The Demons of King Solomon

by Aaron J. French

  In that instant, I can tell she has been briefed on me and my behavior over the past few weeks. Ms. Joyce has told her I’m the troublemaker. The cause of this whole thing.

  I glance back at the dead bird. There is a silk sheet folded over the arm of a chair, so I take the sheet and cover the cage with it. Then I promise to help Millie bury Sweetums in the yard come morning. Millie nods, appreciative. I move out into the hall and push through the few residents of Sunshine House who have yet to return to their rooms. One woman holds another, as if to console her. They are frightened, all of them.

  My corridor is empty and quiet. The door to my room stands open, just as I left it. I go inside, close the door, and feel something against my bare foot that causes me to jump back. I feel along the wall for the light switch, flip it on.

  On the floor is Ms. Joyce’s cat, its body curled like a crescent moon, its legs still. Its tail makes a perfect J on the floor. Its dead eyes gaze into a vast nothingness.

  I stare at the dead cat for some time, contemplating my choices. I could carry it back out into the hall and leave it for someone else to find. I could go to Nurse Diaz and tell her. But those options do not appeal to me; they make me look complicit, guilty. And I fear, at least in Ms. Joyce’s eyes, I already look guilty enough. The last thing I need is for her to kick me out of this place, and for me to have to move in with David. Personally, I would love to live with him, but that wouldn’t be fair to David. He’s a young man with his whole life ahead of him, who doesn’t need his creaky old father hampering him.

  In the end, I decide to place Ms. Joyce’s dead cat in an extra pillow case, and to dispose of it without anyone knowing in the morning.

  Seems a good idea at the time.

  4

  In my dream, I am shuttled along in the passenger seat of a stark white Lincoln Continental while David sits behind the wheel. The radio is on, the station at first a series of debates by people in proper British accents, which then bleeds into a jazz station, where someone plays an up-tempo melody on a piano. I imagine I can hear the occasional chirrups of a small bird on the soundtrack.

  I ask David where we are going and he tells me we’re on a hunt. Yet not exactly a hunt.

  —We’re collectors, Pop, he tells me.

  We are driving through the desert and it is midnight. A strange bluish light simmers on the distant horizon.

  —I don’t understand, I say.

  —Just don’t look in the backseat, Pop.

  So of course I look in the backseat.

  At first I see nothing but darkness. Then I realize it is the darkness itself that is comprised of shades, of shadowlike specters, and that pairs of golden eyes stare at me from the gloom.

  Frightened, I turn back to David, but David is no longer seated behind the steering wheel of the great Lincoln. It is the wraith, Ronove, its body hunched over the wheel while its featureless head presses against the ceiling of the car. Its arms are like tree branches stitched together to form joints. Leaning against the seat between us is Ronove’s staff.

  The ghost-hands of those doomed souls in the backseat clutch at me.

  I scream, breaking my throat.

  5

  I want to get an early start burying the dead because today is the day David comes to visit. After breakfast, I join Millie Broome in the yard behind Sunshine House, where I excavate a small hole in the earth with a fork I swiped from the cafeteria. A small crowd has gathered to pay their respects. Millie is strong; she does not cry over Sweetums, whom she has wrapped in the silk handkerchief, but I can tell she is in pain. No, it is not sadness that permeates this little group, but fear.

  Millie places Sweetums in the hole. She says a few words, then looks at me. Her eyes appear to tremble in their sockets. I say a few words, too—good old Sweetums, cheery old bird, rest in peace, old friend—and then Mr. Torry sings a heartfelt and beautiful rendition of “Amazing Grace.”

  As the crowd disperses, Millie and Mr. Torry remain with me. Millie says, “Do you think he’ll come back again tonight, Mr. Bruno?”

  I tell her I do not know.

  “What exactly is this fellow’s endgame?” says Mr. Torry. He, too, has witnessed the wraith flitting through the corridors at night. And while he is grateful that Ronove’s arrival at Sunshine House has brought back his lovely singing ability, the distress in his voice is clear to me. “Is he like Death? Does he wish to work through us all like some plague?”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” I tell him. “There seems to be some method to his madness.” Although what method that actually is, I cannot formulate into words.

