Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  Johnny swallowed nervously; all this talk of Jesus and dead men and Benjamin Conroy overwhelming him. He started to feel a little lightheaded again. "So…was he right? Do you think the codes are for real?"

  "Yes. The codes are there. According to their interpretations, Jesus did indeed evoke a spirit to assist him in his quest to return from the dead as a savior. But…it may not have been Osiris."

  Johnny's head thudded and whirled. His breathing turned shallow. "Who was it, then?"

  Henry grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. He pulled his gaze away from Johnny toward some non-descript place on his desk. "That is exactly what we need to find out."

  Abruptly, Henry stood and from his desk. He picked up Ed's suicide note and stared at the single word intently as if it might contain some secret code. "According to the Book of the Dead, Osiris was a benevolent god, and upon being summoned from the underworld, or astral plane, would grant the deserving conjurer his wish. If there'd been any disruption in the ritual, then the spirit would depart, leaving the conjurer with nothing more than soaring memories and the will to try again. Benjamin had written in his journal that during his end-all ritual, his son Daniel had instigated a disturbance that'd subsequently caused everything to go wrong."

  Johnny remembered…

  I dreamed of the golden pain, of lying prone to the elements as the hooded witnesses crowded around me, grabbing me…one of the shrouded figures let go of me and made a vain attempt to free me of the pain soon to be delivered: a sharp, burning agony seared upon my chest…

  "He'd blamed this single instance, Daniel's non-compliance, upon all the evils that had taken over the family that fateful afternoon. But his final written ramblings show otherwise. He'd had numerous affairs with local women, and had sought for a way to repent for his sins. He felt God would never forgive him for what he'd done, and that he and his family would burn in Hell for his transgressions. So, he turned to another God in a quest for forgiveness. Ultimately, he'd come to fear that it was something else that had ruined his life-long efforts, something…foul. That in his occultist conjuring’s, had unwittingly become a demonologist of some nature, had summoned not Osiris, but a demon."

  Henry paused and peered out the room's only window, then added, "Later that night, Benjamin Conroy murdered his family, a local woman by the name of Helen Mackey, and Eddie Carlson."

  Johnny gazed at Henry, fearful and intensely curious at the same time. After a moment of silence, Johnny said, "You were expecting me to come here, weren't you?"

  Henry fixed Johnny with a powerful stare, and nodded. "As you know, I've kept close tabs on you over the years—I had your pictures taken so I'd know what you looked like when you eventually arrived."

  "And I'm assuming you did this, not only because you knew I would return to Wellfield, but because I'm an integral part of the puzzle, and that you needed my help."

  Henry nodded.

  Johnny took a deep breath, feeling no choice but to resign himself to Henry's still undisclosed master plan. "So then, what's going to happen to me, Henry?"

  "Honestly, I don't know. But what I do know is that I'm the only person in Wellfield who knows what's happening, and that it's my job—my destiny—to put an end to it all before someone else gets killed."

  And comes back from the dead, Johnny thought. Just like Jesus Christ. But, these living-dead men aren't here as saviors. They're here to complete what Benjamin Conroy started seventeen years ago. And to do that, they need me, the last of the Conroy's.

  Dead men, coming after me…

  Brother…

  Johnny, shuddering at the thought, looked into Henry's eyes. "Well…I know now. And I believe."

  Henry smiled thinly, and Johnny could see a measure of gratitude in his tired eyes. Still, that gratitude did nothing to assuage Johnny's fear, his fear of the recent past, his fear of the what lay in the dark road ahead. Henry was planning to use him, risk his very life to settle a score with Benjamin Conroy, the minister who had ruined his life, both personally and mentally. Johnny wondered: could revenge be exacted against a man who's been dead for seventeen years?

  "What was it, Henry?" Johnny asked.

  "Pardon?"

  "The spirit Benjamin conjured up. If it wasn't Osiris, then…what was it? And I know you know, so please don't avoid the question."

