Fountain Dead
Page 22
The screech of the siren grew louder.
Mark wanted to thank his friend, but somehow that didn’t seem sufficient. Stopping himself from feeling self-conscious or overthinking his actions, he threw his arms around Hexx.
The boy grunted.
Hexx’s arms seemed stuck to his sides, but he lifted them and returned the embrace. Neither of them seemed to judge whether or not it lasted too long. When they parted, neither walked it off or quickly looked away in shame.
The ambulance and cop cars lit up the front of the house with flashes of red and blue.
On the far side of the fence, the neighbor bore witness with his good eye. “Mary, Mother of God,” he whispered.
March 1862
When Emma had discovered she never hungered or thirsted, and that not even insects responded to her presence, she’d crept to the basement where she confronted the sight of her corpse, bloated and speckled with maggots, lying alongside her father’s remains, surrounded by his dried and moldy spill of blood, cracked at the bordering edges.
She’d wept over the scene, the darkness coming and going with the cycles of day and night.
The upstairs door banged shut, clunking boots punishing the floor.
Upon slinking toward the sudden occupant, Emma spied Riley canvasing each room. Although he didn’t appear to notice her, she merged with the dark corners while following him as he discovered Papa’s brutal demise.
Not one tear fell.
Not one glance at his sister.
Riley did grin at the abandoned Indian scalp at his feet. Kicking it up into hand, he carried it with him like a rag.
He toiled on that first night, digging graves for his father and sister in the yard. From her bedroom window, Emma watched him shovel in the moonlight, his sweat glistening against the darkness. The sod he’d layered over the area camouflaged the raw earth, blending with the rest of the lawn. It only seemed off to Emma’s eye because she knew what was really there. Visitors would never suspect a thing.
And those visitors arrived that next morning. Colleagues from the university nearly broke down the door, incensed by having to cover Papa’s classes all this time. Others were left hanging regarding his innovative experiments. Where were the findings? When was his arrival anticipated? The townspeople who’d succumbed to rampant illnesses sought remedies or advice—advice Riley couldn’t give. The Civil War raged on. He turned away injured soldiers, leaving them for the local bleeding hearts to take in, or, more dreadful, leaving the victims to die in the streets.
He’d rehearsed his fabricated tale and it sharpened with each retelling, the details nearly convincing himself. His father and sister had made a house call, rare as it was, and hadn’t been seen from since. They could return any day now. Though there was no way of ascertaining if tragedy had assaulted them along the way.
Amid avoiding the queue of people on the doorstep, Riley paced a tread along the living room area rug. He talked to himself in the downstairs bathroom, splashing water from the basin onto his face. What was he going to do? Would the law find out the truth? He had to do something, he told himself, sometimes seeming to hear answers to his ramblings in that beveled mirror. Other times he’d raise the scalp like a puppet, conversing with it in a diminutive voice. During one of these dialogues, he set his mind to constructing a fountain on top of the buried bodies. That was extra assurance no one would discover what really happened here.
He lied awake for several nights in the empty bathtub, unable to occupy any of the other rooms for reasons difficult to explain, but impossible to ignore. Daylight prompted him to crawl from the porcelain bed. He pulled his hair. Perspiration dampened his clothes. He waved unseen pests from around his head. Claw marks and heavy footsteps stalked him wherever he ambled. Shadows taunted his every move.
Often his distress amused Emma, and she rather wished she’d been the cause. She was the cat who’d stumbled upon a squirming mouse, but wasn’t awarded the gratification of the hunt.
—
One morning while the construction commenced on the fountain’s foundation, Riley ducked from a law enforcement badge glinting in the sunlight. He slipped into his father’s office and stood head to head with the skeleton dangling from a shiny hook. The memory of witnessing those thirty-eight redskins hanging from the gallows bided the time. “That was a good day, huh?” he asked the eyeless face. “That’s a brilliant scheme,” he said to it. After the sheriff’s footsteps retreated from the porch, Riley put his epiphany in motion.
