The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  A sink discharged dark sludge. Howard, on his back, had his head under the sink, greasy like a car mechanic. Grip, keen to help, handed him a wrench.

  The men carried a coffee table into the chapel. Around the room lived comfy couches and lounge chairs and Chinese lanterns and bar stools and a dartboard and lush palms and Day of the Dead decorations. Virgin Mary candles lined the base of the red stained glass window. Isabel took framed photographs from a moving box and placed them on the mantle, a gentle fire crackling in the hearth. Bohemian men and women stayed in the spare rooms and used other rooms for studio spaces and played music by the bar and helped him paint the lower hall with a bright mural. They helped take care of the baby. After all, it took a village.

  Howard carried an exhausted, sleeping Grip into a master bedroom from some extravagant gothic romance and laid him down on their immense four-poster bed. Isabel and Howard watched over him as he slumbered.

  Isabel whispered, “Grip. Grip!” She knew that distant look.

  He looked to her with a start.

  “Grip,” she repeated. “You okay? We need to get moving.”

  “We should make an offer.”

  “What?”

  “We could paint the walls and clean and—”

  “Grip.”

  “Maybe rent out some of the rooms,” he mumbled to himself and then added too loudly, “You guys want a home together, don’t you?”

  She put a hand to his lips to shush him.

  The house wasn’t a modern bohemian paradise like in his daydream. The atmosphere of the second-floor hallway disturbed him. It reminded him of watching a silent 8mm home movie transferred to DVD. His paternal grandma had a DVD like that. The long-dead moved at a slightly wrong speed and tried to communicate with the future, but were only able to wave and act the clown. Great Granddad had hung himself shortly after appearing in the footage.

  It was just a hallway with a 70s patterned carpet and generic paintings and closed doors. But he couldn't discount the dread, the feeling of something horribly wrong, and whispered, “Okay, maybe not this house.”

  “We need to keep moving,” she repeated.

  “I get it. Not the time for drama.” He got under Howard’s shoulder and helped him up. “Full speed ahead.”

  Howard cringed. “Half speed, half speed.”

  Grip apologized and then added to himself, “We’re so fucked.”

  “We’re fine,” Isabel said. “It sounds like the wind is dying down.”

  The wind howled again and the hall lights flickered.

  Grip added too loudly, “Or not!” Catching himself, he whispered, “Sorry, I’m a little buzzed.”

  We’re fine, Isabel repeated to herself. She visualized them traveling on a blueprint of Jacobi House as they made their way slowly down the hall. We're going west. They had climbed the stairs going north and turned left. Now they headed west, away from the side of the house with the chapel living room. They were probably now passing over the southwest corner of the kitchen.

  The unnatural skittering rushed down the hall past them, and they all felt a chill and stopped to listen.

  “Anybody up here?” Grip said.

  “Shush!” She tucked her hair behind her ears to better hear.

  The skittering sound floated in the distance like a hovering ball of invisible knives, clinking and clicking and ringing as sharp edges slid against sharp edges.

  “What is that?” Grip said.

  “You hear it too?” Howard had thought it was all in his head, paracusia triggered by stress and pain.

  Isabel leaned forward. “It has to be the wind.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the wind,” Grip said, stating the obvious. “It sounds like some kind of creature.”

  While listening to the aberrant noise in front of them, Isabel tiptoed forward with the occult knife help out in defense, and Howard and Grip followed with clunky steps muffled by the carpet. As they progressed toward the eerie sound, it faded. Isabel turned the corner at the end of the hall, expecting to hear the sound anew, but it was gone.

  Well, if they aren’t going to say it, Grip thought and then said aloud, “That was a fucking ghost. A house doesn’t make that kind of noise. It's not the wind or the floorboards or settling foundations; that was a fucking ghost!”

  Isabel and Howard knew why that was ridiculous; everything had a mundane explanation. When sounds bounced off surfaces and mixed with other pedestrian noises, sounds could change into something disconcerting. The brain naturally tried to make sense of the unrecognizable and often invented things wholly different from reality. Despite this logical explanation, Howard’s neck prickled and Isabel’s blood ran cold. Fear ballooned in their chests, leaving little room to breathe. Howard forgot his injured leg for a moment.

