Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  He pulled his hand away and admired his work.

  "Osiris is with you, Faith," he whispered, standing up.

  She nodded, then stood and put on her robe, which had been folded on the bed behind her.

  The bell tolled.

  Joining hands, they both exited the room.

  Chapter 4

  September 6th, 2005

  4:03 PM

  Downstairs on the second floor of the apartment building, someone began playing Jimi Hendrix at a high volume, sending vibrations up into Johnny's feet. The beat of Purple Haze fought hard against the chilling strike of nerves that assaulted the rest of his body. He made a deep-breathed effort to ignore his thumping heart, and his shaking hands, and tucked an index finger into the corner of the envelope and ran it across the top, tearing the paper along the crease. Inside, a letter folded in thirds peeked out. It was in the same beige color of the envelope. He licked his dry lips, and removed it.

  He found himself hoping that the letter would be an odd piece of junk, part of a mass mailer directed to future college students (of course Mary had no intention of sending their boy to college; no, her grand plan was to send him to work so he could play his part in supporting the everyday foundations of the Petrie family, thank the good Lord for my boy's presence; needless to say, Johnny hadn't worked a day in his life yet, with all the religious studies imparted upon him). He peered at the envelope again and saw that it had been manually stamped—no presorted marker here. This letter, whatever its contents, was deliberate, and meant for him.

  Dropping the empty envelope to the table, he unfolded the top third of the letter. Centered on the paper was Andrew Judson's heading, printed in the same old-style font. Below, just above the fold-line, was a date: August 25th, 2005.

  One day after Johnny's 18th birthday.

  And all he kept saying to himself was how his mother would have two fits if she knew he'd opened a piece of mail without her prior consent; she would have never let him read this letter—despite it being addressed to him—without first opening it up herself and inspecting its contents, and you safely can bet that if this had happened, then Andrew Judson's letter would have never passed before his eyes, regardless of the subject matter. For once, Johnny Petrie was thankful for his mother's after-work ritual.

  Still, he peered around nervously, into the bedroom, and then beyond the grimy kitchen window toward the fire escape, feeling fearfully paranoid, and yet intensely curious at the same time. This envelope is addressed to me. To me. He grinned uncomfortably, wondering why in God's name he was behaving so irrationally, why he felt like such a criminal. No one's watching me. I'm not doing anything wrong.

  Tell that to your mother, Johnny. If she saw you now, she'd wind up and fling the wrath of Jesus at you harder than a Roger Clemens fastball and make you spend the entire night reading passages from the bible about how 'Thou shalt not steal'.

  "Screw it," he murmured, quietly of course, just in case his mother had decided to come home early and had an ear cocked to the door trying to secretly ascertain his personal sins through the grinding assault of Foxy Lady.

  He unfolded the letter, and his eyes fell upon the words. At once, his head spun and a dry mustiness seemed to fill the room. He shuddered, licked his lips again. His lungs grasped for air, and a little sound escaped his lungs as he read the letter to himself:

  Andrew Judson, Attorney-at-Law

  14 Main Street

  Wellfield, ME 12789

  (207) 555-0300

  August 25th, 2005

  Mr. John Petrie

  479 East 88th Street

  New York, NY 10017

  Re: Refunding Bond and Release

  Perry County Surrogate Court

  Dear Mr. Petrie,

  In the Matter of the Estate of one Benjamin Conroy, it is my duty at this time to name you, Mr. John Petrie, residing at 479 East 88th Street, New York, NY, as the sole living heir of Mr. Conroy's estate, which has been willed in your name. As indicated in the last rites of the deceased, you, Mr. John Petrie, are to receive the entire estate bequeathed to me as executor, minus legal fees and death taxes. The value of the inheritance is estimated at two million dollars lawful properties of the United States of America, to be paid by myself, directly to you.

  I urge you to contact me immediately upon receipt of this letter, so that we may arrange for the properties to be legally and rightfully transferred to you in full and final satisfaction.

  Sealed with my seal and dated on the 25th of August, 2005.

