It would have been nice if the detective had left my items in a bit more orderly fashion. The blankets were strewn all over the bed. There were a couple of used tissues on the floor next to the wastebasket that I know weren’t there the night before. The bottom dresser drawer was pulled open halfway with one of my Captain America shirts hanging out.
I sat on my bed and looked around. In twenty years I had managed to accumulate more stuff than someone twice my age. One bookshelf contained stacks of D&D manuals and comic books; another was filled with paraphernalia and action figures. A mild sense of embarrassment came over me—this room looked like it was occupied by a twelve year old, not someone who was almost old enough to drink. I’m not sure why all of a sudden it bothered me so much.
Outside, the night strengthened its presence. Julie made her exit with usual flair, backing out of our driveway and nearly hitting a group of guys passing by. One of the Zimmerman twins yelled, “Oh, goddamnit!” as Julie slammed on the brakes just in time. I laughed, knowing there would be a new set of skid marks in the driveway. The realization that I couldn’t ever tease her about it hit me hard and I grew solemn.
I heard my sister crying as she went to her room. Her wailing escalated when she closed the door behind her. I waited until it subsided before I dared to check on her. At first when I saw her I did a double take—the person on the bed was my kid sister, but she appeared as a toddler screaming and clutching her broken ankle. That time she fell down the front steps chasing after her mean big brother who threatened to throw her beat-up teddy bear in the trash. I closed my eyes, reeling from the wave of emotion. When I opened them, she had reverted back to a seventeen-year-old clutching her body pillow for dear life and sobbing all over it.
I sat cautiously at the edge of the bed and touched her left ankle, the one she had broken as a kid. Guilt and sorrow surged through me—I could have been a better big brother.
What I wasn’t expecting to happen was the sudden burst of comfort that washed some of the guilt away. I looked at Gwen and saw that the tears had stopped. In slumber, she seemed to have found a bit of peace. I moved to the other end of the bed and sat by her, stroking her hair. For the most part, she slept through the night. There was the occasional whimper and plenty of tossing and turning. I wanted to check on my parents, but they had each other.
When the sun came up, Gwen stayed in bed and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the birds sang their morning songs. Kids waited for school buses and adults began their commutes—routines I had done and routines I would never do.
“I miss you, Andrew.” Her voice, tiny and broken, slashed through me. I wished she could hear me say how much I missed her already.
The alarm clock went off. Gwen had it set to the local pop station rather than an angry buzz. A bright happy song blared through the air, something about our futures being unwritten. Speak for yourself, I thought bitterly. I was all done. Gwen jabbed at the alarm until it went silent, then she rolled over and stared at the wall.
“He’ll never hear the birds again.”
I had no way of telling her that I could indeed still hear the birds singing, so I stroked her hair instead. She sighed and within moments her breathing had gone quiet and steady.
I got up and went to check on my parents. They weren’t in their room, or mine. I went downstairs and found them on the sofa. My dad’s head was tilted backwards as he snored at the ceiling. My mom looked like she hadn’t slept at all. Her eyelids were swollen and she drew ragged breaths through her parted lips.
I went and knelt down, resting my hands on their knees. I wanted to tell them how sorry I was for everything: for causing Gwen’s broken ankle; for taking Dad’s car for a quick ride with my friends (and rear-ending a truck) before I got my license; for stealing money from my mom so I could score weed. I wasn’t the worst kid but I wanted to be better. I’d never have the chance to prove it to them now.
Whereas the connection I had made last night with my sister seemed to have helped her, it was the opposite with my parents. My mom’s eyes went wide as if she had seen me materialize in front of her. She started bawling all over again, which in turn had my dad waking in a panic. I stood up and averted my eyes as I backed away. Dad whispered words of comfort to my mom and held her tight.
When I looked back at them I had another of those moments like I had with Gwen last night: my parents were still holding each other, but they were now over a decade younger in appearance. Dad had more hair and less belly. Mom was trimmer in the waistline and still crying in my dad’s arms. A necklace was entwined in her fingers, a gold chain given to her from her mother who’d passed away when I was eight.
