A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  All this time I’d hoped it wasn’t true. Sure, I’d heard the voices in Leona’s head whispering, seen flashes of her bent over the desk in his office. But I thought that was just a fantasy, along with everything else her fucked-up brain manufactured. I was losing it.

  There’s no way this baby is mine?

  My sister was turning to leave.

  “Give her to me!” I snatched Marie by the feet, pulling her out of my sister’s hands. Cradling her head, I tilted her to catch the window light on her face. The little chocolate-colored eyes locked with mine and I knew. “There’s no way this baby is mine.”

  I let go of the head and doubled my hands around Marie’s ankles.

  “What are you mumbling about?” she asked, inspecting her cuticles. “C’mon, I have to go.” She looked up and started, “Jesus, Leona! Give her to me, you’re going to hurt her!”

  “There’s no way this baby is mine!” I shouted as I swung Marie like a baseball bat at my sister.

  Their heads met with a wet crush, sending Amanda into the soda machine.

  “Someone call Dr. Parsons,” the supervisor yelled, running toward me. “And get a guard!”

  “There’s no way this baby is mine!”

  I took another swing, this time narrowly missing an unfortunate visitor. Marie’s blood sprayed into my mouth when her head hit the edge of the table where we’d been sitting.

  I was vaguely aware of screaming … and the taste of blood. “There’s no way this baby is mine!”

  I dropped the supervisor mid-stride with a bloody slug, and before I could reset, the guard was on me, trying to grab Marie. I scratched him across the face while he fumbled with slippery hands for his gun. He kicked me off him and backed up, weapon drawn.

  We were at an impasse; my back against the wall, both of us breathing heavy, a tattered child in my hands, a gun in his. Well, I guess this is it then. Suicide by cop.

  I rushed him. “There’s no way this baby is mine!”

  I was a medieval warrior with a mace, swinging at … the most spectacular eyes gone sapphire with fury. Those eyes. Her eyes.

  An immense BANG! filled my head, and my vision became a brief tunnel that soon enveloped itself completely.

  “Oh, how good of you to come.” The voice trying to penetrate my mind was familiar.

  I was lying prone, arms outstretched, as if in supplication. A blast of rancid heat exploded over me. I moaned. My skin was on fire—a ferocious, tortuous sensation.

  A woman’s laugh blared like a morning alarm clock. “Welcome home, husband.”

  I managed to lift my head between dry heaves to see her naked, standing triumphantly in front of me smoking a cigarette. Her skin was pinked, rosy almost, as if every capillary was aroused to the surface in anticipation of touch. She was a perfectly ripe fruit, so juicy. I tasted her in my mouth.

  What the hell are you doing here?

  “Oh, you don’t know? Don’t … get it?” she asked, eyes blazing electric blue.

  I coughed, as if I were the one smoking. Fuck you.

  The atmosphere crackled, then ignited around me. The serpent congealed at Leona’s side, a scaly arm around her shoulders, and twisted her erect nipple, as if tuning a radio to a clear frequency. Her eyes closed, her head fell backward, and she moaned in a cavernous echo of infinite rapture.

  The beast twisted again. “See, I told you it would be fun.”

  The cacophony of Leona’s orgasm hit me, a nuclear squeeze of my entire being imploding and exploding simultaneously.

  Make it stop! I begged. Give me another chance!

  “Of course, as you can see, I offered your wife a deal as well: eternal pleasure in exchange for your soul.” The beast waved its clawed hand dismissively. “Martin, show Mr. Davis to his room.”

  Martin bowed quickly. “Yes, Your Eminence. Right this way, sir.”

  Screaming. My screaming. The unimaginable agony of being sucked apart, molecule by molecule, as I siphoned into infinity.

  The serpent chuckled. “It’s not my fault she played the game better than you.”

  I stood, hands on knees, gasping for precious air. Lightning flashed across the sky, and the rumble of thunder rolled off the hills. Heavy drops of rain splattered mud on my boots, drenched my jeans and blouse, and plastered my hair against my face.

