Veil Of The Damned

by K. Massari

  He let the cursor linger over the e-mail Valeria had sent. He sat at the computer desk just staring at the screen, until the soup hissed quietly, nearly boiling over. He rushed to stir it, and added cream. For a homeless person, discarded by his last and next of kin, he was doing well. At least for the moment. He would probably have to help Ray get undressed, and take him to the bathroom.

  Wallace went back to the computer. He worried he might find Valeria’s e-mail gone, because this day had been so very strange. It was still there, and with his eyes closed, he double clicked it open. It read:

  “Dear Wally, I hope you understand. There is still so very much I have to tell you, so much you don’t know yet. But you are special! You are my very special friend. Pls meet me tonight at the beach, same place, same time. I will be there. I have a message for you. It’s so important. Pls be there. With love, Valeria (YOUR FRIEND).”

  Wallace had to get up to breathe. Oh boy, this woman was something. But after everything that had happened, how could he possibly trust her?

  ~

  Ray never woke up again that quiet evening. Wallace covered his legs with a blanket, and tucked it under his thighs, enveloping his knees and his feet. He squeezed an extra small pillow under his head. He dimmed the lights. He did all the dishes, took care of himself, and – although he felt fairly guilty about it - went to bed in Mr. Lighthill’s room, instead of retiring down into the basement.

  He tried to sleep; the more he tried, the more agitated he became. Valeria was at the beach, in a beautiful dress, waiting, the most beautiful creature ever to care about him, and he was in an old man’s bed counting the losses of his life.

  He threw the covers back and jumped out of bed. Ray was still snoring quietly. Feeling uncomfortable about leaving the old man in the living room (what if he woke up at night, tried to get up, stumbled, fell?). But then, Wallace wasn’t supposed to be there to begin with (it didn’t make things better), the family needed to find a caregiver. He promised himself he wouldn’t stay away for too long, just to check to see if Valeria was really at the beach, and even if she did win him over to come with her to her spooky house again, he would refuse to enter, and say he was sorry, that he was obliged to look after Mr. Lighthill, because Ray was now his landlord of sorts, a father figure, they needed each other (at least Wallace liked to think so). Even though he had nothing in writing.

  He called a cab, and was down by the water in no time.

  At first, he couldn’t find her. So he sat on a marooned log, defeated. As he looked out to sea, sipping a cold beer a partying bystander had handed him, he saw her walking towards him along the water’s edge.

  She seemed to vanish, then reappear. Wallace rubbed his eyes, and squinted at the sight of her.

  She greeted him with a “hey!” and touched his shoulder. That was real enough.

  “Hey,” he said and smiled, in the bear grip of joy. As if he had known her forever.

  Valeria sat down next to him, snuggling into him.

  He put a heavy arm around her, and so they sat, looking out over the beautiful dark blue ocean on a summer’s night, content for the moment.

  “Did you get my email?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Will tonight be the night?”

  He decided to risk it.

  “You know what I’m thinking anyway.”

  “I do … WE do.”

  She kissed his cheek. Her lips were cool, not cold, and soft.

  “Me? I’m your … new … friend?” Wallace asked.

  “Yes, you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re special. You’re kind.”

  Wallace swallowed.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, then?”

  “I’m ready.”

  They walked to her Honda silently, and when they were on the road, Valeria told him about her past. How it had started out as harmless fun, two or three couples, getting together, drinking … how it had become a weekend activity, how others joined in. How evil became ever more present. How boundaries were transgressed. Until one day, something gained entry and began to erode the community from its weakest members on outward.

  “Wallace, I was a whore.”

  She stared at him at the red light.

  “I know. I don’t mind.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I want you to be mine. I want you to love me.”

  Valeria was about to laugh a practiced, bitter laugh. She threw her head back, but the light turned green and she bit her lip. When she turned quickly while driving, he could see the single tear rolling down her cheek.

  “I guess that makes you the one.”