  Henry looked toward the window again, blew out a deep breath, then confessed, "A malevolent spirit. It is my opinion that it had appeared to Benjamin that fateful day as the spirit Osiris. But…it was in disguise." Looking suddenly nervous, Henry stood and paced back and forth, tossing his gaze about the room as if the evil spirit he spoke of might suddenly appear. "Once the spirit was evoked, it began to work its evils upon those present—upon the Conroy family."

  I was there, Johnny thought. What evils did it impart upon me?

  "It used Benjamin to kill his family. As soon as they were dead, it corralled all their souls and sealed them in its domain: the place where it was evoked."

  "The barn," Johnny uttered, thinking again of the trap door in the loft and how a gust of hot, stinking air geysered up from below when he opened it; how the door thumped loudly against the wall, and remained perched open; how a chorus of whispering voices ascended up from the whirlpool of darkness below, like animals bounding from a cage.

  Our dying souls are free…

  "Correct. But because you were never crucified, it had been unable to follow through with its intentions to deliver all their souls into Hell. It's been holding them all these years, waiting for you to return to Wellfield so that it may gather up your soul and complete what Benjamin started. I've spent years studying the ritual—the very one hidden in the bible, and many interrelated others, and although I cannot be certain of the spirit Jesus himself had conjured, I do know that somewhere along the line, Benjamin had failed in his intentions, and that the spirit he conjured was anything but benevolent. Johnny, the souls of the Conroy's have returned. They believe that once your soul is gathered, they will be released by the evil spirit to commence onward toward ancestral afterlife in the astral plane. But this is not the truth! They are being misguided by the evil that possesses them! Once they retain your soul, you and the rest of the Conroy's will be ushered into Hell!"

  "And this is how you knew I would eventually return here," Johnny said. All of a sudden, the feather in his pocket grew warm.

  Henry nodded fearfully. "We have to stop them, Johnny. Stop it."

  Johnny clapped his hands over his face and rubbed his cheeks nervously. So this wasn't about revenge after all. It was about stopping evil from carrying out its wicked deed. About protecting me. "So just how do we stop them?", he asked, his voice whimpering, scared.

  Henry stood. "We need to ask the only person who knows."

  "Who's that?"

  "Eddie Carlson."

  Chapter 38

  September 9th, 2005

  3:11 AM

  Beneath the cool blue light of the moon, two bodies emerged from the back doors of a still-running van that sat in a wheat field ten feet from the edge of Flower King Road. They staggered down the road, the ethereal glow of the van's taillights pointing the way. There wasn't a soul or a vehicle within miles of them, as they moved steadily, purposefully, toward the outskirts of Wellfield.

  Toward their home. The Conroy House.

  Chapter 39

  September 9th, 2005

  3:17 AM

  "Eddie Carlson? The dead kid? Henry, I don't understand."

  "Soon you will."

  "But he's dead—been dead for seventeen years."

  Henry looked at Johnny, eyes dull and dry. He grinned. "If I told you the lawyer promising you a small fortune would be murdered by an escapee from an insane asylum, only to come back to life in an attempt to kill you, would you believe me?"

  Johnny stared expressionlessly at Henry, then shook his head.

  "Which leads me to another important factor: the psycho—the man who murdered Judson—is in fact Davi
d Mackey. His mother, Helen Mackey, was having an affair with Benjamin Conroy. The bodies of Helen Mackey and her husband were found murdered at Benjamin's church on the same day the Conroy family was killed. Their boy, David, who was fourteen at the time, was there as well. Somehow he survived the attack, but had come out of it severely injured, partially blinded and brain damaged. He fell into a coma for three years, and up until his escape a few days ago, had lived out his days at the Pine Oak Institute for the Mentally Insane, about ten miles from here."

  Johnny shuddered. "I suppose it's no coincidence that he escaped upon my return to Wellfield."

  Henry nodded. "And it's no coincidence that both he and Judson were killed." He paused for a moment, seemingly trying to collect his thoughts. "It's my belief that the souls of the Conroy's need the bodies of those close to their blood in order to walk the earth. And walk the earth is the only way they can come to gather your soul—to murder you."

  Johnny's jaw dropped. "So, what you're saying is…that the bodies of the psycho and Judson contain the souls of two dead Conroys..." The words came out impassively, without a doubt or question in them.