  Enough is enough, you asshole; never again.

  I straightened, still gasping, and glared at the house.

  Dark and bleak against the gray sky, a single light sat upon the porch.

  I grinned. He knows his forever-loving wife is coming home.

  This time is the last time, you bastard.

  I wiped muddy hands on my blouse and glowered at my broken and dirt-filled nails. The rain had been my saving grace, washing away most of the hard-packed dirt from my shallow grave.

  I moved toward the house, my left leg dragging.

  It took time, but I managed. When I got there, I pulled myself up the steps to the porch. I was tired and wet, and my damn leg hurt like hell.

  I grabbed the oil lantern from where it sat on the rail and moved across to the open door. He shot me the last time I came home. But not this time.

  I stepped to the side and passed the lamp in front of the door. Sure enough, BOOM! Damn thing was loud enough to wake the dead.

  I had to grin. He wasn’t going to get me the same way twice.

  “Hey, that ain’t any way to greet your wife.”

  “You ain’t my wife. You git yourself back in your hole and stay there.”

  “Nope, not happening, sweet pea. We is married, like it or not.”

  “Just until death do us part. You’re dead and we done be parted. You git back where you belong.”

  “Nope, Love, this here is just the worse of ‘for better or worse.’

  But I have an idea. If you let me in, we can talk. I know how we can fix this.”

  “How?”

  “Let me in first.”

  “Okay, but keep your distance.”

  I limped into the house and stared at my husband. He was haggard and skinny, like he’d not slept or eaten in a real long while. His clothes hung in tatters, and the hat on his head did nothing to hide his stringy hair.

  He swung the gun to the left and said, “Kitchen.”

  I moved slowly through the living room, past the faded couch and the chair with gashes and holes. Pictures on the mantle were faded and dull. A layer of dust covered everything.

  “Been taking real good care of the place, I see.”

  “Don’t know why, but nothing seems to be working. I can’t git the damn lights on, and there ain’t nothing to eat.”

  I nodded. As I passed the old piano, I pressed an ivory, and the sound was hollow and off-key.

  The muzzle of his gun poked me in the back. “Keep your hands to yourself, and git in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was not any better. The paint on the table and chairs was cracked and peeling and the wallpaper yellowed. An old hand axe leaned against a rotted pile of wood in the bin. The old stove might still work.

  I sat on one side of the table, and he pulled a chair away and sat on the other. The gun still pointed at me.

  “So talk. You think you got the answers.”

  “Okay, okay, keep your pants on. What’s the last thing you remember? Before I died.”

  “What’s that got to do with this? I want you gone and back in your hole. Things ain’t supposed to be like this. You’re dead, and I buried you.”

  “Yup, you did. You shot me in the back and buried me out by the trees. The first stormy night, I came back and”—I jutted my chin to the wood box—“put that axe in your back and buried you out in the field.”

  “What? Are you crazy, as well as dead?”

  “I may be dead but I’m not crazy. We fought, a lot, and we took to trying to kill each other. You succeeded first, but then the next time a storm came, I got you. Storm after that, you came back and shot me with that gun, again, and now it’s my
turn. But I think we can end this. Right here, tonight.”

  Should I tell him it’s been ten years? Nah. Why mess him up even more?

  “You’re looney.”

  “Yeah, and you’re just peachy. Look at yourself.”

  “Guess I’ve seen better days.” He frowned with what was left of those bushy brows. “Not as how I believe you, but what’s your answer?”

  “My answer is, we live—dead, together.”

  “I suppose, maybe, that might work if I believed you. I know you are dead ’cause I put you in the ground myself, but I don’t think I’m dead.”

  “Fine, if you want, you’re not dead. I just want to live here too. Can we do that?”

  “Nope. I’d have to watch out all the time; this way I only have to watch out when there’s a storm.”

  I held my hand up in oath. “I promise not to try and kill you.”

  “Well, maybe. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “We could start by getting rid of our weapons.”

  “Might work. Still seems too easy.”

