Dead Souls

by Michael Laimo

  "Henry! Please!" Johnny shouted as Mrs. D (for death, Johnny thought crazily) pressed her sideways-face against the window and peered in at Johnny, her mouth yawning up and down, leaving smears of blood and foamy saliva on the glass.

  Henry, staring with horror at the thing that used to be his wife, yanked the shift into reverse and launched the truck backwards up the driveway. Mrs. D. fell away from the truck and collapsed to the ground like a wounded soldier. In the cloud of dust they left behind, Johnny could see her grappling with the gravel in her struggle to rise back up.

  The truck's tires squealed against the road as they sped backwards out of the driveway. Henry, not once looking back at his living-dead wife, pulled away from his home in terror-filled silence, tears racing down his face in quick, bitter rivulets.

  Chapter 40

  September 9th, 2005

  3:46 AM

  The man and woman, who'd staggered away from the still-running van in the wheat field thirty minutes earlier, stepped down the driveway of the Conroy house, their deadened eyes aimed at the barn out back. A third figure appeared from the porch of the home, a man. He was naked, but at some point today had worn a shirt and a tie and a pair of dress pants, which now lay in a tattered pile in the driveway. His abdomen was a stagnant, gaping cavity, devoid of its innards. Together, the three figures entered the barn.

  In the darkness of the loft above, a single black bird watched over them, fluttering its wings and cocking its head as they began to gather wood from the splintered stairway in the back of the barn…

  Chapter 41

  September 9th, 2005

  3:48 AM

  A minute of brutal silence passed before Johnny said, "This is all my fault. I'm so sorry Henry."

  Henry shook his head with fervor and perhaps a trace of denial. "It's Benjamin Conroy's fault. Do not blame yourself for anything. You are an innocent pawn in this dark game, and nothing more." He turned the truck left onto Brunswick Road, the same road Carl Davies had found Johnny aimlessly wandering. The trunk in the back slid across the metal bed and slammed against the side panel with a jarring thud.

  Johnny cracked his window a few inches, trying to steady himself with a lungful of cool, fresh air. "What are we gonna do now? Where are we going?"

  "W-We have v-very little time," Henry replied, his voice cracking. He sounded suddenly disoriented, lost in mind and thought. When Johnny gazed over at him, he saw a pale, wandering expression painted on his face. Seeing your wife getting killed and then coming back from the dead will do that to a man, Johnny thought matter-of-factly.

  Henry continued, "I never imagined it would happen this way, this quickly. I mean, how could they have known to find you at my home? Unless…"

  "Unless what?"

  He coughed loudly, eyes tearing, then said, "It states in the Book of the Dead that evil's messenger will leave behind an object, a homing device if you will, to help keep its target in sight. Something must have drawn them to us, Johnny. It's the only logical explanation."

  At that moment, the feather grew warm in Johnny's pocket. Another wave of fear mounted in his stomach like an icy weight. "Oh my god…" He dug out the plastic bag, tweezing it between his thumb and index finger, gazing speechlessly at the long black quill within.

  "What's that?"

  "A feather. I found it on the fire escape of my apartment the night Ed killed himself. I…I think it may be what attracted them to us. To me."

  "Get rid of it, Johnny," Henry said uncomfortably, not looking over at it. "Now!"

  Johnny hesitated, his hands trembling at the mere thought of ridding himself of it. Whatever this feather was, what it represented, it was still working its sinful magic on him, endeavoring to maintain its hold on him. Johnny knew it, but couldn't do anything about it. "I…I…"

  "NOW!" Henry shouted.

  Johnny beat back his lying instincts, and in a quick fluid motion, let the bag fly out the cracked window. As soon as the bag and its feather vanished into the night, a tidal wave of weakness, both mental and physical, washed over him. The grayness that had pulled him away from reality earlier in the evening threatened to bury him again. His head bobbed forward, his breathing suddenly ragged and whistling.

  "Stay with me Johnny," Henry pleaded, slowing down the truck so he could focus on Johnny's wavering state of mind. "That feather carried with it a false illusion of strength…it was pinned upon you by the evil's compelling spirit, furnishing you with a false sense of energy to continue on. But now, it has lost its grasp on you—you now have the ability to shun its dark command. You have the strength and the will to carry on. You've come this far, don't give up now."

