“Hungry?” Patrice chuckled as she wiped sauce from her chin. “Whoops, not hungrier than me.”
Chewing the remnants of the previous bite, I said, “I’m not saying whether it’s haunted or not right now. Like I said, I’m not sure what I saw, if anything. Maybe it was a trick of the eyes.”
I took another bite and tried to pretend there was nothing terribly wrong. I knew it was only a matter of time before we would all know the truth. And the sinking feeling in my stomach told me that the weeping angel was about to reveal its story, whether we liked the ending or not.
Patrice leaned in closer. “I’ll have to see it when we get home.”
I really didn’t think that was a great idea. “It could be nothing, right?”
My dear levelheaded sister sat across from me with an expression falling across her face that I hardly ever saw from her. It was something that just recently started to become more frequent, coinciding with her journey into the paranormal. A blank stare, her warm eyes revealing what her soul was feeling. Dread and terror. I felt it too.
“You need to be cautious with this thing, Aggie. On second thought, I don’t think I want to see it after all.”
That was obvious, but I didn’t really know what this was yet. Desperate to lighten the mood, I jokingly replied, “I will be. You know me—I’m always cautious.”
Patrice’s face never changed. “I’m serious. You must promise me you’ll be careful around that thing. There’s something about this whole story that doesn’t seem right. The old man, the house, the cemetery. All those bodies…”
“Look, I know,” I interrupted. “Keep your voice down. I’ll be careful. I promise.” The couple beside us even paused to have a look at us. I forced a friendly smile at them.
I knew I had to be careful. Patrice was right. Nothing about this made me feel good.
Detra Ann’s reaction to the statue didn’t help put my mind at ease either. There was something dark and gloomy about it. A crying statue that may have belonged to a forgotten child. One who was buried and left behind in an abandoned cemetery.
I hoped we were both wrong.
Chapter Four—Randall
1948
“A, B, C…” the boy parroted petulantly until he made it all the way through the alphabet several times. Why they were engaged in this particular exercise, Randall wasn’t sure. Anyway, he knew how to spell and write and read—a little. But to shut the old man up, he raced through the list by himself.
With a grim face, Mr. Albertson declared his work done and Randall left without offering a goodbye. He tied together his books with a worn leather belt—the same belt his father used to use on him—heaved the load up, and made for home. Randall would be late, and his mother would ask him why, but he wouldn’t tell her he was being punished yet again. He wouldn’t have to. He was certain Mr. Albertson would do that at his first opportunity.
It would rain soon. He could smell it in the air, see the steel gray clouds in the distance. Randall experienced a strange sort of excitement in the pit of his stomach before every storm. Rarely did a storm sneak up on him.
“Randall is wired differently,” the boy recalled hearing his mother say to her only friend, Mrs. Eldridge. Her first name was Veronica, but Randall was only ever allowed to call her Mrs. Eldridge. It was the polite thing to do, his mother explained more than once. As he was only seven and his mother almost thirty, he deferred to her advice, but as always he had another opinion inside. She might tell him to sit down, but inside he was always standing up.
People made demands of him, especially his schoolmaster, and he did not mind obliging outwardly. But inside was a whole other thing. Rebellion rose in Randall, a rebellion as strong as any storm.
Yes, the storm would be here soon. If he poked around and kicked a few cans along the way, he could stall for time and really see the storm up close. Randall’s love for the lightning frightened his mother, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved lightning more than anything, except fire.
He did love fire because fire made you powerful.
Oh, yes, he loved lightning too. It was difficult to contain his excitement when storms came rolling through. As he was a light sleeper, thunder always woke him up and he would race to the window to see the lightning in all its glory.
Randall’s mother, on the other hand, spent her time clutching her rosary and praying for heaven’s protection. He tried that a few times, just to appease her, but he got bored with such notions. Sitting still for long periods of time was more difficult than he thought.
How could there be a God who delivers people from storms when no one ever delivered me from my father’s strap?
