Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  Judson stepped away and Johnny followed him into what was probably a living room at one time. Almost immediately he heard a dry rustling sound coming from behind the walls, and soon thereafter, from the ceiling.

  "The mice aren't too pleased with our visit," he commented, looking at the lawyer.

  "Home sweet home," Judson said, looking a bit uneasy.

  "Can I get you something to eat or drink?"

  "You're too kind."

  They moved out of the living room down the front hall, stepping over a small puddle of water that stunk like sewage. The wallpaper, displaying queues of roses and drooping sunflowers, peeled away from the plaster in flaccid wedges. Judson pointed the flashlight up a set of stairs. Here were the unattractive scents of mildewed plaster and mice droppings. Shatters of broken glass lay strewn on the few steps they could see, with the rest rising up into the stuffy darkness of the second floor. Tucked against the corner of the second step was a newspaper, damp and swollen to twice its size, a fat spotted slug crawling along its lower edge.

  "There are four bedrooms and a second bath upstairs. Wanna go up?"

  Johnny felt cold all over. "Do we have to?"

  "I was hoping you'd say no."

  "No, then."

  Judson blew out a gush of air. "The steps are secure, but other than bugs and mice, there's nothing else to see up there."

  To the right, they went through a pair of twin doors that led into a crypt like room, vacant except for a stained boxspring leaning up against the right wall, its rusty coils bursting through the frayed, gray skin. Hanging loosely from the ceiling in the center of the room was an ancient brass light fixture, swathed in a shroud of cobwebs and dust. A boarded-up fireplace filled half the wall at the opposite end of the room, with twin doors to the right that Johnny presumed led into a sitting room.

  "Andrew?"

  "Hmm?" Judson was pointing the flashlight up at the brown water stains on the ceiling. His eyebrows were pinched, as if he'd seen something of interest.

  "How did my family, the Conroy family I mean, die?" Johnny paced across the room, passing a lone scum-coated window and marveling at the decrepit sight of the cracked walls, the stained wood floors.

  Judson cleared his throat, then looked at Johnny, his lips pressed thin. "Your father, he—"

  "Bryan Conroy…"

  The voice. It had returned. Only this time it was louder, higher-pitched and soundly nervous. Johnny shot a bullet of a glance at Judson. A pale anxious look washed over the lawyer's wrinkled face.

  "You hear that?" Johnny asked.

  Judson nodded, which made Johnny realize with disturbing certainty that the voice had not come from inside his head.

  Johnny jerked his head all around. "Where'd it come from?" His voice rose in panic as he realized with no uncertain doubt that this house—and the history of Benjamin Conroy—was indeed bad, its very presence as real as its inundating stink. Anxiety spread throughout his entire body like a virus, flirting with unprecedented levels. The room began to spin. His scar itched severely, hurt. He leaned back against the wall for balance.

  Judson, eyes following the wavering beam of his flashlight, shouted, "Who's there?"

  There was a flicker of unexpected movement, the sound of feet shuffling on the grainy floor. Judson spun toward it, pointing the flashlight at the twin doors adjacent to the fireplace.

  The doors burst open, the hinges uttering harsh screeches that echoed throughout the house. Judson immediately drew back, his face a chiseled scowl of terror, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables. His body seemed to stiffen, presumably from shock, eliminating his capacity to avoid the shrouded figure racing out of the sitting room.

  Johnny screamed, "Look out!" but his voice died away, strangely absorbed into the thickly tense environment. He backpedaled along the length of the wall, not at all convinced of what he was seeing; the truth of the matter didn't immediately register, as though all his nerves and thoughts were suddenly frozen. Then he realized it was the shock of the unexpected immobilizing his thoughts, of seeing this robe-clad person springing across the room, arms raised high, hands clasped together over its head as if in prayer.

  Judson tripped over his own feet and lost his footing. His eyes bulged grotesquely, the whites glistening like eggshells. He let out a high-pitched bellow that sounded almost like a laugh. The flashlight fell from his hand; it dropped to the ground with a dull clunk, the triggering beam cutting across the room like a searching beacon. For an insane moment it flashed into the crazed face of the assailant: a brief flicker of malignant horror that to Johnny seemed too unreal to believe.