  Henry nodded.

  Brother…

  Johnny shook his head. He was tired, confused. His eyesight blurred and his stomach turned.

  Henry moved to the room's only closet and opened the door. "Since the animated bodies of Judson and Mackey called you brother, we can rightly assume that the souls within them are of Daniel and Elizabeth Conroy. The souls of Benjamin and Faith…they are out there as well, and at this moment are seeking recently deceased people who have held some association with you."

  "But I don't know anyone else here."

  Henry paused, rubbed his eyes. "Then the evil driving their souls will lure them in."

  Johnny felt immediately troubled. "How—?"

  "I don't know for sure. But it happened with Andrew Judson, a man who'd spent years waiting for you to turn eighteen, and then David Mackey, whose parents were murdered by Benjamin Conroy. And…I'm afraid it just may just happen with me. Henry rubbed his cheeks solemnly. "Once all four Conroy souls walk the earth again, they can retrieve you and complete the ritual Benjamin hadn't been able to finish all those years ago."

  Henry reached down onto the floor of the closet and dragged out a large black trunk. Johnny moved to assist, and together they carried it into the middle of the room. At once Henry undid the twin clasps, opened the lid, and nodded toward the contents.

  Inside the trunk were a number of crudely cut wooden planks, all different sizes. They were stained with dark brown Rorschach-like blotches.

  "What is this?" Johnny asked in a near-whisper, his scar itching ferociously again.

  "The wood from the crosses your family was crucified on." Henry dug inside and pulled out a small leather pouch; it too was old and worn. He untied the sash at the top. "And these," he said, emptying the contents of the bag in his hand, "are the nails they were crucified with."

  Johnny gazed at the six-inch spikes, each one as thick as a pencil, rusted and stained with blood. "Seems like Carl Davies let you keep more than just Benjamin's journals."

  "He's always been sympathetic toward my efforts. He was there that night. He saw the bodies on the crosses."

  Johnny hesitated, unable to tear his gaze away from the bloodstains on the nails. Conroy blood. My blood… "So why are you showing all this to me, Henry?"

  "Because it will help us contact Eddie Carlson."

  Again Johnny regarded Henry with befuddled skepticism. "How—?"

  Henry jerked his gaze out the window. "At some point they're going to come for us Johnny. I think it's best we move on and get this over with." He shut the trunk, latched it, and grabbed one end. "Help me carry this downstairs, and I'll try to explain."

  Heart thudding with sudden alarm, Johnny gripped the worn leather handle on the opposite end, and together with Henry hauled the trunk down the steps into the foyer, where they placed it on the floor next to the front door.

  Henry stepped aside and peered out the front window, cupping his hands against the glass. Johnny asked, "Is Eddie Carlson's soul out there too, looking for a dead body to inhabit?"

  Henry turned from the window and walked into the dining room. "No, he was never crucified," he responded absently. "His soul is at peace."

  "So then how are we supposed to contact him?" Johnny did his best to keep close to the pacing Henry, who was now peering anxiously down the hall.

  "A séance," Henry's said, eyebrows arched with sudden concern. "Eddie Carlson saved your life once before, and I'm afraid we'll need him to save it again." He moved into the kitchen, where he stopped dead in his tracks, his face a sudden, sweaty white.

  Johnny, trailing Henry in footsteps, nearly slammed into him. He leaned to his left and peered around Henry's trembling body.

  The back door was wide open. He could see a wash of blood on the exposed jamb…and then the wind gusted in from outside and brought with it a horrible decay-like stench that was instantly familiar. Johnny peered up and saw mosquitoes the size of small birds dancing across kitchen ceiling.

  "Oh my God!" Henry shouted, bounding forward.

  Johnny fell in behind Henry as he lunged outside. A moment of dead silence followed…and then Henry halted at the top of the porch steps, staring wordlessly into the darkness. Johnny, his heart beating rapidly, gazed at Henry, saw his eyes begin to bulge and his mouth draw back into a dreadful grin of terror.

  And then Henry Depford screamed, and that was when Johnny followed Henry's line of sight and realized that the inconceivable horrors of the day had started again.

