by Mike Duran
Annie nodded at her granddaughter’s muteness. “So I slipped on my sweater and went after them. But when I got to the doors and looked out, they were gone.”
“Please tell me you did not go outside.”
Annie said confidently, “You can’t find the truth without risking something.”
“Hello? You guys had a prowler here a couple weeks ago, did you not?”
“Which made me all the more curious. Maybe there’s a connection. Maybe the prowler is one of us.”
Tamra threw her hands up in frustration. “You’re gonna kill yourself—it’s only a matter of time.”
“You can’t find the truth—”
“—without risking something. I heard you.”
“I will admit, I was a little scared.”
“You?” Tamra said sarcastically.
“I might be divinely covered, but I am not invulnerable. In any event, it was cold. The moon was bright, and the whole area was illuminated. I listened but didn’t hear anything. So I began walking, following my instincts. And then, near the fountain at the upper courtyard, I saw them. Many of them.”
Tamra furrowed her brow. “Other people?”
“Yes. A lot of other people. I hid behind one of the sheds, so I couldn’t see everyone who was there, but I saw enough of them. Samuel J., from the north wing. And Violet and China, the evening receptionist. And Vera and Genie. Ten, twelve of them perhaps. And—this is the strange part—they were just standing in a half circle, unmoving, gazing up into the mountains. Not talking, just … staring. As if they were waiting for something to descend out of the sky and whisk them away.” Annie drew out this last sentence, raising her hand like a Shakespearian actor. Then she shrugged and gazed at her granddaughter, as if waiting for an explanation.
Yet Tamra gawked. Finally she said, “That is strange.”
“Isn’t it? I hurried back and locked the door. I’ve been awake ever since.”
Tamra stood for a moment dumbfounded by the tale. “Did you report it? Maybe talk to the director or somethin’?”
Annie shook her head. “That’s just it—I’m not sure who I can trust anymore. What if the director is … one of them?”
Tamra huffed in frustration, but the gesture lacked sincerity. Her grandmother had no reason to lie. Exaggerate? Maybe. Annie could be charged with zealotry, maybe even fanaticism. But she was not a liar. However, the implications of this seemed preposterous. How could people be changing, becoming someone other than themselves? And was it possible for some fabled event to really be behind it?
Tamra wandered to the couch and plopped onto it.
Annie followed, pulled the rocker over, and sat facing Tamra.
“I know what you think.” Annie’s eyes were intense. “But this is not a case of paranoia or some old folks’ disease. Something is happening here, Tam. I’ve been following it. I’ve seen the evidence of it. You’ve got to believe me.”
Tamra bit her bottom lip.
Annie moved in closer. “I am telling you, as God is my witness, that woman living next door is not Eugenia Price. She’s been … replaced. Swapped out—I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s happening slowly. Subtly. But if we don’t do something, it will happen to all of us.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Annie’s ominous warning hanging in the air like a Death Valley thundercloud ready to explode.
“This is crazy.” Tamra shook her head. “Okay. So what do you want me to do?”
Apparently satisfied that she’d won that round, Annie nodded. She brushed her ponytails behind her. “I need you to track down that book.”
“Book? Oh yeah, Magic Castles and—”
“Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes. Don’t get smart!”
“Sorry. All right, I’ll go to Spellbinder’s before work.”
“No. Not Spellbinder’s.”
“Nams, that’s the main bookstore in town. If anyone’s gonna have it, they will.”
“Perhaps. But I want you to go somewhere else.”
Tamra squinted with suspicion. “This isn’t another wild goose chase, is it? Okay. Where else do you want me to go?”
“Near Carson Creek, by the rundown theater.”
“That’s the old part of town. There’s no bookstore over there.”
“A book swap is there. It’s been there a long time. It’s nothing more than an old cottage that sits next to a house in a residential neighborhood. Just use that fancy phone of yours, you’ll see. There’s a young man who runs the place. He’s had it for a while now and kept it open. I need you to speak to him.” Annie folded her hands on her lap and began rocking. “And don’t look at me like that. His name is Zephaniah. Zephaniah Walker.”
