Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  Thump...thump...thump...

  Johnny awoke, sheathed in hot sweat. His heart beat at triple the cadence of his dream beat. His scar itched, nearly burned, and when he pulled the collar of his tee-shirt down, he could see that it blazed beet-red, as though he'd been clawing at it all night.

  Laying across his scar was the black feather he took to bed with him last night—the feather he found on the fire escape.

  Thump…thump…thump… Slow. Deliberate.

  What is that noise? And where is it coming from? He grabbed the feather, then shifted up on his elbows and looked around, first at the window in his room, might be a black-feathered bird poking at the windowsill, then into the living room.

  You never second-guessed any odd noises when living in an apartment building in Manhattan; they either came from one of the adjoining residences (like Jimi Hendrix did yesterday), or from the streets where any type of clamor was possible.

  Thump…thump…thump…

  He turned and kneeled up in bed, then cocked his head, listening even more closely, thump…thump…thump…

  He placed an ear against the wall.

  Thump…thump…thump…

  The sound…it was coming from his father's room.

  It sounded much like the gentle rap of a fist, as if his father might have chosen, however odd, to carry out his frustration or boredom against the wall. It was much too soft a noise to be the batter of a hammer, and besides, Ed Petrie was never one to fix anything around the house, especially this early in the morning.

  Johnny decided to ignore it, figuring it to be his father's arm or leg or knee hitting the wall: a reflexive movement due to some alcohol-induced dream (after all, just last night Johnny had taken his clothes off in a somnambulistic adventure, so anything was possible).

  But its persistence soon had Johnny sitting on the edge of the bed, armoring his ears with his palms. Thump…thump…thump…, it went on and on, three or four second intervals of dead pause between each occurrence.

  A strong wind swept across the window in Johnny's room, vibrating the panes. The thumpings in Ed's room grew suddenly louder.

  Twirling the feather in his hand, Johnny looked at the clock. 7:27 AM. Ed didn't go to work until noon, so there was no need for him to be awake right now, particularly after being up so late last night. Again he placed his ear against the wall. The noise was still there, syncopated like the deliberate drip of a leaky faucet.

  He thought: It's too…even.

  He placed the feather on his nightstand (next to the pre-funereal framed photo of Ed and Mary), then crawled out of bed and staggered from the bedroom, the wood floor warm against his clammy soles. He went into the kitchen, fought back a bad case of cotton-mouth with a tall glass of water, then turned and saw that the door to his parents' bedroom was shut.

  My mother…she's in the hospital. Goodness, how could I forget?

  He padded across the living room and stood before the door, gazing groggily at the worn wooden grain. His mind swam in peculiar loops, reflecting back over the events of the last twelve hours. He tried to comprehend what'd had him so oddly concerned in this rather unimpressive situation—easily, an individual under a common frame of mind could explain the thumping rationally: a water pipe in need of repair, or a laboring air-conditioner in another apartment.

  My life up until twelve hours ago had been completely normal, despite its restrictions. Now it seems as though my mind is giving promise to…

  Jesus…what am I thinking?

  Am I losing my mind?

  He knocked on the bedroom door. First lightly, then a bit heavier. He realized that he'd never had to knock on his parents' door before, primarily because it had never been closed like this, and Ed and Mary were never ones to seek any privacy from Johnny (he really couldn't imagine them needing it, good God!)

  A rapid uneasiness rose in him, and he had to take in a few deep breaths in order to soothe his nerves. Illogically, disparate thoughts flourished in his mind, of the January winds that whipped around the corners of the city's streets and nearly brought him to his knees—how the unexpected coldness they carried would needle its way deep into his blood and stay there until he found a warm fireplace, or a hot cup of coffee. He felt a similar chill now, only this one, invading his very soul, could not be warmed by anything as simple as a hot drink.

  "Dad?"

  No answer. He tried the knob. Locked.

  Locked? Is there really a lock on this door?

  He pushed against the door, but it didn't budge. He knocked again, then rapped against the frame with his open palm. "Dad? You all right?"

