by Troy McCombs
John stopped him and smiled. He didn't believe a word of it. But he knew it probably had happened.
Charlie reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a tape recorder, and hit play. Sure enough, it was John's voice shouting through the speaker, its tone more urgent than he had ever heard.
"Let them know that they don't try, that they don't understand the things that happen in the sea of unutterable unconsciousness. Their makeup is but zero—zero percent of all factual reality. They—(sounded like he said human)—think they're Gods in their own right, but only are mere mortals with a small mind. They soon will see what divine truth is made of..."
John almost stopped breathing. The voice he was hearing was his, but it wasn't his. It was what his would have sounded like had he been possessed by a high-ranking demon in one of the lower levels of Hell.
"John Rollings! John Rollings is my name! I have twenty-two living eyes and I abide in the house of (unknown word) —”
John's nose suddenly began bleeding. He touched the blood and looked at his fingertips. Then he looked up at Charlie.
"The word you said...everybody who heard you say it at the sight—their noses started bleeding, too. Mine bled the first three times I listened to it on this tape. No ghost can make that sound, can they, John?"
John got dizzy, stumbled, and reached for a wall. Steera quickly grabbed him and prevented him from falling just in time.
"You're going to be all right. I know. I know how crazy this is. Trust me, I do. I got four perfectly sane EMTs seeking counseling as we speak. I can barely—"
John quickly shook his head. Fear surfaced in his eyes. "You don't understand, Steera. I've been doing this for all my life—since I was a toddler getting messages from my grandmother—and never, ever, have I come across something like this. I've seen silverware bend by the will of the mind. I've seen heavy objects fly across a room and crash into a wall. I've seen a demon face to face, and felt its cold, sulfuric breath against my skin. I've seen things, heard things, and felt things you couldn't believe. But what happened last night—what happened now, with that tape recorder—is something I can't believe. I don't have a clue how to do research on this. I wouldn't know where to begin, other than to contact another intuitive."
"Will you still help me? To find out what it is?"
John nodded.
"You know it will involve entering the house again."
John's face went blank, but he gave a slight nod. "My curiosity is peaked by this assignment, Sheriff Steera."
"Good."
They walked off down the hall, toward the exit door.
Chapter 3
The clock struck 12:00 A.M. John turned off his bedside lamp. Only a few outside streetlights now illuminated his small room. A painting of Christ walking on water hung over his dresser. A large yin-yang symbol hung on a chain suspended over a small plant. Silence ruled the night.
John was sitting straight-up in bed, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. He was, in fact, meditating. Trying to see with his hidden eye. He did this rarely, but certainly knew just how rewarding and profound meditation could be. Buddha had perfected himself by doing this for nine years. It was a practice akin to prayer, with equal benefit, used to clean the mind and to clear the soul.
"Ummmm...ummm...ummm." John chanted, slowly focusing on nothingness. The darkness surrounded him, embraced him. Random thoughts came, invaded, then drifted away as quickly as they had come. The one secret of meditation was set in stone: if thoughts come, let them come; if they go, let them go.
To force is to burden, but to release is to set the self free...he told himself.
More thoughts surfaced. More thoughts liquefied. His breaths lengthened, deepened, and grew less loud in volume. He was already beginning to reach Alpha state...until—
A brick wall flashed inside his mind. John gritted his teeth. It felt like his body had run into the solid structure at twenty miles an hour. The pain in his head was instantaneous. A migraine emerged from within the darkness. His fingers twitched. All concentration was lost. John opened his eyes.
"What in the hell was that …"
He didn't feel good after that. He popped a few aspirin and went right to bed, sleeping soundly without a glimpse of a dream.
***
John hurried out through the doors of a local Starbucks, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a cell phone held up to his ear in the other. "Hello? Sedree Harsol?"
"'Ello?" the voice on the other end was far from American. Perhaps Russian, perhaps something else.
