Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  He slid into the front seat behind the wheel, then looked over at her trembling form; her feet were curled up on the seat, heels touching rear. "My name's Eddie."

  "Eddie…" she muttered, then faced out the windshield. "Please, take me home now."

  "The Conroy house?"

  She nodded.

  "I'll have you there in no time…" he said, then added, "Elizabeth Conroy."

  Everyone in Wellfield knew about the Conroy family. The minister and his wife who'd educated their kids at home and put them to work on the farm that the local council had fought hard for in their attempt to expand downtown. He'd seen the mother and a young boy a number of times, but had only seen Elizabeth once before, and that was from a distance while driving past their house on Pine Oak. Regardless, she'd made a few rare appearances at Ewing's Food Emporium of late, and word had gotten around that she'd matured into quite the beauty—an untouchable one, nevertheless, kept under lock and key by her parents.

  When she didn't respond to his use of her name, he nodded, then turned the car around and started back up Mill Pond Road, for the first time in his life keeping the car at the speed limit. They rode in silence, the wheat fields soon segueing into green pastures, extensive beneath the blue sky. He kept his eyes on the road, wanting to look at her—at her frail, demure posture, at her buried femininity shivering with nameless fear. The question, Were you raped? , danced on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to choke it back, where it remained lodged in his throat like an impenetrable stone. Only once did he peek in her direction, her hair wilding in the breeze, releasing its soiled stench.

  "Here we are," he announced, pulling the car into the long gravel driveway. He came to a stop alongside the walkway circumventing the house. "Are your parents home?" He looked around but didn't see any other vehicles.

  "Pull forward," she said. "Front door's always locked."

  He nodded, then shifted the car back into drive and pulled up another fifty feet to the rear of the house. The late afternoon sun slouched in the multi-colored sky, the house's shadow spread across an expanse of overgrown grass in the back; farther along, a lofted barn abutted an expanse of dense woodland, its once-red paint faded to a cracked, faded pink. Eddie could see five wooden steps leading up to a screen door in the house; just beyond that, a rusted basement well lay amid a tangle of goldenrod.

  Elizabeth, in a sudden panic, fought with the car door handle before getting it to pop open. She nearly dropped out onto the driveway, which caused her to cry out. She caught her footing and staggered away, her stained robe billowing behind her like a cape.

  "Hey, Elizabeth…wait…" Eddie felt an immediate flux of emotions—a selfishness telling him to just let her be, drive away and consider his good deed done. But selflessly, he wondered: what if there is no one at home to help her? He exited the car, realizing that his concerns of her well-being were incongruous—they didn't outweigh his desire to continue his role of Prince Charming endeavoring to impress the injured beauty.

  Not once looking back, Elizabeth quickly stumbled up the five steps and disappeared into the house, allowing the door to slam loudly behind her. Eddie raced forward and stopped at the bottom of the steps, uprooting a patch of chickweed with the toe of his left sneaker. He gazed up at the screen door through which he could see a kitchen table sitting beneath a veil of near-darkness. Heart pounding, he grabbed onto the iron handrail, his palm scraping against the chipped surface of black paint and rust. Slowly he climbed the steps, one at a time, looking back over his shoulder in the process, and seeing nothing.

  He reached the landing, heard a dense buzzing of flies.

  He swept his gaze around.

  And with a sinking heart, he halted, at once finding no strength in his legs to move. He gripped the handrail bone-tight, fighting a rapid panic, his head reeling with the realization of having unwittingly entered a much larger picture than his mind could frame.

  Lying in the soil against the cement foundation of the house was a young boy and his dog. A puddle of blood seeped out from beneath them like a dark, motionless shadow. The dog, despite its wounds, was still alive, but barely, tongue lolling idly, body heaving painstakingly. The boy, on the other hand, lay eerily motionless across the dog's front paws, a deep meaty slash running the length of his colorless torso from which blood still oozed. Dust and soil and bits of grass coated his shirtless girth, evidence of having spent a good deal of time writhing on the ground before succumbing to his injuries.

  There were hundreds of horseflies covering them.

