Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  September 7th

  8:35 AM

  Thump…thump…thump…

  Still holding the yellow piece of paper with the odd message from Ed, Johnny staggered back into his room. He slid into the first pair of jeans he could find, crumpled on the floor next to the closet, then opened the top drawer to his armoire and put on a white knit golf shirt. From his closet he retrieved the blue tote bag he'd used once to lug home a stack of bibles from the church book sale; Mary had purchased them to donate to the local YMCA, and all Johnny could wonder at the time was what the heck the YMCA needed bibles for.

  He set the bag on the floor. With trembling hands, he began rummaging through his drawers, all the while listening to…

  …thump…thump…thump…

  …the horrible noise of Ed's lifeless body hitting against the wall in the adjoining room. He haphazardly stuffed the bag with clothes, underwear, tees, and socks. In the closet he retrieved a pair of loafers and a belt, and shoved them on top, not caring much about prioritizing space in the small bag. From the bathroom, he gathered all his toiletries; from the medicine cabinet, a bottle of aspirin. As his mind demanded he get moving before collapsing from fright or anxiety, he gazed at Mary's vast collection of pill bottles, and without even considering the vindictiveness of his actions, emptied the contents out onto the floor with a few vicious sweeps of his arm.

  Nearly hyperventilating, Johnny gazed at his handiwork: pill bottles, everywhere. Some of the bottles had opened up, their colorful contents scattered on the tiles like candy from a piñata. On an unclear whim, he knelt down and searched through them until he located one marked Xanax. He gripped it in his fist, then slid it into his pocket. I'll probably need these.

  Sudden dizziness threatened his balance. He grabbed hold of the edge of the sink and took a series of long deep breaths. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrored surface of the medicine cabinet, which was still open, and directly facing him, he was startled to see how sickly white and terribly frightened he looked.

  He reeled out of the bathroom and leaned listlessly against the mattress of his bed. Breathing heavily, he scanned the room one last time.

  And saw the black feather sitting on his nightstand. It struck him with a strange, undeniable force. He immediately circled the bed and retrieved it, gripping the quill between two fingers. He raised it to eye-level and gazed at it curiously. It seemed to demand, however strangely, that he promise to hold onto it forever.

  With his other hand he picked up the photo of his parents, their pale dusty image reinforcing the terror circling inside his overwhelmed head. God, what has happened to them? He gazed at the portrait of Jesus above his bed. Why have they both been struck with such terrible fortune? Have they been…cursed? All your prayers Mary…lots of good they did you.

  "Uh," he muttered aloud, feeling sick to his stomach. Shouldering his bag, he tucked the frame inside, then fled the room, his heart clamoring loudly for him to flee this place once and for all. In the kitchen, he set the bag on the table. He could hear Ed's body thumping against the wall—the pound of blood in his head filled in the dreadful gaps of silence between thumps as he visualized the bloodstain on the wall growing larger and larger. He leaned down, pulled open the bottom kitchen drawer that always got stuck halfway, and removed two small plastic baggies. In one, he gently inserted the feather. In the other, the yellow sheet of paper with Ed's scrawled note.

  He placed both into the side pocket of the tote-bag, then moved to leave, purposely leaving his keys behind. The bag swung to his side, and as he grabbed the doorknob, remembered something very important. It's more important than anything else, the feather, Ed's note, even the lives of my parents. It is the reason I am choosing to leave here now and forever, without calling the police, without saying good-bye to my mother.

  He tucked a hand into his back pocket, realizing that the jeans he put on were the same ones he wore yesterday. And the lawyer's letter, with the phone number and address of the firm, was still in the back pocket. He took a deep breath of relief, knowing that he didn't have to venture back into his room—into what was quickly becoming a dark hole into his past—to retrieve it.

  As he grabbed the doorknob, he caught sight of something else—something that might do him some good on the ride up to Maine.