  Henry's words filtered into Johnny's consciousness like a hypnotist's closing dialogue—he felt himself being pulled away from the invading blackness, back toward the living world. He opened his eyes, and despite feeling weak and nervous and out of control, the grayness in his sights melted, and he came back around again. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, then looked over at Henry.

  "You okay?" Henry asked.

  Johnny shook his head. "I don't think so. I feel weak. Confused. Scared."

  "And understandably so—the evil influence that has bestowed upon you the strength to carry out its deed is now gone. It is your own resolve and desire now that will drive you to defeat it. You have control of your destiny. Be strong Johnny…"

  Johnny's mind's eye glimpsed back over the last twelve hours, and at once couldn't comprehend the wealth of evils he'd encountered. Everything that had happened to him didn't seem believable now…but it did happen, and it left him feeling completely lost, out of control of whatever destiny awaited him. A massive wave of anxiety rained down in him, and he began to panic. "Oh my god, I…I…don't think I can do this…"

  "We're almost there, Johnny," Henry said, head pinging back and forth between Johnny and the road. "You must take control and be prepared."

  Johnny didn't answer. He closed his eyes and wished it all away.

  "Johnny?"

  "Henry…I can't…" Tears sprung from his eyes.

  "You must! If you want to live, you must find the strength within you to confront the evil that aims to destroy you!"

  "Why can't I just leave?" he shouted amidst a downfall of cries, in spite of knowing the answer: Because the evil here will follow me no matter where I go. Ed didn't kill himself. The evil got him. It was all part of the big picture that dragged me back to Wellfield in the first place.

  Henry reaffirmed his dread-filled suspicions: "It won't let you go Johnny. The only way out of Wellfield is to face the evil here, and defeat it."

  "But, the feather…how can it follow me now?"

  Henry paused, seemingly thinking of something convincing to say, then shocked Johnny and said, "I won't force you to do anything you feel you can't do. If you insist on leaving, then I'll just drive right past the Conroy house and take you anywhere you want to go. But understand this: for seventeen years I've studied the hidden rituals in the bible, the Conroy events, and so much more above and beyond what I've told you about. When evil wants you, requires you, there's no avoiding it. And, Bryan Conroy, the evil here most definitely wants you."

  Johnny bit his lip. His heart pounded furiously with the want to escape here once and for all. "Keep going Henry. I don't want to do this."

  Henry squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Johnny, you know I've waited a very long time for you to arrive. My goal was to not only save you, and myself, but to rid Wellfield of Benjamin Conroy's evil legacy once and for all. If I deny myself, and you, the opportunity to defeat this…this thing, then all my efforts will have been in vain." He paused, then, all choked up, added, "That the sacrifice I've made, surrendering the life of the only woman I've ever loved, will also have been in vain!"

  "Henry," Johnny uttered, eyes pouring with tears, "I can't…I'm too scared, too weak."

  Henry nodded, gaze aimed up ahead toward the Conroy house, now a looming shadow in the near-distance. "I'll drive
away, Johnny, but don't come looking for me when evil rears its ugly head back into your life…because I will be dead."

  Johnny nodded. "I can't Henry. Please, don't make me go there." Tears fell from his eyes with surprising violence.

  Henry grimaced, then gripped the steering wheel tightly and stepped harder on the gas pedal. The truck sped up. The Conroy house appeared on their left like an aggressive monster: a tidal wave about to consume them.

  Henry shouted, "Oh my God!" and slammed on the brakes.

  Johnny, heart leaping, grabbed onto the dashboard with both hands, knuckles gleaming whitely. He shot his gaze out the windshield and saw a dog, a large yellow lab, leaping out in front of the truck. Henry, eyes wide with terror, fought with the wheel in a desperate effort to avoid the dog. The truck skidded, back wheels fishtailing to the right, but the dog was too big and fast and too intent on stopping them from traveling any further. The truck slammed into it with a sickening thud, jolted, then tilted up on its two left tires and crashed back down. There was a loud explosive sound, that of a tire blowing. The dog's bulk got caught up beneath the chassis, slowing the truck down before it crashed into an oak tree directly in front of the Conroy house.