  Eddie remained petrified, staring as panic slipped its menacing cloak over him. A profound need to scream clawed at his fraying mind. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  From inside the house came a woman's terror-filled scream.

  Elizabeth!

  A split moment passed where he struggled with his choices: help the boy, help Elizabeth who was now seemingly caught beneath the threat of the boy's punisher inside the house…or, simply flee this house of terror and allow the police to do their work. Jesus—how long would that take? Elizabeth would be as dead as the boy by then.

  Under these grave circumstances, making such a quick, critical decision seemed ludicrous to Eddie. Still, at the same time, he could not question the sane logic motivating him: there was a life to save, and he was the only one on hand to do it.

  Without allowing himself a moment to second-guess his decision, he tore his gaze away from the picture of death on the ground, then yanked open the screen door and raced into the house to save Elizabeth Conroy's life.

  Chapter 24

  September 8th, 2005

  9:56 AM

  "Its location is prime," Judson said, loosening his tie. "The mayor, along with the Wellfield Council, has a number of deep-pocketed Orono businessmen lined up, the blueprints to construct more than a dozen commercial buildings signed, sealed, and delivered. They're also planning a gated community of homes, which will cater exclusively to those over the age of fifty-five; it's their way of convincing the locals to spend their Social Security checks here instead of sunny Florida, something I plan to do myself in a few years." He paused, then added, "Johnny, it's my duty to tell you that your land is worth a good deal more than what they're planning to offer you."

  They turned right off Main and proceeded down Center Street toward an undeveloped rural area overflowing with four foot grasses and brush.

  "This is all mine?" Johnny asked, gazing at the grassy countryside, thinking, Funny how I've spent my whole life trapped in Manhattan, and now I'm the owner of five acres of farmland.

  "Not all of it. Some of it is owned by the town, but they can't build on it until your land is rightfully obtained."

  "Why is that?"

  "Well, this area here," he said, pointing to the right, "was originally zoned back in the fifties, and in accordance with federal regulations, must remain multi-jurisdictional. Both your land, and the town's property, overlap between commercial and residential zones."

  "Which means?"

  "Which means that there isn't enough open space for the town to achieve what they want without building on your land. And they can't seek to modify the ordinances, because then it would have to go up for a council vote, which, if approved, would cost the mayor his job—the voting public would never endorse such a variance. There would also be a host of other complications, particularly when the construction companies start applying for building permits. It's a big vicious circle, one that can't be broken without your cooperation."

  "Sounds complicated."

  "And that's just the beginning of it."

  Judson reached a four-way stop at which nothing but fenced-in meadows could be seen. He looked both ways, then turned right. After a minute of silence, he said, "Johnny, when you turned eighteen, you became the sole owner of this land." He pointed east, out the driver's side window. "It continues northeast along Rollingwood, all the way to Pine Oak where the house is located. I have it all mapped out—if you li
ke, I can show it to you when we get to the house."

  "Andrew…how much…" Johnny paused. He didn't want his budding anxiety to show, so he coughed, then consciously turned his voice down a notch. "How much are they planning to offer me?" He thought, Jesus, why am I feeling so anxious? This is a good thing. I should be excited.

  "About a half-million…but the house and barn alone have been assessed at nearly half that, and they will be torn down as soon as they secure ownership of your property—if they secure ownership." Judson paused, peered into the rearview mirror, then added, "It's the land that they're after Johnny. As I mentioned in the letter—

  …the letter, the life-changing letter, he thought, feeling it in his back pocket,

  —it's valued at approximately two million dollars, maybe more. Understand, their motivations are purely economic, and yours should be as well."

  "Mr. Judson, Andrew…why are you going to such lengths for me?"

  "Well, frankly, my motivations are financial as well. There's a fair sum of money that Benjamin Conroy placed in escrow for me that's been collecting interest for eighteen years. Once you sign on the dotted line..."

  Johnny took a deep breath, then struggled to keep his cool because he wanted to pump his arms and stomp his feet and scream out loud, Dear god, I am going to be wealthy!