  Andrew Judson, Attorney at Law

  Johnny felt incredibly scared. Of what, he couldn't ascertain. He read the letter again, and then again, feeling his heart and blood and nerves doing battle inside his body. He closed his eyes and told himself to calm down, that there was nothing at all to be scared of. Being chased by a mugger, or beat up by the school bully, these were things to be scared of. Not getting a letter from a faceless lawyer telling you that a wealth in fortune awaits. Really, even Jesus would agree that this was a good thing.

  Benjamin Conroy…

  But he was scared. Scared of his mother, and of how she would react to this letter of promising fortune, of how she would offend him, screaming, It's a letter from the devil. He's playing a trick on you! Burn it Johnny! Burn it, so you can be saved from an eternity in the fires of Hell! And then she would tear the letter from his hands and crumple it up, but she would also stealthily slip it into the pocket of her housedress where she could retrieve it later and try to figure out what all the mystery was about. And upon eventually reading the hogwash about Johnny receiving an inheritance…well, she would then charge out of her bedroom with her dress flying out behind her like a flag in the wind, gripping the letter in her claw like hand and laughing at him for thinking that it was anything more than a piece of useless junk mail. You know, a scam to bilk the meager savings out of hard-working Christians. An unethical attempt to convince the 'good people' that if they don't make some sort of donation toward the 'retrieval of their good fortune', then the earth's rotation would double and launch everyone and everything on the planet far off into the darkest reaches of the solar system, later adding that somehow those damn cockroaches would find a way to survive.

  No, he couldn't let her read it. It'd be like forfeiting a baseball game without once stepping up to the plate.

  Downstairs, Jimi Hendrix sang about a girl named Mary, and how the wind cried her name. Johnny read the letter again, knowing that he couldn't allow himself to be scared, not one bit—not of the letter, not of Mary or Ed Petrie, not of whatever measures or actions lay ahead. There were only two possibilities: a quick return to the unremarkable routine that was his life, or a revolutionizing prospect of fortune, and the resultant life that followed. Regardless of the outcome, however, he knew that he needed to be strong and confident and mature, like the eighteen year-old he was. Again he told himself that the letter might turn out to be nothing more than a scam, a piece of scrap for the trash. If so, then he would need the capacity to shrug off the last ten minutes of his life as nothing more than a passing draft of useless information.

  But, should it turn out to be authentic…

  Still, he remained cautiously skeptical. Really, how could this letter could be genuine? Although he didn't understand some of the legal lingo, it did clearly state that he, Johnny Petrie, was a direct heir. That would make him a family member, or at the very least a close friend or relative to this person he'd never heard of.

  So, who was Benjamin Conroy, and why did he presumably leave his fortune to Johnny? He didn't have to think about it very long: never in his life had he ever heard of the man.

  He gazed at the door. Waited, studying the calendar with the portrait of St Luke that hung from a single brown thumbtack. Downstairs, Jimi stopped singing. An odd silence filled the apartment, as though the environment was readying itself for the extravaganza that was about to become of Johnny Petrie's life.

  Holding the letter, he paced to t
he phone hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator. Gazed at it for ten seconds.

  Then, reached for the handset…

  Chapter 5

  August 24th, 1988

  5:39 AM

  Benjamin led Faith to the end of the hall, where they made a left turn, passing the entrance to the bathroom. They stopped and gazed along the corridor at the three closed doors that beckoned them like warm fires on a cold day, then silently acknowledged that the first door on the left, Elizabeth's room, would be their next stop. The toll of the bell rang out, then faded as they paced hand-in-hand to their daughter's room. They gazed at the carved and painted 'E' that hung on the door, green ivy and yellow daisies winding about the shape, spring-warm and inviting. When the bell rang again, Benjamin gripped the knob, and they went inside.

  Here, the bell's resonance hung in the air like a mystery. They both took deep breaths, drawing into their lungs the thick, spicy aroma of sandalwood.

  They peered at the scene before them.

