“I know,” whispered Max. “I saw Daddy bury her in the garden.”
YOU KNEW??? Donny roared unintentionally inside Max’s brain.
“I didn’t know what to do. I swear. I don’t want Daddy to go to jail. He’s all I have left.”
Max began to cry and started to raise his head from the pillow.
Wait Max. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry with you, it’s just a shock to me that you knew and didn’t say anything.
Max lay back down and continued crying softly. Donny read his thoughts like the words in a book as every emotional feeling unwound itself in his little brother’s mind. He could see everything that had happened to Max; every feeling he had, every night he’d cried himself to sleep, and every ounce of pain he held inside as he pined for the return of his mother and of Donny. He could feel the pure hate Max had for his own killers and he could feel the sad desperate need to forgive his father, for what he had become and for what he’d done to their mother. An idea germinated in Donny’s electric brain as to how he could resolve his existence and possibly that of his mother’s also. He needed to share his new power with Max, to make him strong enough to do the unthinkable.
The afternoon was waning as the dull light slowly turned to dusk. Father was nowhere to be found and Donny knew that he would never be found figuratively. Their father had long ago left them, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man who could barely take care of himself, let alone two growing boys. He met Max behind the sycamore tree, his brother laden with gardening tools and a large plastic rubbish bag. Donny cradled his brother in his opaque limbs as he re-entered the host brain.
Dig Max, dig. Mummy’s coming home soon, but we need to take her somewhere she will be found. Somewhere so we can be together again.
Max dug at the damp earth with his father’s spade until he found the bleached bones of his mother. As he carefully levered the bones from the sucking soil, Donny began to softly recite a tune that he used to sing to Max when he couldn’t sleep.
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go, hi-ho the derry-o, a hunting we will go
“Don’t sing please Donny, it makes me sad. Don’t sing,” Max said, as he placed his mother’s remains tentatively inside the open trash bag.
“I’m ok. I’m ok.”
Donny knew he was far from ok, but he also knew his little brother was the bravest person he’d ever met.
Under the cover of darkness, the boys made their way back to where Donny was buried. Max was exhausted but he pushed himself to finish what he knew his brother wanted him to do. It didn’t make much sense to his tired brain but he knew Donny would not have told him to do such a thing without good reason. He had a plan and Max knew that he was an important part of that plan, that what he was doing would somehow make everything right, but he also knew that his mother and brother would never be coming home again. Max patted the top of the shallow grave with the spade and spread leaves and other debris over the spot where he had interred his mother’s bones, just as Donny had instructed him to do. Donny watched his brother turn and walk back the way he‘d come before following him home in the cool night air. Making sure his brother had disposed of the empty garden sack and put the spade in the shed where it belonged, Donny wished him good night and set off into the night once again.
As he purposefully made his way down the street in the direction of Poggin’s residence, Donny noticed that other figures wandered aimlessly in the night. Some were barely visible while other’s flickered with a dull energy as they hovered in the front yards and on the cooling asphalt of the street. They seemed to be re-enacting scenarios, some holding their limbs out, others standing then laying on their backs, some lurching as if hit by invisible forces, most with pale terrified faces stretched into the contortions of inaudible screams. Donny kept moving, sensing the other spectres’ immobility and confinement to their sad pantomimes. His world seemed as though it were growing larger with each passing shade of light and darkness, but yet Donny knew that his realm of existence was somehow pinpointed to this place and that his was an abstract reality.
He easily passed through the wall of the house in the exact same spot where he had materialised a few nights earlier. Poggin lay on his back snoring loudly, a pair of flannelette pyjama bottoms emblazoned with cartoon skulls his only clothing. Donny positioned himself carefully and lowered his form down over the bully’s, entering a blank vacuous field of thought interspersed with random cuss words and obscure dream references. Donny focussed his thoughts, harnessing the energy that crackled inside him as he sieved through Poggin’s sub-conscious mind. He located the other two thugs’ street addresses and mined Poggin’s brain for any other relevant information he might need before he began to speak quietly, to the sleeping brain of his murderer.