  In the trash can, where his mother had tossed it yesterday, was the library's copy of War Of The Worlds. He leaned down and retrieved it, feeling a wave of lightheadedness as he did so, sensing that his bold decision to borrow this book had triggered the onset of his newfound life of independence. He tucked the book under his arm, then took one last look around before finally leaving his old, dead life behind.

  Chapter 19

  August 24th, 1988

  2:18 PM

  Chaos had erupted in the Conroy house.

  Bryan was in his crib, wailing inconsolably. Faith was vomiting in the upstairs bathroom, and although Benjamin had lost count, he'd figured this to be her sixth or seventh round. Pilate, still leashed to the basement well in the back yard, had been barking up a relentless storm since Daniel left for the store at noon. And, in the pens at the perimeter of the wheat fields, the pigs and goats bleated incessantly for their grain.

  Chaos had also erupted in Benjamin Conroy's mind. Still sitting in the chair in the corner of his office, he attempted yet another sequence of prayers, forgive my sins, forgive my sins, despite having found it increasingly impossible to maintain his concentration. His eyes kept moving toward the closed door, over and over again, in desperate search for a respite that would never arrive.

  Something is very wrong…

  He peered up at the small speaker anchored into the ceiling alongside the door, a pair of thin white wires running like snakes into the walk-in closet where the stereo system was located. He stood up and opened the closet's twin doors, the dry cedar smell within tickling his nostrils. He moved to the recorder on the shelf and removed the reel-to-reel tape that contained two hours worth of tolling bells…bells that struck at exactly thirteen-second intervals. Carefully, he returned the plastic reel to its box, peering toward the rear of the closet where a roadmap of wires snaked along the wall en route to seven different rooms in the house. He reached up and tucked the box away on a shelf at the top of the closet where no one could get to it.

  He stood there for a moment, listening to the noises in the house, the goddamned noises, feeling his head throbbing painfully. He could still taste the smoke on his tongue, and welcomed it as though it were a gift from Osiris, despite the dull rage rising in him.

  The baby continued to cry.

  Faith vomited again.

  The damn dog was still barking.

  The pigs and goats bleated endlessly.

  And it all drove home into Benjamin's head like darts from a blowgun, each maddening noise a shot of deadly poison to his brain. Nothing, not even a gift from the spirit, could alleviate the agony.

  He gnashed his teeth and rubbed his temples with his palms—the pain in his head was excruciating. And now the prayers wouldn't come at all, and he knew he needed to escape the insanity that had become of his home before he exploded.

  In the closet, on the shelf, Benjamin grabbed the bottle of bourbon he kept there: a vice he'd stopped hiding from Faith a few years ago. He removed the top and swigged a mouthful, pacing back and forth about the room, trying to make sense of all the madness as the liquid burned its way into his stomach. Common logic told him that things were amiss because the ritual had gone awry. Because the damn boy interfered! Or…is it because of my sins? His copy of the Book of the Dead (now on the floor next to the desk, hurled there out of frustration) told of how misjudgments made during the evocation of spirits into the physical world might prompt the evoked spirit to cast a spell of retribution upon the conjurer, despite a lack of fault or negligence. And that, Benjamin quickly came to assume, is what's happening now. He and his family were paying for their carelessness, his carelessness. How could I let the boy do that?r />
  You know it's not entirely the boy's doing, Benjamin.

  No!

  He took another swig of bourbon, then, still holding the bottle, exited the office and went into the bathroom. When he opened the door, he saw Faith hunched over the toilet, croaking loudly and spitting bile. Her eyes were wet and red, her skin ashen. Her hair was plastered across her face in fever-soaked strands, hands gripping the sides of the toilet as though trying to steer it away.

  Benjamin grimaced—the sight of her, it made him sick, repulsed, and he had to turn away. Jesus, why do I feel this way? Why am I not concerned for her well-being? His mind wandered for a moment, thinking of the incredible manifestation of the spirit and how it'd vanished upon Daniel's abrupt intrusion. He shuddered, wholly dismayed with the harsh reality of the situation. I am feeling this way because of the pressing issue at hand…because the spirit Osiris is casting his vengeance upon each and every one us. And his punishment for me is to take away my love, my compassion, my self-control…and to bring me pain.