“Zephaniah? That’s different.”
“So is he.”
“But if you want to talk to him, why don’t we just—”
“Why don’t we just do like I say?”
Tamra scratched her head. What was she getting herself into? “Okay. I’m gonna do this. But you have to promise me you’ll stop sneakin’ around. Promise?”
Other than sitting politely with her hands folded on her lap, Annie gave no sign of compliance.
“You are too stubborn.” Tamra rose, went to the rocking chair, and hugged her grandmother tightly. “Please. Be. Careful.”
“Believe me, dear. I’m in good hands.”
Chapter 5
Tamra left her grandmother’s apartment with her backpack slung over her shoulder, her scooter helmet dangling at her side, and her mind swirling.
Two years ago, some time after the death of her husband, Annie Lane sold her ranch and used part of the money to buy Tamra and her little brother a house of their own. It was unexpected and, in a way, unwanted. Tamra had learned to stand on her own and support herself. Taking handouts was not her style. But in this case she had no choice. Tamra learned later that her grandmother had been on the waiting list for Marvale Manor; when the spot came open, Annie pulled the trigger. Tamra had pleaded with her grandmother to forgo the retirement community and move in with them. Annie had no major physical issues; in fact, she was in remarkable shape for her age. Moving in with her granddaughter seemed both logical and the right thing to do—even though they argued often. Nevertheless, the woman remained true to her bullheadedness. She didn’t want to be a burden to her grandchildren.
Besides, Annie believed God had one last assignment for her. And when it came to believing God for something, Tamra knew it was best just to stay out of her grandmother’s way.
Located in the foothills of the rugged, idyllic mountain range, Marvale Manor touted itself as the most tranquil retirement setting in America. Having ventured out of California only once, Tamra had little to base such claims on. Still, she had a hard time believing that a retirement home in a small town on the northern fringes of Death Valley could earn such lofty acclaim. Besides, Marvale’s tranquility was giving way to something insidious. At least, according to Annie Lane.
Tamra passed by the atrium and its well-arranged sofa settings, turned into the main hallway, and headed toward the reception desk. As she went, she studied the facility and its residents in a way she hadn’t done before. Could it be that people really were changing, that something malevolent and imperceptible was happening to the residents here? Yet apart from mass hypnosis or an alien invasion, how could something like that even happen?
In one of the reading nooks, underneath a faux Victorian print in an overly gilded frame, a man with powder blue polyester pants sat with a newspaper draped over his knees. He was not wearing socks. Tamra smiled at him as she passed—an intentionally cheesy display on her part—and the old man reciprocated with a huge grin and a vigorous wave. Well, he didn’t seem that strange. She passed one of the large floor vases adorned with a silk floral arrangement just as a middle-aged couple left a nearby apartment. They closed the door, whispered something to each other, and walked down the hall without acknowledging her. Most likely they were visiting a parent.
But this early? Tamra studied them as they walked away. The woman held the man’s wrist limply, without emotion. And the way they walked was almost … robotic. Their skin also looked—
Stop it! What are you doing?
Tamra shook her head. She couldn’t get sucked into this. She had to remain objective. That’s how paranoia poisoned people—it planted a seed and then strangled objectivity. She had seen the same thing happen to her father, though in his case it had to do with methamphetamine addiction rather than a supernatural malady. Besides, even if her grandmother was on to something, Tamra couldn’t allow her own imagination to run wild.
Which is one reason Tamra headed straight for the reception desk.
The Marvale complex was originally built as a hotel. It didn’t take long for the local entrepreneur who built it to realize his miscalculation. Eleven years after its completion the property was sold and converted to a retirement home. A Victorian-style façade graced the single-story structure, which consisted of four wings broken into geographical quadrants. The aerial shot of the facility posted in the lobby revealed that Marvale was shaped like a huge cross, each wing representing an arm. Of course, Annie was quick to read something divine into this. But Annie was quick to read something divine into anything. A recreational area with kitchen, dining room, and patio where the residents could play shuffleboard and enjoy the sun occupied the facility’s southeastern section. Except for Ben Wilson’s use of it, the Jacuzzi there went unused, although her grandmother seemed to enjoy telling stories about the retired commercial actor flirting with all the ladies from inside the steaming waters. It made Tamra wonder if Annie didn’t enjoy the man’s braggadocio. Bridging the rec area along the front of the facility were the lobby and several offices. Tamra approached the reception desk there.
