Veil Of The Damned

by K. Massari

Remembering his shock from the night before at finding himself in a graveyard after simply walking into a room, Wallace paused and tried to find the courage to open the door. As two cats rubbed themselves against him, swirling around his feet, Wallace stood holding the knob in his trembling hand.

  Taking deep breaths, Wallace threw the door open and briskly walked out into the hallway. He found himself at the top of three steep flights of stairs, peering down. What should he do? Try and find Valeria? Call out to her?

  He needed to pee, he wanted to find a kitchen and something to eat. Wallace was hungry again. Stress made him hungry, but then again, he was hungry most of the time, all through the day, but this dark and uninviting house made him craving comfort food in a donut box.

  He found a bathroom, with shelves full of towels, soaps and toiletries. Perhaps the shower worked? He would check that out later. He turned the lights back off, and closed the door behind him.

  Down a flight of steps, he found a dining room and a kitchen, just as a coffee machine sputtered to a finish. Wallace loved the taste of coffee. An ancient refrigerator was stuffed to the brim with food, hot dogs, watermelon slices, cakes, cookies, milk, orange juice. Wallace sat down at the kitchen table, holding his head in his hands, and tried to make sense of what had happened.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it thoughtfully. In the morning, Valeria would fill him in and he would try to thank her and offer to work for her. But was she … even alive?

  Out in the hallway, all was quiet. The animals were sleeping under the armchairs or wandering about in all the many rooms of the house. Wallace sighed. It did not feel like that. Deep in his heart he knew that Valeria, the mysterious shadow beings and the dog and the cats … they had now all gone back to their graves.

  Wallace drank the last few bitter drops of coffee and decided to sleep some more, until morning.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Wallace slept in, and when he came to, he sauntered into the kitchen in his underwear. He was astonished to find a pan full of bacon and a pan full of scrambled eggs both waiting for him on the stove, and toast ready to be popped into the toaster. He helped himself, and ate alone. He could easily get used to a life like this, he thought, with Valeria playing I Dream Of Jeannie for him.

  The white cat from the night before, the only one Wallace had been able to touch, sat in the hallway purring, watching him. Wallace tore off a piece of bacon, and offered it to her. Here kitty. Here kitty.

  The cat did not move. She did not give in to the beckoning. There was a sadness about her.

  Wallace finished and treated himself to a full warm bath, what a luxury!

  Someone had put a new pair of blue jeans, just his size, on a bed in a room next to the bathroom, along with a fresh, very large T-shirt and new socks and new Nike shoes, also a perfect fit.

  He got dressed and left the house, looking and feeling brand new. He did not bother searching for Valeria or for answers.

  Wallace jumped on a bus to the mall, ready for more coffee, and he figured he would visit old Ray Lighthill, even if it was just to see if he was still alive. (He had often entered the house, entered the living room, sure this time it was over, the frail man as stock still as a statue.)

  He had grown attached to him. He felt the intense need to have a relationship with someone, and most relationships were for immediate concerns and resources. Wallace didn’t want to think of a word like ‘love’.

  ~

  Later, at the mall, he walked around, browsing through stores, killing time, trying to make sense of what had happened the night before. He eventually ran into Danny – his friend from the beach -, and bummed a ride back into the neighborhood.

  ~

  Wallace walked hesitantly into Ray Lighthill’s backyard. He unlocked the outside doors leading down into the cellar. It was dark and musty in there, but Wallace had taken to calling it home. He sat on the old squeaky bed with the flimsy blanket, with racks and shelves of tools surrounding him, tools that were covered in dust and grime and hadn’t been used in years.

  ‘Please, Mr. Lighthill,’ he thought, ‘please be home and alive and well. I need someone to talk to.’

  He could not get himself to go upstairs and check on the old man for fear of finding him dead and losing yet another relationship. It would revert him back to having only his brother Harold.

