Deeper into Darkness

by James, Russell

  Nora turned up the wick on the oil lamp to throw light in the room’s shadowy corners. How she wished this house had gas like their city home. Her husband clung to this place, just as three generations of his family had before him. Mr. Lovell would not hear of adding modern conveniences like a coal furnace and running water, despite her pleas that it was practically the twentieth-century.

  Nora sat at her dressing table and reset a few hairpins to tighten her hair, piled high on her head. She straightened her tall collar and re-centered the ivory brooch at her throat. She thought she still looked quite good for forty. She kept her skin rosy and she still fit in her wedding dress. Mr. Lovell may travel a great deal on business, but she never feared he would stray. Every homecoming was a joyous reunion, where once again she felt complete.

  Nora moved to the edge of her bed where she could see out the window and down the road. She had owned the ornately carved, four post masterpiece since her teens. Mr. Lovell had the rest of the furniture custom built to match the same shade of dark oak. Despite all the packing they would do this week, her bedroom set was the only furniture that would return to the city. Nora slept on no other bed.

  The ticking clock marked each second’s passage. She had the eerie sensation of waiting here before. Was that what her spiritualist circle called déjà vu? She shook the notion from her head. Of course this seemed familiar. How many days had she spent awaiting her husband’s return? He had worn out carriage wheels to and from port this year.

  A gust of wind elicited a soft moan from the house, a low chorus of flexing timbers and shifting window panes, like a collective cry against the approaching season of ice and snow. Mr. Lovell never paid it any mind, but Nora shared the servants’ sentiments. It sounded too much like spirits. Nora shivered.

  Being well after supper, the sound of the kitchen being cleaned for tomorrow’s move should have echoed up the staircase. Nora could not hear a thing. If Bessie Mae thought she could wait for Mr. Lovell’s return to start, and then delay their departure, she was most mistaken. Nora reached up and yanked the silk pull that rang the kitchen bell. Bessie had better get up here with a good explanation.

  When she released the pull, another wave of familiarity swept over her. Not just the feel of the silk in her hand, but her uncharacteristic sharp feelings for lovely Bessie. She could almost forecast the next thing to happen, but then the premonition slipped away.

  Oh silly woman, she thought. What nonsense. Déjà vu, indeed. It was the late hour. The waiting was confusing her.

  A mix of anxiety and anticipation filled Nora as she watched the country lane beyond the house, praying for the flicker of her husband’s carriage lanterns. Couldn’t that driver hurry it up? She rubbed her hands together to burn some nervous energy.

  The wind abated. She heard something. Soft, faint. A whisper?

  No, she thought. A field mouse inside the plaster walls, perhaps. They scurry about at night. Or a raccoon made its way into the attic crawl space, his claws scratching on rafters. She had let the creaking of the house set her thinking of spirits, and now her mind was playing tricks on her.

  The sound came again. There was no mistaking it. A human voice. Not a whisper really. It lacked that hushed confidential tone. It just sounded distant, like the person was at the far end of a long marble corridor. Unintelligible words faded in and out.

  Bessie Mae, she thought. The cook was gossiping somewhere in the hall with the other servants. No wonder the kitchen isn’t being cleaned. No wonder she hasn’t answered my ring.

  Nora opened the door and looked down the hallway. Empty.

  “Bessie Mae!” No answer save another breeze-induced moan from the rafters. The hairs on her neck bristled. That same feeling of déjà vu crept over her again. She wanted to run down and give Bessie Mae a good lesson about ignoring her, but the silent empty staircase exuded an uncharacteristic foreboding. She knew she dared not leave her room, though could not say why. She slammed the door.

  This was all too much. Why hadn’t Mr. Lovell come home yet? The steamship was supposed to dock this morning. He should have been home by midday. If he was here, there would be no lollygagging by the servants. She would not be so confused and anxious. There would be a roaring fire, a sound night’s sleep, and they would be on their way back to the bright vibrant city in the morning.

  She resumed her sentinel position at the window. She could not help but worry. The road from the port was poorly maintained. The curve by the river, with that steep drop off, always made her cringe. Mr. Lovell might dismiss her fears, but carriages had overturned there. She pushed the thought from her mind.