You will rise at 4am yet you will still be asleep. When you get up, you will exit your house without anyone hearing you and you will leave at the curb a bag filled with items of your clothing, specifically the clothing you were wearing the afternoon you kicked Donny Cox to death. You will then go back to bed and continue to sleep. You will remember nothing. Do you understand?
“Sure thing, whatever,” muttered Poggin as he continued to sleep.
You will now rise slowly but stay sleeping and fill the plastic bag that is in your trash basket with the clothes.
Donny stayed with Poggin as he sat up slowly and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He crossed the room as if in a trance and took some clothes from the bottom of his untidy closet before putting them slowly into the plastic trash bag.
Put it beside your bed and remember to put it out with the trash at 4am.
“Ok,” Poggin mumbled, as he yawned and slumped back into bed and a strange dream filled with the Spaz’s face.
Donny smiled and left the bully to a fitful night’s sleep as he exited through the wall where he had entered. He spent the remainder of the cold, dark night repeating what he’d done to Poggin with the sleeping bodies and lack-lustre minds of Pitz and Kerrit. He’d found them easy enough, thanks to the directions he’d noted from their leader’s dim brain. They all lived within shouting distance of each other and each of them complied with Donny’s instructions as if zombies under a master’s command. All of them still had the same filthy uniforms and shoes spattered with Donny’s blood, stuffed in their respective closets, despite being a year dropped out of high-school. And each would pay for their stupidity and violence, Donny was sure of that much.
Back home, Donny lay down next to his brother and slowly merged with his sibling’s sub-conscious, much in the same way he had done with the bullies. He told Max that he needed to rise early before the sun came up and that he needed to collect the bags from the curb outside three houses. He would then return home with the bags and wait for further instructions from Donny.
“Ok Donny,” Max said quietly, as he lay sleeping next to his brother.
Max rose early and slipped out the back door. He’d heard his father snoring loudly on the floor of the living room as he passed the doorway and knew he didn’t have to worry about him finding out what he was doing. He thought about his dad as he walked quickly in the darkness of the early morning. One day, he wished, dad will get better. He felt sad with the knowledge that his wish was likely to be unrealized but he continued on with his brother’s wishes. He found the bags exactly where Donny had said they’d be; each one heavy with smelly school uniforms, complete with underpants, socks and shoes. He lugged them home on his shoulder and put them under his brother’s old bed before returning to sleep until the sun rose.
After eating some cereal, Max dressed himself and prepared himself for the day ahead. Donny had requested that he redraw the map onto a clean sheet of paper while wearing a sock over each hand. He made an envelope from a separate piece of paper as his brother had also instructed him to do, folding and taping the corners neatly before writing the address for the local police station that Donny dictated to him in his thoughts. He placed the map inside the
envelope with a small note that he wrote in block letters, detailing where the police would find the remains of his mother and brother and the names of the three thugs who had been responsible for their murders. He taped the flap of the envelope down and carefully put the letter inside a plastic lunch bag.
After packing the collected items of clothing into a single black rubbish bag, Max was ready. Donny softly whispered his thoughts to Max with the final instructions and then lay down on his old bed while Max read a stack of comics on the floor. The day passed slowly and as the night crept down the street Donny felt his energy surge. The moon climbed steadily in the sky until it filled the night with a cool blue hue. Fog spilled from the nearby creek that ran along the back row of neighboring houses, slowing covering the yard and weaving its smoky tendrils out to envelope the street. It was time.
It was a beautiful night and the boys walked slowly through the fog, side by side, down the street. They stopped at the mailbox on the corner near the store and Max carefully slipped the letter from the lunch bag and posted it through the slot. The boys passed through the deserted school grounds, Max’s lone footsteps echoing quietly around the courtyard as they headed to the field. They made their way silently to the grove of trees next to the river, through the gap in the fence, behind the school field. Donny stood inside his host as Max spun in circles, stopping momentarily to pick up more items from the garbage bag at his feet. As he spun, he threw the items of clothing randomly into the brush surrounding the shallow grave. With each item tossed, Donny felt as though he was becoming lighter. Max felt a relief he had not felt for a very long time as he finally dispersed the last of the bag’s contents.
