Revival House

by S. S. Michaels

  I forget the cigarettes and walk back to my platform to hawk my tour.

  “Good people of this City Market,” I shout, “when is the last time you saw a ghost? How would you like to see one? How would you like to come face to face with a ghost,” I say pushing my face into that of an anorexic young woman in over-sized sunglasses, “in the dark, dank tunnels beneath the city?” The disgusted young woman grabs her dad’s (date’s?) arm and walks away. “Savannah is the most haunted city in these now United States. I can give you the scare of a lifetime.” A handful of tourists gather, one by one, in a semi-circle in front of me. Others standing in front of shops turn and look my way.

  I haven’t seen my so-called friends for two days.

  I don’t give a shit.

  Maybe I’ll swing by the parlor on my way home.

  Chapter 35 – Caleb

  We warm her up, refilling her circulatory system with the blood we’d kept on tap for forty-eight hours.

  “Can’t we just pump it in all at once, with an electric pump?”

  Avery rolls his eyes.

  “Slow is the only way to go, my friend,” he says. “Get comfortable, it’s going to take all day to do this. Plus, we have to get her CSF flowing again. Then, we’ll see what we’ve got.”

  I wonder if it’s going to work, but I don’t say anything.

  It’s a long day, filled with cleaning up blood-spattered everything. This is the kind of job one would normally call the CTS Decon for— that’s ‘Crime and Trauma Scene Decontamination,’ of course. I’m not certain we’ve actually committed a crime according to Georgia state law, considering my position as a certified embalmer, but I’d rather keep this situation as quiet as possible in any case. Fortunately, I am OSHA certified in the containment and disposal of blood borne toxic waste, and a company comes and collects biohazard bodily fluids from me on a regular basis, so nothing will look suspicious. And so, we handle the clean up on our own, rolling up plastic sheets covered in gore, moving the dogs upstairs to the kitchen, wiping down the rudimentary cement walls with a bleach solution, throwing our soiled rags into a big orange bag.

  We break for dinner and head up to the kitchen, dead tired from the last few days’ work. I’ve had the ‘closed’ sign on the parlor’s front door and let the answering machine collect calls for the past few days. Everyone in town thinks I’m mourning Uncle Sterling, so they’re keeping their distance anyway. Avery and I are left alone.

  “Do you know what she was? To you, I mean?” Avery watches me eat a ham and cheese on rye, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “She was a sandbag. You couldn’t concentrate on anything with her around. Your business was falling down all around you. Your research, with all those rats and guinea pigs, was going exactly nowhere. All you were doing was spinning your wheels, pining after some fat girl when you should have been working. You’re lucky I came along, Caleb.”

  Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen.

  “So,” I say, swallowing a crust of bread, already knowing the answer, “why do you want to bring her back?”

  “Science. Pure science. Someday doctors all over the world are going to do this procedure, or one similar, and we— you and I— are going to live forever. If not in body, at least in name.” He smiles. “Plus, it’s a fun way to torture you.”

  “But don’t you think people will be, you know, different after they’re resuscitated? What about the so-called soul?” I’m ignoring his ‘torture’ statement, though it did nearly cause me to jam my thumb into his eye a second ago.

  Avery looks at me with a smirk.

  “Come on. I know you don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo. You never have.”

  I’m sick of him telling me what I know, what I need, what I believe. I want to tear my own face off.

  Fluorine, neon, sodium.

  ~

  We trot back downstairs and through the dank tunnel.

  And Avery gets the paddles. I look at them as if I’d never seen them before. They hold a different meaning to me now, one more sinister than when Avery used them on the dog.

  He hands them to me.

  “You wanted her, loved her,” he says, challenging me. “Here, take her.”

  I don’t want her like this. Am I in favor of researching the possibility of immortality and bringing beings back from the great beyond? Of course. Well, maybe. But this is Scarlet. She never would have wanted this.

  I look at Avery’s hard-planed face. His steely eyes narrow, the beginnings of crow’s feet showing in the corners, as he examines my face. His temporal mandibular joints bulge as he clenches his jaw, holding out the paddles as if offering me a hors d’oeuvre.

