Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  He felt a sudden weight against his chest. His hands and feet tingled. Osiris? Is it you? Is this your presence I feel?

  Upon reaching the front of the church, he stepped up on the altar, and after making a quick survey and concluding that nothing was amiss, he paced to his office door located just below the crucifix.

  He ferreted out the key. A sharper pain filled his head, and he intuitively interpreted it as a forewarning to danger. Instead of inserting the key, he simply turned the knob, realizing with sudden panic that his pain-filled instincts had been correct.

  The doorknob, usually locked, turned freely.

  The clasp clicked, and another jutting pain lanced through his head; this time it felt like a splash of hot, spilled liquid. He grimaced, fighting against it, hesitating with the door open only a few inches.

  Placing his shoulder against the door, he pushed it open all the way.

  At once, a woman's voice bore into his ear, like an unanticipated jab from a ice pick.

  "Benjamin…"

  He opened his eyes wide, feeling the pain, the pain, and he stopped at the foot of his office, not in disbelief, but in utter fury at the sight before him. His keys fell from his hand to the ground.

  Damn you…

  She was sitting behind his desk, palms resting face-down on the ink-stained blotter. Her hair was a store-bought blonde that flowed over her floral Sunday dress in curly tresses, down to her protruding breasts. Her eyes, buried in thick eye-liner—harlot's makeup, Benjamin would say—pinned him with utter contempt, releasing a backlog of tears that painted thick gray lines down her cheeks.

  Ignoring her, and the beating ache in his head, he ran his gaze over to the glassed-in shelf on the right side of the room, right below the two-foot crucifix on the wall. He walked to it silently, opened the doors, and removed a bottle of Wild Turkey. He unscrewed the top and sucked down a mouthful in one quick movement. He then stepped back to the center of the room, stood before the woman seated at his desk, and stared at her with unfaltering scorn.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment of tense silence. His breath ran away from him as he spoke, and he used the mouth of the bottle to tackle a sudden itch on his scar.

  "We need to talk," the woman replied, her eyes flitting down to the bloodstains on his shirt.

  Damn you, he thought again, feeling the rage swarming inside. He had to take a few long deep breaths to keep it at bay.

  Her name was Helen Mackey, and she was a parishioner of The Organization Of God. He'd met her after a service about a year ago, but had noticed her much earlier than that. She'd always sat in the front row, alongside her husband and thirteen year-old son. Benjamin would stare into her unwavering eyes (which later became harlot's eyes) and pick up silent messages from her in his head. A gentle wink, a slight smile, and he'd stammer his way through the hour-long service, considering the connotations behind her gestures, and wondering how far he could take them. When the final prayers were said and done, he would quickly bow to the congregation and escape into his office, thinking only of her eyes, her smile, and the young supple skin that peeked out from the diving cut of her Sunday dress.

  Then, one day, she showed up for confession.

  I've got a sin, Benjamin Conroy. And it needs confessing…

  On Sundays, following the late-morning mass, Benjamin would sit and listen to what Wellfield's apprehensive folk had to say, all of whom carried grave concerns of damnation due to unholy thoughts, accidental misgivings, or some other God-fearing deliberation. The usual suspects would wait in line outside his office, spilling their unholy guts in turn, leaving with tasks of prayer and feelings of deliverance, courtesy of their faithful minister.

  Less than a year ago, after a rather light showing (the Brantley sisters, one right after the other, moaning about their argument the night before over the correct way to mix tapioca, and Calvin Mooney, who had thoughts of coveting his neighbor's wife), Benjamin stood to leave, only to find the door to his office blocked by Ms Bleach-Blonde-Dark-Eyes, one hand supporting her nimble form as she leaned seductively against the frame, her Sunday dress unraveling at the sash and her beautiful fall of golden hair slightly mussed..

  And she'd said, "I've got a sin, Benjamin Conroy, and it needs confessing…"

  A sin…

  She slammed her hand on his desk, wrenching him from his memories. He looked at her, hot, boiling fury enveloping his mind, his body, his guts.

  "How did you get in here?" he asked, clenching his jaw.

  She leaned forward, picked up a key from his desk, and shook it derisively back and forth, like a signal.