  The room was dim, but not too dark. The curtains were open. Dusky light shafted in through the window and pooled on the polished oak floor. Candlelight flickered across the walls, faint but still alluring. The Monet print next to the sliding closet shimmered, its river seeming to flow, its trees seeming to sway, looking like a window into another world. Elizabeth's stuffed teddy-bears, perhaps two-dozen in all, sat looking up at them with their shiny plastic eyes, some of them older than her eighteen years.

  Looking out the window, Benjamin saw the cherry tree in the side yard, its wooden bench-swing swaying back and forth from a brown, knobby limb. On the sill, he spotted a black feather. The bird, Osiris's Messenger, had already left its gift for Elizabeth.

  Good.

  Releasing Faith's hand, he moved forward to the foot of the bed. Faith fell in behind his lead, moving off into the corner of the room, next to the armoire where Elizabeth's censer and candle burned pungently. Benjamin halted before his daughter. She was seated on the floor, perfectly centered within her circle, naked and cross-legged, sheened in sweat. The soft glow of the candles jutting up from the hearts of the pentagrams shimmered upon her wet skin. Her eyes were closed, hands on her knees, palms facing upward. Her full lips trembled in soundless prayer. Her breasts were layered in gooseflesh, nipples dark and rigid.

  Before her, positioned at the top of the circle, contained by the triangle, was her leather parchment, unfurled so the sigil could be delivered to the spirit; beneath it lay a smooth cushion of black silk. Alongside were two chalices, one filled with ground rose petals, the other with mud unearthed from the garden where the petals grew.

  Benjamin approached the circle. Elizabeth opened her eyes. She beheld her father, staring down at her proudly, moist eyes twinkling beneath the cast of the candles. Behind him, she glimpsed her mother, moving to the window to retrieve the black feather from the sill. Faith turned and held the feather high, gazing at it until the next bell tolled. Then, along with Benjamin, she sat cross-legged in the circle, facing Elizabeth. She placed the feather atop the leather scroll.

  As if on cue, they all locked hands and closed their eyes. Benjamin could feel his heart pounding harder and harder as the ritual commenced fruitfully. The bells tolled, and again he called out to Osiris, singing the verse in a single, flat tone: "Come, thou all-powerful Lord Osiris, who exists amongst the Gods in the astral plane, and governs the Realm of Resurrection and Everlasting Life, I conjure thee to bestow upon Elizabeth Conroy your influence of spiritual rebirth, so that she may purely and honorably engage your powers for the purpose of ancestral afterlife, with utmost earnestness and commitment."

  And again, upon concluding the spell, the bells rang. Immediately thereafter, Benjamin dropped a candle's flame atop the parchment containing the sigil of Osiris, along with the blackbird's feather. The concoction rose into flames, viscous black smoke rising up and puddling on the ceiling. The three of them held their hands over the flame, the smoke seeping through their fingers, repeating out loud in unison, "To your service we dedicate earth and roses to strengthen your spirit, oh infinitely powerful Osiris, in hope that you may find this an acceptable offering for your bounteousness."

  They broke their grasp, Elizabeth at once placing her hands, palms up, back upon her knees. Faith grabbed the chalice of roses and Benjamin the mud. They upturned their gifts onto the flame, smothering it. A thick sizzle emerged from the filthy mound. They opened their eyes. Benjamin and Faith gazed at their daughter in all her glistening nakedness.

  "Do you feel Osiris's spirit within you?" Benjamin asked his daughter.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  A bell tolled, triggering the next phase of the ritual. Benjamin and Faith rubbed their index fingers into the pile of mud and ash between them. Elizabeth closed her eyes and offered her scar to them.

  At the same time, Benjamin and Faith pressed their fingers against Elizabeth's sternum, on opposite ends of her scar. Slowly, they traced the shape, looping upwards and meeting at the apex of the curve just below her throat, a trail of wet ash layering the damaged flesh like sandy earth on a stream bank.

  "Osiris is with you, Elizabeth," both mother and father pronounced.