  After waiting for twenty minutes, he heaved himself off of his cot, and went up the stairs towards the hallway. He hoped Mr. Lighthill’s adult kids hadn’t come visiting, they were often so unkind as to lock the door leading down into the cellar. He jiggled the doorknob. Today, it was not locked.

  Entering the hallway, Wallace smelled buttered pancakes with syrup: a good sign. Lighthill was up and eating, cooking and taking care of himself.

  Wallace found him in the small kitchen towards the back of the house, with coffee, Fanta, a stack of golden pancakes, eating breakfast with a smile.

  “Oh good morning, Mr. Lighthill, so glad to see you!”

  “Well hello,” the old man said. “Where’ve you been? I was worried sick last night.”

  “I crashed with a lady.”

  “Woo!”

  “Yes, a wonderful lady … on Chestnut Avenue.”

  Lighthill looked concerned for a moment, but then smiled another broad, denture-toothed smile.

  “Have some pancakes, son.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They ate in silence, with Lighthill introspective, as if trying to remember something.

  After the pancakes, they cleared the table together, and did the dishes.

  “What are your plans for the day, Wallace?”

  Wallace was hesitant.

  “I thought I might help you with your computer … and then, as a reward, you might let me use it.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it. We are friends.”

  Wallace thought of giving Mr. L. a hug. He had done so once before, a fierce bear hug, and he had been shaken at how thin and fragile the old man was. He had worried he might really hurt him. Wallace wanted a hug now anyway. From someone. From anyone.

  Mr. Lighthill put a soapsudsy hand on his shoulder.

  “Next time you stay the night at a friend’s house, or a lady’s house … let me know first, okay?”

  The kind words were a hug. Wallace blinked back the tears.

  “Yes, sir!”

  He knew full well he would forget. And so did Ray Lighthill.

  When Wallace looked up to the kitchen window, there sat the lovely white cat (with a little tiger fur) from Valeria’s house. She was staring into the kitchen at him. Wallace let go of a glass he was drying. It shattered on the floor. When Lighthill looked up, curious what had spooked him, the cat jumped backwards, just in time.

  Wallace cleaned up the glass, and vacuumed for good measure. Then he booted up the computer, and while the old man typed up an email to his sister in Wisconsin, Wallace decided to walk the four blocks to his brother Harold’s house. There was not much else to do.

  Ray Lighthill hardly noticed as Wallace let himself out the door. The air was humid and sticky, even though it was barely noon. This day was going to be a scorcher. There was no one on the quiet streets. Wallace hated not having a job, not even a permanent place to stay. He walked in the middle of the street, as if for a showdown.

  With Harold, his moody brother, every encounter invariably was … a showdown.

  Chapter 6

  The front gate had never been locked. Not in all the years since their parents had passed away. It didn’t mean anyone could just walk in; Wallace had his doubts about entering Harold’s property after being made to feel unwelcome and unwanted, not once, but often.

  He waited for ten minutes, with his back to the fence, looking nervously up and down the street. Then he walked into the garden, admiring the shade trees, the cherry trees, the blue spruce and poplar tr
ees.

  Harold had this paradise all to himself, he had been the heir. Trying to find cover, Wallace looked around. He felt he needed to hide. Near a rear window without curtains, he listened for sounds. He hoped Harold wasn’t home. Cupping both hands, he looked into the house, trying to make out furniture, trying to find a clue why Harold was such a strange person, ultimately, what was wrong with him, what had changed him.

  What he saw was shocking. He had expected the dining room to be in the same shape Mom left it behind when she got divorced from Dad and moved out. All the furniture was still there, the same furniture they owned during their marriage, but it seemed more furniture had been added, rather stuffed into the room. The place was full of clutter, but - as if someone had been looking for something -, everything had been thrown around, covered and then uncovered, shoved and upturned. No one had bothered putting everything back in order. No one had bothered dusting and cleaning, either.