  No answer.

  Now, Johnny pounded on the door, making a racket that might've stirred the neighbors.

  "Dad! Dad!"

  Heart slamming, blood racing, he pressed an ear against the door, and in the fading resonance of his yell, he could hear the steady thumping against the wall, thump…thump…thump…, his mind trying desperately to drum up its source. He imagined his father passed out on the mattress, lying in a jellyfish pool of his own vomit as his dangling leg came in contact with the wall next to his bed.

  Growing frustrated, he grabbed the faux brass doorknob and twisted it hard. Indeed, the door was locked. He shouted his father's name this time, "Ed?" but there was still no answer. Only that damned thump, drilling into his mind like some furtive alternative to Chinese water torture. Unsure of what to do next, Johnny stared at the doorknob, noticing the odd details of it, the chipped finish, the brown tarnish, realizing crazily that never in all his years had he ever gazed at this tiny, insignificant object with such…awareness.

  Panic began to flourish in his body, hard ripples of gooseflesh invading his back, angry tingles marching down his spine. He closed his eyes and took a huge breath, trying to beat back the panic. He imagined his body like some plastic mannequin, naked and vulnerable in some dusty stockroom, unable to make any type of showing. Only his mind seemed to be working now, and it told him as he bit a knuckle that he needed to get into the room.

  He peered down at the doorknob and saw a tiny circular hole where a universal key would be fitted. Of course, if his parents actually had a key to a door they hadn't locked for fifteen years, he wouldn't know where on earth to begin looking for it.

  Thump…thump…thump. Despite maintaining its steady cadence, the noise grew suddenly louder. He took another deep breath, and before he followed through with the only possible course of action, he called his father again: "Dad?", retrying the doorknob at the same time and not really wanting to kick down the door because that seemed too final a decision.

  And again, he banged on the door. But his only reply: Thump…

  His entire body was shaking now, and despite the fact he really hadn't any true discernible reason to be scared yet, he felt the fear mounting in his heart, not unlike it did when he first read Andrew Judson's letter.

  He stepped back, squeezed his fists, hoping that when the door came crashing in, he wouldn't scare the living bejesus out of his heavily sleeping father. Raising his right leg, he thrust the sole of his foot hard against the door, just to the left of the doorknob. As he committed himself to this action, he realized he would've been much better off putting a pair shoes or sneakers on first. But, despite the jarring ache, his barefoot connection proved itself productive, and the hollow door broke away from the jamb in a shower of splinters.

  Hand slick with sweat, he pushed the door. It creaked noisily as a few strips of wood fell to the floor. He then entered the room, making certain to step over them.

  The bedroom was cool, almost cold, and the unexpected chill assaulted him like an attack of needle injections; only later he would notice that both windows had been left open, its curtains fluttering in the morning breeze.

  He looked. Saw the queen bed which had been moved to the center of the room. In the next moment, he gazed to his left, and nearly forgot everything that had happened in the past, and not just the previous twelve hours, but all eighteen y
ears of his life leading up to yesterday. He could do nothing but stare…stare straightforward and behold the source of the thumping against the wall.

  The bedroom's lights were on. All of them. The overhead fixture, plus the two bedside nightstand lamps. It was very bright in here, showing everything in crisp detail, the only visible shadow that of his father's lifeless body hanging from the jagged hole that had been cut into the plaster ceiling. Adeptly, he'd tied one of his size 46 belts over an exposed steel beam above where the bed had been, with the other end buckled tightly around his swollen neck. His head was twisted into an impossible angle, protein-coated eyes bulging from their sockets, tongue swelled and protruding from his open mouth like a slice of uncooked meat. His skin looked soft and pulpy and bore a milky tone that reminded Johnny of a fish's belly. The skin on his neck had split open, a result of his onerous mass, red-purple flesh flapping down over smatters of slick, fleshy blood. Rivulets, both wet and dry, tracked down over his shirtless girth like pinstripes.

  The body swayed in the breeze gusting in through the open window, gathering momentum as it pendulated over the edge of the bed. Below, its dull shadow grew small. The body stopped, then swung back.

