The House of Dust

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The House of Dust Page 11

by Noah Broyles


  Sorrel smiled.

  “Ironically enough, some of the drugs that passed through James Bell’s hands probably ended up at the Disney Castle. The people he was trying to save may even have used them. The connection was never made because the personal lives of these people were never delved into. They were just bad stats. Friendless victims whose lives held no importance. I looked at each of these people to make the connection to Disney and his Castle.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “Disney eventually went to jail as well, though not until ’79, after he was convicted of four blood-eagle-style killings in Louisiana. He was sentenced to thirty years and shipped off to Angola. I arranged an interview back in 2009, right before he got out. He was ravaged by cancer, and stared at the ceiling for most of the interview, but when I mentioned Serene Flats, he smiled and said, ‘Such a curious name. I had to make it true. A place of peace.’”

  Sorrel’s smile had departed; Ms. Harper was popping her fingers with tiny snaps.

  “He was a smooth, intellectual, spiritual sort of person. He would quote every philosopher and religious leader who ever existed as well as a few who haven’t. He preyed upon the loneliness that cratered so many of his clients. He heard the pain knocking in their voices and answered the door. He sat with them and reminisced about their broken lives. He didn’t promise to fix anything. He said they were broken. Futureless. But he told them their stories were beautiful. He promised to remember them. Each detail of each life, he would remember. It gave them fulfilment. He turned them from empty shells into evangelists. Willing, eager martyrs. And so, he chose a group from a housing project called Serene Flats.”

  Brad cleared his throat. “I . . . when I met him . . . when I sat across from him in that bare meeting room in Angola, I asked him why. Why he told them to kill themselves. Word for word, he said: ‘Have you ever been loved? Really? In a way they’d die for you? Even from one person, it’s quite a thing. But dozens? Hundreds? It’s the light of a hundred suns, but instead of burning, you bask. And they’re in love, too, with their own devotion.’” A clunky chuckle. “They had to place him in solitary confinement because of his influence on the other inmates. They even limited my time with him. I could see why. He asked if he could hold my hands. When I said no, he held them anyway. And then he said—” Brad stopped. Inside his head, Disney’s voice—high, gentle, flavored by a childhood in Bayou La Batre—went on. I know your pain. There’s a past on your face. You carry it on your shoulders like it’s your child. It’s okay. You can share it with me. That’s why I was born: to share people’s pain.

  He trembled at the memory of those hands, those eyes. Those gentle lies, promising that if he just believed, all his burdens would be relieved. The call that had captured so many.

  “Only one of his followers came forward with the truth. When the Castle was busted in ’77, everyone was arrested. Disney wasn’t there, but his disciples were. I was able to track down a fair number of them using police records, but only one would talk: a woman named Hilary Wegner. She remembered the group from Serene Flats and said she had no doubt what had happened—Disney convinced them.”

  Brad lowered his eyes. The pressure was gone. The voice was silent. The children were arrayed before him, utterly still.

  In the back, Sorrel rose. He came into the light and stood where all the students could see him. “Cults.” He lifted his hand and bunched the fingers together. “Like a fist inside your brain.”

  Turning back to Brad, he said, “Quite a story. Now, I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  Brad pushed himself off the desk. “If I could just ask you all some—”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Sorrel said.

  “I live in Nashville—”

  “I mean originally.”

  “No. I’m from Rhode Island.”

  “Rhode Island.” Sorrel took his shoulder again. “I’ve never met a single person from Rhode Island. Do you kids know Rhode Island? Has Ms. Harper taught you about that state? Well, now you can say you’ve met someone from Rhode Island.”

  A smile, and the spell had been successfully dissipated along with his chance to question them. Warn them. Heads slightly cocked, they watched Sorrel usher Brad out.

  Brad returned their stare for as long as he could. Then they were in the hall. Sorrel closed the door before beckoning him toward the entrance.

  “So, what am I missing here?” Brad said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All of that. At three in the morning, a room full of barefoot children learning second-grade material.”

  “We’re making up for lost time.” Sorrel walked down the hall, forcing him to follow. “The school was only recently reestablished.”

  “Recently? I think it’s the law that kids have to—” He caught himself. Anger would lead to lockdown on Sorrel’s part. “How about everyone else? What’s everyone doing out there at night?” They were almost to the front door. Brad continued, “And how about yourself? Saw you working in that—”

  “You have no idea how hot it is in there during the day. I spend a couple nights a week leveling the floor, fixing it up to get it on the state list of historic places. Maybe more fine folks like yourself would come visit us.” The sheriff reached for the door handle.

  He was throwing him out. Brad didn’t have much time. “They’d have questions, too. Like about the woman I saw get buried, Marilyn Britain. She was special to the community. Why?”

  Sorrel’s fist hesitated on the handle. “Look, Brad, before I answer questions, I’ve got to find out what’s going on myself. That’s why I’d appreciate it if you’d lay off for a couple days while I work through this. Stay out of town, huh? Don’t stir things up.”

  “That’s why I’m here. To find out.”