  One that I do not want.

  I grasp the paddles in both shaking hands as he powers up the defibrillator, just as he did with the dog. I survey the dimpled and folded surface of Scarlet’s now-naked body, scan her tattoos, look at the white tape securing her eyelids. I take a deep breath and blow it out through pursed lips.

  “Clear,” I whisper, my eyes squeezed shut.

  I clap the paddles to her chest, just above her pendulous breasts. I feel the vibration travel up my arms as she convulses on the table. Her restrained limbs fight to flail. Her back arches. Locked in an electric embrace for what seems an eternity, I wonder if she’ll bite off the sides of her tongue. The beagle had bitten his tongue, but the wounds were not deep.

  I pull away and she goes limp.

  The heart monitor shows a flat line.

  Avery and I watch the machine. Nothing changes.

  “Well, hit her again, Romeo,” he says. And I do. Longer this time, the paddles cranked up to maximum power. I feel the jolt surge through me. Scarlet’s back arches, urine leaks from between her legs, her jaw clenches. Time passes, I don’t know how much. Too much.

  “Stop!” Avery yells over the hum of the machine.

  The acrid smell of burning electric circuitry fills the filtered air.

  And it’s over.

  We watch the flat line on the little monitor for some time. Avery’s face is a mask of frustrated defeat. I am disappointed, but I won’t admit it. We look at each other, each of our faces blank. I sit on the cold floor and let my head fall into my tingling hands. The burning smell hangs in the air, squeezing my throat, plugging my nose, infiltrating the strands of my hair.

  I don’t know how I feel or how I’m supposed to feel. I think I’m sad, but I’m also angry. I’m sad because I once thought Scarlet was the love of my life. I’m angry because Avery stole her heart. And killed her.

  Blip.

  Our eyes snap to the heart monitor.

  One weak blip followed by silence that spools out over the seconds, a minute. I hang my head.

  Blip.

  Something. Maybe.

  Like with the beagle?

  Yes, the blips.

  More frequent.

  A regular pattern emerges.

  Scarlet is alive.

  Her heart rate surges to sixteen beats per minute.

  Then, twenty-four.

  Thirty-two.

  It tops out at forty-eight beats per minute.

  She tries to roll her head from side to side, but the restraints keep her immobilized. Her hands stiffen into claws.

  I hate Avery, but I am awed by his scientific expertise.

  He is everything I want to be.

  ... manganese, iron, cobalt...

  My head throbs and everything blurs.

  I am stuck in a dream.

  Chapter 36 – Four

  My bicycle chain draws in the gray wool cuff of my Civil War pants, feeding it into that big gear that holds the crankshafts and pedals on. I’m going down.

  “Fuck.”

  The ground rushes up to meet my outstretched hand, my hip, and my cheek. I totally eat it. I’ve got some serious road rash, and, as a bonus, a car careening around Monterey Square comes this close to reducing my sorry ass to a pink skidmark on the pavement. Its brakes squea
l as it slams to a halt inches from my unhelmeted melon. I nearly shit my pants. For real, dude.

  The driver of the Honda Civic low-rider leans out his window and calls me an asshole.

  I flip him the bird with my shaking, bleeding hand.

  “Nice costume, fucknuts,” Crazy-ass Driver says, taking off with a loud screech. The smell of burning rubber hangs in the wet spring air, overpowering the azaleas, disturbing the tourists gawking at the Mercer House, built for one of my ancient relatives, General Hugh W. Mercer. I don’t know how many generations ago that was— I hate that kind of shit.

  I drag my bike over to the curb, huffing and puffing, and jerk my cuff out of the interlocking chain and gear. I touch the scrape on my cheek and it burns. My hand is scraped raw— it burns, too. And I have a blood-ringed hole in my pants and the blue stripe on the side is kind of ripped off— but that’s okay, adds to the realism of my costume. I should have worn my boots, that way my pants would have been tucked in and not flapping around. After yanking myself free, I remount my bike and pedal around the square toward Exley & Sons, shaking all the way.