  The next hall looked the same as the hall before it, except the angles of the walls were off. It made Grip feel like throwing up. It messed with Isabel’s equilibrium—she placed her hand on the wall to steady herself. Howard wanted to beg them to go back downstairs.

  “What's wrong with this place?” Isabel whispered.

  “We should be checking these rooms.” Grip wanted to sound brave. Howard trembled, and Isabel looked pale and close to tears. I can be strong for them, Grip thought. His buzz had left him mostly numb to the danger.

  “The stairs to the attic should be in one of these hallways.” Howard pointed. “There, look. In the middle of the hall.” A few yards ahead, hung a cord to pull down the attic stairs. “The flashlight should be at the entrance.”

  Isabel grabbed the rough and prickly cord and pulled. The momentum caught the stairs, and they lowered from their own weight and clunked on the carpet. The steps led up to a deep darkness. She looked to her men as they struggled to catch up. Grip supported all of Howard’s weight, and Howard still breathed tightly from the pain. It was up to her.

  “Wait here.”

  She started her slow climb with the knife outstretched. The hall lights flickered. She stopped until the lights became stable again and then continued her cautious ascent. Grip and Howard watched from below, helpless.

  “See anything?” Howard said in a loud whisper. He hopped on his good leg to reposition himself. “Grip is right here if you need him.”

  “Wait!” Isabel said from above.

  “What?” Grip said.

  “Quiet. I hear something.”

  Grip and Howard watched her legs while she felt around in the dark as far as she could reach without stepping off the top step.

  “Isabel?” Grip said, his heart in his throat.

  “It should be right by the stairs!” Howard said.

  “Found it.” A button clicked as she stepped up into the attic, out of sight.

  What is she doing?! “Come back,” Grip called to her.

  “There are cribs up here. And children’s toys. It’s like an old nursery or something.” She got farther away as she spoke, her voice becoming more muffled.

  A long silence heightened the tension. Howard felt the agonizing pulse in his leg again and held on to Grip. The men heard a gasp from above and frantic footfall along the ceiling. Before they could do anything, Isabel was already hurrying back down the stairs with an old Maglite shining. The men stared at her in anticipation.

  She squirmed. “Rats. Big ones.” She gave Howard back the knife to free up one of her hands.

  He put the knife away and looked up at the ceiling and walls. “That was probably the sound,” he said, referring to the skittering that had passed through them earlier. “Rats scurrying in the walls and ceiling.”

  “Maybe.” Isabel wasn’t convinced, but what else could it be? “At least we got this.” The aluminum alloy of the incandescent flashlight felt cold and heavy in her hands. It would make just as good a weapon as the creepy occult knife.

  The wind howled again outside, and the hall lights flickered as if someone was performing shock torture in another part of the house. And then the lights went out completely and did
n’t come back on.

  The flashlight, the only light left, illuminated Grip's squinting face. “Just in time,” he said flatly. “Lucky us.”

  With a new barrage of howling wind, the house creaked as though the foundation was teetering on the edge of a cliff. Rats scurried somewhere unseen. Isabel pointed the flashlight at the sounds. The light was minuscule compared to the darkness, and the sounds came from everywhere—the floor, the ceiling, the walls. The wind relented and the house went silent again. The silence wasn’t any more reassuring.

  She illuminated the side of Howard’s face.

  “We should keep going,” he said.

  “Or,” Grip said from the darkness, “we could go back.”

  Isabel bent down and lifted the attic stairs. She lit the stairs as they clanked into the ceiling and then shined the light back down the hall and revealed a boy standing three feet away.

  Howard, Grip, and Isabel almost jumped out of their skins. Isabel screamed in startled fright.

  The boy didn’t react. He was five or six years old, wore dirty clothes, and stood with a blank expression, his eyes wide despite the flashlight beam, his pallid skin slightly greasy.