  “No. You’re here so maybe this community can get going again. But first, I need to get it back on the tracks.” He tried to look placating. “Explore the house, the island. Maybe go down to the county seat again and look us up in the library.”

  Brad fought the bitterness in his mouth. “I did, same day I looked up the woman’s doctor. You barely exist on the map, let alone in books.”

  “Maybe you’ll help change that.” He pulled open the door and a warm gust entered with the sound of rain. “Good night.”

  “One more thing. A name I’ve seen around. At the house, too: Adamah.”

  The way the door wavered beneath the man’s grip made him think Sorrel was leaning all his weight on the handle. “That goes way back. The guy who built the house, DeWitt, came up with it. Kind of a founding family legend. Like a patron saint.”

  DeWitt. Founder’s name was DeWitt. “A saint,” he repeated. “And DeWitt invented it?”

  “Well, do you believe in angels, Brad?” Another smile. “You have a good night. I’ll get in touch in a couple days.”

  The door pushed him out. He walked through the downpour to his car.

  Pausing by the door, he stood amid the drops, each one flashing as it passed through the LED glow of the building’s mounted lights. Raising his chin a little, he parted his lips and let the warm drops splash across his tongue. The taste was like any rainwater: soft and vaguely earthy.

  12

  I had no doubt the body was still out there, in some bedroom or basement or back-porch freezer.

  —“The House of Dust”

  Southern Gothic

  The rain came down deep.

  It gushed off the windshield beneath each swipe of the wipers. Even on the road headed back to the island, beneath the canopy of trees, the pavement danced with impacting drops. Lightning struggled to pierce the dense clouds.

  By the wavering sliver of the headlights, Brad followed the craggy road until the turnoff to the house. Moss slapped the windows like sodden hair as he followed the drive. In the clearing, he t
urned sharply to pull up as close as possible to the porch, and the lights glared on a truck parked just before the steps.

  His weariness evaporated.

  Jerking the keys from the ignition, he threw the door open and ran up onto the porch. His heart slowed when he found the front door locked.

  Turning, dripping, he examined the truck by the light from the upstairs study.

  It was a nineties model Ford. A cage had been built up from the bed and bulging black trash bags ballooned between the bars. A worn white decal on the door read: irons’ waste solutions.

  A clank came through the sound of the rain. He looked left. A cloaked figure moved past the far edge of the porch, dragging something along the ground.

  The pistol. It was in the Accord, in the glove box.

  Brad stepped back into the downpour but stopped on the second step.

  It was too late. The cloaked figure was approaching, striding, dragging two trash cans. It stopped a dozen feet off. Water streamed off the hood of its shrouding green poncho as the figure studied him. A searing cicada chorus droned behind the sound of the rain.

  Brad’s lips parted to speak when the person moved. They removed the lids from the trash cans, lifting out two swollen bags. The person resumed walking toward him then, carrying the heavy bags. Brad retreated back onto the porch, rain prickling his skin. Then he caught sight of the face as the person reached the truck at the bottom of the steps.

  It was the silver-haired woman who had approached his car last week, who had asked if he was the doctor, who had brought a shovel to Marilyn Britain’s funeral. She flailed the bags into the back of the truck.

  “Hello?” He started forward again.

  Dashing the rain from her face, the woman glanced up and waved. “Good night, sir.”

  She disappeared around the truck. A moment later, the engine groaned to life and the twin fingers of her headlight beams found their way down the drive.

  Brad stared. Diesel exhaust mixed with the humid air, churning his stomach, tightening his fingers.

  Brad walked quickly back to the front door. He unlocked it and pushed inside.

  All was still. And dark. As he’d left it.

  The heavy oak door clunked shut behind him.

  No, the air was different. That damp-earth smell was stronger.

  Brad relocked the door. Going to the foot of the stairs, he felt around for the switch and flipped it. Overhead, the dusty fixtures flared to life.

  His blood scurried back to panic speed.

  Wet shoe prints had trampled the floor at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes fled upward, but the stairs themselves were free of marks. So far, no sign of intrusion toward the second floor.

  He stepped around the end of the stairwell. The wet prints tracked up the hall to the back door. He followed them, conscious of the squeak of his own shoes on the boards. When he tested the knob, it did not turn. But when he tugged on it, the door opened. Broken lock.

  That was how she had gotten in. And she must have known about it prior to coming. Perhaps the whole community did. Perhaps they all were planning to pay visits and prowl around the house, confident the new residents were asleep above.

  Why?

  The silver-haired woman would have used garbage collection as her excuse. But why had she entered, careless of her messy tracks? What had she sought?

  Closing the door, he bore down on the knob a bit longer than was necessary, long enough to feel the metal rod inside start to bend. The silver-haired woman’s middle-of-the-night visit must have some connection to the previous resident, Marilyn Britain. Either out of respect or revenge, her body had been exhumed, and now her house had been covertly entered.

  Or—

  His lips split as wild fancy galloped across his mind.

  Or she dug herself up and came back here.