  A shattering cry of panic spilled from Judson's lips as he thudded to the ground. Johnny, blindly seeking the doorjamb to his right, shuddered at the firm thump of the old man's body slamming against the wood flooring.

  The figure stopped. It hulked over Judson, breathing heavily, raspily. It twisted its head, peered at Johnny, then quickly brought its attention back to the old man.

  What Johnny saw in the figure's face that instant was terrifying enough to make his own worst nightmares seem like sweet dreams.

  Johnny took a quick nervous breath, then gagged on his own scream as the figure drew a garden spade out from beneath its billowed robe, and plunged it into Andrew Judson's stomach.

  Chapter 25

  August 24th, 1988

  5:52 PM

  "Your name's David? Ain't that right boy?" Benjamin opened the back door of the car. "I'm a friend of your mom's."

  David Mackey shrunk back against the opposite door, keeping as much distance as possible between himself and Benjamin. Given the uncertain situation, the shirtless, blood-spattered man was in all likelihood the last person he could trust at the moment, and rightly so.

  "What's wrong?" Benjamin asked. "Don't you know it's impolite not to talk to your elders?"

  David dropped his eyes, shook his head. His cheeks burned like wildfires. "Where's…my…mom?"

  Benjamin laughed—it came from him ungoverned, like a spill of water from an upturned pail. "Your mom? Your mom? Oh, she's in the church having a conversation with God." He peered into the front seat, smiled. "Just like your daddy is now."

  David might have anticipated his mother's demise, because he immediately began to wail, shiny tears springing from his eyes like raindrops, lips swollen and wet with saliva. He shoved a fist into his mouth and bit down on it, either in attempt to suppress his sobs, or stifle his terror.

  "Why don't you come out here," Benjamin said, feigning calmness. He offered his hand. "You know, I've got a son about your age. The two of you can get together, have a nice time—"

  David turned around and yanked on the car door handle. The door swung open. He uttered a shaken cry as he went sprawling out onto the muddy earth.

  Without delay, Benjamin pursued him, leaping across the seat like a flame caught in the wind. He thrust his right arm forward and latched onto David's bony ankle, the only part of him still in the car. He fastened his other hand onto David's calf and squeezed with fury-driven strength, drawing a panicked scream out of the boy.

  Benjamin outweighed David by at least a hundred pounds, and managed to employ his grip on the boy to pull himself across the seat. David twisted around and gazed up at Benjamin, eyes wide and rolling beneath a mask of mud and dead grass. Benjamin grabbed onto the waistband of David's jeans, thinking ramblingly, This is all me. I am the master of the plan. No godly assistance needed here. I am in full control of the situation.

  He jerked his own body backwards, hauling the boy back into the car. David's body flailed like a landed fish, black mud streaking across the seat as he bounded up against the car's frame. "Come to me, boy! Your parents, they are awaitin' for you!"

  SLASH!

  David's right hand, until this moment hidden from Benjamin's view, rocketed around in a wide sweeping curve. In it was a screwdriver, the shaft ten inches of cold, muddy steel. It sliced down onto Benjamin's forearm, producing a twisted
flap of moist raw skin. Benjamin howled white-hot pain. He let go of the boy, who without delay made a second attempt to flee, skittering backwards out the door with a cry.

  For a flickering moment, as the sting bulleted through Benjamin's body, and the blood trickled warmly down his hand, he felt a sudden disconnection from his reality. An unclear image of Osiris flashed before his eyes, giving him the immediate will to press on with his calling, to not let anything interfere with the ritual. This is how it's supposed to happen, how God wants it, how Osiris wants it…

  "You come back here, boy!" Benjamin launched himself across the seat and…Slash!, the screwdriver, quick and sharp in David's hand, lanced across Benjamin's bare chest, bisecting his scar in half. Fresh blood sprayed across the seat of the car, then trickled down his chest in bright red rivulets.