  The voice came again. This time it was no whisper. A male stranger’s voice, clear as a bell.

  “Are you here, Nora?”

  Nora spun to face the room. The soft glow of the oil lamp showed it empty, but the voice sounded so close. A chill raced up her spine.

  Her spiritualist circle had discussed this. A house this old would have the spirits of the dead in residence. The way Mr. Lovell’s family was attached to the place, any who died here could still be trapped in the ether that surrounded the property. She kept her fear in check. The relatives would surely mean her no harm.

  “Are you in this room?” the man said.

  “Of course I’m in the room,” she said, trying to stay calm. “Where are you?” She waited. An eternal minute passed without an answer. Pity welled within her for the tortured soul who could not move on.

  “Who are you?” she called out. “Why do you haunt this place?”

  More silence. The spirit had to be one of Mr. Lovell’s relatives. Her husband should be here to witness this. Where could he be?

  Nora picked the oil lamp up from her dressing table. With slow measured steps, she walked the perimeter of the room. She probed around the furniture and looked for any sign of the spirit’s presence. Around the armoire, past the red stuffed leather chair, beside the tall dressers. Nothing was out of place.

  As she rested the lamp on her night stand, a shape appeared in the stuffed chair. At first gray and indistinct, it darkened and morphed into a steadily more human form. Its faceless head swiveled around the room, searching. One hand reached out to Nora’s bed.

  This poor soul, she thought. Trapped between here and heaven’s rewards. Alone and looking for reassurance.

  She reached out. Her hand hovered over the dark figure’s. Her heart skipped a beat as her fingers bent to caress its wrist. She brushed against it.

  Her fingers burned hot as a blacksmith’s forge.

  In unison, she and the dark figure recoiled from each other. The spirit blinked out of existence. Nora checked her fingertips, certain they were seared. They glowed a warm red, but were undamaged.

  Outside the clop and jangle of a carriage sounded at the front door. Nora leapt from the bed. Another premonition swept over her, this time dripping with dread. She looked out the window as a pair of harnessed black horses stopped in front of the mansion. Her heart dropped to her feet. It wasn’t her husband’s carriage. The steaming horses pulled an open wagon.

  Nora’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t recognize the man at the reins, but she knew the disheveled man at his side. It was Vincent, their driver. His arm was in a sling and his top hat was missing. Vincent was never to be outside without his hat. What could…

  In the back of the wagon, a dark green tarp covered a shape that resembled only one thing. A human body.

  “No, no, no,” Nora said with a slow shake of her head. It’s a workman from some farm, struck by accident by our carriage. Or a body they found as they traveled home. Something, anything but…

  Vincent rose from the seat with great effort, as if he carried a burden far heavier than his own weight. He shuffled to the rear of the wagon and grabbed the canvas’ edge.

  Tears welled in Nora’s eyes. Her lower lip trembled. “Please, God, no.”

  Vincent pulled back the canvas. Mr. Lovell lay stiff in the back of the truck, his face
lifeless gray. His clothes were soaked and strands of algae clung to his coat.

  “Lord, this can’t be happening,” she said. Her mind reeled. She turned hollow inside. Her strength, her purpose was gone. How could she face his sallow corpse? In a moment of madness, she thought that if she never went downstairs, time would roll backward and Mr. Lovell would still be alive.

  ♦♦♦

  “Dude, it was so unreal.” Kyle brushed his long blond hair away from his face.

  “No way. You were really there?” Brantley said. He wore the same purple Theta Nu sweatshirt as Kyle. He refilled his glass from the pitcher of beer between them on the bar.

  “Right there in the room,” Kyle said. “Same haunted room everyone talks about at that old B&B. I was like, ready for a trip to the edge and that was the place for it. The place to plug into the beyond.”

  “I can’t believe you went through with it, bro.”

  “And the room was like a total time capsule,” Kyle said. “The bed, the chairs. No one ever changed it since she killed herself there.”

  “So you saw her?”

