“Not until I get some answers. She’s got a few unusual markings on the bone.” Turning back to the discovery, Dad tugged the cloth down, uncovering the legs and feet. “Seriously, don’t say anything to Mom yet.”
Mark’s body relaxed a little at the notion of less secrecy somewhere in the future. Logging deception and having to keep on your toes always zapped his mojo. “Well, if you move it to the garage, Mom won’t be so creeped out.” She might still call the authorities for them to dispose properly of the remains. She was a woman who followed the letter of the law, while Dad went more with the spirit of the law, or whatever his moral compass let him get away with.
“Too hot. Temperature’s better down here for preservation.”
“Alrighty then.” Mark hesitated, just to see if his father had anything else to say. As he suspected, Dad plunged back into the zone. “Well, I gotta go. Hey, do you smell that?” His nostrils singed with chemicals once again.
“No. What’re you talking about?”
“Never mind.”
On his way out of the walk-in safe, Mark spotted a shadow. From the direction of the stairs, projected onto the floor. He clutched his chest, listening for the sound of footfall. There was a rasping, then a creak of another stair. Maybe it was Mom, barefoot on the way to the laundry room. Or maybe the ghost coming down to assess the progress? There was always his imagination, which seemed to be betraying him at every turn. Facing his apprehension straight on, Mark bounded from the vault and toward the stairwell.
“Ah, hey.” Hexx hadn’t come off his tiptoes yet.
“You scared the shit outta me.” Clutching his stomach, Mark hunched over for a moment. “What’re you doing down here?”
“You were taking like forever. Plus, I heard something.”
“God almighty.” Signaling upstairs, Mark passed the kid and stomped up the steps. “Let’s blow this joint.” Once they’d both gotten to the kitchen, Mark grabbed his book. “I’ll be right back.” He put up his palm, exaggerating the signal of a crossing guard, before dashing to his room. “Stay put.”
When Mark returned, they sped outside and onto the driveway.
Unable to shake the image of the skeleton, Mark wished time fast-forwarded to the moment his dad gleaned more answers from a thorough inspection of the bones. Perhaps the information could help fit some of the puzzle pieces together. This was going to be worse than a countdown to Christmas or spring break during the school year. He squeezed the roll of quarters in his pocket. It was the rest of his allowance for the week.
“So what happened down there?” Hexx asked.
There was no way Mark was even going to mentally rehearse a made up story. “Nothing.”
“Dude, you’re full of shit. You got all jumpy.” His hand waved over Mark. “And now your vibe is all jacked up.”
“It’s no big deal.” Mark glanced at the fountain, hearing a succession of splashes; yet the surface remained undisturbed. As if a finger traveled up his spine, his back tickled. He clamped a hand on his neck. “Family stuff is all.”
“You all right?” Hexx’s eyebrows arched.
“I will be.” But Mark’s voice hadn’t been emphatic enough. Fortunately, his friend knew enough not to press him further.
—
Ghosts on the Pac Man board still blinked through Mark’s brain. All it took was one split second for them to shift in color to deadly, robbing him of a life. Sometimes he risked it. Other times he steered clear of them altogether. Was it more important to advance to the next board or to accumulate mega points? It all depended on how many quarters he’d had. Real life wasn’t that way at all.
Waving goodbye to Hexx, Mark proceeded down his neighborhood’s maze to the familiar Victorian growing larger in his view. Upon stepping closer, the bushes in front of the porch rustled. Had Salem gotten out? Was it a squirrel digging around in there?
Someone wearing a dusty baseball cap straightened up.
Stopping in his tracks, Mark realized he didn’t know the man’s name from next-door. What was he doing on the property?
Mark tightened his fists.
One of the man’s eye sockets was hollowed out, empty. The surrounding lid sagged around the cavity. “Son-o-bitch got away from me,” he said, raising a small orb and sticking it into the hole in his face.
The grass crunched as the neighbor approached Mark, who now only wanted to push past him and rush inside his house.
“Them walls talkin’ to ya yet, boy?”
“Sir?” Each step the guy took made Mark’s skin want to walk right off his body.
“There’s more ‘an one spook in there.” He turned and pointed to the house. “That be your problem. And you best be keepin’ it to yerself on yer own damn property.” A finger hovered between Mark’s eyes.
The man crossed himself, spat in the grass, and took off.
Mark’s head swam with questions—about what the mad doctor had been doing in his house, and about who the ghosts were. Not to mention, why the hell this dude thought the spirits were running amok. It’s not like they’d want to haunt him. Not with his charms.
—
The next day, Mark picked up the ringing banana on his nightstand.
“Yel-l-o,” Mark said.
“Is Mark there?”
“Tis me.”
Turned out it was Hexx asking if he wanted to hang out. They’d both blown all of their monetary reserves and brainstormed free activities that didn’t require transportation. Mark’s house was off limits, for a ton of reasons, but the one he shared was that his sister still wasn’t well. Hexx reluctantly invited Mark over to his house, stating it was practically a shack. Although he didn’t use that word, a fear of judgement bled through his vocalization. After Mark assured him not to worry about anything, Hexx dictated the address and directions.
