by David Beers
Silently, Vince moved across the hall and into the room.
He made no sound as he entered, only slowly shut the door behind him.
The dead man sat across the room from Abel. He was wearing a suit—one much too big for his thin frame—and sat with one leg crossed over the other. He had the newspaper open, engrossed in it. He hadn’t looked up at Abel even once, simply flipped from one page to the next, reading at an almost leisurely pace.
Abel stared at him, unsure of what to do. The dead man had walked in maybe 10 minutes ago, his legs like toothpicks beneath the gray suit, and simply sat down on the chair in front of Abel. No one else saw him.
A day had passed and there’d been no call back from Emi. He’d tried once more, but the phone hadn’t even rang, instead going directly to voicemail.
Last night there’d been no dreams. Not a single one. Abel had taken his pill and went to sleep, waking up eight hours later—and for the first time in a long time, he felt refreshed.
The dead man turned another page, the sound of rustling paper filling the otherwise quiet common area. Most people were in the cafeteria. There was a woman on the other side of the room sitting in a wheelchair and staring at the television, paying neither Abel nor the dead man any attention.
Abel looked him over. He was similar to others he’d seen. His cheekbones prominent due to the lack of subcutaneous fat. He did have a large, ragged scar running down the left side of his face, as if someone had tried to carve the entire thing off. It ended just below his jaw bone. His fingers were long and skinny, little more than bone. His hair was shaved short, but he looked at home in his suit. The bagginess didn’t seem to bother him one bit.
“She’s going to die, you know.” The man’s accent was heavy. He didn’t look up from the paper. “That’s what my colleagues have been trying to tell you, but you’re either too dense or too cowardly to do anything about it.”
His thin facial features grew frustrated for a second, as if whatever he read in the paper bothered him. He flipped the page and relaxed again.
“I’ve tried telling them how foolish it is to help someone like you. I’ve sincerely argued against it for weeks now, but they won’t listen to me. I tell them you don’t deserve it. I tell them you’re no different than your great-grandfather. I tell them that if you could, you’d gas us all again. They don’t listen, though. Fools, all of them.”
Abel blinked, the first movement he’d made since the man started talking. He could hear his heart beating in his ears—thud, thud, thud—and felt his palms growing sweaty. He’d dealt with these people his entire life (“Creatures,” his father had called them, refusing to see them as Abel did), but never once had they spoken to him like this. They’d come into reality, of course, but that was only when Abel denied them his dreams.
Abel had denied them nothing.
He couldn’t.
And even when they did come here, they had never spoken to him. No more than it took to terrorize him. To shriek and grab hold, to shove pills in his mouth or needles in his arms.
“My colleagues feel sorry for the young lady,” the dead Jewish man said. “I, of course, have no such delusions. If she fraternized with your kind, then she deserves what she gets. There’s been a disagreement, of sorts, between us. However, one of the reasons our kind survives regardless of what those like you try to do, is that we stick together. Our faith binds us, and so one does not simply go their own way when the group decides something else. It’s what you Germans never understood. All of you running like rats from a sinking ship when the war was lost, trying to scatter across the globe to avoid the justice your actions deserved.”
The dead man shook his head again. He looked relatively young, maybe in his early fifties, but he spoke as if he were ancient.
“So, here I am, sent to deliver the news that I have absolutely no desire to share. She should die. You should come down with us, and that should be the end of the whole thing. I’m tired of arguing, though. So here I am.”
The dead man folded the newspaper and put it to his side. His suit draped off his body as if he were wearing actual curtains. It wasn’t possible to make suits that fit someone as thin as him.
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
“That girl you knew when you were younger, she’s in trouble. My colleagues, they feel for her because they came to know her some when she associated with you. I don’t hold their concern, and wish her a long and painful death. I’ve been voted down. My colleagues have tried repeatedly to let you know, in the only way they can, that her death is near and that you will be responsible. You and your whole ilk for the harm you have caused throughout history. My colleagues will gladly take you, as that is our right, but they feel it beneath them to not try and save this woman. I have tried convincing them that this is no different than the nurse you also helped murder, but they will not hear my arguments, because Yahweh, in his infinite wisdom, did not grant them the logic He granted a field mouse. So, here I am. If you do not go to her now, she will be lost. There are things, whether you want to believe in them or not, that are much, much worse than my colleagues and I. Your former friend is finding that out right now.”
The man leaned back in his chair, both hands resting on his legs. He stared at Abel for a few seconds, his thin face casting judgment. Abel didn’t move, hardly even breathed. He didn’t look around to see if anyone else saw this, or was watching his reaction. He could not, for anything in the world, remove his eyes from this dead man.
“You’re weak,” the man finally said. “Much weaker than your predecessor who started this whole ghastly business. He was evil, but at least he had spine. You … You wouldn’t have lasted 30 minutes in the camps. Not that I care what that khelev thought, but I imagine he’d wish he had never procreated, looking at what his genes have turned into.”
The dead man stood and spit on the floor, his eyes never leaving Abel’s.