  In the middle of the mess, there was blood; bones had been scattered, of seemingly half-eaten animals, and a severed human hand, draped over the side of a white-blanket-covered armchair, was enough to make Wallace gag, then choke and want to run.

  Wallace jerked back, horrified. Something was seriously wrong. This was a crime scene.

  ~

  He wanted to get away, he didn’t want to deal with this. He wanted and needed Ray, Valeria, Danny, the gang down on the beach, anyone - just not this.

  ‘Harold is the only family you’ve got,’ a voice in his head informed him.

  “Harold is not just sick,” he answered out loud.

  “Harold is the devil.”

  ~

  He hurried around the house to the front gate, eager to escape and surprised he could jog so well with all his extra pounds. He hoped no neighbors were watching, no female neighbors, but then again, why was their approval so important? He didn’t want anyone to see the the big ring around his midriff bobbing up and down.

  I should be calling the police, he thought, not worrying about women in the neighborhood. He knew he couldn’t see it through. He could not call the police on his brother. For so many years, they had been apart.

  When he reached the gate, he saw a small dog, a pit bull, he thought (although he wasn’t so sure about dogs), standing outside, looking in. He thought of the kitty looking into Ray Lighthill’s kitchen.

  “Shoo!” he yelled and waved, not slowing in pace.

  As he grabbed the gate and opened it, the dog growled fiercely. Frightened, Wallace stayed inside, holding the gate between himself and the dog protectively.

  “Go away,” he said in a loud voice, all the while worried Harold would somehow come home, twist the situation into place with his perverted and charming lies, and call the police ON HIM.

  The dog was quiet. Wallace opened the gate a few inches, and the dog moved forward and growled at him again.

  That was when the house growled.

  Wallace looked up at the ruined old place, paralyzed, in utter disbelief.

  The growls were loud, menacing, and seemed to be coming from the outer walls of it.

  Thoroughly creeped out, Wallace panicked, but knew there was no way he could lift himself over the fence that surrounded the backyard.

  To make matters worse, something pushed him. During his fall, for a fraction of a second, he thought of being hacked to pieces, his hands, his feet, other body parts, severed, all placed neatly in a circle on white sheets in what used to be his parents’ living room. He toppled over, and banged his shoulder on a rock. He realized the growling dog would take advantage of this, so he tried hard to get back on his feet. Sure enough, the pit bull had nuzzled open the gate and was squeezing in.

  Even though Wallace hated doing it, he slammed the gate on the pit bull’s stomach. It let out a high yelp, and Wallace opened the gate so that the dog could escape. Which it did. It ran down the street at top speed.

  Wallace swallowed hard and glanced back over his shoulder into the garden. All was quiet.

  Shivers ran down his spine. He was cold, despite the humidity. His pride did not allow him to run down the street the way the dog did. It was the only thing, however, he really wanted to do. Screw pride, screw courage, he thought.

  A growling house. An invisible something pushing him. A severed hand. Bones, blood … squalor.

  Wallace resented having to find a logical explanation for any of this. It was his own fault, though. He just had to go back to Harold’s house. He could have just … stayed away.

  Chapter 7

  Wallace stumbled back to Ray’s house, hurt and confused. The sun was up in full glory, and after a few steps, he began to sweat, the sweat running down his cheeks and forehead in little rivers of drops.

  To his surprise, Lighthill was out on the street, rejuvenated, talking to a neighbor, who stood in front of a newly-built house and an obscenely large pickup truck. Wallace had heard of him, a man named Larry Goode. He was a wealthy, successful man, with an aura that drew people in, but his eyes, they were full of a light green color, full of something cold and not very kind. Wallace was tempted to think of conspiracy theories involving shapeshifting reptilians, who were already ruling the world, as Goode looked in his direction and stared.

  Wallace shook his head. It would be better to avoid the situation entirely. Ray had already seen him and had not smiled. He decided to go down to the beach and to ask Danny if there was work for the day, and … maybe there was. Ray and Good continued to talk, Wallace nodded, but neither nodded back, so he continued hurrying and minding his own business.