  And hit against the wall, adding to the pink smatter there.

  Thump.

  Johnny, gripping the edge of the open door for support, stared at his father: his face, dead and staring; arms, white and swollen, hands and feet mottled black with blood; pants bunched down around his ankles, soiled with feces and urine. In Ed's hand was a crumpled piece of paper, the note Johnny had left for his father, two cold stiff fingers curled lifelessly around it. Johnny held his gaze on it, seeing a dark, lurching line marked across the thin penciled words he'd written a little over twelve hours earlier.

  Thump…

  On damp, numb feet, Johnny walked over to his father's swaying body—three small steps was all it took—the breeze gusting in and gathering up Ed's deathly odor. Johnny gagged. He turned his head, thinking he was about to vomit, but instead was able to beat it back with a deep, fouled breath.

  Thump…

  Sour tears filled his eyes, and his mind finally clicked. What the hell is going on? With his head turned, he used a single finger to poke at the piece of paper, but not without touching, touching! his father's cold, purple, clammy hand. He shivered, gagged again, and watched the crumpled paper with its unfamiliar black line fall silently to the blood-spotted mattress.

  Thump…

  He allowed Ed's body one more sway in the breeze, then hurriedly leaned in and retrieved the paper ball. Paper in hand, he staggered from the tainted room.

  He immediately collapsed heavily on the living room couch, hands trembling, eyes stinging with tears. He'd never felt so scared. Scared for Ed. Scared for his mother, who had just lost a husband…and was now going to lose a son.

  Only a fleeting moment passed before he unfurled the ball of notebook paper and flattened out the creases, the thick wavering line now coming together to disclose Ed Petrie's final, dark imprint upon the world. The single word, repeatedly scribbled into thick lines, shouted out to Johnny:

  OSIRIS

  Despite its unfamiliarity, it frightened him, the mere sound of it and its sudden place in his life drawing a torrential flow of tears from his eyes. He stared at the word, finalizing his decision to flee this life for good, now and forever.

  Thump…

  Chapter 17

  August 24th, 1988

  12:03 PM

  Wellfield Maine was a town that grew by default. The original builders settled it with intentions of using the Tennebec River for trading with Canada, and for years it had seemed to work grandly until the rains of 1908 flooded the valley and nearly drove the entire population north to Bangor. That was when the canal was built, nearly three miles long, that passed beneath the center of town all the way to the township-owned fields in the north, where it eventually turned back into a river. This resulted in the building of affordable homes, and the addition of many new families seeking work beyond the city's limits.

  The northern region, a sore spot for most of the entrepreneurs in Wellfield (and beyond), remained locally owned to this day, empty and devoid of anything more than shallow water, weeds, and litter. The roads that led to this messy part of Wellfield gave way to what eventually became low-income housing, a thousand tiny homes packed tightly into ten square miles of land. Centering it all was the town dump, a junkyard, and the municipal sewage mill where nearly thirty percent of the area's male population was employed.

  Capson State Park, all fifteen acres of it, eventually mated this part of town with downtown; it was a gradual fade-in that would creep up on you if your mind wandered too much while out for a leisurely stroll.

  The business district had thrived over the years, yet still managed to retain its small-town glory. Outside of an Ames Supermarket, commercial businesses had yet to bleed their way in, thanks to the town's organizers who, favoring local entrepreneurs, refused to sell off the fields in the north to corporate America.

  Downtown Wellfield meshed quite favorably with the finer homes to the south, owned by white-collar workers who commuted on the cross-town busses into Skowhegan and Orono every day. Here also lived the local business owners, who just got by on their profits, but favored the close proximity to having to drive in from the north.

  Most of the remaining lands were Wellfield's farms, the town's bread and butter, hundreds of acres of privately owned properties that kept up with the colonial spirit of New England's forefathers, generating nearly forty percent of the area's commerce. Seven families owned working farms within the city limits of Wellfield, each liaising with one another in an effort to keep their productions unique. Although many of the farms lay at least six to ten miles outside of downtown, Anton Conroy had refused to sell his property as the population—and the businesses—flourished.