  Benjamin screamed, the pain hot and savage, all-consuming. A gray cloud seeped into his line of vision, and he made every effort to look past it and lock gazes with the fallen boy, who was scampering backwards through the mud, eyes wide with terror. In his slipping mind, Benjamin thought he could see a nervous aggression beyond the fear in the boy's twitching face—that the drive within him held no remorse, no fear of God or of death, and that he intended, right here and now, to kill the man who had killed his mother.

  "You murderer," David muttered, mud dripping from his lips.

  "The Lord took your parents, boy!" Benjamin crawled out the door after him, blood gushing down his chest, realizing now that this was the same screwdriver that had loosened the screws on the church lock's clasp. "He speaks through me! He told your mother to put that gun of hers against your father's head! He told me to…"

  With catlike agility, David leapt forward. Slash! The screwdriver came down again, punching a savage hole into Benjamin's shoulder. Blood geysered up in a quick vicious spray, then streamed down the surface of his arm. Pain lanced into his panic-maddened brain, his heart pummeling its wounded fury against his chest. Yet still, he pressed forward, teeth clenching against a scream of flaring agony. He fell out of the car, onto his hands and knees. He wriggled through the mud and wet leaves like an injured soldier in the trenches.

  A shadow fell over him. He looked up and at once caught sight of David, the muddy shaft arcing down again. With no thought—if he had stopped to think, the screwdriver's blade would have plunged into his chest—he seized David's thin wrist, squeezed it and twisted it back against the joint. David cried out in agony. Benjamin scrambled to his feet, stepped behind the boy, got a hammerlock on him, and bent his arm around his back. The boy uttered a breathless scream. His feet slipped in the mulchy earth as he tried to run away. Benjamin jerked David's arm upwards, once, twice, three times. David shrieked and the screwdriver fell free from his slender grasp, down into the wet earth between Benjamin's feet. Benjamin released a string of chaotic laughs that only the madly obsessed could do, then wrapped his left arm around David's neck and squeezed. David uttered a muffled cry. He scratched and clawed at Benjamin's arm. Benjamin squeezed harder against the boy's throat, drawing the bone of his forearm into David's adam's apple—Benjamin could feel the wetness of the boy's tongue lolling out against his arm. David's knees buckled, and a high-pitched whistle shot from his mouth as he fought for air.

  Putting all his body weight behind him, Benjamin jerked up on David's wrist again, yanking the hand all the way up to the nape of his neck. There was a loud, sudden crack, like the brassy pop of a champagne cork on New Year's Eve. Benjamin felt David's arm bone give way as it became unhinged from his shoulder. David stiffened up like a plank of wood, then released a scream of blinding agony.

  Feeling sick and faint and short of breath, Benjamin let go of the boy. David stood tottering for a moment, then plodded crookedly away from Benjamin, left arm dangling obscenely.

  Benjamin hunkered down and picked up the screwdrivers. He stared at the shaft—his thoughts slipped for a brief moment to the image of Helen Mackey's disfigured face and limp body—then started after him. He could feel the pain of his wounds throbbing as he ran, the feel of mud and blood both wet and sticky on his skin.

  "C'mere boy!" he yelled, feeling a fresh rage coming on. "Gonna teach you a lesson of God!" His mind floated as the words exploded from his throat, and he fought off a sudden surge of dizziness threatening to take him down.

  In a matter of seconds, he reached the boy, who was swaying more than running. Benjamin clutched David's injured shoulder. David screamed deliriously, then spun around and groped for Benjamin's face with his good hand. The pain barely registered as the boy filled his fingernails with the skin of Benjamin's left cheek.

  Benjamin wasted no time. Without a sound, he thrust the screwdriver forward. It ripped into the soft spot below David's left eye, and punctured his left eyeball.

  David's mouth creaked open. He wheezed once, then started trembling, as though charged with volts. His stabbed eye, gushing clear matter, oozed droopily from its socket. Blood poured down his cheek in a shocking stream. Benjamin marveled at his handiwork, and was almost caught off-guard as David, despite his injury, lurched forward again.