I glanced away. By the time I turned back they had returned to their current form and Gwen appeared at the bottom of the stairs. My parents moved enough so that she could sit between them. She grabbed their hands and they leaned on one another, tears and sorrows mingling.
How I wanted to join them. Oh, how I wish we were whole again, united and ready to take on anything.
* * *
The next few days were rough. Both my parents took the week off from work, and Gwen stayed home from school. My mom was prescribed sleeping pills because she hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours. So many people came around during all hours of the day, staying late into the night—relatives, classmates, friends and coworkers of my parents. Many came bearing gifts of food, simply because they didn’t know what else to do. Mom got on a first-name basis with the Korean lady from the flower shop downtown, who stopped by daily with bouquets sent by relatives who couldn’t make it out to see us.
My final arrangements were made. After deliberations over a couple of days my parents decided on a memorial service with a viewing. After that I would be cremated and they would bring my ashes home. Gwen had asked about getting a tiny urn of her own. My mom and sister were getting necklaces that would contain some of my ashes. My parents seemed satisfied with their final decision, but Gwen wasn’t dealing so well.
“I don’t want to burn him,” I heard her say to Julie more than once up until the day of the service. I felt a little weird about the idea too, but I came to accept it. The physical self no longer functioned, so what was the point in throwing the body into the ground? Julie had tried to explain it in her usual blunt manner, but Gwen tuned her out.
My memorial service fell on the first day of spring. The winter had been a mild one; the daffodils and crocuses were already beginning their annual rebirth. The day was warm and my dad’s forehead was already beaded with sweat before they arrived at the funeral home. My family took their spots along the wall. I stood by my casket because I had no idea where I should go.
I became emotional at all the people who took the time to show up to pay final respects. There were so many relatives, former teachers and classmates, and even a couple of ex-girlfriends. I couldn’t help but smile at how many friends showed up in t-shirts with depictions of comic book characters. I missed most of the service; I was too engrossed in staring at everyone. The back wall was packed with people and there was overflow into another room. My sister got up and spoke briefly; I’ll never know how she had the strength to speak in front of a packed room and not break down once.
Afterwards, many stopped by the casket one last time. As my friends filed by to say goodbye, leave little gifts, a strange thing started happening: I saw their future. It wasn’t always pretty. My buddy Mike would be dead within the year. My pal Tommy, who had been through his own tragedy a couple of years back, would remain haunted by his ghosts for the rest of his years. My first girlfriend, Stacey, had much tragedy ahead of her, but she would persevere.
In the end, the last to leave were my parents and sister.
Dad had written me a letter and stuffed it awkwardly into the pocket of my jacket. I saw depression in his future and I wanted so badly for him to open up to someone, learn how to express himself so he could find some peace.
Mom touched the rosary beads in my hands and cried. I had worried
about her drinking before, and it was going to become a more serious problem as the years went on.
Gwen asked for a moment alone. She put a Spider Man stuffed toy in the casket and tried to slip a note of her own between my folded hands. It wouldn’t go and she eventually stuck it halfway inside my jacket.
“I miss you, Andrew.” Big shiny tears rolled down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this alone. You’re supposed to be the one who helps me with Mom and Dad when they get older. Why did you leave me?” She continued to cry, no longer able to speak.
I went to her and put my arms around her. I saw her future: it was full of happiness and heartbreak. There would be many an adventure, and much pain and depression. But her life would be a long and fulfilling one. Knowing that brought me comfort.
I released my hold on her and stepped back. The living claim they’re the ones haunted by ghosts, but those of us already dead are every bit as haunted by the ones we left behind.
Murmur
Jeremy Flagg
Even the mute scream.