In a frenzy, he unhooked the bones. He gathered a dress of Emma’s and a couple articles of his father’s clothing. Then he hauled everything out back where he pried the skeleton’s bones apart until they were a jumbled heap. After roughing them up, thwacking them against the ground and various surfaces, alarming the horses with the racket, he threw them in a sack. He mangled the garments, selecting random shreds and packed those. With that, he strode off.
Emma spent the time daydreaming of what could’ve been, of where Jonathan had ended up. Had he meant to desert her? Did he intend to return? Was he all right? Did he still love her? Her ruminations spun round and round like a sewing machine’s wheel.
At sundown Riley hobbled up the back step, his shirt knotted around his ankle. Blood trailed him into the ground floor bathroom. After uncoiling the soaked makeshift bandage, he doused his lacerations with water.
By now Emma knew she could stand in close proximity to her brother without his noticing. Leaning in, she noted an array of puncture wounds. If not properly treated, an infection or gangrene might take hold. She wondered if she would’ve patched him up if it had been possible. Not being able to choose somehow wasn’t a relief. An unenthusiastic hurray for a clear conscience.
He swooned at the loss of so much fluid. Once he’d bound towels around the afflicted area, he wriggled into the tub where he shut his eyes, which gave Emma a reprieve from him. As long as he resided within these walls, she was privy to more than she cared to know—at least as long as he was awake. The only thing she cared about was when she’d see Jonathan again.
Life’s, or rather death’s, ironies continued.
—
Hugh discovered Riley in the bathtub. A stream of crimson ebbed from his saturated towel.
“Wake up, man!” Patting his brother’s cheeks, he checked for signs of life. A feeble pulse pumped at his wrist.
Riley moaned.
“What happened to you?”
“Damn trappers—damn them to hell.”
“Where’re Papa and Emma?”
“They got ravaged by a bear, or something.” His eyelids batted. “I found the bones.” He managed a pathetic wave toward the unoccupied land beyond the edge of their property.
“Sasha? The patients?”
“Gone.” Riley wheezed. “Left awhile back.”
“All of them?” What became of the Dakota girl? Had she returned home?
Emma longed to fill him in about that, and about Jonathan. As she picked up on Hugh’s internal dialogue, not one thought arose regarding her arms thrown about his shoulders. How lamentable he didn’t feel it. Yet, how happy she was that he wasn’t dead after all. She’d missed her brother so much, but communicating that seemed impossible. Although her cheek pressed against his, she might as well have been touching nothing but air. Despite her emotion, tears failed to materialize either.
Animated by a sudden burst of energy, Riley grabbed a wad of Hugh’s shirt. “Promise me you’ll finish the fountain.”
“Huh?”
Riley gasped for air. “The fountain—as a memorial.”
Whose memorial—their father and sister? Was Riley regretful about how he treated Emma? Did he mean the whole family’s memorial? Hugh was the last of this immediate line. “You have my word.”
“Put…my ashes somewhere…on the property. P-p-lease.”
Hugh held his brother’s hand while his eyes rolled back, and he wheezed one last time.
—
Hugh’s grief consumed him. It reached the point of mere madness the day he held an envelope with Emma’s name on it, the return address from the Addams Academy in Colorado Springs. Before opening it, he’d known the message inside. His unsteady hand pried open the seal. A tear wet the page as he skimmed their invitation for his sister to teach history at their institution in the fall. Their praise of her split his heart in two, knowing she’d never live her dream come true.
Emma read the words over Hugh’s shoulder, disparaged he didn’t hear or sense her. Nonetheless, her arms embraced him from behind. She cared less about her brother sleuthing the truth about her death as she did about his perception of how much she loved him.