It was a bit uncomfortable benefitting from Tausha’s illness, but Mom didn’t protest when Mark inquired about going to a friend’s house. She didn’t give him the third degree about who it was, partly because she’d met the kid at the lake. He seems like a nice boy, she’d said.
Mark palmed the scrap of paper with his crude diagram, keeping the X that represented his place at the bottom. Hopeless with maps, he was proud when he arrived at a modest house with the right number.
Pocketing the paper, Mark knocked on the peeling door.
It wedged open.
A slice of Hexx’s face peered under a chain, which he undid. “My gran’s napping.”
“Okay,” Mark said as he entered.
Faded wallpaper unfurled in sections in between the windows dressed with sheer curtains. The sparse furniture displayed evidence of sun damage and had ring stains.
The boys swerved around the off center coffee table and sat on the sheet hiding the couch’s upholstery. Both of them considered the television, but gave each other a yuck face as they simultaneously realized there were only talk shows and soap operas on right now. Mark shrugged his shoulders, offering a whatever smile.
A couple of board games rested on a side table.
“What do ya wanna play?” Hexx asked in a hushed voice.
Skimming the boxes, Mark said, “Battleship?” He ran a hand through his hair, which had lengthened despite his mother’s scrutiny. She’d had more important things on her mind at the moment. He probably could get away with talking like a sailor, too, if he felt like testing the murky waters.
“I told you no girls in this house,” a woman’s voice said, from behind them.
Mark looked around like who me?
“Gran, this is Mark,” Hexx said, twisting his body in her direction.
The woman with a white braid came around the couch and sat in an armchair. Her eyes, one brown and one light blue, squinted before she put on the glasses on a chain around her neck. Once her vision zeroed in on the guest, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her bronze skin lightened a few shades. Her mouth twisted, her eyes bugging out.
“God must be playing a jok
e on me,” she said gravely.
Was she talking about his long hair? Did he look that much like a girl from behind? Maybe he should try growing out a mustache and beard for situations like this.
Hexx’s grandmother kept ogling him, her head tilting this way and that. She rose from her seat and put a hand on Mark’s jaw, moving it from side to side so she could inspect him closer. He focused on the drum decorated with cascading feathers, hanging on the wall.
Hexx grabbed her arm. “Gran, what’re you doing?”
“Impossible,” she said under her breath.
Leaning his head back, Mark freed himself from the woman’s clutches.
His brow furrowing, Hexx led his grandmother from the room.
When the kid reemerged, he slumped onto the couch, next to Mark. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Um, yeah. I’m trying not to get a complex over here.” He chuckled.
“She doesn’t see too good.” He bore his teeth. “She’s actually my great grandmamma.”
“Dude, she molested my face.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. She’s busy watching her General Hospital now.”
“Good, maybe they can medicate her, or something.” Mark raised his brows.
“We can hope.” Lifting the game box from the middle of its sandwich, Hexx set it on the table and unpacked the contents.
As they pegged and strategized with their plastic grids, the silences were awkward for once. Mark didn’t stop thinking about how his entire life right now was an endless play of Battleship. Despite getting used to some of the ships out to destroy him, apparently there were other fleets out to get him in unchartered waters.
Ah, to get a break from water. That didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.
“You want something to drink?” Hexx asked.
Mark wanted to hoot and holler at the synchronicity, the irony of it all. “No, thanks.”
—
Mark flashed back to his neighbor rising from the shrubbery as he approached his yard.
Purely on autopilot, Mark stepped to the spot where the man had supposedly lost his glass eyeball. Caught off guard, Mark hadn’t realized the improbability of the scenario. What had the guy really been doing, besides trespassing?
Scanning the weeds and soil, Mark noticed something stuck in the dirt. Tacky feeling in his palm, it was a crucifix that had been coated in—was it red paint, or blood? Holding it up to his nose offered no confirmation either way. The metallic scent may have come from the effigy of Christ fixed to the cross, or from the crimson substance.
Mark dropped the object and rushed to the hose where he rinsed his hand. As the water ran from pink to clear, the image of the bloody Savior etched concretely in his brain.
Was the intention of the sacrilegious crucifix to curse his property further? Was it to help exorcise the restless energies? Was it a warning to keep the spirits to themselves, just like the neighbor demanded?
—
Lying in bed, Mark jerked alert at the ring of the phone.
“Hello?”
“Dude, you need to come over.” It was Hexx, somewhat breathy.
“I can’t.”
“It’s important. It might have something to do with your house.”
Those words were a magic flute playing into the receiver. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Get over here.”
“Who was that?” Mom asked from the next room.
“Just Hexx. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Mark bunched up some clothes under the bedsheet, shaping it into his body double. Once he grabbed his shoes, he tiptoed out the rear of the house.
February 1862
Emma sensed the shockwaves of the earthquake before it struck. The air fizzled with rage.
If Sasha hadn’t run off to get married while Emma was away, the maidservant might’ve proven a heroic buffer to what was to come. Emma missed working alongside her assistant. Now even more than ever.