  With this, you dumb idiot…

  "Get out of here," he said, thinking, How in the hell did she get that?

  Because you got careless, Benjamin. She lifted it from your desk after you finished sexing her one afternoon. That's how. And God knows what else she got her hands on.

  Oh, God. No…

  Then she held up his diary. She waved it at him like she did the key, now seemingly saying, You've got a secret no more, my dear.

  His body rushed with rage. He wanted to dive at her right there and then and make her pay hard for her sin. But his body felt otherwise, instantly petrified, frozen with disbelief at her utter audacity, her nerve for breaking in here, into his desk. She stood and his heart lurched, his mind trying hard to come up with a quick solution to this problem. Osiris, help me! But there seemed to be no immediate resolution.

  Their affair had been intense, fiery, undeniably passionate, lasting much longer than Benjamin had ever intended. All his other exploits had ranged from a single afternoon, to three months—mere flings to fulfill his transitory wants and desires. But Helen Mackey, she lasted a year. And, like all the other women, he fed his swollen ego further by chronicling each and every sordid detail in his diary, keeping Polaroid photographs of her (and all the other women) in provocative poses as frontispieces to each written account. This had been his big secret, this diary—the only secret he'd kept from every other living soul. Even God.

  But now…here it was, out in the open for the world to see, for God to see, in the hands of the woman he'd been trying to end a year-long affair with.

  She circled around the side of the desk, stumbling a bit. She planted one butt-cheek down on the edge, knocking over a cup of pens and pencils. "This one is really interesting," she said, holding up a photograph of a naked girl. Her words were slurred, and Benjamin could tell that she'd been drinking. "I believe this is Brittany Wellman. Grace Wellman's daughter. Gee, Benjamin, last I heard she just turned sixteen. And if I'm correct, this picture here looks to be about two years old. Hmm…and let's not ignore what you wrote about her. Shall I refresh your memory?"

  Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and sparkling. Benjamin could tell that she was enjoying this little performance. Quickly and impulsively, he lunged for the diary, a half-hearted effort. She flinched away and dropped it to the floor. The photos fell out like confetti.

  When he bent down to pick them up, she uttered, "Don't move."

  He didn't like the sudden tone of her voice. Slowly, he twisted his head and looked up at her.

  Oh my God, is that a…a gun?

  He didn't know where she'd had it hidden—in her purse perhaps, which was draped loosely over her shoulder—but here it was, aimed at his chest. A second round of tears darkened the eyeliner tracks on her face. A gust of late afternoon wind rattled the beams in the church, adding to the surreality of the situation. He held up his hands, feigning innocence, eyes darting between the gun, her face, and the Polaroid photographs spread out on the floor like dominoes.

  "Helen…please, don't..."

  "Listen to me Benjamin…we have a problem, and I need you to fix it." Her face was wounded, brimming with uncertainty and pain.

  "What is it? Helen?" His eyes moved toward the gun, now lowering a bit, slightly loose in her grip.

  "I—I'm pregnant." She made an attempt to say something else, but o
nly sobs came out.

  And the gun dropped an inch further.

  Keeping the revelation at bay, Benjamin observed that he was dealing with a woman who'd never used a gun before. In all her dazed uncertainty, she must've lifted it from her husband's nightstand drawer and tucked it into her purse with no real intention of pulling the trigger. She'd wanted to frighten the man she'd been having an affair with…the man that had presumably gotten her pregnant. And that was it.

  With this conviction in mind, Benjamin said, "Let's talk about this, Helen. Are you certain you're pregnant?"

  "Of course I am!" she screamed, securing her aim on him. He inched closer to her, despite the threat, catching a thick reek of alcohol on her breath. Very nice, mother-to-be.

  "How do you know it's mine?" he asked, inching closer still, eyes going back and forth between the gun and her messy, muddy eyes. Harlot's eyes.