  I ride up the driveway and see the ‘closed’ sign in the window. Huh. I think the kid’s taking his uncle’s death way too hard. He should be back up and running by now. It’s been, what, a whole week? Christ, how long does it take to get over someone you hate offing themselves? I drop my bike against the big live oak in the front yard and hop up the steps to the double front door. I peer through the dusty windows. Don’t see anybody. No movement whatsoever. I stab the dirty white doorbell. The bell sounds somewhere deep in the guts of the building. That’s all I hear. No footsteps, nothing. I ring the bell again. And again.

  Someone’s coming. I see an advancing silhouette through the window. A familiar— well, kind of familiar— face looks out at me. The door swings open. The smell of dust and rot hits me.

  “Yeah?” he says. He looks emaciated and annoyed.

  “Dude, you okay? Where have you been?” He looks rough. Bruised bags hang under his red eyes, lines run from the sides of his nose to the corners of his colorless lips, his concave cheeks have not seen a razor in days. A malnourished Grinch/Lurch with a five o’clock shadow. “Haven’t seen you lately, Dude.”

  He glances over his shoulder, like he’s expecting someone to sneak up behind him or something. Maybe Avery’s here, reading or something. Don’t want to disturb him.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine. Just, um, still feeling a bit under the weather. Taking my time getting the business in order, you know. I’ve got quite a lot of work to do.” He snorts.

  “Yeah? You need any help? Because I can...”

  “No, no, no. That’s not necessary, Four. You’ve got your own business to look after. I assure you, I will have things around here flowing smoothly in no time.” He gives me an unconvincing grin, reminding me of a cheesy Halloween skull. I don’t believe him. Something’s not right.

  “So,” I say, trying to sound him out, “are you going to keep going with the photography and multi-media stuff, now that Sterling’s gone? Build up that side of the business? Is Avery helping you out with that? ‘Cause, honestly, I don’t know if he’s the best guy for the job, you know? Does he know what he’s doing? How’s he doing learning the every day business shit? He’s kind of straight-laced— can he cope with trying out the new stuff?”

  A cloud of confusion passes over his face.

  “You know, the Weekend at Bernie’s shit we were supposed to be trying out?” I say.

  “Oh. Yeah. We may get back to that. Or, I don’t know,” he says, looking past my shoulder. “Listen, Four,” his empty eyes twitch to my face, “I’m not really sure I’m going to keep the business. It’s been floundering for some time, as you know, and to revive it would take a miracle.”

  I’ve known this guy for half my life. He’s always harped on me for turning my back on tradition, and now he’s giving up his own family business? He’s freaking me out, but, whatever.

  “You sure you’re okay? I’m a little worried about you, Dude. You’re not losing it, are you?”

  He shakes his head no at me.

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  Awkward silent staring.

  “Okay, I gotta get to work. But, check this out.” I point to my cheek, hold up my hand. “Not make up. I totally wiped out in Monterey Square and some douche—”

  He slams the door in my face.

  Yeah, right while I’m talking. There is something seriously wrong with the dude. I hope Avery can help him. I don’t know much about Avery except that he’s kind of a nerd. A weird one who brought dogs back to life at some research place. Well, that and Scarlet is mad for him. I don’t know what kind of a friend he is, but Caleb could really use a good one right now. He’s sure in hell not letting me in, that’s for sure. I’m going to find out what’s up, but right now, I gotta get to work.

  Chapter 37 – Caleb

  I creep down the tunnel, carrying a tray filled with Gatorade, applesauce, and pudding— electrolytes and nutrition I want to see if she’ll take orally, now that Avery’s pulled out the breathing tube. Avery told me not to come down here, but I just want to try. I’m curious to see how ‘normal’ she is after everything she’s been through. Besides, she might be hungry.

  Not a single sound reverberates down the passageway. We’d moved the remaining dogs up to the kitchen, so there’s no barking or whining. No rhythmic hiss from Scarlet’s ventilator. Even the pinging of the heart monitor is absent. As I draw closer to the Dead House, the complete silence raises my hackles.