  The unquiet dead, haunting her former home.

  No. She was dead. You’re grasping. That was just the trash lady.

  Still, he was glad of the lights as he turned back into the hall and retraced his steps.

  There had to be some sign. An indication of why the silver-haired woman wanted in: a missing item, a defacing mark . . .

  He stopped. The intruder’s tracks turned off and terminated before the basement door. A sheen of moisture clung to the rusty knob.

  Brad stepped into the nook beneath the stairs.

  With a squeaking hiccup, the door opened. The hallway radiance drained around him into the stairwell. The grimy footprints led down the stairs.

  He got out his phone and turned on the flashlight. Far above, the rain on the roof sounded like someone exhaling without ever pausing to breathe in.

  He went down.

  The air in the tight corridor became colder as he went deeper.

  Something fetid emerged as he turned right onto the last few stairs. A rotten smell. A stain laced into the dank atmosphere.

  Stepping onto the hard-packed earth, he pushed back his wet hair and surveyed the heaps of refuse. There was no way he would notice if an item had been taken or moved. Still, he panned the light across the reliquary and then up to the vines, pale and twisted against the rafters.

  Why did the intruder come down here? And why did the vines? Had she hoped to find something in all this?

  As he turned, the floor gave just slightly beneath his heel. He shifted the light to his feet.

  It wasn’t easy to spot, but as he crouched down, thin faults in the dirt came into focus. His fingers traced them as his mind worked.

  A sharp spade had been driven into the packed earth, and an almost perfect square foot removed. Once replaced, some liquid had been used to bond the seams in the floor; the displaced material had been pulverized and sprinkled across the floor.

  Something had been buried.

  Laying the phone aside, he braced his hands and clawed into the floor.

  It came apart easily. He piled the dirt beside the hole. He uncovered the item eight inches down.

  It was wrapped in wax paper and tube shaped.

  His stomach was already tight as he turned it over. When he broke the tape and lifted the first fold of wax paper, the smell of rotten meat oozed forth. His teeth clenched against the rising bile as he continued unwrapping the package.

  The dark, shriveled stump came first. A core of yellowish bone. Then came the rest of the hand. Limp fingers, oddly smooth. Shrunken to an almost childish size. Fingernails made prominent as the flesh shriveled and pulled away. Dirt thick beneath them.

  Dirt from where she had dug into the flower bed out back.

  It was the old woman’s hand. Her body had been dug up, her hand severed and brought and buried.

  Why?

  Fresh sweat mixed with the rain on his scalp. A curse. A hex of some kind. Aimed at him, or his investigation, or—

  Laughter broke into his consciousness. Wild laughter coming from high up in a throat that was high up in the house.

  His fiancée.

  He dropped the rotted flesh and his phone and ran for the stairs. At the top, he tore down the hallway and sprinted up the next flight. By the time he reached the top, the laughter had died down. It was gentle now, floating through the doorway of the main bedroom to meet him.

  Of course he’d suggested they sleep in a different room. One of the smaller ones, the cleaner ones. She’d frowned as if he were joking and stretched their linens across the mattress in the master suite, ignoring the stains from the removed dirt. Now she was lying atop those stains.

  Brad entered the room. Fading lightning stabbed through the drapes and leapt across the bed. She was stretched amid the fresh sheets.

  Her hair spread around her shoulders, and her skin was gray. Her eyes were wide and roving in their sockets. And her hands lay at her sides, palms up.

  An icicle slid down his back;
it was the position of the old woman in her grave.

  Her eyes rolled toward him and her jaws parted. Laughter gushed out.

  Brad rushed to her. Clambering onto the bed, he pulled her up and shook her, slowly, then harder, and called her name. As she jostled, the blissful smile on her face caved in. Her eyes locked and her jaw clenched. Then she blinked once and was awake.

  Drawing a rapid breath, she sneezed. When she saw him, she sat up abruptly. Then she began to shake silently. He reached for her face, but she looked away.

  “My hands were . . . ”

  “Your hands are fine,” he hushed.

  “They were dirty,” she rasped. “Filthy. And I was touching her in her casket. Smearing her with . . . and then she . . . got up! She climbed out of her casket!” The shaking grew more violent. “It was beautiful. I fixed her. And I knew I could fix all of them. Go back to Jasper and fix them so they never got hooked. I gave them . . . I brought them back—”

  She broke off, then whispered, “Lie in my arms, Brad.”

  In his grimy clothes, he lay down beside her. She pulled him against her and rocked him while lightning from the dying storm brightened the curtains.

  It had been the same, her third night in his Nashville apartment: the storm, the screaming, the dreaming of things she couldn’t fix. Departed family. The hook that had nearly snagged her.

  And now dreams of the girl every night since late April. The one whose funeral made her tear off the engagement ring.

  The ring. Still lying out in the car, beside the gun.

  Fear of using that gun had brought him here. To the town. To this house. It had brought both of them.

  “Please, Brad,” she breathed. “If I ever become addicted, please kill me.”

 

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