Randall rubbed the leather lovingly, remembering that last day with pride. No, he had done it all himself. He had been his own deliverer. And all it took was one match. Just one and goodbye, Father.
No, he didn’t think much about God. He didn’t hate God. In fact, he did believe God existed and created all good things, but Randall was not a good thing. Not a kind soul. He was a mistake of the highest order. A one-off, an accident. He was made wrong. Nobody knew how deeply he believed that, but he did. And he would never be right.
In fact, he felt empty, without a soul. Without substance of any kind.
He did not belong to God, but Randall recognized the Creator’s handiwork in the world around him. Blue skies, black skies. Lightning and rain. Only, he wasn’t a part of that kingdom, not really. He was always outside looking in. Randall didn’t mind it as much as other people did. Not as much as his mother did. Once upon a time, that knowledge would have made him sad. But since the incident with his father, since watching the fiery destruction, Randall felt no sadness at all. Not even a hint. Oh, his mother mourned for his wretched father, but Randall had not bothered to pretend to shed a tear.
“No,” Randall mused to himself. “I am not ready to go home yet.”
Instead of going home to eat his boring dinner, say prayers with his mother and pretend to read his textbooks, he chose to kill time. His feet led him elsewhere, away from safety and home and to a familiar place. A quiet place. The home of the dead.
It’s not like he was obsessed with the dead or anything. He never imagined that the dead could hear him, but he most certainly felt at home with all the dead things and the cold, cold statues. Frozen in perfect stillness, there were many, gray and green from years standing in all sorts of weather. Some were statues of children, and also many weeping angels, all of which interested him. Weeping they were, crying tears with anguished faces over the many dead infants and children. He envied them, for he could shed no tears. No matter how hard he tried. Even when he cut himself, he did not cry. Nothing would make him weep.
Yes, it seemed that this place was full of children. Randall’s mother once referred to this property as the place for Unfortunate Children. Whatever that meant. She would say no more about it and returned to her prayers. Randall had no one else to ask. He had no friends, not even acquaintances. He did not mind, but having only one person to talk with was rather limiting, as far as conversation went.
Carelessly depositing his load of books on a grave, he stood beside one winged angel and mocked his pose. This specimen was obviously male with his stern expression, sword in his hand and straight, classical nose. A fierce competitor he would be if forced to fight for the soul of this child. Or maybe he was not protecting the child. Randall liked better the idea that the angel had captured the child’s body and was ready to fight all comers.
Randall raised a pretend sword and thrust it toward the angel, but as expected he did not move to protect himself. He practiced his usage of swear words before continuing to spin and thrust. Yes, he might stab the angel, but you could not kill angels. Could you?
A thud behind him drew his attention. An apple! Several apples. Ah, yes. He forgot about these apple trees. He had always wanted to taste one of the apples, but his mother refused to give her permission when they walked hurriedly by this place.
/> “No, Randall! You cannot eat fruit nurtured by the dead. Apples from a poisonous tree. Come away from there!”
But his mother wasn’t here today. She wouldn’t know that he’d eaten fruit from the “poisoned tree.” Poisoned by nearby human remains was what she meant. He tossed his dark hair out of his eyes and picked up the fruit. He saw nothing wrong with the apple. Nothing at all. It was a beauty, too. He rubbed it on his pants to make it shine and then took a bite.
Randall did not detect anything unusual in the tasting. He took another bite and waited, but he did not die as his mother had prophesied. Yes, he loved it here. He loved this forgotten cemetery. It was a beautiful place, and he always found the neatest things. Almost like gifts left specifically for him. Could that be possible? If so, who was leaving the gifts?
Once he found a tiny silver key, so tiny that it must belong to a book or a diary. Another time, he found a pack of matches. The very pack of matches he used to incinerate his father with. And then again, he also found two black feathers, the largest he’d ever seen, resting atop the open hands of a child’s statue. He took them home and hid them in the box under his bed.