He stopped spinning, his head swimming as he peeled off the socks that still gloved his hands and secured them deep in the front pocket of his jeans. He folded the plastic garbage bag neatly and put it in his other pocket.
“Goodbye, Brother,” he said, looking up at the full moon overhead.
“Goodbye, Mum.”
Max pulled his coat tighter around his thin neck and walked out of the grove of trees before heading back home to bed. He felt at peace and alive and he knew that everything would work out ok now. After all, if Donny had said it would, then so it would be.
I love you Max, said Donny, as he lay down on the mound of leaves and dirt that covered the grave, listening to his brother softly humming a tune until he could hear it no longer.
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go, hi-ho the derry-o, a hunting . . .
Donny looked up at the full moon and felt his energy settle around him like a blanket. He noticed the cobalt blueness of the night sky and the brightness of the stars as they twinkled above. He closed his eyes and listened to the silence. He knew that everything would be ok now. All he needed to do was wait.
Photo by Mike Jansen
Murphy Edwards
Stone Cold
1
Most of Beckly Arder’s childhood was spent viewing an inverted world. When Arder was just a tadpole, dear, sweet Daddy subjected her to his regular ritual. He called it Topsy-Turvy. Daddy was sick and as the sickness consumed him he became obsessed with it. He’d bind her shoes together by the laces. Once his demented fingers had secured the knots, little Beckly was hung from the nearest doorknob. Topsy-Turvy could last for ten minutes or most of the day. It all depended on Daddy’s decaying noodle.
The shoe laces were the problem, Arder finally had it figured. If the damned laces hadn’t been so strong, she might have been able to twist them loose, or shake herself free. Being upside down didn’t help—blood rushing to her head, ears ringing, dizziness overtaking her, stars swirling around her head—but she’d learned to adapt. Over time, adapting had become her specialty.
Arder didn’t hate her father. She couldn’t bring herself to care that much about someone so evil, so tormented, so small. The laces were a temptation. They’d beckoned Daddy like some sinister siren. Still, Arder couldn’t place all the blame on two simple lengths of string. If it weren’t the laces, her horrid bastard-of-a-father would’ve used something else to feed his demons. Besides, he was gone now and she had work to do.
She slipped on her loafers and shuffled over to her portal. As she touched the orb it began to glow. The blue-green lenses were ripe for viewing and ready for action. She glided her palm over the lenses, bringing them to life. An image appeared.
She moved closer and peered deep into the soul she had to redeem—young, dumb, reckless, a world class fuck-up—this one would be a donnybrook. Only twenty-two years old, the little gutter snipe had managed to wring out more ways to run a scam than most of the street-wise hard asses twice his age. His latest dodge was a variation on an age-old theme and it was working like a charm.
She took another look at the file. Devlin Stone. The guy was small time street meat. Stone’s previous handy work ranged from smash-and-grabs and purse snatchings to hocking counterfeit sportswear and bootleg DVD’s. Now he’d taken a giant leap into the Big Leagues. No more of that petty, happy sappy crappy. He found a way to rake in some serious dough.
Stone’s shenanigans had always been harmless, at least to him. He hadn’t mugged anyone, cut anyone, or busted a cap in anyone. He’d never so much as thought about murder. No, to Stone, the Big ‘M’ was definitely off the play list. Arder knew that could change at any moment. If it did, there would be zero chance of redemption. Instead, she’d be forced to send him screaming straight down the crapper.
2
The delivery van skidded to a stop behind a clump of kudzu bushes. It was off the main highway, well out of view from passing traffic. For Stone, concealment was the key. He couldn’t risk being spotted. Being spotted would lead to getting caught, and getting caught wasn’t an option. He crawled over the driver’s seat and counted the shipping containers—twenty in all—each packed to the brim with pharmaceuticals. Devlin Stone, you are a full-fledged fucking genius.