  In between heaves, Faith cried, "Benjamin…something's wrong with me…" Her voice was strange and jagged.

  He gazed down at her, feeling no pity whatsoever. It was the affect of the bourbon, the affect of the spirit's retribution, and he shuddered with fear. He took another swig, swished it around like mouthwash, then swallowed it down. "Smoke inhalation, is all," he replied, unimpressed with his own lie.

  She shook her head violently. "No…I need…I need to go to the hospital. This is not right!" She heaved loudly. It sounded amplified. Nothing came out.

  Anger swelled in him. The pain in his head screamed. His heart started pounding slowly and forcefully, boom…boom…boom. He could feel it pushing its painful beat into his ears, his hands, his chest. Everything began to take on a fuzzy, overpowering tone. His head grew hot, and he tried to cool it by swilling from the bottle. It didn't work.

  "Move out of the way," he demanded. "I have to use the toilet." He didn't want any part of Faith's misfortune, which wasn't from smoke inhalation, not at all. It was from his own failure to complete the ritual. Osiris's retribution.

  "C-can't you use the other bathroom?" she coughed.

  "Puke in the bathtub. I gotta go." His words, and his pity, were both slurred by his flourishing intoxication. That, and so much more.

  She crawled backwards and leaned over the edge of the bathtub. He caught sight of her face, pale and scared and restless. "Benjamin…I can barely lift my body up. Please, something's wrong. I have a fever. I need to go to the hospital…" She coughed and gagged, but again, nothing came up.

  There is nothing I can do for you, Faith.

  Ignoring her, Benjamin urinated, flushed, then zipped up and leaned down alongside her. With the bottle in his right hand, he latched onto her hair and pulled her head back, coming within inches of her face. She smelled like vomit. Her throat was stretched tight, and when she coughed, droplets of bile sprinkled into his face. This made his anger-indicator fly way into the red zone, where irreversible damage might occur. "Now listen to me, and listen good. If you go to the hospital, they're gonna ask you what happened, and if you tell them that your husband was burning a fire in the barn, they'll ask you why, and in your state you'd probably tell them that it was in an attempt to summon a spirit from the astral plane, and let me tell you, that'll really stir up the fires of Hell. And even if you don't tell them, they're still gonna send the police out to investigate, because as you know, there are people in this town that would love to see me fall, and believe me when I tell you this, they will see me—us—crumble if anyone sees what I have in that barn. So, you hear me, Faith? YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!"

  She flinched and began to cry hysterically, gagging as she did so.

  "Do you hear me?" he asked again, his voice now chillingly composed.

  She nodded, only by the hand of Benjamin, who was still holding her hair and jerking her head up and down.

  "Good," he said, letting go. Her head fell against the side of the bathtub, and she grunted in pain. He stood up, drank the rest of the contents from the bottle, then belched and threw the bottle into the tub, where it shattered into a million amber pieces. Faith jolted at the sudden clamor, her shoulders joggling up and down. Benjamin leaned down and grabbed her face with one hand, squeezing her damp cheeks roughly. Her eyes rolled toward his, wet with distrust.

  "Please Benjamin…leave me alone." She looked shocked and frightened.

  Benjamin shook his head, and his eyes unexpectedly filled up with tears. He felt an odd flux of emotions racing through his body and mind, as though the influential command of the spirit had eased up on him, relieving him of his anger—and his pain—for a moment. "This…this isn't my fault. I meant well…I did it all…all for us." He grunted as his anger instantly returned, then released her and fled the bathroom before he did something he would later regret.

  He hesitated just beyond the threshold of the door, leaning against the doorframe and rubbing the moisture from his eyes. He listened to Faith as she commenced with another round of dry-heaves. A wave of dizziness hit him. The alcohol, it had taken full effect now—it'd numbed his senses, but also heightened his emotional response to the damaging situation, exacerbating his anger, his pain, his confusion. He called out for Daniel, forgetting briefly that Faith had sent the boy to the store.