Emma’s underarms dampened, despite the chill seeping in through the windows. Her trembling hands fiddled with the tray of bandages, ointments, and miscellaneous implements as she mimicked organizing them. When would she get Jonathan alone to update him on her trip? She wondered if having already spoken to him would’ve done any good at the moment.
The door thwacked open.
Riley stormed into the room and menaced beside her.
She straightened her spine to avoid cowering.
His gravelly voice indicated a control of his anger. “Remember what I told you?”
As he neared, Emma’s knees locked, her eyes closed. Where was Jonathan? The entire house had fallen eerily still. God, where was Hugh? Was he ever returning home?
“You’re coming with me.”
His directive left no room for resistance.
“This is as good a time as any to tell you your precious brother’s dead. So you can get it out of your head that he’ll come rescue you. He ain’t ever coming back. And, Pa, well—”
Emma still hadn’t turned to acknowledge him. Even if she did, he’d merely be a haze of color through her tears. The need to know what happened to Hugh attacked her like a swarm of bees. A desperate sadness was the brutal sting. Could the news be accurate? Or was it the cruelest invention meant to debilitate her? She shamefully wished Riley had been the one to die. Tempted to rectify that, she lamented her pistol lay back in her bedroom.
When she didn’t move, he seized her by the arm.
Noticing her attention on the dark object in his other hand, Riley raised it to her face and twirled it between his fingers.
It was Jonathan’s pipe. Had he not taken it with him that next morning? Did Riley discover it in her room? Is that what this was about?
When her brother jerked Emma away, the tray of medical supplies crashed to the floor. Her feet stumbled along through the dining room, into the kitchen, and then down the stairs into the basement. The Mason jars of blood, fluids, and organs stared at her from the shelves, in commiseration, or condemnation. She couldn’t fathom either.
The metal door to the safe gaped wide like a broken jaw.
Her arms and fingers numbed.
Riley shoved her sidelong through the open maw, into the remnant of daylight within.
Praying he’d have a last minute change of heart, Emma faced him, her eyes pleading.
“You better not be carrying that red-devil’s spawn—or I’ll do you like I did that squaw. Don’t think I won’t.”
What was he talking about? One of his war atrocities? Could she be pregnant—the thought hadn’t occurred to her.
“Think about what you’ve done, you whore.”
“Please,” she begged as the door banged shut, the light snuffing out.
He spun the combination lock. The clatter and clicks equaled the lit fuse on a stick of dynamite.
Emma battered the door. “Let me out.”
Riley’s stifled yelling thundered on the other side.
“Please.” Her cheek smashed against the frigid iron and she sobbed.
Emma failed to comprehend the total eclipse of darkness and the insulation from any outer noise. The absence of sensory perception ignited such an influx of adrenaline that she quivered. As the thrum of her blood pumping lessened, her heightened hearing picked up an emanation originating from inside the room. The sound harkened of a rasping. But what the devil would be alive in here? A dying rat would wheeze more quietly. No, this was something bigger.
Her stomach churned.
Whatever clung to life lacked aggression. This was no beast at bay.
Fighting the urge to drop to the floor, to resign to eventual dehydration and starvation, Emma inched along toward the lifeform whispering for salvation. Unable to shut off her instinct sustain all life, her feet kept stepping without her conscious permission.
She bumped against a hard, cold surface. Her fingers swept along what felt like one of her father’s tables. For a moment she froze, temporarily unwilling to
investigate further. Yet, with a palsied hand, she touched one end of the table, finding a splay of hair. The texture and thickness evoked Emma’s memories of washing and brushing Zyanya’s over the last months. An aroma of rosemary tea wafted to her, but that could’ve easily been coming from her own tresses.
Emma gingerly walked her fingers across a forehead and cheeks, which didn’t cause a quickening of breath, or any other physical response from the person. However, the lines and dimensions of the face sparked an impression of familiarity. Chalking it up to never having been rendered blind, she continued along the chest, the breasts identifying a female. Zyanya? If only Emma had ended there. As she slid her fingers onto the torso, the surface was wet and uneven. Her hands manipulated tangible living tissue weakly pulsating against her skin. How could someone be completely cut open, organs exposed to the air, yet still be clinging to life?
She gagged at the unexpected finding. This couldn’t be.
Distress closed Emma’s eyes, even though vision was useless; eyelids squeezed tight to separate her from the reality in front of her. At the outer edges of this woman’s body, metallic pins stabbed the flaps of flesh back.
Emma’s legs wobbled.
How was she alive? Were any of the items in the package she brought back for her father part of this madness? Experimental drugs? Dissection tools? No, she couldn’t do this to herself. Nonetheless, her temples throbbed and her stomach bottomed out, robbing her of balance. When she faltered, she hit the edge of the table, which knocked the woman’s arm over the side, and swept it past Emma’s hip. A light rustle of beads prompted Emma to grab ahold of the wrist. Sure enough, when she handled the bracelet, the conclusion she’d been avoiding turned her completely inside out.
Zyanya barely breathed in this room.
What abominations had she endured? How long had she been here? What hope had she of restoring this woman back to health?
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