  The engine ticked, then died. Dreadful silence followed.

  Finding his breath, Johnny looked sideways at Henry. "You okay?"

  Henry nodded, and coughed. Strips of wispy gray hair dangled in his eyes like dangling webs. "I told you—it's not going to let us leave."

  Johnny nodded, defeated, the notion of fleeing Wellfield once and for all as dead as the dog they just hit. He ran a hand across his forehead; it came away wet with blood. Conroy blood. He shuddered, and peered out the window toward the house.

  "It's waiting for us," Henry uttered, devoid of emotion.

  Johnny swallowed past the dry lump in his throat, seeing no alternative but to commence with Henry's intentions of defeating Wellfield's all-encompassing evil. It's either that, or I die. I'll probably die anyway. Might as well get it over with. Then he thought: It's not really about dying though, it's about saving my soul, about assuring myself an afterlife of peace and happiness as opposed to one floundering amidst in the infinite fires of Hell. "So what do we do now?" His eyes were fixed on the house. It looked bigger, more threatening here in the dead of night than it did when he first arrived here yesterday afternoon. He felt that if he stepped out of the truck, it would be like falling into a shark pool.

  "We need to contact Eddie Carlson. I believe he's the only one that knows how to defeat this evil."

  Johnny wiped his bleeding forehead with the bottom of his shirt—Henry's shirt. With a sudden, unexpected surge of vigor, he said, "Is this a realistic move? I mean, there're goddamned ghouls out there that want to kill us. I really don't think we have time to light candles and burn incense and call out for some dead teenager."

  Henry, also gazing at the house, said, "This isn't the movies." He leaned over and opened up the glove compartment. From inside, he retrieved a large utility flashlight and a handgun. He checked the chamber of the gun to make certain it was loaded, then spun it closed. "This former Sheriff wasn't going to give up all his privileges." He opened the door and slid out of the truck. "C'mon, help me with the trunk."

  Chapter 42

  September 9th, 2005

  3:59 AM

  The two men and the woman dragged the wood from the broken staircase into the center of the barn. They moved slowly, their foam-coated eyes not aimed at the task at hand, but upwards toward the black bird that watched them from the edge of the loft. They used four of the steps to lever one of the side-beams into a vertical position, with nearly twelve inches of its base buried firmly into the hard soil. Utilizing the rope from the broken extension ladder, they secured a second side-beam from the steps against the first beam at a right-angle position about three-quarters of the way up. As soon as their work was completed, a second woman entered the barn. Her neck was broken and her head rested sideways upon her shoulder. She was wearing a nightdress with a dark bloodstain that extended from her shoulder to the lower hem. She looked at the bird, then along with the others, gazed vacantly at the six-foot crucifix erected at the center of the barn...

  Chapter 43

  September 9th, 2005

  4:06 AM

  "You hear that?" Henry said, stopping to peer toward the barn.

  "What is it?"

  "It's…them."

  Johnny eyed the barn nervously. It sat beneath the moonlit gloom amidst the tall grasses like a huge spider priming to leap across its web. The lone window frame beneath its peak stared down at them like a reproachful, cyclopean eye. I can smell it, Johnny thought. And it reeks of death. His hand cramped terribly beneath the trunk's worn leather handle, a result of having to lug it from the front of the property all the way to the back porch.

  Henry squinted, seemingly trying to discern some movement amidst the dark shadows. "I can't see them, but I know they're back there. I can feel them." He stood stiff and motionless, staring, listening.

  A few tense moments passed and Johnny saw something in Henry's face that triggered a flood of discomfort in him. Perhaps it was the man's eyes, all wide and glassy and glued unwaveringly to the darkness—a darkness that revealed nothing to Johnny's jaded gaze. Or, maybe it was his lips, flat and wet, grinning slightly as though he were unsoundly amused. Finally, Johnny whispered, "Henry?"