  When the car came to a halt on Chestnut Avenue, in front of the stately mansion that had seen so many desires, so many pleasures, but also so much pain and depravity, Valeria grabbed his arm.

  “We don’t know what is was that came into our lives. It was pure evil.”

  Wallace couldn’t help thinking of Harold … and Goode.

  “And they are still here, after all this time. Wallace, you’re a breaker. I just know you are.”

  “What exactly is … a breaker?”

  “Someone who can stop all of it from happening again. You have the light. You control …”

  “You’re sure it’s that simple?”

  She nodded, then shook her head.

  Wallace slowly got out of the car. Steeling himself against the zombie creatures he would see shortly, he looked up into the darkened skies, and mumbled a short prayer. Valeria stood like a statue next to her car. Prayer seemed to bother her. Wallace felt a little sick to his stomach. What had he gotten himself into, he thought.

  He held out a hand. She came to him and took it. Together, they walked towards the house.

  Once inside, Valeria led Wallace to the intimidating oak door with a shy smile; she again turned the golden handle, slowly. Instead of walking into a room, they walked into a cemetery; in the black of the night, and from behind the tombstones, tormented souls appeared, in their decayed bodies. Wallace tried to feel compassion for the dead, for Valeria’s sake. He was willing to take this chance, maybe he could be helpful in some way.

  A wind picked up, and the ghostly figures screeched in agony. Wallace did not back away. He looked at Valeria, now ugly, losing large pieces of flesh, her skull revealed.

  “I don’t understand,” Wallace said.

  “We can’t move on, no one can,” Valeria wailed.

  He looked at her with love and concern. ‘I feel close to them’, he thought, knowing it was wrong, he should fight, return to the real world, not feel compelled to stay … with this.

  “Come,” she motioned. And lead him to moss-covered stone steps leading further into the ground. Revulsion threatened to take over, as he tried to breathe the moldy air. He walked into darkness, a part of him wanting to be with her, wanting to believe her, and another part of his soul screaming for him to back away, to run, to fight off the living dead.

  But he followed her. And he did not leave her.

  Chapter 9

  Wallace woke up foggy-headed in Ray’s dark, musty basement. He tried to make sense of what had happened the night before. It was early Thursday morning, and this was a temporary arrangement. He was homeless, as his only brother Harold had turned him down when he had asked for help. That much he remembered. That much made sense.

  The cot was very uncomfortable for a man his size. A thin blanket covered his legs, but wasn’t very warm. It got very cold at night sometimes. If only he could turn to lie on his side! He risked the cot breaking under his weight as it was, he did not dare move too much.

  He laughed inwardly. He was 36 now, and he had daydreamed away much of his life, living on family money. He wasn’t sorry, it was what he had been told to do.

  A few scant rays of light bled into his basement room full of shelves and clutter. He felt abandoned. Lost. Torn. How could he be the angel of anyone? With a throbbing head
ache, he remembered Valeria. He should go visit Harold, choke him and rob him, beat him and spit at him.

  But he was not the kind of person to do that.

  “I’m a sucker,” he muttered, and closed his eyes, refusing reality.

  ~

  The day’s work cleaning out an attic and a garage turned out to be at Larry Goode’s - of all places! Danny teamed up with him to rid the attic of boxes, mirrors, clothes, dolls, junk. The day was hot and humid, yet again, and sweat poured down Wallace’ face and arms. Large stains formed on his shirt.

  The others in the clean-up group commented often on how he looked, and on how the work would help him “lose weight”. Goode himself stood at the front door inspecting the work, and he glared at Wallace with a fierce intensity every time he passed.

  ‘Why does he loathe me so?’ thought Wallace. And: ‘I wish someone would offer me a glass of water.’