  Before he turned a corner on Harbor Road to leave the neighborhood, he turned and took one last look. Goode was scowling at him, his face scrunching up.

  ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘I have no job, no car, no home. I’m overweight. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.’

  “Fuck you, sir,” he muttered.

  He had been born as Harold’s brother, after all.

  And it had gone downhill from there.

  ~

  He found the beach deserted. Wallace watched the seagulls. He felt empty and alone, hollow. When had it happened? When had he stopped being a person? Without a voice, without rights. Without a future. Why was even Ray suddenly turning on him?

  He was hungry, very hungry. If something or someone didn’t turn up soon, he would go for pizza, couple of dollar slices would do the trick. Afterwards, he would still be hungry, and he would buy a loaf of bread, eat it, and the hunger would go away for a bit. But not for long.

  Because it wasn’t just a hunger for food. It was a hunger for everything. Kicking a rock into the ocean, Wallace walked along the beach, knowing there was probably no one around who had time for him. He enjoyed the beach anyway. Staring out into the horizon, it helped ease the pain, it cleared his mind.

  Since Valeria’s house was on his way to the nearest pizzeria, he decided to retrace the route they had taken the night before. He was curious to see what her house looked like in broad daylight, and if, by chance, he would see her, or if he might even have the nerve to ring her doorbell.

  Smiling for the first time on an otherwise hot and humid, depressing, if not downright bizarre day, Wallace kicked one last stone into the water and turned to leave. First, he walked to the place where the regulars usually started a small fire, which never burned and was more of a dare. It was covered with sand and driftwood. But he knew it was there. He envisioned Valeria taking his hand and walking him to the car. It was as if her smell still lingered in the air.

  As he made his way down the street Valeria had referred to as “Chestnut” - and she had probably meant Chestnut Avenue -, but which was now called Hayes Avenue on street signs, he thought of the friendly bantering that had gone on between the two of them. Wallace now felt sweaty, sticky and uncomfortable.

  He had passed the Subway restaurant, so he had to be in the right neighborhood. He recognized some of the houses; although, by day, they looked rundown and abandoned.
The night before, it had seemed to him, this was an upscale neighborhood.

  He needed a bath, his new clothes were drenched. He saw the huge shade trees a block down, and started to jog towards them. A woman in a car honked and smiled. ‘How rude,’ Wallace thought. She was making fun of him, women in cars invariably did, although he had been told ‘they were just trying to be friendly’.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, and walked slowly away.

  The shade trees were sugar maples and it was a joy to look up into their leaves. However, Valeria’s beautiful house from the night before – it was gone. Construction had started further back, an entirely different house was being built. No sign of the previous architectural structure, it wasn’t even on the same spot. Wallace dried his face with a part of his T-shirt.

  ‘A dream,’ he thought.

  ‘I drank too much wine, fell asleep, and had a dream.’

  But how to explain his new clothes? How real Valeria’s soft hand had felt in his! How he had helped himself to a monster breakfast. This was turning into a Rubik’s Cube of a day. He was also tired of running from place to place and the day getting weirder and weirder.

  He decided to return to Ray’s basement, and to ask him to be allowed to take a shower. But first, he needed pizza, lots of pizza.

  Part II

  Chapter 8

  Ray Lighthill looked sad and tired, sleeping in his favorite armchair. The front door and all the windows were open. Wallace closed up the house, as winds were growing in intensity, heralding a storm. He locked up and started a Campbell’s soup with crackers.

  Turning on the computer, he hoped to forget the day with Youtube clips, and news updates. Opening his email inbox, his heart thudded twice and stopped, Valeria had sent him an e-mail titled: “Forgive Me.”

  There were others, one from Danny, announcing a day’s work freeing a garage and a house of clutter. Wallace quickly agreed to be there the next day.