  Henry remained still, oblivious to Johnny's voice, and the urgency of the task at hand.

  "Henry…" Johnny uttered again, now using his free hand to nudge Henry's arm.

  The former sheriff shook his head, then, after blinking his eyes in a rapid-fire manner, stared blankly at Johnny.

  "We need to get the trunk into the house, and then you have to tell me what to do."

  Henry nodded indifferently, clearly disoriented and confused. He took a deep labored breath, then replied, "Okay, let's go."

  They went into the house, Henry sluggishly tailing the flashlight's beam. A dusty and bitter odor struck Johnny immediately, and he wrinkled his nose with disgust. It didn't smell like this earlier today. It smells like dead things now, he thought. Ancient dead things.

  After Johnny locked the door behind them, he followed Henry's lead through the kitchen, moving down the hall into the living room. When they reached the bottom of the steps, Johnny peered up into the pitch-darkness of the second floor and wondered with dismay what kind of evils lurked up there.

  Henry continued into the dining room, and Johnny followed, shuddering as he crossed the threshold.

  "Haven't been here since the day it all happened," Henry whispered, eyeballing the moldy mattress leaning up against the wall. "I remember it like it was yesterday."

  Johnny had heard Henry's words, but his understanding of them was hindered by the sheer mental force of seeing Andrew Judson's blood on the floor. Feeling suddenly panicked (and in a wealth of hand-cramping pain), he stopped and released his end of the trunk. It thumped loudly on the floor, rattling the windows and shaking the dusty light fixture. Here he remained, unmoving, staring at the dimly-lit puddle, still damp and tacky and glistening, peppered with mosquitoes and moths that had met their fates in the mess like birds in a prehistoric tar pit.

  Dying souls…

  Johnny gasped. His hand went to his mouth and his eyes widened with horror. Had he just heard a voice come from the blood? No, it couldn't be. He was instantly aware of the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, as though a charge of static electricity filled the air. He tore his gaze away from the black pool, thinking for a split moment that he had seen a slight ripple of movement in its reflection.

  No, no, no, I didn't see it move. I couldn't have. It was just the light of the moon seeping in through the filthy window, reflecting off the wrinkled surface. And I didn't hear any voices coming from it either! I didn't hear them!

  Dying souls, the words whispered in his head again. His hand moved from his mouth to his left cheek, eyes widening even further wi
th terror.

  Henry, seemingly ignorant of Johnny's visible state of fear, hunkered down on one knee and opened the trunk, grimacing painfully as he did so. "They will be here soon. We must get started. Help me with the wood." He began removing the slabs, placing them in a neat row on the floor beside him. As he worked, he spoke, "There are three crucial factors that must be present when conducting a séance: a purpose, the quality of the sitters, and the location. We, Johnny, have a perfect combination of all three."

  Trying to discount the voice he heard in his head, Johnny grabbed a cut plank of wood. His hand came in contact with a faded bloodstain on the rough surface, and in his head, the ancient voice returned, louder and clearer than before: Bryan…save our dying souls…

  His body froze and his hands flew up in the air as if he'd just touched a burning hot stove. The plank dropped and banged on the floor, producing a dead echo in the vacant house. Dust sprung up in a gray cloud around him. His eyes bulged. His chest crawled with fear and loathing and icy coldness. His eyes shifted to the pool of blood and this time he did see a shadowy ripple in it, as though a ghostly finger were painting out a line in its surface.

  "What's wrong?" Henry asked worriedly, brows drawing together, wet lips still grinning oddly. Crazily.

  "They're here," he uttered, softly but hysterically. His throat felt as if it had been coated with tar. His heart hurtled in his chest.

  "Then we must begin now." Henry lassoed the tie-top from the pouch of nails around his left wrist, then squatted down on the floor alongside the row of wood. He looked somehow different, pale and sickly, cheeks and lips trembling like a man in mid heart-attack. "The wood and the nails and the house will all serve as a symbolic connection to our purpose." He set the flashlight down between them, facing across the room, so that its beam provided enough light for both of them to see one another. He then removed the gun from his belt and placed it between his legs.