  "Damn you, Benjamin," she slurred, gaze drifting in their attempt to focus. "You know me, better than anyone, even my husband, even my son. And you know I haven't been with anyone else but you." The gun lowered further. Her voice hitched as she said, "Benjamin…I…I can't handle not being with you." The tears started flowing again, and she blurted angrily, "You told me I was your soul-mate! And…and I gave myself to you, over and over again, right here on this damn desk! And then…you, you refused me! Oh God, you refused me! And…and then you just think you can just throw me away like a piece of trash! Well…I can't let you do that." She looked at him scornfully, and added in a frighteningly calm voice, "If I can't have you, then...no one can."

  He remained silent, striving to work his magic on her as he'd done so many times in the past…

  …Osiris, I beseech your strength to allow me the good fortune of my desires…

  …when she'd thought it might be better that they didn't have sex because of her fluctuating guilt, or of her concerns of getting caught. He'd sweet-talk his way deep into her sweet slickness and deposit his seed as a material token of his 'love', a souvenir to take home to the Mackey household. She would fall for the deceit every time. And now…he'd make her fall for it again.

  "And have me, you shall," he said softly. Lovingly.

  The emotions on her face switched patterns, almost immediately, tears of confusion sprouting from her eyes as she attempted to regain her focus.

  The gun wavered in her hand, and then dropped.

  He stared at her, feeling an unfamiliar blending of emotions, of fear and of anger and of mounting aggressiveness pooling into a distinctly innovative sensation. It was a singular feeling, as though he were building up with natural gas, waiting for a single spark of opportunity to blow. It was the end result of never having seen her like this before, so distraught, so out of control. In the past there had been indications of instability in her behavior, of depression, of high anxiety. But she'd always been able to compose herself, despite her lack of confidence, her lack of self-worth—weaknesses he'd always preyed upon to further his selfish intentions. But she'd never gone over the edge before, like now.

  I can do it. I will command her. I have communicated with the Gods, and there is no one more powerful than me.

  He stepped an inch forward, closer still, struggling to find a loophole of opportunity in her madness. She looked at him blankly, then gazed down at the gun in her hand. A scared look enveloped her face, cheeks red and glistening beneath the jagged lines of mascara.

  The gun!

  And upon wholly focusing on the weapon—his potential downfall—his anger progressed into utter rage, devouring all other lingering emotions in his mind, including the pain in his head. His breathing escalated, his heart slammed against his ribs, his blood burned red-hot. He watched her as she impassively ran her free hand through her hair, a nervous reaction to the fragile situation she was hoping would end in her favor.

  Benjamin wasted no time. Taking advantage of her vulnerable position, he moved on her like a charging bull, cocking his right fist back and lunging at her with all his body weight behind him. He tried to remain silent in the offering, but a small grunt escaped his lips, alerting her of his violent approach. She performed a defensive twist, and at the same time raised the gun. Neither action proved itself effective. The first blow came from his fist, striking the side of her head. A split second later, the gun went off, taking out a large chunk of plaster in the wall behind him.

  "You crazy bitch!" he yelled, voice loud and determined. He grabbed her wrist and forced her arm away. Their bodies fell back and her hand struck the rear wall of the office. The gun fired again, tearing a hole in the ceiling. Plaster rained down on them. As the struggle ensued, he locked eyes with her, saw the fear and terror and shame in them. She grinned maniacally, teeth gnashing as she forced her arm forward with surprising strength, the gun lowering, the mouth of the barrel now only inches above his head.

  In a do-or-die move, Benjamin whipped his head forward and connected full-force with her nose, the fierce collision producing a warm, wet cracking sound.

  Helen staggered back against the wall, mouth wide open, eyes wide open…nose wide open. A fountain of blood spewed from her face, visibly traumatizing to both her and Benjamin. Her hands swung blindly through the air, the gun hanging limply from three trembling fingers.

  Here time seemed to unfold in slow motion, like a motion picture in frame-by-frame mode. Vicious pain rocketed through Benjamin's head, making it feel as though it had imploded. A filmy blur doused his vision, obstructing his view of the woman he'd made love to countless times in the past, her once beautiful face slowly coming into focus, divulging a brutal mass of damage: her nose a gory mess, releasing a foamy swath of blood and bone that coated her mouth and neck. She attempted a scream, but only guttural, throaty gurgles came out: "Garhhh! Garhhh!"