  There were two bodies sprawled in the moonlit grass just feet from the porch steps. One of them was the psycho, David Mackey. His body was motionless, arms and legs outstretched from a torso bent back into a hideous 'C' shape. A thick wash of blood flooded his gaping mouth and glistened wetly beneath the silver light of the moon. Alongside him was Mrs. D. She too was laying in the grass, her head skewed at an impossible right angle—cheek-to-shoulder—a huge gaping wound in her exposed neck gushing redly from where the psycho had gnawed at her flesh.

  Henry stepped forward. So did Johnny, and it was here that he saw Mrs. D 's body twitching. "She's still alive, Johnny!" Henry cried out. "Alive!"

  For a moment Johnny was prepared to agree with Henry, until her head creaked sideways and he saw her eyes, bright and bulging and glistening malevolently beneath the moonlight, her mouth opening and closing, teeth gnashing against lips purling with blood and foam.

  She croaked, "Brother…"

  Seized with horror, tottering with insanity, Johnny gripped Henry's bicep and uttered with yoga-like calm, "We need to get out of here." He yanked on Henry's arm and the two of them quickly staggered back into the house.

  Once inside, Henry released his fear. He walked unsteadily into the front foyer, and without delay, grabbed one end of the chest. "Johnny…c'mon…" he uttered weakly, eyes doused with tears.

  Johnny grabbed the opposite handle and helped Henry lug the chest out the front door.

  Here, in contrast to the scene out back, the night was eerily silent, save for the trees that delivered their unvarying whisper from a distance. They took the porch steps one at a time, Johnny's eyes fixed on the large expanse of grass and gravel leading away into the forbidding darkness of Wellfield's farmland. A black pick-up truck sat in the driveway. They scrambled as quickly as possible to the rear of the truck and rested the trunk against the bumper. Henry lowered the tailgate, and Johnny helped to hoist the trunk onto the flatbed.

  Together they slammed the tailgate shut, then quickly skirted around the truck, into the cab. Henry secured the locks as soon as the doors were shut.

  "David's body…" Henry exclaimed, panting, shaking his head. "It-It was probably too battered…the soul inside…my god, it switched."

  Suddenly, the front door to the house burst open, and dead Mrs. D. was there. Her head was at a ninety-degree tilt upon her broken ne
ck, making her look like some child's rag doll. She tottered down the steps, heaving, staring, snatching at the air. "Brother!" she snarled, her voice deep and guttural, devoid of its former soft-spoken femininity.

  "God rest her soul," Henry cried, his voice breaking with sobs. "My dear God…" For a moment Henry stayed frozen, staring at his wife who had become a living-dead monster, fresh blood oozing from the wound in her neck and down the front of her nightdress like a heave of vomit. She tottered unsteadily across the lawn, bathed in the ghostly amber glow of the porch light, arms and legs convulsing as if under an electrical charge, sideways head jogging up and down on her shoulder.

  "Henry," Johnny said. "Start the car."

  Henry groped at the ignition. There were no keys.

  "Jesus Henry!" Johnny shouted, his mind rat-racing with panic. "Please tell me you have the damn keys!" He glanced out the window.

  Mrs. D. stretched her arms out toward Johnny, her wound spitting blood as she moaned out: "Brother!"

  Henry yanked down the sun visor. The keys jingled out onto his lap. He fumbled for them in agonizing silence, hyperventilating as he ferreted out the right one.

  "Thank God Henry!" Johnny shot a glance outside. "Now! C'mon! She's coming!" Johnny's blood went cold, and he shuddered, looking away but still seeing in his peripheral vision Mrs. D just feet away from his window.

  Henry slid the key into the ignition and started the truck.

  Mrs. D, or what used to be the kindly wife of Henry Depford, who not two hours earlier had fixed Johnny a sandwich and a hot cup of coffee, slammed her bloody hands against the window. Johnny leaped, bulleting a gaze of terror out the window at the woman whose head rolled repulsively upon her broken neck; whose open neck-gash was caked with soil and blades of grass; whose blood-matted hair was home to a multitude of mosquitoes and buzzing horseflies.