  I hurry toward the chamber.

  I cross the threshold into the dank, dim space and scan the room.

  She’s gone.

  The makeshift restraints that held her wrists, fashioned from the hearse’s seat belts, hang in tatters over the side of the table Scarlet had lain on. The ankle restraints appear to have been cut with something sharp. My eyes go to the instrument tray. The scalpel is missing.

  The tray of food and drink clatters to the floor, the splat of pudding reminiscent of the dried blood we’d cleaned up just a day before.

  “Avery!”

  Hydrogen, helium, lithium...

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 38 – Four

  “My trusting charges,” I spit over my lumpy shoulder, hoping my plastic teeth don’t fly out, “we are now approaching the old Candler Hospital, which is said to be one of the most paranormally active sites in the city. This hospital was founded in 1803, mostly for indigents and men of the sea. In 1808, they gave it an official name: Savannah Poor House and Hospital Society.”

  The group gropes its way through the dark and narrow passage. My lone flashlight swings around the space like a searchlight at a Hollywood premier. I wish I hadn’t forgotten my messenger bag full of flashlights. If we had them we could see where the hell we’re going. There’s nothing to see on the walls, anyway, except for some crack-junkie graffiti. Well, and a historical plaque here and there— but I know where those are, even in the pitch dark.

  “The hospital,” I continue, “was used to treat soldiers wounded in the War Between the States and—”

  “Waaaaagh,” someone yells from the back of the group. I cut a wake through the tourists, trying to find whoever shouted out.

  “Who was that? Who said that?” I say, shining the light on people.

  “Me,” a scrawny teenage boy squeaks. He’s holding his wrist.

  “What’s wrong, what happened?”

  “Someone,” he stammers, “someone, someone scratched me or something.” I shine the light on his arm and he takes his hand away from his wrist, where four parallel lines glisten a dark red.

  In the ambient dim light shed by my swinging beam, the plump silhouette of some humanoid creature with a cage around its head shambles away, making some kind of wheezing sound. What the fuck is that? I’m more than a little anxious. I mean, it’s probably just some drunk or something. I shine my flashlight on its humped bac
k.

  The creature moves faster, away from the light.

  It’s a human, without a doubt.

  A woman, I think, wrapped in a sheet?

  I tell the now-worried group to stay put while I jog after the woman. She’s close to the exit. I run to catch up but, despite her badly broken leg, she’s fast. She scurries up the steps and escapes into the darkness of the park before I can see who or what she is.

  “Hey!” The oaks and azaleas hold their silence. I hear the fountain bubbling in the distance, traffic on Drayton, but no one answers my shout.

  The rest of the group emerges from the doorway in the visitors’ center. I walk over to the boy with the scratches.

  “Dude, you want to go to the hospital or something, call an ambulance?”

  “Nah, thanks, though,” he says, playing tough. “It’s just a scratch. Fuck, that was exciting, huh?” He looks around, grinning at the group in the glow of the park’s streetlamps. Everyone else exchanges worried glances and mumbles something about calling it a night.

  Chapter 39 – Avery

  Well, I’ll be a monkey’s father’s brother. I did not see that coming. I had no idea she could get it into her head to take off like that. I mean, sure, some of her brain could possibly be functional, but not the part that could formulate an escape from this place. Outstanding.

  “Hey,” I say to Caleb, smiling, “sorry for your loss.”

  He punches me in the mouth. I feel the sharp edges of my upper and lower teeth sink into the flesh inside my lower lip. I taste the blood welling up. My eyes fill with hot tears. I hate it when he hits me. I’d never been in a fight in my life. Getting punched really hurts. There’s no need for violence, but I know that’s just how he operates. I try to get ahold of myself.

  I’m not sorry for his loss and he knows it. He’s angry because he never wanted me to give her a re-boot in the first place, seeing how she was a PETA-ed out tree hugger and all that. I understand he’s angry, but he doesn’t have to hit me.