  The pain swelled in his head again, and he massaged a rock of tension festering in his jaw. In the room down the hall, he listened as baby Bryan's cries tapered off, realizing suddenly that had the infant not stopped his damn wailing, he might've been forced to hand down a tidal wave of punishment upon him.

  He pitched forward and thumped against the wall across the hall. His eyesight blurred as he fumbled with the doorknob to Elizabeth's room. He grabbed hold, turned it, and burst inside.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw her moving in a panic, and when his sights finally came into focus, he saw his eighteen year-old daughter lying on the bed, her robe molded to her freshly-showered body, partially opened with one firm breast peeking out from beneath the pink terry fabric. On the floor, alongside the bed, he gazed briefly at the painted circle, its candles and charred aftermath left untended to. Quickly, he redirected his attention toward her, a droplet of saliva falling from his lips to the floor.

  Her eyes, like Benjamin's, were having a difficult time focusing, touching upon her father only slightly before leaping away. Her legs and hips fidgeted and moved, hands wet and gripping the sheets in bunches, leaving dark splotches behind like sweat stains. Her hair was mussed, blond strands splayed out like straw. Instinctively, she pulled her robe over her breast, keeping her gaze away from Benjamin as he continued to stare.

  To Benjamin, she was beautiful. But she was also weak and naïve, a prime target for temptation. This had become a constant worry for him; evil could very easily lure a curious eighteen year-old away from God's righteous path. Thankfully, he'd always been able to keep tabs on her; she'd never been able to hide her emotions when burdened with feelings of guilt.

  Like now.

  Slowly, Benjamin paced across the room, struggling to keep his balance. He gripped the footboard of the bed and leaned down, her feet inches away from his chin. Here he could smell her sex, tart and pungent. He forced a grin, feeling strangely uncomfortable with the situation, her ostensible guilt unexplainably giving his anger pause; suddenly, he wanted to delve. "What have you been up to?"

  She kept her gaze away. "Praying," she answered calmly.

  He looked at her hands again, and she guiltily tucked them beneath the covers. "Your hands…they're wet."

  She pulled them out and displayed them to her father. The nails were neatly trimmed short. They were also dry. "No…see? They're dry."

  He gazed at the sheets and the irregular damp splotches. He swallowed his gorge, feeling suddenly sick despite being aroused with the realization of what she'd been doing. Seething with newfound anger, he clenched his fists, having to control himself from leaping on the be
d and beating her for her sins—for making him feel like he did. "The animals," he finally said, teeth clenched, struggling to keep his anger at bay. "They need to be fed."

  She nodded compliantly. "Then I shall see that they are tended to."

  He leaned back up and nodded, doing his damnedest to ignore his suspicions, his urges, his anger. "My dear Elizabeth," he said. "You did well at the ritual this morning."

  "Thank you, father."

  He grinned, then turned and fled the room, shutting the door quickly behind him as though closing out a demon. He stopped and leaned back against the doorframe, breaths escaping his lungs in nervous bursts. Slowly, he turned and cocked a curious ear against the paneled wood. Listened.

  From inside, only silence. He performed the sign of the cross, then staggered down the hall, trying to make sense of his mixed-up emotions. He stopped at the door to Daniel's room.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he opened the door and poked his head inside. The room was empty—the boy had yet to return from the store. With his son's absence, Benjamin's anger instantly returned, devouring all other invading emotions. He clenched his fists. The boy is going to need a great deal of grace from God by the time I'm through with him. The recurring image of his son leaping into the circle and interrupting the ritual tortured his fragile state of mind. The boy had always been so attentive to instruction, had always been so compliant to his demands. So what could have made him pull this stunt? It's his fault that my wife is vomiting, that the dog is barking, that my daughter is committing sins in her room. Not mine. Hear my prayer, Osiris. I'll fix the boy good. Real good, just for you. I know it's what you want.

  Leaving the door open, Benjamin plodded down the hall. He paused before going downstairs, then turned and stood before the door to Bryan's room.