  “Not to me it’s not. I’m the one that keeps getting buried next to the damn trees. Those roots itch.”

  I watched him work it through his tiny brain—what was left of it—and then he nodded. “Worth a try. It’s been kind of quiet here alone.”

  “Good. Now if there’s any tea in the cupboard, I’ll make us some.”

  “If we’re dead, can we drink tea?”

  “Well I can, and you don’t think you’re dead, so why not?”

  “Okay, I’ll get the tea down.”

  He propped the gun against the stove and pulled his chair over to the cupboard on the far side of the room. He climbed up on it, reaching to the top shelf to find the tea.

  I stared at the axe and fought the impulse to grab it and lodge it in his back; instead, I got up and said, “I’ll just go and get the water.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Once more, I studied the man I had married. Ten years was a long time to be fighting and killing each other. But I had it figured out. If one of us died by accident, then it ought to put a stop to this back-and-forth killing, and I could get some rest.

  I put the lamp on the stove and turned the old tee-ring at the back and, sure enough, I could hear the hiss of gas.

  I picked up the water bucket and said, “Put some wood on for me.”

  He nodded and I ambled out the back door to the well and set myself on its ledge.

  Minutes later, the place blew, spewing flames against the night sky … and it blew again as flames followed the gas line through the house.

  I waited a long time to be sure. The storm passed and there was a distinct lighting of the sky in the east.

  I ambled back to the trees, dragging my foot. Found my grave and climbed in, pulling the lid with its piles of dirt back over me, like a well-loved blanket.

  Maybe now I could sleep through them damn storms.

  With Marley’s world cast into upheaval, she had no choice but to strike a match and watch it burn. Like a warrior, she salted the ground and moved on, carrying with her only the trappings of survival.

  Here’s to change. She raised her drink and thought of Adam, the man who helped her rebuild—the man she loved.

  Marley’s younger sister, Gwen, jerked the Rumple Minze schnapps from her hand and set the bottle on the table. Ripples formed within the container, like the scene from Jurassic Park. Only in the film, a T-Rex caused the movement, not bass from pop music.

  Bass. What a silly word, she thought.

  Gwen reduced the stereo’s volume. She was so panicked that white encompassed her irises. “Sober up, honey. The police are here.”

  Marley smiled. Yeah, right. If those are real cops, I’m gonna need bail money.

  With Gwen gripping her elbow, Marley wove around her friends, almost losing her balance. She caught herself and continued to the doorway with her arms outstretched, like a tightrope walker. One step, two steps, three steps … One foot in front of the other.

  “All right, boys,” she slurred, slapping her hands onto the bricks and spreading her feet shoulder-width apart. The position was perfect for displaying the pink cursive letters of Mrs. Vaughn written across her bachelorette shorts. “Who wants to frisk me?”

  One of the “officers” cleared his throat, so Marley lifted her palms and turned to see both a man and a woman in non-rip-away uniforms. She couldn’t imagine either of them naked—maybe because their faces were solemn, as though she’d sent the world’s last doughnut to sea on a scrap of floating driftwood.

  Marley giggled. They need Rumple Minze.

  The male officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mrs. Vaughn?”

  Marley stopped laughing and pointed to the sapphire engagement ring on her finger. “I won’t be Mrs. Vaughn for a few days. I’m Marley Davis.”

  They removed their hats. The man trained his eyes on a hanging ivy while the woman concentrated on Marley.

  “Miss Davis, we’re sorry to disturb your party.”

  Something wasn’t right. Marley drew back so far, her hip slammed into the doorknob. Both officers reached to steady her, but she raised a hand indicating for them to stay.

  “I’m fine. Are you here about the music?”

  She had a headache from the weight of her tiara, so she removed it with the length of tulle. Why are they here?

  The female officer frowned. “Your shorts. Would that be Dr. Adam Vaughn?”

  “Did he do something wrong?”

  The female officer glanced at her partner, but his eyes were still on the plant, as if he preferred the woman to do the speaking. His fists pumped open and closed.