“I imagine your friend will die, because you don’t have the courage to get up off this couch, let alone help her. I’m glad to see that’s the case.”
Leaving his paper, the dead man walked across the common area, his heels echoing in the silence as they snapped against the floor.
Abel made sure his head didn’t turn as the man left, not wanting an orderly or nurse to see him staring at something that didn’t exist—at least not for them.
The sound of the dead man faded as he moved down the hallway, faded until there was nothing left of him. Only the paper that sat across from Abel, folded between the chair’s cushion and armrest.
Abel stood, both hands shaking badly. He walked over, his knees feeling weak and his heart still pounding in his chest. He thought he might faint, but yet he couldn’t help himself. He reached down and pulled the paper from the cushion. He thought about trying to read it as he stood, but doubted he could continue standing for much longer.
He looked at the chair the dead man had sat in, but quickly decided against it. Abel turned back, basically collapsing into his own chair, the paper rattling in his hands as he did.
Slowly, he unfolded it, his hands shaking almost too badly to do the job.
He didn’t want to read the headline, no more than he’d wanted to stand up and grab the paper, but he couldn’t stop it now.
Abel read the large, bold headline, the paper rattling in his shaking hands.
NAZI COWARD LETS FRIEND DIE
Abel looked down at the picture on the left. It was Emi, yet not the woman he’d seen on the television screen yesterday. Her eyes were black, just like the dead he saw sometimes in his dreams. She’d looked concerned on the television, but here she was smiling, her lips pulled back in an insane grin.
There was a small caption beneath.
The dark came for the Nazi’s friend. It took her gladly.
Abel’s hands were still shaking an hour later. There was nothing he could do about it, and he didn’t care if anyone noticed either.
He’d read the
paper and then put it back down. Abel had sat for 10 minutes, maybe 20, desperately trying to get himself under control. Abel understood everything about his family’s past; no one had ever tried to hide it, and that’s why they grew up dirt poor. The last person in Abel’s family to have any wealth was his great-grandfather, and everyone since had been barely able to afford the roof over their heads. Because they couldn’t stop talking about the dead people chasing them around.
Yet, Abel had never once heard of what just happened. No dead emissary came to discuss helping someone, spitting on the floor as he walked away in disgust.
There were rules to this, and it felt as if all of them had just been violated.
In those 20 minutes of waiting, Abel didn’t even attempt processing what the dead man had said—only the fact that he was there at all.
Finally, his mind somehow coming to grips with the rules being shattered, Abel began thinking about the message.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t already known. Emi was in trouble. The dead had made that very, very clear the past few weeks; hell, there hadn’t been any escaping the meaning of those dreams. They moved away from torturing him and his family to ripping Emi apart, and they hadn’t stopped. Finally, they’d fed her to him.
Abel had called. He’d done his best. He’d tried to get in touch with her.
Then, no dreams.
A visit.
He thought of the dead man’s words: There are things, whether you want to believe in them or not, that are much, much worse than my colleagues and I.
The phone call hadn’t been enough. The dreams ending hadn’t meant Emi was safe or anything was over. It meant the dead were fed up with his inability to do their bidding.
Abel went back to the dead man’s words, searching through them the best he could. It was tough to remember them perfectly, but he was trying to come to some understanding of why the dead would do this. What was their reasoning?
Forty-five minutes after the dead man left, Abel found his answer. The ghost hadn’t said it, but Abel thought it the only thing that made sense.
The dead felt guilt.
They hadn’t about Nurse Fecker, for whatever reasons Abel didn’t have time to contemplate, but they did about Emi. Maybe Fecker had German blood in her—Abel didn’t know whether or not that might matter. Emi, though, they felt bad about it somehow. Abel’s curse rubbing off on her, and now … There are things, whether you want to believe it or not, that are much, much worse than my colleagues and I.
The dead didn’t want anything to happen to her, and now were using Abel to somehow stop it.
The irony. Abel would have smiled if his body hadn’t been in such a state of shock. The dead, those that caused his father to murder his sister, wanted him to save someone.
An hour after the dead man left, Abel stood up. He didn’t move at first, but stared forward, his mind trying to argue his body back down. It wasn’t his job to save Emi. He had come here to avoid hurting anyone, and he’d remained here for the same reason. He was content with no relationships, with having no one forever, so that he didn’t have to hurt people. That was enough. That was all he owed this world.
It wasn’t his job to go back into it and save anyone, regardless of what the dead wanted.
And what if you don’t go, Abel? What if you sit back down and let what happens, happen? What do you think the dead will do then? They don’t want her death on their hands, whether or not they said that directly to you. What will they do to you if you refuse them, if you push Emi’s blood on them?
You’re weak. That’s what the dead man had said, and what if it was true? So-fucking-what? He had nothing. He had no one. His life was destroyed by things he couldn’t control, and all he wanted was to be left-the-fuck-alone. So what if he was weak?
You didn’t always used to be weak, a part of him said. You used to be strong, for your sister, for Emi. You were a rock people could lean on.
Standing in the common area, Abel shook his head without realizing it.
He didn’t want to be strong. He didn’t want anything to do with this.