Tabitha remembered this as she cupped the stretched cheeks of the remnant, a ghost nearing its end. The ghost’s jaw remained trapped in an expression of perpetual terror. Blue flickering lights moved between the tortured’s mouth to the tips of her thumbs. Leaning in, she licked the bottom lip of the remnant, coaxing tiny sparks onto her own tongue. With an established connection, Tabitha experienced the remnant’s memories of death.
* * *
The thin lance sank into the space between her eye and her nose. With one tap, then two, the small mallet drove the piece of metal into her tear duct. Limbs remained frozen in place as she begged her muscles to respond. The man in white turned the skewer forty-five degrees counter clockwise. Straps tightened across her chest as her body convulsed, her spine threatening to fold in two.
The doctor turned the device to and fro while nurses scrambled to hold her body in the operating chair. Narcotics swelled through her veins stealing her free will. Another seizure subsided, presenting an opportunity for the neuromancer to remove the instrument. The thin piece of metal slid from her tear duct, dark red dripping onto the end of her nose. His breath washed across her skin as he leaned, inspecting the success of his operation.
The doctor pulled down the mask covering his mouth, the strings pulling at his ears, forcing them to fold outward. The instrument slid along an outstretched tongue, blood coating his lips. Eyes shut, he held his breath while he savored the woman’s essence. When he opened his eyes, bright yellow slits replaced his iris while the veins on his neck engorged, leaving him appearing more devil than human.
The man’s mouth danced between pursed lips and shiny white teeth as he spoke. Silence. A leather binding fell away from her forehead, letting her slouch to one side. Clear fluid flowed from the hole in her tear duct, mixing with the blood until it dripped from her face.
The scene rebooted. The man secured the strap again...
* * *
Tabitha staggered backward, her hands shaking from the remnant’s memory of dying. Her fingers twitched, similar to when she used to spend too much time behind a keyboard. Ensuring the memories hadn’t been real, she touched the space near the bridge of her nose, inspecting for holes.
In front of her, the remnant, a woman kneeled with hands resting on her thighs and head lowered as she stared to the floor. Tabitha inspected her own hands, the blue light pulsing vividly, radiating outward to a vibrant white. Tabitha wrapped her finger around fading blue light dancing on the woman’s skin. With the only magical ability left to her, she severed the ties between the tortured woman and the afterlife.
Strings of blue light snapped like delicate strands of thread, growing dim as they fell away. The woman made no protests, trapped in a continual loop of frightening memories. The edges of the woman’s skin turned black, chipping and flaking like peeling paint leaving gaping holes. Tabitha fought the urge to avert her eyes from the ghost’s second death. Cracked and crumbling, nothing remained. Like every decoding before, the remnant dissolved into nothing, a husk of the deceased, erased for eternity.
Like every time before, the ghost, remnant, or whatever you called the dead in the afterlife, vanished into nothing. The echo of a person deconstructed forever, released from reliving the torment that brought them to this place. Tabitha silently prayed, that when all she could recall was how she died in the mortal realm, somebody could do the same for her.
In the desolate operating room, from behind an overturned stretcher, a set of eyes fixated on Tabitha. Faint blue tendrils of smoke rose off the boy, similar to the other dead children who found themselves trapped inside the asylum. With his memories still intact, the child had yet to turn into one of the tortured remnants.
Tabitha got to her feet, straightening her back. Both of her hands shimmered a vibrant blue, light pulsing softly from her fingertips. The color reminded her of when she awoke on the floor of the hospital auditorium, before her essence started to slip away. For a brief moment, she expected her lungs to require air again. A gasp would break the perpetual silence, a deafening hiss crossing her dry lips in a world where the volume dial remained on zero.
The intensity of the young ghost’s eyes sent a shiver along her skin. The boy must be six, only a few years older than her daughter. Hiding in the room, the child had witnessed her reach into a remnant and deconstruct the last of its light. For all the boy knew, she was a ghost killer. He continued cowering as she walked from the operating room. When a heart attack robbed Tabitha of her life, her daughter’s eyes had held the same look as they exchanged tearful goodbyes.