  When Millie Broome and Mr. Torry return to the house, I creep farther across the yard and vanish behind a stand of trees and a sizeable hedgerow. Grunting, I struggle to my knees and proceed to dig a larger hole, almost a trench, in the soft earth behind the hedgerow. It takes a while using the fork, and when I finish, I am flecked with dirt and slimed in a sheen of sweat. I return to my room, take the pillowcase that contains Ms. Joyce’s dead cat from my closet, and go back outside.

  I am already exhausted by the time I reach the hole I’ve made. I turn the pillowcase upside down and shake the cat out. It is stiff as a board now, the J of its tail as rigid as a fishing hook. I mop the sweat from my brow with the pillowcase, then slap it over one shoulder. I kick what dirt I can into the hole before struggling to my knees again to close it up the rest of the way.

  But I don’t get that far, because a shadow falls over me and I hear someone clear their throat.

  I turn around and, wincing against the early morning sun, I see Ms. Joyce standing there.

  6

  I am told to shower and dress before meeting with Ms. Joyce in her office. This time when I arrive, aside from Ms. Joyce, there is a balding gentleman in a gray suit seated at an angle at Ms. Joyce’s desk. Because the room is so cramped, he is attempting to balance a notepad on one knee.

  The man is never introduced to me, but I quickly discern that he is an attorney. Ms. Joyce does all the talking. And while it is clear that this meeting has come about because of what she saw me doing with her dead cat, she does her best to remain composed. Perhaps it is her anger that overrides her grief.

  “You are being transferred to a facility in San Bernardino,” she tells me.

  She talks at length about the particulars of the transfer, but I stop listening. I want to explain about the cat—that I didn’t kill it, that I was only burying it—but I find no good place to interject my defense. Besides, at this point, I’m not sure what good it will do. She makes it clear that the facility in San Bernardino is not as nice as Sunshine House, and of this I have no doubt. This is my punishment, and I will not be rewarded. I have heard horror stories about the facility in San Bernardino.

  “Perhaps,” Ms. Joyce concludes, “your friend Mr. Ronove will see it fit to follow you there, and to leave the rest of us alone.”

  “Where’s my son?” I say. “David should be here. He should be part of this discussion.”

  The lawyer shifts uncomfortably, and Ms. Joyce says, “We are handling all the particulars of this transfer, Mr. Bruno.”

  “David will be here this afternoon,” I tell her. “It’s time for his monthly visit.”

  “Your son David is dead, Mr. Bruno,” says Ms. Joyce. “We have gone over that many, many times. He has been dead for eight years, which is when you were remanded to this facility.”

  “That’s a lie,” I say, and slam my fist down on her desk. The lawyer jumps and scoots back, the notepad wobbling on his knee. “David was here visiting me just last month.”

  “No, Mr. Bruno. Your son has never been here.”

  “I spoke to him. He writes me letters. He… he shows up and takes me for drives in his Lincoln.”

  “That is just not true,” Ms. Joyce says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bruno, but that is just not true.”

  I cannot stand to listen to any more of her lies. I get up and head out the door. She calls after me, but I d
o not stop and turn around, and despite her calling, she seems happy to let me leave.

  The proof is in the letters, of course. I have kept all of David’s letters in a shoebox in my room. I go there now, feeling like my heart is beating in my throat. I hear Millie Broome playing the piano in the rec room, can hear Mr. Torry crooning a Dean Martin number from his room, can see couples waltzing in the cafeteria as I stride past. Astoundingly, there are residents in the Golf Course, reading those books that have, for years, remained untouched. Artistry has come to Sunshine House, ushered in by a monster who hides in the darkness and stalks us like Death.

  In my room, I go straight to my closet and take down the shoebox from the shelf. I sit on the edge of my bed and open it, knowing that all of David’s letters are in there, but finding that it contains nothing but some utensils from the cafeteria, an old shoelace, a scattering of multicolored pills that I have been refusing to take, and a single dead beetle.