"This is John Rollings. I'm the one who—" John marched down the sidewalk, passing by store after store.
"—Yes! The fellow American whom assisted me in the Stofferburg haunting in England."
"Yeah, that was me." John finagled his way through a swarm of teenagers coming from the opposite direction. "That was my first out-of-country job. I'm surprised you remembered."
"Yes, well, my memory is fine. It's my nerves that I'm worried about." The old man laughed hoarsely. "After a while, the job gets to ya. There's a reason why the barrier between the living and the dead is so thick."
"About that, Mr. Harsol." John buzzed past an old woman with ugly white hair. "I'm working currently on a job I know little about. The barrier at this particular house seems—incomprehensible. Nothing in my previous experience has demonstrated anything as powerful as I've seen here."
"Hmm. Tell me more." Sedree was interested. Hook, line, and sinker.
John told him the whole story in vivid detail by the time he got to the end of the block. Once he got there, he stopped, took a sip of coffee, and recoiled. Still too hot.
"Have you done any research about the place?" This time, the old man coughed hoarsely.
John looked both ways. No cars in sight. He crossed the road. "Not yet, but I'm headed to the library right now. I'm going to check the history of the place, see what files come up. Have you any idea what I might be dealing with? Just by what I told you?" John stepped onto the next block and walked a little faster.
"I would have to say it's a brilliant poltergeist. Maybe even a deceased human with amazing supernatural powers having been honed on earth—"
John interrupted him: "But to kill people? God in heaven would not let demons physically end the life of a living human."
"Oh, it's happened before, John. It's as rare as minds like Einstein's, but it happens on occasion."
"To take a life, yes, but multiple lives?" John tried taking another sip of coffee. This time it didn't burn his mouth.
"Definitely examine the perimeter of this place. The land's always got something to do with it. Often it's the underlying cause of the haunting. Make good use of your magnetometer and your E.V.P. recorder. You'll find what you're looking for soon; just keep your head up. I must go now. Call me when you find."
"Alright." John hung up the phone, disappointed with the man's answers. He wanted a more thoughtful, more concrete response from such a veteran, and yet, he didn't really expect any more than what he'd actually received.
On to the library...
The sidewalks cleared out quickly. Most people were headed back to work, having eaten lunch, or were taking it back with them. The streets, too, were empty—a bleak reminiscence of a lively asphalt paradise. A few horns honked in the distance, just loud enough to let John know the world was still alive. Traffic lights turned red, green, yellow, then red again. John walked casually, drinking his coffee, wondering if the alley up ahead would be a shorter cut to the Bellsville Library Center.
He stopped so quickly he almost dropped his drink. He felt eyes on his back, gazing at him, watching him closely. But when he turned, nobody was there, not on his side or the opposite side of the street. In fact, it was so deserted that he thought something was wrong. A chill wind brushed back his bangs and shook the overhanging traffic light, whose burning RED STOP signal stayed permanently in place.
Without really th
inking, John turned and hurried down the narrow alleyway, wanting to find a more populated area immediately.
Airborne newspapers brushed off the cobblestone pavement, tumbling away in a chilly breeze. The cracked walls on either side of him displayed recent ugly graffiti done by the town's local troublemakers. Crates and garbage-filled boxes littered parts of the walkway, as did broken hypodermic syringes.
Soon, he noticed a huge billboard for Jack's Dollar's Casino standing high in the near distance. A burden lifted from his shoulders. He knew, by this road marker, how far the library was, and it was pretty close.
Before he made it to the Allied Waste dumpster midway through the alley, the sound of a bottle tinkling to the concrete ground struck his ears. The eyes were again upon him. He stopped and turned once more.
This time something was there. Standing ten yards away was the largest, dirtiest Doberman Pincher he had ever seen, its jaws open and oozing saliva. Its panting breaths drowned out the sound of the wind and the sound of the bottle rolling slowly toward his feet. Every bit of oxygen depleted from John's lungs. The animal growled viciously, obviously hungry for a new meal, a human meal. Its beady black eyes gazed into his, waiting for him to make the first move, as if to earn its cuisine by sport, not just by kill.