Revitalized, her skin lost a bit of the numbness. Stiff paint chips moved under her slender digits as she dragged the tips of her fingers along the wall. The sensation seemed distant, as if she were recalling it from a far-removed memory. Several pieces fell to the ground as she attempted to recount how many ghosts she had deconstructed. Two? A dozen? A hundred? They blurred together.
Tabitha walked through the hallways, glancing into each of the empty operating rooms, looking for more remnants. In life, she had been called many things, but only one title mattered in the afterlife. Witch. Behind her ear should have been a subdermal node, technology granting her access to the internet and her coven. Apparently technology didn’t transfer to the afterlife. No longer able to rely on implants or her spell-casting sisters, Tabitha was left with limited innate abilities.
Unlike other young girls, puberty brought many unsuspecting changes. The trauma of her first period had been dwarfed by her ability to see life’s source code. Tiny strands of light wove themselves between every object in one beautiful and disorienting web. With effort, she found a talent to manipulate the programming language of the universe. She had been called many things, a freak, a life hacker, even a witch; ultimately, she was one of a few gifted humans. The ghosts came later.
A dim blue figure stood near a filthy window in a recovery room. Tabitha recognized the pigtails on the ghost, a young woman who wandered the halls until recently. Now, with almost no light remaining, she banged her head against the glass, reliving her death. The woman’s head turned, eyes clenched shut and mouth gaping as she screamed in silence. The remnant hurled herself to the floor, crawling along the ground until she vanished into the shadows.
Tabitha made note of the room number, promising to come back the next night and deconstruct the woman. For a moment she considered pulling the door shut, expending the energy to grant the woman privacy. Fear of not being able to open it tomorrow forced her hand back at her side. Hanging her head, staring at the warped floorboards covered in mold, she continued further into the asylum, hoping she may find another former witch.
The sun vanished behind the tree line outside the hospital. What little warmth penetrated the dirty windows evaporated. The pitch black of night settled in, pulling at shadows until they stretched across the hall. In an hour, she would be immersed in a world of cerulean. The darkest blues would appear lik
e an abyss, only broken by the lost figures moving through the hospital in a daze.
Adjacent to a nurse’s station, wisps of blue light spiraled upward from the floor, coiling together until it resembled a figure. Had this been before her death, she’d have been able to see the universe create a window between worlds, implanting new code before her. As the light solidified, a man had his arms across his face, bracing for impact. A crash victim, one of many who entered the hospital, killed before they had time to make peace with their demise.
She found herself headed toward the auditorium housed in the center of the complex. Once she had been initiated into her coven, it became rare to see the dead. Instead, ghosts desperate to communicate left messages on her computer, cryptic pleas reading, “I’m sorry,” or “Farewell.” It had never crossed her mind while alive, the dead spoke through the computer because the realm of ghosts stood void of sound.
Crash.
The sound stormed through the hospital, shaking the walls and threatening to drive Tabitha to her knees. Hands covered her ears, trying to protect her eardrums from bursting. As she fell to one knee, she opened her mouth in an attempt to scream, but her vocal chords refused to produce the shriek her body demanded.
Amongst the blue figures, several stared, heads cocked to the side, unaffected by what caused her to topple. Somewhere in the distance, an ear-piercing squeal pricked at her skin like needles. Had she a heartbeat, it’d be racing. Had she a pulse, she would feel the blood pumping. Had she any senses beyond her sight and faint sense of touch, they would react to the terror she felt. In a silent abandoned hospital, surrounded by rot and disuse, the dead only feared the moment when memories vanished and she sought them out.
Forcing herself to her feet, she followed the sound to its source. She weaved her way through opened cage doors and an area where the roof had collapsed. Darting between wards, from quarantine, to trauma, to biohazard, she found herself approaching the front entrance. It took a moment before she realized the scream originated from the last thing she expected.
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 28