The Dark Sacrament

by David Kiely

  As if that were not frightening enough, the ghost of Nan Sal went further. It raised its hands to its throat and made strangling motions.

  There were no more words spoken. As the hands were lowered, Heather saw a ring glinting on the old lady’s middle finger. She remembered that her grandmother used to wear a ring of striking appearance, but in her agitation did not consider if it was the same one. The apparition was disappearing slowly, fading away to nothing—as ghosts sometimes do. Heather was shaking with fear. For there could be no interpretation of the words other than that Heather was soon to join her grandmother in the afterlife.

  She stumbled out of bed, desperately calling out for Joe. But her voice rang through the dark, vacant house, making her feel even more frantic and helpless. He would not be returning before noon that day. She had to face this alone.

  Sleep was out of the question. She ran from the bedroom, pulling the door shut. Whom could she call? It was after three. They’d have me locked up, she mused grimly, recalling her mother’s record of committal to institutions and her own suicide attempts. She vowed to spend the rest of the night on the couch. She would keep calm, watch some television, drink tea—a lot of calming tea.

  At eight o’clock, she called in sick. She had to tell somebody about her frightening experience. She tried Joe’s sister, but could not reach her. She knew her friends would ridicule her. As a last resort, she called the person who had been closest of all to Nan Sal: her mother, Bernadette.

  “Ah, you were only dreaming, daughter.” There was, as expected, a lack of concern in the voice. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “No, I was not dreaming, Mommy. I was wide awake and she was standing right beside the bed.” Heather was annoyed at her mother’s unsympathetic tone. “She was wearing a blue gown of some sort and I saw that ring she always wore. You know the one—with the big garnet or whatever it was.”

  There was a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.

  “Mommy, are you still there? Mom?”

  “I might as well be honest,” Bernadette said at last. “Your granny was buried in a blue nightgown, and the ring went with her, too.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m going to die!” Heather cried. She broke into sobs. “I don’t want to die now. I never want to leave Joe. I’m so happy with Joe. What’ll Joe do?”

  She waited to hear some consoling words but knew in her heart that they would not be forthcoming. She dried her tears.

  “Mommy, are you still there?”

  “Don’t be such a bloody idiot,” the mother said and hung up.

  It was the last straw. Heather’s nerves, raw after her sleepless night, got the better of her. She broke down, slumped to the floor, and wept uncontrollably.

  She had been here before. Twice. Heather felt the old fears returning, the ones that had driven her to the edge of despair on two occasions, that had been responsible for her choosing the ultimate escape route. Twice she had attempted to cut short her life; twice there had been somebody on hand to save her from herself. Now she was alone.

  She heard something. It was something Heather had not heard in two years, and she had hoped never to hear it again. But there it was.

  The voice—the man’s voice.

  It only ever spoke to her when she felt hopeless and despairing. In the past she would hear it sometimes inside her head, at other times outside. It was coming from somewhere down the hall.

  “The blades are in the bathroom, Heather.” The words were delivered in a calm, authoritative tone. “Go and do it now. You know it makes sense.”

  Heather looked down the hall, rigid with fright. There was no one to be seen. The voice came again, this time more rapid and urgent than before, beating out the words in a lilting meter.

  “The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now––”

  “No!” she screamed, clamping her hands over her ears. But now the voice was inside her head and getting louder.

  “…do it now, do it now. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Go and do it now. Now, now, now––”

  “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands and curling up into herself.

  All at once, just as suddenly as it had started, the voice stopped. She lowered her hands, slowly, unsteadily. Was she safe now?

  “You know it makes sense!”

  She jumped. The voice was close, next her ear, whispering in her ear. “You know it makes sense!” There was a strong smell of nicotine. Heather screamed.

  Uncle Seth, her mother’s boyfriend, had always said that, and usually after having perpetrated some vile act on her. “Shut up!” he would say as she howled in pain. “Keep quiet about this, Heather. No one else is to hear about it. You know it makes sense.”

  But Seth had drowned himself six years past. How could it be him?

  She struggled to her feet—and surprised herself when she discovered that the act of getting up made her immediately feel better. A calm was enveloping her whole body. She was no longer afraid. She knew what she had to do.

  “Do it now. Do it now.” The voice continued to whisper in her ear. It was no longer strident, but slow and soothing. “You know it makes sense. The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Do it now. You know it makes sense.”

  “Yes…yes,” Heather heard herself say. She felt tired; lack of sleep was taking its toll. She moved to the bottom of the stairs, with the voice in her ear—the languid and soothing voice.

  She placed her foot on the first tread, listening to the hypnotic voice. She was still in her nightgown and barefoot.

  “The blades are in the bathroom, Heather. Do it now. You know it makes sense.”

  She started to climb the stairs. The hypnotic voice seemed to keep time with her steps.

  “Do it now. Do it now. Do it now!”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the open bathroom door. There, in the bathroom, she knew, lay blessed release. Death seemed so natural. All her anxiety had drained away. The words were so very reassuring.