“And how is that feisty grandmother of yours today?”
Hannah, a middle-aged wannabe fashionista with a slightly frenetic disposition, sat behind the desk chewing gum and filing her nails. She glanced over the top of a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses.
“Well …” Tamra set her helmet on the counter. “That’s a good question.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hannah pinched her lips together and nodded emphatically. “There’s a lot of that goin’ around.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“Okay, lemme guess.” Hannah set the file down, brushed away a lock of hair from her dazzling jet-black updo, and launched into a recitation that might as well have been a dramatic monologue. “Miss Annie doesn’t seem like herself. Somethin’s different about her. You ain’t sure what. She’s not sick or anything—no fever, no rash. She looks the same—hasn’t grown horns or anything. Fact, there is nothing physically different about her in the least. She’s just … not herself. Colder, kinda distant. Very mean. And hungry. Always hungry. Her memory’s intact—by that, I mean she knows your name, your birthday, significant events, etcetera. So it ain’t Alzheimer’s or somethin’. But there’s an emotional disconnect, as if the real Miss Annie is not there anymore. And you can’t reconcile the two—she’s there, but she ain’t there—so you think you might be delusional. But other folks are havin’ the same delusion, which throws your theory out the window. And this is why you’re standing here at my desk with your biker jeans and cool purple helmet.” She tapped her sparkly fingernails on Tamra’s scooter helmet, signaling the completion of her spiel. Then Hannah picked up her file and continued working her immaculate cuticles.
Tamra stood momentarily stunned by the receptionist’s presentation, both for its melodrama and how much it corroborated Nams’s suspicions.
“Actually,” Tamra cleared her throat, “my grandmother’s all right. It’s some of the people around her she’s worried about.”
“Well, she’s not the only one. We’ve had a dozen different complaints about people.”
Tamra moved closer and folded her arms atop the counter. “And, um, would China be one of them?”
Hannah stopped and peered over the top of her glasses. “Me and China never got along anyway. But to answer your question—yes. Fact, she had a meeting with Nurse Ratched yesterday and, between you and me,” she leaned so close that Tamra could smell the cinnamon on her breath, “I hope they give her the boot.”
Tamra took a step back to free herself from the cinnamon fog bank. “Well, what’s wrong with her? I mean, what’s going on? Does anybody have an idea? Ya know, how could people all of sudden just …”
Hannah shrugged. “Ya got me. But the theories are startin’ to fly. Maybe it’s somethin’ in the water. Or the food. Maybe it’s a contagion, ya know, a virus that messes with people’s makeup. Maybe we’re all just delusional. Who knows? Apparently it’s scared folks enough that we’re hiring security and finally installing cameras. The General’s been harpin’ on that one for years. And—oh! You’ll like this—a psychologist is comin’ too.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me, hon. A shrink. Maybe they’ll analyze the lot of us, find out the entire place is cuckoo.” She tilted her head back and laughed, her bright pink gum teetering on equally pink lips.
However, Tamra could not seem to find any humor in the unfolding mystery. So she thanked Hannah, retrieved her helmet, and prepared to leave.
“And, oh,” Hannah said, sliding her nail file into the drawer and rearranging paperwork on her desk. “We got a visit from a coupla detectives.”
“Okay, so this is getting weird.”
“Tell me about it. Guess someone down at Laurel House stumbled upon a body.”
“A body? Well, it is a convalescent facility. I’m guessing folks do die down there.”
“Yeah, but when they went to retrieve it, the corpse was missin’.”
Tamra squinted. “What?”