  Isabel said from the darkness behind the light, “You scared us.”

  The boy stared, as still as a statue. It was uncanny.

  Howard said, “What's your name? Did you drop the note?”

  The boy slowly shook his head. His right hand rose and pointed toward them.

  “It wasn’t us.”

  The boy shook his head and jabbed his finger more urgently.

  “What?” Howard asked.

  Isabel realized the boy was pointing past them. She spun and shined the flashlight back down the hall. The hallway was empty. She pointed the flashlight back toward the boy, but he was now at the end of the hall. Instead of going around the next corner, he went left into a room and closed the door. Isabel led the way, not at a run, just a fast walk; she didn’t want the boy to get away but also didn’t want to lose Grip and Howard to the darkness.

  Grip helped Howard limp forward. Howard could only go so fast. “Wait,” Grip called after her.

  Isabel reached the closed door of the room that the boy had entered. She pointed the flashlight around the corner and down the next hall, which ended in a wall of crudely nailed 2x4s. She shined the light back to Howard and Grip and then at the burgundy carpet in front of them so that they could see where they were going.

  Howard grabbed onto the handle of the door before the one she was at and used it as a brace. “Didn’t he go into this one?” Howard asked her.

  “No. This one. I’m sure of it.” She grabbed the doorknob. “Hurry!”

  The brass was cold, even colder than the flashlight. She tested it to see if it was locked. The knob turned. The brass chilled her hand and arm all the way up to the elbow. She didn’t want to face what was beyond alone and so waited.

  Grip and Howard finally reached her, Howard out of breath again from the pain.

  She opened the door and shined the light into the room. The beam didn’t illuminate enough. At the same time, it illuminated too much. She started to cry even before fully comprehending the horror.

  11

  The Shadow of Death

  In the center of the bare room, a naked woman in a chair faced the back wall. Her dark, frizzy hair came to just below her shoulders. Her purplish, waxy skin shone in the spotlight, the ridges of her spine evident between the slats of the chair. Her legs were spread wide and bound with a black cord. To one of her legs, clung the boy.

  He whispered, “My mommy's a whore, my mommy's a whore, my mommy's a whore . . .”

  Flies buzzed. Beneath the woman, the light revealed a puddle of dried blood. The threesome stood at the doorway.

  “This can't—” Grip couldn’t finish.

  “We have to check if she's alive,” Howard said, though he already knew the answer.

  They entered the room. Without needing to say anything, Howard put his arm around Isabel's shoulder and shifted his weight off Grip. Isabel handed Grip the flashlight. Grip crept around to the other side of the woman. The flashlight beam silhouetted her body, reflected off her skin, and highlighted Grip's reaction. His expression made it obvious that the front side of the woman was more horrific than the back.

  He staggered to the side and onto all fours. Red brandy and punch splashed onto the floorboards.

  He wiped his lips. “We've got to get out of here.”

  He stood up and took Howard. The older man's arm around his shoulders felt comforting and solid. They would all make it out of this alive and together, Grip thought. They had to. He pointed the flashlight at the boy.

  Isabel grabbed the boy's arm while trying to stay as far away from the dead woman as possible, but he wouldn't let go of his mother’s bound leg. “It's okay. We won't hurt you.” Isabel got down and grabbed him by the shoulders. Maybe with this boy, that crazy woman outside will open the gate. Or at least call the police.

  Finally, he let go of his mother, and Isabel hauled him to his feet. He looked traumatized. How sick it was to think of a boy as a bargaining piece! She took his hand, and they all went back into the hall. Isabel’s eyes teared up as she realized the Puritan woman would probably still just shoot them. They had to wait to see if Ophelia came back. It was their only way out.

  Grip pointed the flashlight at the faded wallpaper. The ambient light illuminated their faces while they talked.

  Concealed by darkness, Isabel could cry, but in the light, she had to stay strong for the boy. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Is anyone up here, besides us?” she asked. The boy nodded. “Are they asleep, like your mommy?”