And yet, he still stood. He hadn’t sat back down.
A cold part of him spoke next, something that might have been more about self preservation than any type of altruism.
The dead are waiting, Abel. They’ve always been waiting for you, and they always will, but that doesn’t mean you have to give them more ammunition.
Abel started walking then, whether propelled by concern for Emi or fear for himself, he didn’t know … and maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe at that point, it only mattered that he started walking.
Hands shaking, he went to the nurse’s station.
“I need to see Dr. Thoran.”
“Is everything okay, Abel?” the nurse asked.
“It’s an emergency. I need to see him right now, please.”
“Abel,” the nurse said. “You know Dr. Thoran is busy throughout the day. You can’t simply go see him whenever you want. Why don’t you talk to me and we’ll see if we can’t work it out?”
Abel swallowed. He placed his hands on the counter, his fingers twitching.
“If I don’t see him within the next few minutes, Nurse Thresher, I’m going to leave the premises. Please tell him that, and see if it will help free up his schedule.”
The nurse stared at him for a second, the friendliness on her face disappearing as she clearly realized she was dealing with an irrational person. Most staff at Sunny Acres forgot that when talking to Abel; he seemed so normal except during his ‘episodes’, but now Nurse Thresher remembered the truth about everyone in this building.
They were insane.
“Please go sit down, Abel. I’ll come get you in a few minutes.”
Abel didn’t know if she was telling the truth, but putting up a fuss right now would stop any forward momentum he might have. He was technically free to leave, given his voluntary status, but if he started acting irrational, they’d sedate him and he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Except down to the dead.
“Yes, ma’am,” Abel said. He moved back to the bench against the far wall.
Minutes passed and Abel stared down at his feet. He was aware of his surroundings, not lost in his own head, because he honestly didn’t know what was going to happen next. Orderlies could come and restrain him. Someone could give him a needle if he fought them. He’d never done anything like this, and to be detained right now …
“Abel?” Dr. Thoran asked from the other end of the hallway, having just turned the corner and walking this way.
“What’s going on?” he said, drawing closer. “They said it’s an emergency. I had to leave a session.”
Abel stood, his hands shaking. “Can we go to your office?”
Thoran stopped walking and looked at him for a second. A different—yet similar—look to Nurse Thresher’s took over his face.
“Sure, Abel, of course. But first, I need you to tell me the truth: are you in danger of another episode?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Do you need any medication?” Thoran asked, Abel probably the only patient on the premises that such a question would even be posed to.
He shook his head.
“Okay,” Thoran said. “Let’s go to my office.”
The psychiatrist turned and Abel followed him through the hallways. Thoran let him in first, then followed, closing the door behind him. Abel sat in his normal spot, but Thoran didn’t move from the door, standing there and leaning against it.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to leave,” Abel said, staring at him, his voice shaking as bad as his hands.
“The nurse mentioned that,” Dr. Thoran said, his own voice calm. “You’re talking about leaving here, right? Sunny Acres?”
Abel nodded, unsure if he could speak.
“Why?”
He swallowed, thinking surely his voice would fail him. For 15 years, he’d been
safe here. There had been terror and panic from time to time, but for the most part, he’d been protected. And now …
He felt his breathing increasing.
“Hey, hey,” Thoran said, moving across the room and to Abel’s chair. “Here, lean forward.” He helped Abel bend over, so that his head was nearer his knees. “Take some breaths.”
Abel did, closing his eyes. He felt his hands still trembling.
A minute or so passed and Thoran removed his hands from Abel’s back. He moved around to the front of his desk, leaning against it like he had the door.
“When you’re ready, let’s try again. Why do you need to leave, Abel?”
Abel took two more deep breaths before sitting up.
He knew what he could and couldn’t say now. The rules he’d lived by no longer existed, and the dead man that had come to him wearing that baggy suit showed as much. Abel could no longer tell the truth, not if he wanted out of here. To tell this psychiatrist that he had to go save someone who might be cursed, just like him, would ensure that Abel didn’t leave.
Breathe, he thought. Just breathe, and then tell him what he’s wanted to hear the entire time he’s been working with you. It’s that simple.
“I want to try living out in the world again.”
His hands. He couldn’t stop them from shaking. His heart sounded like drums in his ears, a large marching band that surely echoed in Thoran’s too.
“Just like that?” the psychiatrist asked. “You’re ready to go out into the world again? What about a job? How will you feed yourself? What happens if you have another episode, Abel?”
Abel read the man’s face easily. For the first time in their relationship, Thoran didn’t believe him.
“The trust,” Abel said, still trying to keep his breathing under control. There’d been a trust set up by Abel’s grandfather. After the war, and the disappearance of Abel’s great-grandfather, there’d been money that the Allies hadn’t been able to take. His grandfather had set up a trust, and throughout the years, no one touched it. Not until Abel. Not until he decided that he would be the last of this cursed lineage, and he would live his life out in a hospital, slowly draining the blood money stolen so long ago. “There’s enough in there to make sure I’m fine, at least at first.”