  A volcanic eruption threatens to rise up through me. I fight to keep it down, terrified as to what might happen if I give in. When

  I hear my closet door creak, I glance up. I see nothing at first, but then I make out a darker shape among the darkness—something that detaches itself from the shadows. It moves fluidly, like a ghost or something in a dream, yet I hear quite distinctly the stolid thump of its staff against the floor.

  Nurse Skarda appears in the doorway. I can tell by her eyes that she has been crying.

  “Ms. Joyce stole my letters,” I say.

  “Oh, Mr. Bruno…”

  “Tell me,” I say, even though it is difficult at the moment to find my voice. “You’ve met David, haven’t you? You’ve met my son. Tell them he comes once a month.”

  “Mr. Bruno, David passed away several years ago.”

  “No,” I insist. “We go driving once a month.”

  Slowly, Nurse Skarda shakes her head. She looks miserable. Her eyes continue to fill with tears. “That’s not true, dear. He’s passed. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “No.” Has Ms. Joyce gotten to Nurse Skarda? Is this all one great ploy to get me to lose my mind?

  As if she’s capable of reading my thoughts, Nurse Skarda says, “I wouldn’t lie to you, Mr. Bruno. You just forget, and I’m sorry to have to remind you. But I wouldn’t lie to you. I hope you know that.”

  I look back down into the shoebox. How many pills have I been stashing in there? For the life of me, I cannot remember what they’re even for.

  “Why don’t we go to lunch?” Nurse Skarda suggests. She swipes a tear from her cheek.

  “David will come.” With trembling hands, I set the shoebox on the bed beside me. “You’ll see. He’ll fix all this nonsense, too. I won’t relocate. David will make sure it doesn’t happen.”

  I expect Nurse Skarda to protest, but she doesn’t. She smiles softly at me and says, “All right, Mr. Bruno.”

  I nod at her, a motion that suggests I’d prefer to be alone. She understands, and leaves. I listen to the soft tread of her sneakers recede down the corridor.

  Despite the hunger twisting my stomach, I do not go to the cafeteria for lunch. I go to my closet, pull the door open. The wraith is no longer inside, having been dispatched back into the void by Nurse Skarda’s sudden arrival.

  I comb through the clothing that hangs there, until I find a nice black suit toward the back. As I look at it, I am confused by an image of myself standing beside a grave, and although I am sure it is Rose’s grave, my wife’s grave, something begs a different truth from my brain. Yet I shut it down before it can speak too loudly.

  I remove the suit from the closet and lay it across my bed. It’s a nice suit. A good driving suit. It’s what I wear every month when David comes to visit. Even in the heat of a California summer, I wear the suit.

  Slowly, I strip out of my clothes and put the suit on. I stand before the small mirror over my dresser and examine myself. The suit fits nicely, but my silvery hair is twisted into corkscrews. I dig a comb out of my drawer—there is a framed picture of David on my nightstand, as well as a wedding photo of Rose and me—and rake it through my unruly hair. When I finish, I find that my reflection has blurred. I paw at my eyes, discovering they are wet.

  I hear a floorboard creak and glance back at the closet. But there is no one there.

  7

  A rank of plastic chairs in the lobby faces the glass doors of Sunshine House and, beyond, the circular driveway. It is a nice day, the sky absent of clouds and as richly blue as a child’s drawing. I seat myself on one of the chairs, my hands folded in my lap, and await David’s arrival.

  At one point, Millie Broome arrives. She sits beside me for a time, mostly in silence. I wish to be alone, but I do not have the heart to say this to her, so I try my damnedest to enjoy her silent company. Finally, she gets up and touches me lightly on the shoulder.

  “You are a good man, Mr. Bruno,” she tells me. Then she departs, fading into the labyrinthine depths of Sunshine House.

  It is when the quality of the daylight changes that Nurse Skarda sits beside me. She has a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, which she extends to me. I shake my head and don’t take my eyes off the circular driveway. Any minute now, David will be pulling up in his stark-white Lincoln Continental.

  “You have to eat something,” she says.