"Easy, doggie..." John was instantly annoyed by his own obvious choice of words.
The dog seemed annoyed by it just as much, for it stepped forward, growling louder, its nose beginning to snarl.
"Oh, shit," he said, taking three steps backward. As he did, it was already too late. The predator took off, running at him so quickly he barely had a chance to blink or draw a breath. By the time he did both, and reopened his eyes, the Doberman had leaped up, its sharp mouth lunging toward the crown of his head, as if attempting to take a bite out of his scalp. He dropped down just an inch, not only avoiding the attack, but realizing just whom the attack was really aimed toward—
A local street thug about to bash in the back of John's cranium with a metal pipe.
The pipe hit the concrete with a distinct p-tink, and the dog managed to swipe some skin off his hand with its canines. The man turned and fled, bleeding. The dog chased him halfway, then stopped.
John knelt down for a while, absorbing what had just happened. Oxygen slowly came back into his lungs. His mind calmed. His wits returned. He just wished his psychic senses had been stronger just then.
He recoiled when he felt the warm, wet snout of the dog brush against the back of his neck. It whimpered and whined, now licking the side of his cheek. John turned and petted the dirty, smelly brown creature. "Thank you. Now I owe you one. What's your name, pal?"
He searched for a dog tag, but found none. Probably a stray. A lot of people in Bellsville weren't too fond of animals; most turned them loose because they didn't want the responsibility. John, however, loved them, but had never had one on account of his job. Angry spirits and fallen angels could harm them much more easily than the human species.
He stood back up before he got too attached. The animal squatted down, its tail waggling, and barked three times. Two pointy ears reached for the heavens.
"I'm sorry, but you can't go with me. Really. It's not going to happen."
Persistent, the dog barked again, rising off the ground with its front paws as it did.
John shook his head and took a step away. "No! Stay put! Don't follow me. You'll find a better owner, one who doesn't see visions and communicate with dead people." He backed away, faster and faster, unable to break eye contact from the poor animal, which began whimpering like an abandoned child. When it finally cocked its head to the side, dispirited, John had had enough. He turned and jogged away, about to shed tears of his own.
The dog simply watched him go.
***
He entered the library ten minutes and two blocks later, his mind more focused on Lassie than the house on Mayberry Road. The Bellsville Library, the smallest one in the area—maybe the world—was the only place to do any real tangible research on his current assignment. There were but fourteen whole aisles, cluttered with old books that made the building smell like an old folk's home. Three study tables, none of which were occupied now, formed a triangle near the middle of the room. One lone computer occupied the far corner, adjacent to the rear exit door. The place was simply a tomb waiting to be torn down.
"Hello." The two unified voices came from behind a counter. Faint, meek, and female. Same timber. The librarians, two old women, barely five-foot tall, welcomed him with smiles. They looked like identical twins, these two women, but were actually longtime friends endowed with many of the same features. Both of them were even following in suit: stamping the insides of books.
John stepped up to the counter and set his hands on it.
The woman with the most wrinkles raised her eyebrows. “May I help you with something, sir?”
"Yes, I need to look through any old files you have on your computer regarding events that have taken place on Mayberry Road."
Both women followed in suit again. They stopped mid-stamp and looked at the young man, unnerved. Obviously they knew something about the rumors based on the house. John didn't care. He smiled, trying to alleviate the tension in their unified looks.
"Uh, yes—"
The woman with the most age spots interrupted her: "Why do you want to know about that road?"
"Emma, it's okay."
"No. It's not. Don't they have that house off limits by now? Haven't they yet learned anything from its history? Why do you wish to search for information about the Prestillions?"
"They were the original owners?" This was all news to John.