A flood of anger at losing Emma, cleaved to Hugh’s soul. The tension sent a hot pressure to his temples. Riley’s last words didn’t sit right with him, but Hugh lacked any proof to the contrary. He’d grown up with his brother’s tall tales. He’d seen the violence his brother carried out in the name of war. But the sheriff did find scraps of what Emma and Papa had worn, as well as human remains scattered about. Every year neighbors reported wild animals infringing on their land, whether it be moose, bears, or wolves.
Hugh picked out three tombstones for the cemetery. No matter how many total bones lay in the family plot, and they were short quite a few, he’d pay his respects and leave flowers just the same. It created closure. It legitimized Papa’s and Emma’s tragic end to the rest of the town.
Whatever existed in the vault, Hugh chose to leave it locked up. He never touched that wheel on the door, nor did he let anyone else. The combination was long gone. Although he noted the scrubbed floor, he brushed away the idea that anything sinister had occurred down here.
The tiniest voice in his head of foul play popped in from time to time, but didn’t manifest into anything concrete. Eventually Emma ceased trying to get that idea through.
There was probably just a spill. A jar plummeted to the ground—and boom—a mess. Once he’d cleared out his father’s medical paraphernalia, and miscellaneous tables and shelves, he didn’t set one foot in that basement. Not even to store any canned food or wine.
—
Hugh fired the team working on the fountain so he could see his own vision through. If he’d fulfill this promise, he’d do it his way. He commissioned a local craftsman who drafted the exact design of what he wanted and who fully understood his dedicating the structure to his sister and the Indian patient who’d been under her care. Emma had been the kindest person he’d known, and he wanted to tribute this monument her short life, as well as to the rest of her life that wasn’t to be. With her died a marriage, children, and growing old—and sharing memories with him.
Hugh showed a sculptor a photo of Emma and brought along her sketchbook with the drawing of the Zyanya, urging the artist to create a statue using the two women’s likenesses as a guide. In Hugh’s communication of his concept, he wanted the monument to evoke that of a goddess, one that would make the famous Bernini jealous. The sculptor asked to keep the pad of Emma’s portraits for added inspiration. The pencil renditions possessed a lifelike quality difficult to capture on paper, with extraordinary details, right down to the essence behind the person’s eyes. Whether sadness, eternal hope, or a mischievousness, the quintessence moved the viewer.
Upon completion, the whole town gossiped about the incredible structure on the Durley lot. He’d horded his Italian inspiration for himself. How much did such a work of art cost? Why hadn’t he donated the monument to a local park for all of them to enjoy? Could they toss wishing pennies in when he wasn’t looking? Did he bathe in it?
To distract himself, he employed a team of builders to complete the guesthouse. He’d done his best to channel both his mother’s and sister’s aesthetic tastes. As their favorite colors and patterns decorated the walls, Hugh felt a healing closeness to them.
In the warmer months, the pool around the base of the goddess twinkled clear and the trickling waterfall blessed the neighbors with a musical murmur. Passersby often paused to bask in a peaceful moment before continuing. Although the stone aged over the years, and the winters left their mark, as long as Hugh lived, he poured as much love and attention into that fountain to compensate for missing Emma so much. And for not knowing the real fate of the Indian girl he’d brought home that one day so long ago.
Eventually Hugh married and the couple had several children. Unfortunately, only one, a son named Maxwell, made it to adulthood. He was rather a handful, at his best. Due to the scandals tarnishing his youth, he packed up and ran off, days prior to that article about him in The Winona Republican. In his parting words to his father, he blamed the house for his inner demons and the rest of his shortcomings.
Following his wife’s passing of old age, Hugh was too elderly to get up the stairs and installed an elevator. He could’ve easily resided on the main level of the house. However, Emma’s room offered him solace, punctuated by periodic hints of her rosewater perfume. And, on some nights, he could’ve sworn she sat on the edge of the bed, a stroke of her consoling hand on his hair.
Sporadically, a hulking shadow passed by the windows. Every once in a while he heard the scrabble of claws. Being alone must’ve heightened his imagination. And his failure to properly take care of the house must’ve let the rats run rampant.