  I say nothing. I do not even acknowledge she has spoken.

  “Well,” she says, but nothing more. She rises from the seat and places the wax-papered sandwich down on it. She looks at me for a moment, and it is all I can do not to meet her gaze. Finally, she leaves.

  Outside, the blue has been siphoned from the sky. The horizon is a mottled purple and red and, high above, the first hint of stars poke through the firmament.

  I watch a tiny mouse scurry along the baseboard.

  Sometime later, there is a shift change. The young men in the white shirts leave. Ms. Joyce departs for home, and does not bother to look at me as she hurries across the lobby and out the doors.

  She is carrying the food and water bowls that she kept in her office for her cat. I would feel bad for her if she wasn’t trying to mess with my head.

  Nurse Diaz arrives, casts a curious glance in my direction, then heads off toward the restroom.

  It is fully dark when Nurse Skarda appears in the lobby again. She looks at the sandwich that is still on the seat next to me then looks at me.

  “Mr. Bruno,” she says. “Please.”

  I say nothing. I feel that if I were to speak, my whole body might break apart. I wait for Nurse Skarda to leave the building, but she doesn’t; she goes back down the hall, where she remains for some time. When she returns, she has a paper cup and a large white pill in her palm. She extends both to me.

  I do not want the pill, but I also do not want Nurse Skarda to fret over me. She is nice and she is pretty, and even if Ms. Joyce has somehow poisoned her brain against me, I know Nurse Skarda is a good person.

  I put the pill in my mouth and drink the water. Then I hand the paper cup back. She takes the cup, stares at it, then looks at me. Then she does something that nearly causes me to sob—she bends forward and kisses the top of my head.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Bruno.”

  I say nothing.

  And just like that, Nurse Skarda is gone.

  I reach into my mouth and pull the pill out from beneath my tongue. I tuck it into the pocket of my suit jacket and am surprised to find a cluster of similar pills in there.

  Night falls, and still no sign of David.

  8

  At ten o’clock, I am ushered back to my room by Nurse Diaz. She promises she will notify me when David arrives, so I go without protest. She wants me to change from my suit into my pajamas, but I refuse. I want to look sharp for when David arrives.

  Nurse Diaz closes the door on her way out. I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling hungry and drowsy. Soon, I scoot backward and lean against the headboard. I have allowed myself to remove my shoes, so now my feet find the cool spots on
the bedsheet. There is a hole in my left sock through which my big toe protrudes. I will have to ask David to buy me new ones.

  When something thuds against the window, my eyes open and I realize I have fallen asleep. The lamp is still on, but the shadows in my room look deeper. Like pits that you can fall into if you’re not careful. I see, too, that the tiny mouse from earlier has somehow made its way into my room… although he is now dead against the baseboard.

  Out in the hall, I hear the distinctive thump-thump-thump of Ronove’s staff. I sit up straight, the nape of my neck suddenly itchy with perspiration.

  Thump… thump…

  The wraith stops outside my door.

  There is another thud at my window, and I turn in time to see a small bird slide down the glass.

  The doorknob turns.

  The door opens.

  The shape that stands in the darkness of the hallway is impossibly tall. I can make out no details, and my mind struggles to reconcile what I am looking at.

  “Ronove,” I mutter, my throat dry.

  “Ronove,” intones the demon.

  It steps foot into my room—

  And it is David.

  “Hello, Pop.”

  “David!” I climb out of bed and hurry to him, throw my arms around him. “Oh, David! I knew you’d come!”

  “It’s all right, Pop. Calm down. Calm down.”

  I pull away, hold him at arm’s length. Behind me, more birds fly thump against the windowpane, but I do not turn to look. “They said you were dead. They said you were killed in an automobile accident, David, but those were just tricks. They were trying to trick me!”

  “I know, Pop. Have a seat on the bed. Please.”

  I ease down onto the corner of the bed, though my heart is going a mile a minute. I see my shoes on the floor and usher my feet inside them.

  “They want to send me away from here,” I tell him, “to a horrible place. Let’s just leave, David. Let’s just drive away and never come back.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” he says.