  She nodded acceptingly, then quietly stood and shrugged into her black knit robe, which had been folded in thirds upon her nightstand.

  The bell tolled.

  Joining hands, father, mother, and daughter, all clad in black hooded robes, exited the room.

  Chapter 6

  September 6th, 2005

  4:19 PM

  It had been a perfect day outside. Summer had refused to surrender its pleasures to Fall. The trees lining the sidewalks on 88th Street still held on to their greens, proudly displaying their leaves as they had in June. It was seventy-three degrees, according to the circular thermometer on the fire escape; pigeons came and went and did their pigeon business on the black grates, something Johnny would be made to scrub away over the weekend.

  Johnny Petrie, who all his life had felt weak and timid and unsure of himself, had in the past ten minutes shed all his insecurities now that he might be a rich man. Who said that money didn't buy happiness? He didn't have it yet, but the prospect of being rich and eighteen and able to flee the prison that was his home gave him a sense of individuality, of freedom. He would no longer have to play slave to Mary's quirks, would no longer have to abide by her stringent rules, something previously unimaginable in his controlled life. Now, it was all potentially within a hand's grasp of the telephone.

  The telephone.

  Should it not be real, should the letter turn out to be a sham, or a mistake, he would have to settle back down to the miserable earth, and move on with his measly existence. God forbid, as Mary liked to say.

  Holding the letter in his left hand, he scooped up the telephone handset from its cradle, tucked it into the crook of his neck, and dialed the number. He could hear the beeps sounding out from the earpiece like little bells tolling…

  …bells tolling…

  …his eyes pinning a dusty web dangling from the corner of the ceiling like a tiny vine.

  The phone rang.

  It picked up on the first ring. Johnny's body shuddered at the millisecond of silence between the click of the phone and the husky voice of the woman who answered: "Andrew Judson's Office."

  The first thing Johnny did was sit down at the small dinette table in the kitchen. His heart thudded in his chest like a soldier's stride, feet suddenly numb, tongue dry as parchment. He went to speak, voice weak and uneasy: "Mr. Judson, please."

  "May I tell him who's calling?" she inquired brusquely, seemingly unwilling to pull her boss from whatever lawyerly duties that had him buried.

  "My name is…"

  He stopped.

  Why am I so afraid? I've never felt like this in my life. Is this how my mother feels? Is this why she is taking all those pills? Something about this isn't right. I can feel it.

  …you, Mr. Thomas Petrie, are to receive the entire estate b
equeathed to me as executor. The value of the inheritance is estimated at two million dollars…

  "Sir?" the woman with the husky voice asked.

  "My name is Johnny Petrie. John Petrie."

  There was a slight hesitation on the line, followed by what sounded like a gasp of unanticipated surprise. "I'll tell him you're on, Mr. Petrie. Please hold."

  Mr. Petrie? That's a new one. A title of respect for adults…especially those who have money.

  The next instant he was listening to a canned version of "Angel" by Jimi Hendrix. He smiled, wondering, What are the odds? While the tinny music filtered into his head, he looked around at the painful familiarity of his home: the small two-bedroom upper east-side apartment that boasted a fine neighborhood, but pitiful walls adorned with a helter-skelter collection of religious motifs and statuary, needlepoint canvases depicting snow-covered farmhouses, and a few dust-coated art prints of Norman Rockwell paintings. All the furniture was old and beginning to wear, as were the appliances. An ancient roll top desk sat in the corner, opened to display an old office model typewriter. The Petrie apartment was a small and stingy confinement complete with cell-mates Johnny had nothing in common with. He pulled his sights away from the cross and rosary hanging above the doorway, and began reading the letter again, making every effort to understand its intentions, thinking that somehow he'd misunderstood the lingo and really wasn't the recipient of any two-million dollar estate.

  Before he could make any further presumption, a man's voice broke into the line. There was no introduction, no formal pleasantry exchange. He cut right to the chase, perhaps making an attempt to capture his prey before it made an escape.