Now today, he’d found apples. Beautiful, delicious apples. He would take several with him. Perhaps he would share them with his mother. She would never know where he got them, not if he lied properly. He had gotten exceptionally good at lying these days.
A whiff of smoke caught his attention. He liked the smell of smoke. All kinds of smoke. The smell of burning leaves, trash burning, human flesh. But this was cigarette smoke, tobacco. Definitely tobacco.
Then he saw him, the man in black. He had long dark hair, like an Indian’s only wavier and even blacker. He sat cross-legged on the edge of a sepulcher, and his elegant limbs looked extraordinarily long. Like someone had stretched his arms and legs to make them longer. He wasn’t human. No human could sit like that, look like that, move so effortlessly.
No, this man wasn’t mortal, yet here he was, sitting like an Indian and smoking a cigarette. The man appraised him silently as the smoke puffed out of his bright red lips in perfect circles. Yes, he was watching Randall with great interest.
“Come closer, boy. Come closer. Do you smoke?”
Randall shook his head and then said, “Do I look old enough to smoke?” He mocked the man even though he had a feeling he would regret being so mouthy.
Even stranger, the man did not scold him for his smart mouth. In fact, he appeared to like Randall’s rude tone. His ruby red lips parted, revealing yellow teeth and a thin smile that was far too long for a mortal.
What was he looking at? Randall wondered.
“You accepted all my other gifts. I thought perhaps you would like this one. Won’t you at least try it?” He extended his hand to Randall and offered him the lit cigarette.
The boy pretended not to be alarmed at the long yellow fingernails and the strange grayness of the man’s flesh. He took a few steps forward. “Those were from you? Tell me, what does the key go to?”
“How did you like the matches?” The man grinned even wider. “Did they serve you well?”
Randall smiled back and accepted the cigarette. The stranger’s question made him feel at ease. “Yes, they did. Thank you. How did you know I used them?”
“Oh, I know. I can always tell. I can spot one of mine a mile away. And you are one of mine, Randall Overstreet.”
“Have we met?” He put his lips to the cigarette and took his first puff. Naturally, he coughed up a storm and then handed it back. He did not run for his life. He did not scamper away. That small part of Randall, the last good part of him, was dying, and he did not care. Everything would be okay because he belonged with him. This man, he understood him. He knew him. Somehow Randall felt like he’d come home at last, with someone who truly knew him and did not run from what he saw.
“We have, haven’t we?” Randall asked.
Randall fancied that he had met the man, even spoken to him before, though he could not recall the details of any of their conversations. Oh, because he only visited in dreams. No, more like nightmares. Yes, he knew the man well. And he was right, he was one of his. He belonged here. Not just for a visit but forever.
But how? How would he accomplish that?
As if the man read his mind, he extended his grayish hand to Randall, the cigarette still between his yellow fingernails, and said, “If you agree, I will show you.” Randall understood the meaning of this. He knew what the man wanted. “I will show you everything you want to know. It is within my power to do so. Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I believe that. But what do you want? All I have to offer you is a few apples. These aren’t even mine, and I am told they are not good to eat.”
The man ignored his attempt at changing the subject. “You know what I want. That invisible thing inside of you. You aren’t using it, so what’s all the fuss about?”
And he did know.
His soul. The thing that troubled him no end. The invisible him that wanted to please his mother, to do the right thing. The invisible him that cried as he burned his father to cinders.
Ah, he finally knew for sure that he had a soul. For if he did not, why would the man bother? But Randall would never do anything good with it. He was not good at all, and his curiosity got the better of him in every situation. His dark curiosity ruled over him. It always did. “It will lead you down dark paths, Randall,” his mother had warned him, and she had been right. There would be no darker path than the one that now lay before him.
“My soul. That’s what you want? Are you going to kill me, then? Why give me gifts if you only want to kill me?” Randall felt angry at the thought that yet another grown-up wanted to abuse him, mistreat him. Leave him broken.