  He had filled a bottle with tap water, but it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  As he was throwing old books into a container, he came upon a beautiful journal with an expensive cover. He opened it and saw a drawing of a man who was not unlike Larry, only dressed in old-fashioned clothing, 19th century, a dandy. He stood bent over a woman whose head had been snapped back. Blood and golden light sprayed from the open wound, and the Larry-lookalike seemed to be sucking in all of the life that was escaping her.

  Wallace closed it, disturbed. His heart skipped a beat, and then wound up into a gallop. A flashback plagued him, of the night before, of stories he had heard. His mind was too weary and sleep-deprived for him to dwell on it, he didn’t want to deal with any of this.

  Danny offered him an ice cold Coca Cola. Very tempting. With all the ‘lose weight’ talk, Wallace was, at first, shy about taking it. When Danny grinned his cute Danny grin, Wallace accepted. The sugary drink went down really easy. Wallace thought wistfully, he would need at least ten more.

  Goode handed him a towel.

  “There ya go,” he said, throwing it in his general direction.

  “At first, he seemed like a very nice man,” a childlike voice in his head explained.

  “He was especially nice to the little ones, bringing them gifts, telling them sweet things, offering them candy …”

  “One night, he slapped me, and took me with violence. I was bleeding. His face twisted into something mad and unusual. They all told the same story … We don’t know what happened.”

  She was barely fifteen. Her chin rested on her hands, folded over the tomb stone. Her face was grayish pale, but her spirit was still in this world so she could share her story with Wallace, who had stood holding Valeria’s hand.

  That had been the previous night. The moment came flooding back, a rift, and Wallace felt nauseous.

  “What’sa matter, big buddy. Working too hard?”

  Goode was being superficially nice. Not to scratch the surface, Wallace thought. The two-headed serpent is showing me the other side.

  “I’m fine, sir. Thank you.”

  Goode mocked him. Much to the amusement of all the workers. Wallace tried to shrug it off. He had been through this a thousand times. He needed the money; Harold was not like Mom or Dad.

  Not like Valeria.

  Goode was not finished. He pumped air into his cheeks, and let it out slowly, a balloon deflating. The workers stopped hauling boxes and laughed, even howled.

  Wallace stood in the middle, defeated. He knew, once they started, they would not stop. He had to do something about it, work out at a gym, eat less fast food, try to lose weight. But the disappointment and the depression just made it impossible. Food was the only thing that ever cheered him up or gave him a little satisfaction. All of a sudden someone said:

  “Leave him alone. Just stop it.”

  The crowd let out a surprised collective ‘Whoa!’ and looked in the direction of the male voice telling Larry to shut up. Ray Lighthill stood on the sidewalk, trembling, waving an umbrella on a hot, sunny day.

  Wallace shook his head.

  Larry walked briskly into his house, the expression on his face one of suppressed amusement. But there were other feelings smoldering on his otherwise tan, handsome face: loathing, repulsion, indifference. A coldhearted prick. Wallace thought of the drawing depicting a man sucking the life out of his victim, and Valeria’s descriptions of beings that were utterly evil, who held souls captive, even after they found no more use in the bodies.

  “Do you have to work here?” Ray asked Wallace.

  “It’s fine. I’m nearly finished.” Wallace answered. The crowd slowly dispersed.

  “Come home with me. I’ll pay you a day’s work.”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  Wallace felt the world slipping away.

  Danny piped in: “Wally, finish your work. Not much left. You deserve the money.”

  He rubbed Wallace’ shoulder, and nodded towards Lighthill.

  “Doesn’t look much like rain, old man,” he said, pointing towards Ray’s umbrella.

  Ray just glared back at him.

  “I remember you, too. You were a part of it.”

  Danny shrugged and smiled. Wallace trotted back into the house. Before he entered, he said to Ray:

  “Please go back home. I’ll be there soon.”

  He mouthed the words:

  “Thank you so much.”

  Ray nodded and turned to go. At that very moment, Larry tried to leave the house with a framed painting. He pushed rudely past Wallace.

  “Mr. L. Take a look at this!”

