reaching for the first drink of the day.

“
Do it now!
” the voice cajoled. “
Now
––”

“Heather!”

She stopped, pulled up sharp. It was another voice, cutting in on Seth's.

“Heather, are you up there?”

She went out to the landing. There was a man standing at the bottom of the stairs. A stranger in her home.

“Heather, it's me. What's the matter with you?”

She stared down at him. Who was this guy? What was he doing in her house?

“
He wants to kill you, Heather.
”

The voice was in her head again, clamorous, insistent.

“
Don't go down to him. Don't go near him!
”

“Heather?” The man came slowly up the stairs. “Heather, are you all right? It's me, honey. Joe.”

“
That's not Joe!
” The voice was urgent now. “
He only looks like Joe. He wants to kill you.
”

“Heather?” She heard the stranger speaking to her, as if over a great distance. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“
You must kill him first, Heather. You must!
”

“Jesus, Heather, what's the matter?” Joe was to confess later that he was scared. He had never seen his partner like this before. Her eyes were wide and staring. She seemed in some kind of trance.

He put a hand on her arm. At his touch she flinched. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Joe, what are you doing here?”

“
F*** you!
” said the voice. “
F*** you, Heather! If you tell him about us, we'll really make you suffer. Really suffer!
”

“Help me!” she cried and collapsed into Joe's arms.

He made them coffee. Heather could at last tell somebody about the apparition, somebody who would listen with a sympathetic ear. She told Joe about the grandmother and what she had said. She dared not tell him about the voice. She was too afraid. That dreadful, whispered warning still echoed in her head.