  The boy shook his head. “My mommy's not asleep. My mommy's a dead whore.”

  Shaken again, Isabel didn't know what to say.

  The boy looked at Howard. “Daddy.”

  Howard looked down at the child with kindness and pity. “What's your name?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Okay Daniel, my name is Howard. If there’s anyone else up here, we need to know so we can help them. Do you understand?” Daniel looked overwhelmed. “Understand?” The boy just stared. “Did you break the window? Did you drop the note? We won't be mad.”

  “This is getting us nowhere.” Grip pointed the flashlight back the way they'd come. “We can't just stand here in the hall like this.”

  “How long do we have?” Isabel said.

  Howard used the illumination function on his watch. “Fifty minutes still.”

  Daniel yanked free from Isabel’s grasp. Grip pointed the flashlight and glimpsed the boy running around the corner, out of sight.

  Isabel took back the flashlight. “Daniel!” She led the way again as her lovers hobbled in pursuit. The heft of the Maglite made her brave. She turned the corner, leaving the men behind in the darkness.

  At the end of the hall, Daniel pounded his fists against the 2x4 wall. She took a moment to orient herself. On her left, through the outer rooms, was theoretically the back garden and graveyard. She couldn’t be sure, but the room behind the 2x4s should be the northeast side of the house, the room from where the note was dropped.

  Isabel charged down the hall, reached the 2x4s, and pointed the flashlight back the way she'd come. Grip and Howard had yet to round the corner.

  “Guys?”

  Daniel's fists continued to pound against the rough wood.

  “Guys!”

  Grip and Howard finally turned the corner into the light. Isabel, relieved, let out a breath.

  The child grabbed her sleeve. She pointed the flashlight at him, and he looked up at her with a frightened expression.

  “What?” Isabel said. “What is it?”

  The withered hand that had dropped the note earlier reached between the 2x4s, and the arm wrapped around Isabel’s neck.

  Isabel screamed a piercing shreek. The only light went wild.

  “Isabel!” Grip called out. He couldn't see what was happening.
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  Jolted by terror, Isabel spun. The arm was gone from around her neck in the next moment.

  “It’s Grandma!” Daniel said, excited.

  Isabel clutched at her injured throat, her mind racing. She shined the light at the 2x4s, but there was nothing but a small gap in the boards. Before the phantom arm had disappeared, it had done something to her. It felt as though she had suddenly contracted a sore throat.

  Her heart raced, but nothing further happened. She heard Grip and Howard making their way down the hall toward her.

  Now that she had time to think, she realized it had been her loud shriek that had hurt her throat and made it tender, not the arm. The arm must have pulled back into the room. It wasn't a ghost or a demon. The “phantom” must have been Daniel's Grandma reaching for help.

  The gap between the 2x4s was big enough for a thin arm, but not big enough to see through unless Isabel got closer.

  “Hello?” She cautiously leaned in. “We're here to help. Hello? Can you hear me? Say something.”

  Her face an inch from the gap, she used the flashlight to peer into the dark room beyond.

  An old, frail woman, dressed in a dirty silk slip, shielded her eyes from the light. An empty I.V. on wheels stood beside her. Behind her, the light highlighted a metal bed frame with a naked twin mattress. Isabel couldn’t get an angle to see much else.

  “Grandma Lillian!” Daniel called out.

  The old woman lowered her hands and revealed her face, the face of the real estate lady, only this face was gaunter with lips darkened by tattoos. She stepped forward; the wheels of her I.V. squeaked like a rusty shopping cart.

  “She looks like the real estate woman,” Isabel said. “It must be her twin.”

  No, not tattoos; the old woman’s wrinkled mouth was sewn shut with thread or fishing line. The sight made Isabel’s flesh crawl. There was a quick glimpse of Lillian’s skinny arms—punctures dotted her pale skin, her veins dark, probably infected—and Isabel turned away.

  “Help her! Help Grandma!”

  The image of the sickly arms stayed in Isabel’s mind and a wave of nausea rose.