  She was almost there. The bathroom door stood open, beckoning. Heather looked down at her wrists. Each bore a double ring of raised, hard skin, like the cicatrices she had seen once on a National Geographic show. The people of some primitive island or other did that to themselves; they cut themselves, watched the blood flow. They did it in the cause of “beauty.” It was the most natural thing in the world. Heather had done it to herself; twice before. She could do it again.

  “Do it now,” the voice whispered again. “Now. Do it now. Now. Do it now. Do it now.”

  She stood inside the bathroom door, staring at the cabinet.

  “Do it now. You just know…you just know it makes sense.” The voice—Uncle Seth’s voice—was coming in waves, washing over her, pulling her closer and closer toward the “beauty” of oblivion.

  She reached for the cabinet handle with the same yearning the alcoholic feels when reaching for the first drink of the day.

  “Do it now!” the voice cajoled. “Now––”

  “Heather!”

  She stopped, pulled up sharp. It was another voice, cutting in on Seth’s.

  “Heather, are you up there?”

  She went out to the landing. There was a man standing at the bottom of the stairs. A stranger in her home.

  “Heather, it’s me. What’s the matter with you?”

  She stared down at him. Who was this guy? What was he doing in her house?

  “He wants to kill you, Heather.”

  The voice was in her head again, clamorous, insistent.

  “Don’t go down to him. Don’t go near him!”

  “Heather?” The man came slowly up the stairs. “Heather, are you all right? It’s me, honey. Joe.”

  “That’s not Joe!” The voice was urgent now. “He only looks like Joe. He wants to kill you.”

  “Heather?” She heard the stranger speaking to her, as if over a great distance. “What
is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You must kill him first, Heather. You must!”

  “Jesus, Heather, what’s the matter?” Joe was to confess later that he was scared. He had never seen his partner like this before. Her eyes were wide and staring. She seemed in some kind of trance.

  He put a hand on her arm. At his touch she flinched. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Joe, what are you doing here?”

  “F*** you!” said the voice. “F*** you, Heather! If you tell him about us, we’ll really make you suffer. Really suffer!”

  “Help me!” she cried and collapsed into Joe’s arms.

  He made them coffee. Heather could at last tell somebody about the apparition, somebody who would listen with a sympathetic ear. She told Joe about the grandmother and what she had said. She dared not tell him about the voice. She was too afraid. That dreadful, whispered warning still echoed in her head.

  Joe Kilmartin is a down-to-earth, skeptical man. On hearing Heather’s account, he was naturally incredulous. He dismissed the whole thing as a bad dream. He had never in his life seen a ghost and consequently did not believe in them. He had often upbraided his partner for reading horoscopes and visiting fortune-tellers. As far as Joe was concerned, if she believed in “all that rubbish,” she was quite capable of “seeing things,” too.

  They went out for a drink that evening and ran into some friends. The company helped Heather to unwind. Over the next few nights, with Joe by her side and no more visions at the bedside, Heather was prepared to admit that the experience could well have been an illusion, brought on by stress or too many late nights.

  Come the weekend—and especially on Friday nights—the couple had a routine. Too weary to go out socializing after a busy week, they would buy a six-pack of beer, rent a video, and treat themselves to a quiet evening at home.

  That Friday, they had just settled down and were about to start the VCR when there came a commotion from upstairs. Their bedroom was directly above the living room. More noises came; it was as though something, or somebody, was moving about up there. But who?

  Heather began to tremble with alarm.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried. “It’s her. She’s come back!”

  “What, your granny?”

  He had been looking forward to Terminator 2. It came highly recommended and he was not going to let a figment of Heather’s imagination spoil it for him.

  “It’s only Rip,” he said. Rip was their young German shepherd. The dog was known to wander about the house.

  “No, it can’t be.” Heather was panic-stricken. “I put him outside earlier on.”

  At that moment, as if on cue, Rip barked outside in the yard. Joe would have to come up with another explanation. Heather was ready to scream.

  “All right, honey,” he said, “all right. I’ll go and take a look.”

  As he expected, there was no one in the bedroom. But he did notice what he describes as “a foul kind of a smell, like drains, or stale pee.” He wondered what it could be. He opened the window to air the room, shut the door behind him, and returned downstairs.

  Halfway through the movie, it happened again. The second disturbance convinced Joe that it was not Heather’s imagination. From directly overhead, he heard a series of thuds; it was if someone was jumping from one part of the room to another. The thuds were loud, so heavy that the light fixture trembled. Joe paused the video. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Take Rip with you, will you?” Heather pleaded.

  Grown nervous himself, Joe brought the dog in and set out to investigate. But Rip was having none of it; he would not venture up the stairs. He stood with his front paws on the bottom step, barking up at something unseen.

  Heather was frantic by then. She could not remain in the house a moment longer. Breda, one of Joe’s aunts, lived a few miles away. They would spend the night with her. They had to pack an overnight bag, but Heather refused to go upstairs. Joe steeled himself for the task. He went up and pounded loudly on the bedroom door.

  “You better get the f*** out of there before I come in!” he warned, fear lending him a bravado that he knew would be short-lived.