The man flicked his cigarette away and smiled again. So unsettling. Randall really wished the man would stop smiling. He suddenly felt unsure. Although he had not accepted the man’s offer, he had not said no either. In a flash, the man’s hand rested on Randall’s. As cold as ice and as hard as iron, the grip on his tiny wrist did not surprise him. His reflexes had been too worn down by his father, who reached for him brutally and often before the boy murdered him.
It was too late to run. He had waited too late to say no. Too late to flee back to his mother. He had no desire to do that, anyway.
Whatever would be, would be.
He did not pull his hand away from the stranger. He left his book bundle behind. He wouldn’t need it again. He would never go back to that world. Never, as long as he lived. Strangely enough, as they walked to the gate, Randall began to feel sorrow.
And regret. Worry. But as he shed these things, these unwanted emotions, he took on others. There had been a girl. Her name was Posey. She went to school with him. She was the only person who ever smiled at him. She once even shared half her sandwich with the hungry boy, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to keep him walking along the right path. He was more in tune with his darker side, and those darker emotions were his true friends. He would have to visit her, though.
Yes, we will visit her. She will be yours, Randall. She will be yours.
“You are mine now, Randall Overstreet. I will make them pay. I will make her pay too. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You already took care of the other one. You were so brave, but now we can make her pay.”
“No, not Posey,” he tried to object, but he felt himself smothering. He couldn’t breathe—there was too much smoke. Too much! It swirled around him. How was it that he had the matches in his hand? How was this possible? He didn’t remember lighting the match, but he was burning nonetheless.
He was on fire. He was going to die, but it was alright. The pain made him scream, welling up from deep within him, but it did not last. Suddenly, he was free. Free from the tiny body that always made him a victim.
Chapter Five—Henri
Detra Ann was off and running, but I was dawdling this morning. Chloe gave me “sweet eyes” and blew me kisses. Thankfully, she was i
n a great mood. That was not the norm at all. Chloe Devecheaux was not normally a morning person.
She was as beautiful as her mother, but I also saw myself in her. Especially when she opened her mouth and showed her food or decided to strip down and run around in her underpants. As proper as Detra Ann was, as well as her family behaved, Chloe was as wild as I had been when I was young.
I kissed her forehead and attempted to dress her, but she had no interest in going to daycare. Oh boy. That was the end of the sweet eyes. She wasn’t happy with me now. Poor thing. I always felt guilty leaving her behind. Every parent does, I supposed. But she usually forgot about being left behind after fussing a bit and immediately played with her friends. She had a lot of friends—Chloe was a social butterfly, but she was also the boss. Now that for sure she got from her mother. After some struggling, I managed to load her in the car along with her lunch and backpack.
Eventually we made it to the daycare with minimal tears and tantrums. We sang Wheels on the Bus the entire drive. Happy and singing for all her worth, Chloe clapped when we pulled in front of the daycare. Her teacher came to retrieve her, and I hurried off to the antiques shop.
I started my day with coffee and emails. I am a creature of habit. As I sipped, I was surprised to see that a representative of Mr. Glass had provided me with a list of names, supposedly a list from the missing cemetery. He had to, though, didn’t he? There were strict laws about selling stolen cemetery statues. Was this list on the up-and-up?
I clicked on the PDF and grunted at the long list of souls. Children, lots of children, according to the ages. Harry Havard, Elise Havard, Mandy Alice Havard. Siblings by the look of it. Oh, no. Triplets. They died only days apart. It must have been from yellow fever. Yes, that would be about the time period of the dangerous and deadly outbreak that hit Mobile with a fury.
“Shoot,” I murmured to myself. Why had we gotten involved in this? Too late now, or was it? Maybe I could withdraw from this whole project. This was heavy. All these names were not merely names but souls. Some young souls. Some babies.
A Watch of Weeping Angels (Devecheaux Antiques & Haunted Things Book 3) Page 3