  “Miss Davis—”

  Marley didn’t give her time to finish her sentence. Her fingers clamped so tightly around her tiara, it cracked and fell to the Welcome mat.

  “I know my name. Just tell me why you’re here.”

  The male officer drew an impatient breath, stepped forward, and ran his sausage-like fingers through his gray comb over. Forehead sweat molded his hair into an untidy bird’s nest.

  “At eight-thirty, Adam Vaughn was attacked and killed outside Bag ‘n’ Save on Laurel Boulevard. Paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene.”

  Time seemed to wind down and become suspended in midair. Marley’s breathing stopped.

  Her pink boa slid from around her shoulders. Feathers brushed the deck as the cord coiled at her feet. She didn’t reach for it; the wind carried the shawl, with some leaves, onto the nearby lawn. The contrast of hope versus loss crystallized itself in her memory.

  Drums resonated in Marley’s ears. She covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head, as though rejecting what the police were suggesting would make any difference—as though her denial would bring Adam home.

  The truth was, she didn’t have words for what she was going through. She remembered the times Adam would smile because she’d mispronounce words like cinnamon. She could still feel the times he’d nibble her bottom lip when he’d seal a kiss. And, God, he could uncomplicate her life with a single expression. Those were moments she’d never share with him again.

  “The body was transported to Jefferson Medical …”

  Marley tuned out the rest of the officer’s sentence because she was fixated on his initial words: the body.

  “Adam.” Her tone wasn’t quite above a whisper, yet it was solid and gained strength with every continued syllable. “His name is Adam. He’s a person, not a body.”

  Sobriety traveled fast with tragedy. Marley grabbed the doorframe to support herself, bending at the waist and placing a palm on her knee. Inhale, exhale.

  “Please don’t hesitate to call if there is anything more we can do to help,” the male officer said.

  Marley stood tall. “I have an idea; you can go back in time and do your goddamn jobs. That’s how you can help.”

  Her foot crushed the tiara as she hurried inside. The noise of plastic breaking under
her shoes rang in her ears. She slammed the door. Between sips of schnapps, she shouted for the guests to leave.

  Her only plan was to forget she was alive, even if it meant erasing Adam.

  Sapphires. She loved sapphires. Adam had explored three counties for a flawless diamond-encrusted gem that was as “multifaceted” as he often said Marley was and still had the same cerulean hue of his eyes. She had promised to never remove the ring from her finger, but he had also sworn to marry her. The way she saw it, they were both breaking their vows.

  Marley twisted the band until her finger throbbed, but it wouldn’t budge. Her skin was purple from loss of blood circulation. She was certain she’d be frozen that way forever; a portrait of a woman who was almost happy.

  Her heart plummeted. As her nose wrinkled, she bit her lip, struggling to remain composed. No dice. Tears pricked her eyes, so she wiped her lashes with the backs of her hands. Her eye sockets burned, like open wounds.

  Don’t do this.

  She hyperventilated as she choked on snot. The hiccups started. The fucking hiccups.

  If she were the praying type, she’d have been on her knees begging for the pain to stop, but after what she and Adam did to her ex-boyfriend, she doubted God was on her side.

  Ethan McPhee had held Marley’s heart hostage in a razor-lined cage, as most abusers do to their lovers. His charms, which rivaled his temper, only emerged around his psychology students; they were his family. He had everyone fooled into believing he was the perfect gentleman, sometimes even Marley.

  Ethan paced the hospital room as she held her limp elbow. “You won’t say a word. Do you hear me?”

  Marley’s vision settled on the cracked linoleum, her bangs hanging in her face. He had driven her to the poorest hospital in the farthest corner of Jefferson County, undoubtedly to avoid a police report. He should have realized she didn’t have the nerve to file—he made sure of that.

  He caught her chin, jerking so hard her neck cracked. “I asked you a question.”

  Marley looked at his chest. Ethan didn’t like it when she met his gaze, unless he granted her permission.

  “I won’t say anything.”

  Still clutching her jaw, he moved his opposite hand to the back of her neck. He could have killed her using little strength.