Hugh left the Victorian to his estranged son, the last link in the Durley line. However, the attorney, and later the bank, exhausted their efforts to locate the heir. Letter after letter went unanswered, or came back return to sender. Countless newspaper ads amounted to zero leads.
Summer 1988
A frothy liquid vomited onto the grass, spreading over the raw earth no longer trapped under the fountain. Energetic remnants from the rite over a century ago gathered in a swarm-like mist. It swirled and swelled until darkening into a humanoid shadow.
The inky mass floated toward the basement window that led to the cell Mark’s father had used as a darkroom. An urn sat on the sill, but from inside it hid in plain sight, thanks to the vantage point. Hugh had devised this strategic location to fulfill Riley’s dying wish, while simultaneously being able to forget about his brother’s remains.
The darkness crept closer to the house, smashing its nose onto the glass. As the ceramic violently clattered on the windowsill, Riley’s spirit magnified with each shock wave, anxious to bust out of confinement. After the pottery crashed to the floor, a gray puff clouded the air. The dust accumulated, creating a transparent version of Riley’s body, which grew thicker, more muscular. His appearance solidified into the third dimension. He assessed his arms before leaning over to view his lower half. A smirk crossed his face as he embraced his new alpha status. Biding his time while lusting for his turn to lord over the house was finally over.
His energetic feelers spread out. Turning to the window, gazing through the now imperceptible haze, Riley’s radar locked onto the man across the lot. Advancing toward the Victorian, the neighbor adjusted the bill of his baseball cap for a better view of what drew him closer.
A burst of hope suddenly filled his chest. His good eye watered. After coveting the house for so long, he knew the deed would soon fall into his hands. Something had shifted in his favor.
And just like that, a new hell dawned.
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you goes to my parents, Janine and Jerome, who have been my biggest fans. The minute one of my stories goes live, they are the first to pre-order—and each their own copy. I’m so grateful. Not to mention, if we hadn’t moved as a family to Winona, Minnesota and into that haunted house, Fountain Dead might never have been spawned from my nightmares.
During the writing process, my dear friends have had unparalleled patience as I spouted ideas nonstop, shamelessly using them as sounding boards. My gratitude goes out to Jason E. Perkins, Mellissa Carr, Cheryl Wood, Monica G. Ridlehoover, Ruben Cueto, Sylvia Mann, and Mark Bradley. A few of my high school students enthusiastically offered advice regarding my teenage protago
nist. Some of those are: Angel Callenius, Jordyn Chazulle, Mikah Combs, and especially Erik Avendano, who saved me from a few 1980s blunders.
This draft also wouldn’t be what it is without the advice from those who slogged through an early partial draft, lending their insight and cheerleading. Those kind souls are Calvin Demmer, S.E. Casey, and Tausha Johnson. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the writers’ workshop in Transylvania that Tausha organized a few years ago. Infant stages of this novel were birthed during that life-changing trip. I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without meeting all the amazing people who attended, and finding the inspiration and passion within to drive me forward.
Special thanks goes to the horror writers I deeply admire who blurbed this book: Gwendolyn Kiste, Tom Deady, and Catherine Cavendish. I am humbled and honored by their gracious support.
And, last, but certainly not least, I’m very grateful to Eddie Generous, who’d believed in this project before I’d even finished a draft. He had enough faith in me to see it through, which both made my heart sing and made me extremely terrified. Glad I was able to step up to the challenge. Furthermore, it was such a comfort to know he was only an email away while he helped me to tweak the final product.
Thank you to all the readers who pick up this story. I hope I’ve managed to create something relatable, entertaining, and, most importantly, terrifying.
Contents
October 1908
Summer 1988
June 1860
May 1861
Summer 1988
July 1862
Summer 1988
August 1862
Summer 1988
October 1862
Summer 1988
October 1862
Summer 1988
December 1862
Summer 1988
January 1862
Summer 1988
January 1862
Summer 1988
January 1862
Summer 1988