  But not without paying a price, his conscious immediately replied. Ed Petrie, your father

  (not my father!)

  is dead, and Mary Petrie, your mother

  (not my mother)

  is as good as dead, stuck in her hospital bed, with no one to take her home.

  Johnny took a deep breath in an effort to suppress his bliss, his thoughts hurling the bitter truth at him: They've been lying to you all these years, playing the roles of natural parents when in fact they were nothing more than strangers in disguise, wolves in sheep's clothing ruling your life beneath some cynical, iron-fisted system of beliefs.

  Some deep-rooted fear of the unknown.

  He took another long breath, thinking nervously: don't forget about your real parents, Benjamin and Faith Conroy, and their other children. Your siblings. They're all dead. Johnny, it seems as though you're the only one left alive.

  The anxiety flourished in him even further, infected with waves of guilt and now a budding dread as questions of how the Conroy family died inflicted his whirling mind. Ed and Mary, they knew something, and it is the reason why Ed killed himself, why Mary nearly died of a heart-attack: because they were scared of the truth…the truth that had come back to rear its ugly head again after all these years.

  Benjamin Conroy…the entire Conroy family…dead. Except me.

  They passed fields of wheat and corn that looked electric beneath the morning sun. In the distance Johnny could see smoke rising from the roof of a small factory, its thin dark plume melting into the hot morning sun. The car jostled over a set of railroad tracks, then moved onto a single-lane highway.

  They rode in silence for another minute, and during this time Johnny made a determined attempt to utilize Mary's natural mode of thought: that the Good Lord had fated this fortune, both good and bad, and that all he could do was go along for the ride, down destiny's road.

  Judson turned right onto Breton, then left onto Pine Oak Road. At once the house came into view, stark and desolate, crippled beneath the elements of time. Looks as though it has quite a story to tell, Johnny thought.

  The car crawled to the side of the road, sand and pebbles crunching noisily beneath its tires. Judson pulled into what years ago might have been a gravel driveway, but was now a farm in and of itself, harvesting a healthy crop of crabgrass, chickweed, and lamb's quarters. He closed the car's windows, noting that in thirty minutes the bees would have a hive built inside if given the opportunity.

  Without saying a word, Johnny got out of the car. He looked around. Damselflies the size of hummingbirds hovered about his feet, flitting to and fro as if sniffing out a potential puddle to plant their eggs. He stepped out of the knee-high weeds, then moved along the cracked cement pathway bordering the house. He could feel the sun beating its rays down on him, the oppressive heat making it difficult to breathe. His chest tightened. The scar on his sternum began to itch, and he gently scratched at it through his shirt. Symptoms of anxiety, and nothing more, he tried to convince himself, and worked to distract his nervous thoughts by imagining the Conroy family—his real parents, his real siblings, himself as a baby—all living here as a happy unit, tending to the farm and the garden, eating home-baked cornbread and apple pie at the kitchen table, playing games and watching television together on rainy nights.

  But these forced memories wouldn't come; instead images on par with the decrepit condition of the house arose, of darkness and dilapidation, of shadows and ruin: wood shingles losing an age-long battle with termites (the Conroy family, stricken with ongoing grief); the windows, blind and boarded with split sheets of plywood (the Conroy family, buried under waves of duress); weeds growing blatantly about the house and across the waist-high lawn (the Conroy family, trapped amidst their own surroundings); in the back, a lofted barn, its red paint long gone, now a pallid, splotchy gray, the weathervane on its peak lurching drunkenly, muddy brown and rusted.

  And Johnny thought: When the Conroy family died, so did their home.

  But…is their home really dead? It's still standing, right here in front of me. Yes, its frame is weak and rotting, but it is still here. Alive.

  I can feel it…

  Just as one last Conroy family member stands: still alive.

  Me.

  A breeze swept by, kicking up a cloud of dry dust; into his aching mind, it whispered a illusory message: come to me boy, I've been waiting for you. A dreadful shiver raced down Johnny's back, and his heart leaped against his scar, causing it to prickle with pins and needles.