  Benjamin stood trembling at the horror he instantly created of her, staring with loathe and awe as Helen's body stiffened up, eyes fluttering as if struggling to keep free of the squirting blood and mucous. Again she tried to speak. Again a thick gurgling sound blasted out. She doubled over, gagging in violent fits, strings of fluid spewing from her mouth.

  Benjamin looked at her hand.

  The gun was still there.

  And her fingers were tightening around it. Her arm began to slowly raise.

  He bellowed and lunged at her, fist held high. He punched her in the meat of her wound. Blood burst out at him, forcing him to close his eyes. Blindly, he swung again, connected with her face. He swung again, hit her on the side of her head. She staggered sideways along the wall, leaving a streak of blood there. He continued to rain blows down upon her, his mind telling him that it was all self-defense, that she was holding a loaded gun, and had fired it at him, leaving him no choice but to protect himself. She raised her hands up, not to point the gun (Benjamin guessed that at this point, she didn't even realize it was still in her hand), but to shield herself from further injury. It did her little good.

  A series of blurts emerged from what used to be her lips, but that was all. She fell silent beneath the attack, her body collapsing to the floor in a dead heap. The gun hit the floor with a loud clunk. It fell from her grasp and slid into the wall, leaving a streak of blood behind like a trail. Beneath her bloody mask, Benjamin could see the whites of her eyes rolling toward the gun. She made a vain attempt to crawl after it. Nearly hyperventilating, Benjamin pounced her, groping at the bare gore of her face, digging his nails deep into her flesh, clawing at her eyes, her exposed sinus cavity. She clawed at his chest, and managed to rip his shirt and uncover his scar, a single blood-coated nail tearing into his knobby purple flesh. He howled, then gripped her matted hair and began slamming her head hard against the floor, over and over again. He heard her skull shatter, felt it soften beneath his grip. But the adrenaline continued to flow in him, forcing him to continue. Soon, the rear of her skull was nothing more than gritty pulp squelching between his squeezing fingers.

  Finally, Benjamin released her. He collapsed back, crawling away from the a
ftermath. He leaned his head up against the wall, dizzied and feeling as though he might black out. Blood dribbled into his eye, stinging and warm. He thumbed it away, then stared at her body, her corpse, the dress torn open, white breasts sagging lifelessly like balloons released of their air. The strap of her purse was pulled tightly around her neck. Her face was unrecognizable, lost beneath a mask of blood and bone.

  My God…what have I done?

  He clambered to his knees, hands folded between his legs, head thrown back, a thin, strengthless shriek falling from his lips. He mumbled a Hail Mary prayer, then struggled unsteadily to his feet, nearly collapsing back down from dizziness. He backpedaled out of the office in a panic, eyes glued to Helen's motionless body, a single Polaroid photograph of a scantily-clad woman stuck to the bottom of his shoe like a piece of chewing gum.

  Once out of the office, he spun and staggered across the altar. He continued down the center aisle like a drunk man fleeing an angry mob, eyes pinned to the closed doors,

  …the clasp had been replaced after she closed the door…

  looking down only once to see that the blood-stained photo had come away from his sole somewhere along the way.

  He burst through the doors, out into the cool, late afternoon, the sun now hidden behind a blanket of gray clouds. He stopped to catch his breath, and gazed down at his torn shirt, Helen Mackey's blood now mixed in with Pilate's. He tore it off and threw it to the ground, leaving more evidence behind for the authorities.

  Murder. No, she was pregnant. Double murder…

  A bird cawed. He gasped, shuddered, then turned and looked up to the roof of the church, where the large black bird sat perched, staring down at him.

  Osiris, still watching over him?

  "What shall I do now, my Lord?" he shouted out, his voice sounding dull, as though absorbed by the environment—just as it had this morning, outside the barn.

  The bird took off into the sky, a single black feather coming away, caught in the wind, bouncing lazily along the shingles toward the rear of the church. He followed it around the side of the small structure, tripping and stumbling with no sense of stability, keeping his eyes glued to the feather as it fluttered over the edge of the roof, behind the church. He turned the corner…and nearly collided with a small silver sedan parked along the perimeter of thin woodland.