  Benjamin sidestepped the oncoming boy. He jerked his fist out and grabbed David by the hair, then, holding the screwdriver to his neck, dragged him back toward the woods—here Benjamin's rootless thoughts sketched the crazy cartoon image of a prehistoric man lugging his female mate back into their cave. He stopped by an old oak tree and lifted the boy to eye-level, keeping the flat of the blade against his chin. He gazed into the boy's gored face, sniggered once at what he saw, thinking crazily like mother, like son, then with one arm, duly slammed his skull against the rock-solid tree trunk. The sound was shocking: a hard unyielding thud of bone on wood. There was an odd hissing sound, David's lungs releasing their air. Benjamin let go. David fell face down to the ground like a wind-torn branch, leaving behind a jagged smatter of blood on the tree's bark.

  Benjamin backed away, watching with amazement as David writhed on the ground like a snake, sneakers digging irregular trenches in the mud, arms pumping crazily, as though still determined to fight. In a miraculous display, he flipped over and used his one good eye to peer up at Benjamin; his gored eye draped lifelessly across his temple, supported by a stringy network of muscles and veins. His mouth opened. A thin line of blood trickled out across his cheek. He said, "Ahg," then, fell silent, his untouched eye rolling up into its socket.

  Heart pumping furiously, Benjamin backed away from his bloody creation: yet another feat of rabid determination to admire. At this moment he realized that no one and nothing could stop him from completing the ritual. He backed up, hit into the car, jolted, then turned around with the screwdriver held out in front of him. He glimpsed the stiff body of Helen Mackey's husband in the front seat. The bullet hole in the man's head stared back at Benjamin like an accusing black eye.

  Ever so slightly, it twitched.

  Benjamin drew back. With his free hand, he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. That didn't happen, he thought incoherently. It's my imagination, my damned tired mind dealing with shock.

  But when he opened his eyes, blinked, then stared back at that terrible black hole in the man's head, he saw that it was indeed moving, like tiny puckering lips on a fish. Benjamin felt no choice but to credit what he saw as real, and came to assume that from somewhere beyond this plane of existence, something wholly spiritual was trying to touch him, trying to make certain that he retained an awareness of its presence—a presence alerting him to make preparations for its physical arrival.

  Osiris…

  Black oily blood spurted from the bullet hole as if a vein had been slashed. It splashed across the dashboard of the car, then gushed out down the man's face, onto his soiled shirt, soaking in and spreading out in a reaching puddle.

  Revolted and confused, Benjamin released a choking gasp. He shoved himself away from the car, feet splashing in a muddy puddle. He nearly slipped down, but managed to keep his balance, eyes still fixed on the bullet hole, now oozing
a spiral of wet brain-matter like soft-serve ice cream.

  "Oh God!" Benjamin cried in a stifled voice, feeling out of control and even frightened. The exuding slab of brain curled across the man's face like a horn, wriggling as though it had a life of its own. As Benjamin gathered his breath to scream, the bullet hole snapped shut and cut off the secreting swell. It plunked down in the man's lap, where it writhed like a worm out of earth.

  Benjamin turned his gaze away. Shudders wrenched their way up and down his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut and stared into the swirling blackness, begging for the strength to continue. He smelled the rise of something rotten—of decaying leaves and sitting water. Another sharp pain filled his head, like a nail lancing into the nape of his neck. It dulled all his senses, and when he opened his eyes, he saw sepia-toned clouds floating across the late-afternoon sky.

  Benjamin Conroy, mewled a voice inside his head, cold and bonelike.

  And when Benjamin laid eyes on the dead man again, he saw that there was now no oozing brain-worm. And no blood. Just a clotted hollow bullet hole in the center of his pasty forehead.

  The ritual...

  Heeding the voice in his head, Benjamin staggered away. With it came horrific pain, sudden and sharp against his skull, seeming to echo the throbs emerging from his stab wounds. He spun left and right, holding the screwdriver out, swinging it through the air as he shambled around the back of the car. Drifting in and out of reality, he circumvented the church, kicking up small mounds of soil with the toes of his shoes. Out front, in the dirt parking lot, sat his truck, dull beneath the clouded sky. Benjamin raced toward it, realizing only after jerking open the driver's side door that he didn't have the keys, that he'd dropped them on the floor upon first sighting Helen Mackey sitting behind his desk.