  As Judson got out of the car, Johnny moved along the path and surveyed the house. An old iron water pump stuck out of the ground, its handle splotched with rust. It stood just below the lone side window, the wooden barricade rotted and practically gone. The pane beneath was still intact, but clouded with grime. In the distance, Johnny could hear a chorus of birds singing; closer by, bees humming. Their collective song sounded slightly muted, as though a buildup of pressure had plugged his ears.

  He stepped around the back of the house, Judson silent at his heels.

  In his mind, the hushed message came again: come to me boy…

  "I brought a flashlight," Judson said, and Johnny jumped a little. "In case you want to go inside."

  Come to me…

  "I think I will," he said, crossing the overgrown lawn to the porch. He saw a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, which made him jump back again, this time bumping into Judson.

  "Whoa Johnny…what's up?"

  "Over there," Johnny said, pointing, looking.

  At the far left hand side, a rusted cellar well burst through a thick patch of crabgrass which, approximately two feet to the left, lapsed into a small crop-circle of dead grass, brown and flattened along the house's foundation. Amid this four-foot section droned a swarm of horseflies, hundreds of them not in flight but condensing perfectly within the circle of dead grass as if making an attempt to shroud its unsightliness.

  And it was at this moment, while looking at the flies, that Johnny came to understand why Ed had killed himself, why Mary had fainted with despair: it was because there was something terribly wrong here, a wretched badness he himself could smell, not necessarily with his nose, but with his mind, his very soul. It existed in and around the house, nearly palpable, lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone to come and breathe life back into it. Ed and Mary, they had known all about this—it had continued to subsist in and around the memory of Benjamin Conroy, and quite likely, around their very own past experiences. And now, with its return, they had been wholly unwilling to confront it, unwavering in their decision to turn their backs on it and run away, despite their only child (not their chil
d!) being lured into its shell.

  It knows I'm here, he thought. And it is…it is bad.

  A flood of terror stole over Johnny. His legs froze. His eyesight blurred. His scar burned red hot. On the patch of dead grass, the horseflies whispered and droned, their pressing, insistent static materializing into words heard solely in his mind:

  Bryan…

  "We best either go inside, or walk around out back by the barn," Judson said, breaking Johnny's fearful contemplations. "Those buggers'll bite ya. Don't suppose you got horseflies in the city."

  Johnny shook his head, a surge of nausea swelling in his gut. "They're disgusting," he muttered. And they're wrong. Still staring at them, he asked, "Why are they all in that one spot?"

  From somewhere behind them, a bird crowed.

  "Maybe it's mating season." Judson took the porch steps slowly, one at a time, his speed matching his age. When he reached the porch, he turned and faced Johnny. "C'mon, let's check out your new place." Johnny looked at the lawyer; there was a gritty impatience in his face that wasn't there before: eyes sharp and demanding, wrinkled lips trembling slightly. Johnny thought, He wants me to go inside. Why?

  About to protest, Johnny said, "Andrew…", but the lawyer was already opening the old door, his bony right hand jiggling the key back and forth. The door screeched as it opened and Johnny had to practically chase him inside, noticing, rather oddly, that at one time there must have been a screen door attached to the frame as well—in his mind's ear, he could hear it slamming behind him as he entered the kitchen.

  When Johnny entered inside, Judson was standing to the left, pointing the flashlight around like a cop looking for a robber in some dark alley. The room was dim, but not completely dark, lit vaguely by the light shafting in through the open doorway behind them. A mold-coated butcher-block table stood abandoned in the center of the room, one leg partially shorn from its socket, barely providing support. Johnny paced forward, the humped linoleum floor popping beneath the weight of his footsteps. He scanned the row of cabinets sitting crookedly against the right wall, their doors falling away from stripped hinges. Beneath the room's only window was a sink, its faucet tarnished green, both handles missing. He stepped around the table. Shards of glass littered the sink's yellow porcelain. Four dead beetles lay on their backs near the drain, appendages curled inward. Johnny could smell a variety of foul odors here: garbage, dampness, rotting wood…and then something else, faint but definite. Like a dirty, wet animal, he thought.