The container lids were easy to jimmy. Sure, they were locked; his employer wasn’t a complete idiot. Stone knew the locks were mostly for show, nothing that couldn’t be defeated by a nimble-fingered freelancer with a bent paper clip and a little patience. He wiggled the wire, felt the lock bite into the metal and kick back. He tried again from a different angle. Nada. He repositioned himself to get a better view, slid the wire in and gave it a twist. He listened for the soft metallic click. The lock yielded. He was in.
Now for the grunt work. He sifted through the boxes, bags and bottles. Reading labels as he went:
Gemfibrozil and Fenofibrate for high cholesterol.
Denosumab for osteoporosis.
Cyclobenzaprine for rheumatism.
Why’d he always get stuck with the old fogey pharma?
The sorting continued.
Apraclonidine for glaucoma.
Shit!
He moved to the next stack, groped for the lock and popped it open. Same shit, different container. He heard a noise outside the van, a car approaching. It slowed, but didn’t stop. He watched through the tinted glass windows as it did a long, slow lap around the parking lot—no brake lights, just a smooth, steady cruise—the kind a busy-body would make. Or a cop.
It was a late model Ford—no extra antennas mounted to the roof or deck lid, no shotgun rack, no cage between the front and rear seats, no suspicious looking lights peeping out of the grill—just a Plain Jane Crown Vic sedan. There were no passengers, just a driver with a severe case of nose trouble. As long as he just sniffed and didn’t get out and bark, Stone wasn’t concerned. He watched. The sedan completed a full lap and took a second one before rolling to a stop. The driver slid out, scoped the lot and crept behind a patch of hemlock. Stone watched him take a long slow leak on a pile of trash before flipping and zipping. He got back behind the wheel, dropped the Ford in drive, and in a flash he was gone.
Stone let out a long slow breath. The heat inside the van was stifling. Plump beads of sweat bloomed on Stone’s forehead and dripped from his nose and chin. The spac
e around the cargo was cramped, definitely not square dance territory. His fist pounded the metal roof in frustration. He moved on to the next container, scoping the contents:
Isotretinoin, an acne medicine.
Omalizumab, for severe asthma.
Nitazoxanide, for diarrhea caused by parasites.
What the fuck?
Next container.
Stone shifted his position. His feet and legs tingled. He felt his toes beginning to go numb. The lock on the fifth container was giving him fits. He flexed the wire, felt the lock begin to release, then slap back. Denied. He paused, pulled in a deep breath of hot, humid air and let it back out. His legs began to tremble from being hunched in the cramped space. He gave his hands a shake, wringing out the tension. The wire danced in his fingertips. He steadied it and eased it into the lock.
Click.
Yahtzee!!
Trazadone, Tramadol, Percocet, Vicodin, Phenobarbital: Stone had hit the mother lode. He checked his watch. Ten minutes off schedule. He pulled a small zippered bag from his pocket and quickly filled it up, skimming a few pills and capsules from each packet. The day was shaping up nicely.
3.
As a specter Beckly Arder knew it was important for any good redemption to assume the proper form. Children required nurturing, wayward teens needed persuasion and intimidation and punks, thugs and vermin needed to be terrified. For Stone she would need something special. It would need to be convincing, but not over-the-top, threatening, but not lethal. At least not yet.
She remembered the time she’d taken the form of a Vrildart to deal with a heartless child molester. The Vrildart, a hideous creature that was part scorpion and part beetle, with a dash of viper and a butt load of vicious was a form Arder had only used twice—once on a Neanderthal wife beater and then on the despicable kiddy-fiddler. What a fierce and bloody shitstorm that had turned into. The spouse abuser only needed one visit from the creature to get his act together. The molester, on the other hand, chose to do battle. He put up a furious fight for such a cowardly rodent. Arder would have admired his efforts had he not been guilty of such vile and disgusting habits. Eventually she got the better of him, causing him to nearly stroke-out before his final surrender. She would have to give Devlin Stone a serious think. True enough, the little punk was slimy, but he had virtue. She just needed to peel back enough scummy layers to get to it.
Four Ghosts Page 10