  Chapter 10

  Wallace caught a glimpse of the painting, and knew immediately it was a portrait of Valeria, sitting in the main room of the mansion on Chestnut Avenue, in a red velvet gown.

  His heart pounded in a way that - for the first time ever - he thought he might be falling deeply in love with someone.

  “What’s this?” asked Ray, visibly annoyed.

  “Remember her?” asked Larry, smiling like a clown.

  Ray bowed his head, and said nothing at first. It seemed he had to fight his inner demons before he could look up and face Goode. It was not for lack of courage, though.

  “She’s in heaven now,” Lighthill muttered softly.

  Wallace turned to watch him closely. How well had he known her?

  “Oh, is she?” scoffed Larry, amused. Some of the workers came back to watch.

  “You can’t hurt her anymore. The veil, remember?”

  Goode suddenly lost his wicked glee; it was as if he suddenly remembered something, something important. He glanced at the portrait solemnly for a minute, and handed it to Wallace.

  “Throw it away!” he ordered and marched back into the house.

  Wallace did not dare look at the portrait. He stood frozen, ready to scream. Danny tried tearing the painting away from him, but again, Lighthill intervened.

  “Have you young people all gone crazy? Give it to me - right now!”

  Wallace had never seen Ray so full of energy. He was impressed. But he knew he would find the old man exhausted and asleep when he went back to his house later on.

  Ray turned and marched off defiantly, umbrella in one hand, painting in the other. Some members of the clean-up team laughed and started to talk, but Danny shouted for them to get working again.

  “What’s the story?” asked Wallace.

  “I’ll tell you sometime,” Danny answered.

  “You know her, too … Valeria?”

  “Yeah man, Wally, she’s a legend around here.”

  More Wallace did not dare to ask, Danny was a workaholic, and so he got going, rushing back into the house and up the stairs to the attic.

  There were more paintings, of pretty women in long, flowing gowns. Some with gentleman, others in the nude, with flowers and flute glasses. All in seemingly subdued good taste. But Wallace was no fool. Valeria’s mansion had been a bordello; he was not bothered by the idea. One small painting showed a very young girl, bent backward
s, her neck cut open, blood and light escaping through the gash; a man who looked like Larry was bent over her, relishing the moment. Wallace shuddered.

  He tried to hide the painting, but Danny took it from him. Wallace wanted to leave. Danny mouthed the word “Soon.” Others had already left.

  As he was coming down the stairs with various objects, Goode blocked his path with water bottles. They looked like they were cold. Wallace hesitated. What kind of man was Larry anyway?

  “I know you don’t like me, son,” he said. “You don’t know me. Let’s talk.”

  Wallace turned but didn’t see Danny anywhere. He put down the things to be thrown away slowly and followed Larry into a dining room. It led out onto a patio, where they sat down with the water.

  “Funny things have been happening, am I right?”

  Wallace nodded glumly.

  “You are certainly not the first guy to have to go through with it.”

  This caught Wallace’ attention.

  They each took a sip of water, eying each other.

  “The l a d y. You know. Latina. Whore.”

  Wallace jumped. His face flushed with anger, his hands were fists, he was ready to charge at Larry.

  Larry grimaced. “Stop it.”

  He added: “You work for me, remember?”

  “She haunts this neighborhood. Small wonder. Too sick for heaven, too pretty for hell.”

  Wallace slowly sat back down.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I could use some whiskey. You?” asked Goode.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Lumbering back into the house, Larry came back with a bottle.

  ‘He’s not going to drink from the bottle, is he?’ thought Wallace.

  Larry put the bottle to his lips and drank. He swallowed three times. Then he bowed his head.

  “If you see her in a dream … don’t do what she says.”

  Wallace stared at him, weighing his words.

  “Have you?”

  “That’s what I thought. She’s been working on you.”

  He handed Wallace the bottle. This time, Wallace did not decline.

  “I know your brother Harold. We do business together sometimes. … And I heard about your … altercation.”