  Of course, upon Anton's untimely death, the lawyers were all over eighteen year-old Benjamin. But Anton had considered this eventuality years earlier, having legally dotted his I's and crossed his T's with his attorney. Ultimately, all Benjamin had to do was instruct his lawyer to clot up the legal foray with the necessary paperwork that would result in a quick and painless downfall to those looking to acquire the land. It had been a swift whirlwind of legalities, but in the end the farm would remain untouched, much to the liking of the locals, who were quite taken to the pleasant stretch of nature flanking downtown.

  Thirteen year-old Daniel Conroy didn't know much of Wellfield beyond his father's property. The road he paced today was one of the few familiar ones, Breton Road, with its winding curves and periodic whitewashed fences penning in the homes of the mostly faceless neighbors. Mailboxes gathered at the street corners like loiterers, weeds and vines choking their bases in thick, unruly patches. Bees hovered about them in huddles.

  Daniel reached the corner of Breton and paced left over the wooden bridge that cut into Rollingwood. Both sides of the bridge were closed in by rickety weather-beaten railings, their promise of protection an unpersuasive word of warning. Below, ankle deep water trickled faintly over a streambed of rocks, a relaxing backdrop to his harried thoughts.

  To his left, at the corner of Rollingwood and Center Street, was the Wellfield Public School. Structured of cement and bricks, it sat in an open field north of the railroad tracks, where freight trains came pumping through loaded with crops cultivated on Wellfield's farms. Somewhere between Wellfield and Skowhegan was a rail station, but Daniel never saw it, although he knew it was there because the freight engines would blow their whistles upon their distant approach.

  About fifty kids on the playground were lined up on the edge of the basketball court, waiting for a freight train to pass. Daniel watched them, and when the train vanished, they dispersed and went back to playing their games. Friends, Daniel thought. This is what it's like to have friends.

  A large man wearing a blue nylon running suit appeared from the side doors of the school. He blew a whistl
e hanging from a string around his neck. It made Daniel flinch, and he took a few steps back along the side of the road. The kids queued up to go back inside, and Daniel immediately hated himself for feeling so frightened. Just what am I scared of anyway?

  There's nothing to be scared of.

  Except my father.

  After the kids filed back inside the school, Daniel turned a bitter shoulder and continued on his way into town, fingering the five dollar bill in his pocket every so often to make certain it was still there. Above, a flock of circling sparrows dipped and dived in formation, seeming to be taunting him with their back-and-forth movements: Hey, look at the fat kid. His mommy and daddy finally let him out of the house!

  He reached the end of street, then turned left onto Main. Here there were stores, for as far as his eye could see. They lined the sides of the street, each one dressed differently, signs he could actually read adorning the windows: Come in, we're open!, and Prescriptions filled here. He could see the large cement fountain at the center of Main, its three stout bears spilling water from cupped palms. The marquee for the Wellfield Town Theater bore its display in large red letters: Dirty Dancing. Showtimes: 5:30, 7:30, 9:30. Although the Conroy home didn't have any televisions, a waste of valuable mind space that could be used for prayer Benjamin would say, Daniel figured that this was exactly the type of movie that fueled his father's holy-than-thou fire. Televisions were the Devil's prop, the theater, His stage.

  At the yellow-painted crosswalk, Daniel paced across the street, eyeballing a small group of older kids wearing worn denims and white tee shirts. They appeared to be giving him the once-over as they leaned into one another and shared some sort of burning secret. Daniel grew suddenly hot. His tee-shirt, gripping every roll of flesh on his torso, was striped thickly with sweat. The smoky odor was still on him, like rot on a dead fish, seeming to regenerate itself with the addition of his perspiration. He pulled his attention away from the other kids (he could see that there were three of them, all with hair long enough to be tied up in buns, like Elizabeth's, although he doubted that these boys smelled like strawberries), and made his way into the cool interior of D'Agostino's Drugs.