  Kyle looked sheepish.

  “Well, no. But like, I felt her. Like her presence was there. Like a force.”

  “Whoaaa, tell me about it, Luke Skywalker.”

  “Hey, dude,” Kyle shot back. “She touched me. It was like instant frostbite.”

  “But you got no proof, no pictures.”

  “Oh, there’s proof.” Kyle nodded with satisfaction. “EVP.”

  “EVP?”

  “Electronic Voice Phenomena. You don’t hear the ghosts, but they record.” Kyle pulled out an iPod and stuck the earbuds in his roommate’s ears. “Listen up.”

  Brantley put his hands over the earbuds. He closed his eyes and concentrated, like a record producer ready to screen the next big hit.

  “Listen. It’s me, then her, then her again.” Kyle pressed play.

  Kyle’s voice, hushed and tenuous, materialized in Brantley’s head. A hint of fear warbled in his words.

  “I’m here to help you tonight.”

  A pause, then a faint noise arose, a static-filled swoosh, well short of intelligible.

  “Dude," Brantley said. “That’s nothing.”

  Kyle slapped him on the back of the head.

  “Shut up and listen.”

  Kyle’s recorded voice came through the earbuds again.

  “Are you here, Nora? Are you here in this room?”

  Clear as polished diamonds, Nora spoke.

  “Of course I’m in the room. Where are you?” A pause. Compassion tinged Nora’s voice. “Who are you? Why do you haunt this place?”

  “Dude,” Brantley whispered, his eyes wide with amazement. “She thinks you’re the ghost.”

  “I know. Isn’t that wild?”

  After viewing a Ghost Hunter’s episode, I started to wonder how the world looks to poor spirit trapped here. Nora answered the question for me.

  Ω

  As Luck Would Have It

  The black ball smacked around the spinning roulette wheel, jumping and dancing from number to number. The crowd’s eyes followed the bouncing sphere as it ricocheted against the wheel’s spokes in seeming defiance of the laws of physics.

  On the gaming table’s felt top, small collections of colored chips covered various numbers, but all were dwarfed by the red and gold tower on number twenty-four. For two straight spins, the house had added chips to the square, and to the earnings of Timmy Wayne.

  Tension knit the crowd into a mass of anticipation. Hands clasped and wrung, eyes darted around the table, hearts raced. Timmy stood at ease, battered cowboy hat tipped back on his head, white silk shirt untucked and unbuttoned halfway down his long, lean chest. His brown eyes watched the wheel with only casual interest.

  The black ball bounced and smacked and stopped. The wheel coasted down. The croupier called the result.

  “Twenty-four! The gentleman wins again.”

  A cheer went up from the little crowd. The croupier cleared the losing bets from the table. He counted out a stack of Timmy’s latest winnings. As he went to slide them to number twenty-four, a hand reached out and tapped back his wrist.

  The pit boss wore a dark suit with a bright red tie and a gold nameplate on his breast pocket. “Mr. Wayne will be cashing out.”

  The look on Timmy’s face was more of resignation than surprise. Two muscular bouncers stepped up on either side of him. He raised his hands palms up and stepped back from the table. The croupier scooped Timmy’s winnings into a plastic container and handed it to the pit boss. The pit boss led Timmy and the hired help to the cashier’s cage.

  “Can’t cheat at roulette,” Timmy said. “At least a player can’t.”

  “I didn’t say you were, Timmy,” the pit boss said. “I never do. The Vapor Trail just doesn’t like your luck.”

  The cashier handed Timmy back a banded stack of bills. He tucked them in the side pocket of his black cargo pants.

  “How can I make a living if you don’t let me work?” Timmy said.

  “Make a living down at the MGM Grand,” the pit boss said.

  He jerked a thumb at the exit door, and the beefcakes escorted Timmy out. The desert heat hit like a hammer when they passed from the air conditioned lobby to the teeming masses outside. Timmy passed bouncer a twenty when they reached the sidewalk.

  “Thanks for being gentle,” he said.

  “You get what you give,” one of the bouncers said.