"Yes. Craziest story I ever heard. Craziest because almost everything anyone's heard about it is true." The woman's face puckered up. New wrinkles formed. Her bottom lip quivered. She wasn't frightened, she was petrified.
"Okay," John said, removing his hands from the desk. "I'll leave you two alone. I think I can find what I'm looking for."
He walked away. The calmer woman looked at her best friend, perplexed by her reaction. "Why are you so touchy? My, my, your face has gotten pale. Is everything okay, Emma?"
Emma stared at John as he walked over to a desk, sat himself down in front of a computer, and began typing.
"I never told you this," she swallowed, "but I knew someone who died in that house. I never told anyone about it...till now."
The glowing blue monitor screen lit John's face, making him look sick and exhausted. His fingers pressed the keys with feverish intensity. Words appeared quickly, one right after the other:
Strange events in Chester County. Mayberry Road. The Prestillion's House.
He hit ENTER.
An old, worn, black and white picture of the house popped up on screen. The headline read:
The Chartonsburg Review -- 1869 -- Local Renowned Scientist, Charles Prestillion, Builds New House On Mayberry Road. A resident of Chester County since 1816, Charles W. Prestillion has won prestigious awards all around the country for his research in Botany, Biology, Chemistry, and Advanced Mathematics. His recent accomplishment was helping construct his brand new Colonial last May. He lives there now with his wife Martha and his daughter Sandra, and soon plans to run for office...
John scrolled down and stopped. Under the text was another picture, of a tall, lean man with a protruding chin, and sharp, piercing eyes. Dressed in a suit, he was holding the hand of a little girl, whom, John presumed, was his daughter. She was grinning with all her teeth, and was squeezing a teddy bear under one arm. Both looked happier than Mother Teresa. Nothing out of the usual...yet.
He scrolled down farther.
The Chartonsburg Review -- 1873 -- A Tragedy in Chester County -- Charles Prestillion, age 63, a brilliant man with big dreams, suffers huge loss on Tuesday, after his wife and daughter are found dead in his home. The cause is yet unknown, but some reporters believe they were either poisoned intentionally or asphyxiated from carbon monoxide. Whether foul play is involved or
they died due to a ruptured natural gas line, is still to be determined...
John scrolled farther down. Under this text was another picture of Charles Prestillion, sitting still in a chair and looking completely different from his other photo. Here his face was drained of life, his eyes wild and uncertain, his posture tense and broken. It didn't even look like the same man. He, in fact, looked delirious.
John noticed a word cut off at the bottom of the page that caught his interest: Suspected—
He scrolled down more.
--Man, Charles Prestillion, Gone Missing After Failing To Appear In Court On Allegations Of Murdering Family...
The hand moved the mouse. The curser fell. The page dropped. John read further, interested.
While local authorities search the Prestillion House, one officer is soon found dead in the attic. Apparent cause of death: unknown. However, sources say the examiner found a strange chemical compound lying underneath the subcutaneous tissue of his Dermis. Results of the source are yet to be determined.
Friday -- The Herald Star Review -- 1874
On the night of Halloween, neighbors on Mayberry Road complain of hearing loud, obnoxious noises coming from the woods near the vacant Prestillion Home. One source claims he heard the crying of a young girl. Another claims he heard what sounded like a "rumbling roar", followed by the laughter of some "sort" of animal. An old woman who was standing outside at the time said she began to hear a specific and unfamiliar "word" being said by an unseen source. Afterwards, she mysteriously lost her hearing. What makes these cases even more bizarre is that each of these three sounds were reported at exactly the same time, 12:00 sharp, from the very immediate area. This is the exact time the medical examiner claims Martha and Sandra Prestillion had lost their lives. Coincidence? Some folks think the place is haunted by their spirits. The body of Charles Prestillion remains missing.
John scrolled down farther, his eyes searching the screen for more and more information.
Sunday -- The Herald Star Review -- 1903
A Young Boy Hospitalized