  He flung the door wide and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. He cursed. The bulb was blown. He would have to pack the bag by the light from the hallway.

  Without giving it much thought, he grabbed anything at hand and shoved it into the bag. He noted the same unpleasant stench, even though the window was open. He said nothing of this to Heather.

  They were ready to leave. Rip would ride in the back with the overnight bags. Joe went to Heather’s side and offered words of reassurance. He took one last look at the house.

  “My blood ran cold,” he says. “I happened to glance up at the bedroom window. We slept at the front of the house. I remember distinctly that I had just opened the window. But somebody had shut it.”

  That was not all. As Joe watched, he saw what looked like a figure standing just beyond the opened drapes. He could swear that he saw the drapes move. That was enough for him. He climbed into the car and they sped off.

  He said nothing to Heather about the shape at the window. She was upset enough.

  The couple spent three nights with Aunt Breda. Her home was small: big enough for one, cramped for three people and a dog. On balance, it was inconvenient for everyone involved. Breda was afraid of dogs; Joe disliked his aunt’s disapproval of his cohabiting with his girlfriend; Heather felt that she was intruding in another woman’s house. But they managed.

  They left when Heather felt up to returning home. Breda, a deeply religious woman, gave her nephew a small crucifix, together with a novena, and promised to pray for them. She assured them that, as far as she knew, a ghost never harmed anyone. Joe wholeheartedly agreed. It was with such assurances, coupled with Joe’s promise to adjust his work timetable to exclude night shifts, that Heather agreed to return home.

  They went back in daylight and found things much as they had left them. Joe went first to the bedroom and was relieved to find that the strange odor had gone. But the window was shut, and that fact disturbed him.

  He had bought spare lightbulbs, but they proved unnecessary. Inexplicably, the light in the bedroom was working normally. Loose wiring, he thought, and made a mental note to check it.

  That night, Joe fell asleep without difficulty. With Heather it was otherwise; she lay awake for a long while, listening to his breathing, until she, too, finally nodded off.

  Something roused her in the early hours. She had the distinct impression that somebody had just run fingers through her hair. She could still feel her scalp tingling from the touch.

  She raised herself on an elbow. She thought it likely that Joe had done it in his sleep; but Joe lay with his back toward her, sleeping soundly. She lay back down again and pulled the comforter over her head.

  Heather was fully awake when it happened a second time. The fingers of a spectral hand pressed themselves deep into the nape of her neck and raked swiftly through her hair, right to the crown of her head. All she would remember later was her uncontrollable screaming and seeing Joe’s startled face, his arms reaching out to console her.

  The following day, Heather insisted that they move out again. Joe refused, despite her pleading. He thought she was going crazy—which was understandable, given her history. He advised her to see the doctor. Heather rejected the suggestion out of hand. She was not sick, she told him. She had not taken medication for two whole years and did not feel depressed. Scared, yes, but not depressed. For the first time in her life she had stability: a partner who loved her, a home, and a steady job. She was determined that nothing would jeopardize this hard-won security.

  They reached a compromise. Joe pledged that they would only move out again if he saw, or sensed, the ghost. Heather had little choice but to agree.

  Joe still said nothing about the night they left to move in with his aunt. But he had his reasons. “I wasn’t at all sure what I s
aw that night,” he admits. “I mean, it was dark; we were both upset. I thought: could be I did shut that window. Could be I only saw a shadow or the reflection of a cloud or something.”

  A week passed without any further manifestations. Heather’s nights remained undisturbed.

  Joe had other concerns about his partner, though. They were concerns that he could not voice to anyone, not even to his aunt. He was worried about a change that had come over Heather.

  He traced the beginning of the change to the day he had come back early from work, the morning she was in the bathroom. Her trancelike demeanor had puzzled him. His first thought was that she was on drugs, but she assured him later that she did not take any, not even prescription drugs.

  From that day on, Heather was not the same person. Even her posture was different somehow. She seemed to slouch more, and sometimes, when seated, she would cross her legs at the ankles, much in the way an old woman would. The unpleasant odor he had first detected in the bedroom seemed to follow her around. It resembled stale urine; Heather had always prided herself on her personal hygiene. She liked to smell nice.

  These physical anomalies were not, in themselves, as troubling as Heather’s deteriorating relationship with the dog. Rip refused to go near her. This was very unusual. Heather and the dog had been inseparable. Now Rip seemed unwilling to share the same room with her and would only settle when Joe appeared.

  There were times during their conversations when Joe had the distinct impression that Heather was listening not to him but to someone else. She would cock her head to one side and chuckle. One night, he caught her talking to herself in the bathroom. The language was unintelligible, like nothing he had ever heard before.

  He challenged her about it. “Who were you talking to in there, honey?”

  She looked at him as if he were the crazy one. “You were hearing things,” she said simply. “I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was brushing my teeth.”

  Still, Joe was prepared to put up with these things. So long as the grandmother did not appear to Heather again, life was tolerable. He had concluded that his sighting of the figure at the bedroom window that day had, most likely, been an illusion.