“That’s right—gone. Into thin air.” Hannah snapped her fingers. “They did a bed count. Searched the premises. Nothin’. But the witness was so adamant that they started a police investigation into the matter.”
Tamra was speechless for a moment. It’s the Madness. Annie’s impassioned gaze had etched itself into her mind. The Madness of Endurance. It’s here again. Tamra’s skin prickled at the thought.
She needed some air, needed to get out of that place and get some perspective. Tamra thanked Hannah again and hurried through the lobby toward the entrance.
As the door closed behind her, its ornate beveled glass sparkled in a ray of sunlight. Crisp mountain air filled her nostrils, bringing respite from the foreboding. Perhaps this is how old people went loony. Living in close quarters, wasting away, watching your friends grow old, and left with only your regrets to ferment and poison your sanity. Was it any wonder that some of the folks at Marvale had become suspicious of each other?
The small tram that carried visitors and residents to and from the lower lot sat parked under its awning. Buzz hunched in the nearby booth, his pith helmet tilted to one side, whittling away at a block of wood. He cast a languid glance up at Tamra and, seeing she was not approaching, returned to his work. Leaves had begun to carpet the ground, a sure sign of fall’s approach. Stevie Veigh, the groundskeeper, stood over three colorful piles. His all-terrain vehicle sat parked nearby and, attached to it, the tractor cart with a load of leaves for mulch or incineration. Bev Beason, one of Nams’s bingo partners, sat in one of several white wicker chairs along the porch, a paperback book lying upturned on her lap as she rested in the morning sun.
Rather than descending the steps, Tamra walked along the porch, drawing her hand along the wooden handrail, trying not to disturb Mrs. Beason.
An acute unease seeped into Tamra’s bones. She looked past the pines and boulders toward the Endurance basin. From here, US 395 snaked its way up from Death Valley, a dark, glistening ribbon that coiled, rose, and disappeared in the Black Pass farther north. Tamra continued ambling along the porch as the northern Sierras came into her view.
These hills were full of tales. Indians. Miners. And Silverton, the ghost town hidden somewhere in the rugge
d foothills. Yet the most well-known of these tales was the one that placed the ninth gate of hell in an abandoned mine less than a mile from where she stood. Tamra stopped and set her gaze in that direction. Morning fog wrapped the distant foothills in its hazy tendrils. Could it be? The Madness of Endurance. Could it possibly be?
A breeze whispered through the pines.
As she gazed into the wild, a presence came near. The hackles on Tamra’s neck bristled. She spun to find someone standing next to her. It was Mrs. Beason, staring off into the fog-shrouded foothills, her eyes as lifeless as a sidewinder’s.
Chapter 6
Fergus Coyne’s eyes sprung open. “Mum!”
But his mother wasn’t there. She had never been there. And if she ever materialized, his first response might be to spit in her face.
Liquid pattered somewhere in the gauzy haze. Fergus squinted and shielded his eyes from the overhead light. His shoulder bore hard into a solid object, and his right leg lay twisted underneath him. Traces of mold and urine tainted the air. Where was he? How had he gotten here?
Fergus drew a deep, concentrated breath and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. A white formless object sat squat before him. Solid, unmoving. Tall panels rose on each side. The ground felt hard and smooth here, not like the shale and mossy granite of Otta’s Rift.
Otta’s Rift. Yes. He had been to the ninth gate of hell.
And someone had been there, standing over him.
Fergus planted his hands beneath him and pushed his body up. He straightened his leg and then collapsed again. His limbs were still rubbery, still weak, his mind as tangled as ever. The fetch always left him like this. The fetch always got their way.
And Fergus was growing weary of their abuse.
He sat for a moment studying his surroundings, recalibrating his senses. Smooth metal partitions scabbed with rust. Drab mosaic tile. Fergus knew this place. He dabbed moisture off his forehead with the sleeve of his flannel and fought to steady his gaze. Copper tubes glistening with moisture. Flecks of paper tissue. A ceramic bowl. No wonder it stunk in here—he was jammed into a bathroom stall.