  Timmy walked south along the Strip. The setting sun touched the mountains to the west. Las Vegas’ neon frenzy was about to blast into high gear. He could hit the MGM, the Aladdin, or at any of the big casinos. But the few thousand in his pocket would cover this week’s expenses. Other gamblers would have had to keep going, determined to ride the hot streak until it burned out. Timmy had no such pressure. His hot streak never cooled.

  The last five years in Vegas, things had consistently broken his way. In a town where nearly everyone went home a loser, he always went home a winner. He didn’t win every hand he played, or hit the jackpot on every spin of a slot machine, but by evening’s end, he always came out ahead. Always. The sliver of a percent advantage the house was always supposed to have, seemed to default to Timmy. The longer he played, the larger his winnings.

  He soon had a rep among the casinos as a man to be watched. Accused of counting cards, the big houses banned him from blackjack and poker. All he could play were slots, roulette and a few other games of pure luck. Once in a while, a casino bounced him out like the Vapor Trail just had, but usually he just won small amounts and walked away. He’d just joked about making a living gambling with the pit boss, but he actually did. A nice, low profile, middle class living.

  So with his bills covered tonight, there was no need to be greedy. He returned to his car, a four-year-old BMW he’d treated himself to before he realized he needed to be more discreet about his gift. He just couldn’t part with it.

  He fired up the big straight six and wheeled the car out to the Strip. He gunned the engine and the tach screamed to the redline. The car launched like a rocket.

  He pulled his foot off the gas pedal. The engine continued a full force growl. The car kept accelerating. He pounded the gas pedal a few times to unstick the throttle cable. No change.

  Up ahead, the stop light blazed red. A sea of red taillights stared at him upstream of the crosswalk.

  He jammed both feet on the brake pedal. It sank to the floor. The car upshifted into third. The stopped traffic came up fast, brake lights glowing with a warning he could not heed.

  He held the steering wheel in a death grip. He glanced right and left, but the gaudy strip had him hemmed in with oncoming traffic on one side and a throng of pedestrians on the other.

  The stop light turned green. The cars pulled away in a pack. He was on their tail in a second.

  The car in the center lane shifted one lane to the left and opened a hole. Timmy yanked the wheel left and aimed.
The BMW screamed between the other two lanes of cars. It cleared their door handles by inches. Ahead, the Strip stretched uncharacteristically empty for at least a mile. The BMW’s speedometer passed seventy.

  Ahead on the right, workers had imploded the old Sundancer casino. A sagging, flimsy chain link fence ran along the edge of the sidewalk, and behind it rose an enormous pile of excavated sand. Timmy spun the wheel right and leaned on his horn.

  Startled pedestrians looked up and scattered. The BMW hopped the curb at eighty-five and slammed into the fence. The fence pulled from its support posts with a machinegun-like pinging of the attaching wires. The BMW slowed. Then it rammed the sand pile head-on. The nose buried itself halfway to the windshield. Airbags deployed with an explosive whoosh and caught Timmy like a pillow catching a maid’s tossed chocolate mint.

  Hours later, the paramedics had certified him unharmed, but a tow truck had his car loaded for a trip to automotive intensive care. The driver surveyed the scene and said, “Man, you sure are lucky.”

  When the taxi dropped him off at his suburban ranch house, the neighborhood was dark. No houselights. No streetlights. He opened his door and a rush of hot air rolled over him like he’d opened an oven. The air conditioning had been down for hours. He entered his home and flipped the living room light switch to no effect.

  “Wonderful,” he sighed.

  He was tired, and sore and hungry. Visions of a refrigerator full of rotting food popped into his head. Sleeping in this heat was going to be impossible. Maybe the usually cooler basement would be livable. He felt his way to the kitchen, found the flashlight under the sink and was relieved when it snapped on. At least one thing was going right.

  When he opened the door to the basement, the smell of rotten eggs engulfed him. His pulse doubled. A gas leak, probably from the water heater, maybe the dryer. He wasn’t about to find out which. The house was one spark away from being a bomb. He ran out the front door and down to the street. With the last few volts of his cell phone’s power, he called 911 for the second time that day.