by Mike Duran
“You’re not suggesting that Zeph’s got some type of power, are you?”
Annie hesitated. “I’m saying just that.”
“Pfh!” Tamra brushed her hand through the air. “That’s crazy. What kinda power?”
“Like making it rain.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Annie closed the scrapbook and snatched it from the table. “He made it rain.”
Tamra folded her arms and cast a skeptical gaze at her grandmother.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Annie sighed, somewhat dramatically. “You’ve resisted everything I’ve had to say.”
“That’s not true,” Tamra objected. “I went to Zeph’s yesterday, didn’t I?”
Annie strummed her fingernails atop the scrapbook.
“Listen, I’m trying to figure this out too, Nams.” Tamra relaxed her posture. “So what happened?”
Annie continued tapping her nails atop the scrapbook, as if debating whether to tell her story. Then she nodded to herself and laid the scrapbook back down on the table.
“It was probably fifteen or more years ago,” Annie began. “We were in the middle of one of the biggest droughts of the decade. They’d begun rationing water. The farmers were arguing with the DWP about it, but there was so much politics. Eventually farms started drying up and going out of business.”
“I remember Grandpa talkin’ about that.”
“Yes. It hurt our business. As you can imagine, folks turned to the Lord in droves. Churches were crowded. At the time Zephaniah Walker had risen to some acclaim. He would visit local churches with his mother. He was only nine or ten at the time. I was there the day he spoke the prophecy at Bethel. He walked through the crowd, as if he were tuning into God. Finally he went back up on stage and sat down. And didn’t say a word. This was a little odd. Usually he would stop and talk to someone. Speak a word of encouragement or say something. Not this time. He just walked up to the stage and sat back down.
“People whispered amongst themselves. Reverend Wade and Sister Hitchens didn’t know what to make of it. They looked at each other, decided to sing another hymn, and, to everyone’s dismay, prepared to dismiss the assembly. That’s when the boy stood.
“His face was flinty, radiant. As if the glory of God rested there. You could hear a pin drop. He took off one shoe, and then the other. Then he rolled up the cuffs on his pants. This leg,” Annie mimicked the motion, “then that leg. Everyone was spellbound. Then he said, ‘God has heard your prayers. Go home, before the rain stops you.’
“The church cleared out. People got in their cars and raced home. That night a storm rolled in from the north, covering the mountains with snow and filling the aqueducts. The weathermen were confounded.”
Tamra gaped at her grandmother.
Annie cleared her throat and said dismissively, “It happened just like that. The boy said God had heard our prayer, and that night the drought was over.”
Tamra continued studying her grandmother before lowering her gaze. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“With me?”
“All this stuff about the gates of hell. Prophets. People changing. And now a rainmaker? We must sound like fanatics.”
“I’m prepared to go this alone, young lady.”
“Oh, I bet you are.” Tamra put her hands on her hips. “But that’s the last thing I’m gonna let you do.”
Annie arched her eyebrows.
Tamra strode to the front door.
“Where are you going?” Annie asked.
“Not me—us. We’re going next door to talk to Eugenia.”
“But she’s—”
“Don’t!” Tamra spun around and faced her grandmother. “If you expect me to believe all this crazy talk, then I’m gonna have to see it with my own eyes. If your friend next door has really changed, then let me be the judge.” Tamra returned, squeezed Annie’s hands, and pleaded, “Nams, you have to realize what this sounds like. You’re scaring me.”
Annie appeared shocked by her granddaughter’s boldness. Her stubbornness quickly returned. “Doubting Thomas needed to see for himself too. And the Good Lord obliged.” Annie went to the door, opened it, and stood waiting. “Lead the way, Doubting Thomas.”
Chapter 31
Tamra knocked on Eugenia Price’s door and took a step back. Perhaps it was an unintended indication of what she feared she might find. Annie stood right behind her, deferring to her granddaughter’s momentary act of boldness.
Annie whispered, “They don’t seem to move around much during the day.”
“Who?” Tamra asked over her shoulder.
“The Others.”
“Oh, they have a name now?”
“Shh!”
No one answered the door.
Tamra glanced up and down the hall. She was having second thoughts about her impetuousness. What exactly would she say if Eugenia opened the door? Hi, are you human? Tamra clucked her tongue.
“Maybe she’s gone,” Tamra said.
“Eugenia doesn’t have a car.”
“Well, then maybe she’s sleeping.”
“It’s almost noon.”
As Tamra debated whether she should knock again, Annie stepped around her and rapped on the door.
“Nams!” Tamra hissed.
“You’re the one who wanted to investigate.”
“Yeah, but …”
Still, no one answered.
“C’mon,” Tamra said. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Annie tried the door handle.
The door popped open.
Tamra gasped. “What’re you—”
Annie pressed her index finger to her lips. She inched the door open enough to reveal the darkened room. Apparently Eugenia Price did not like the bright afternoon sun. Either that or she had, indeed, turned nocturnal.
“Genie?” Annie called into the room. “Hey, you in there?”
“Grandma!”
Annie shushed Tamra and bent her ear toward the apartment.
There was no answer.
They glanced at one another, but before Tamra could pull her grandmother away, Annie had opened the door, slipped inside, and yanked Tamra along with her.
“What’re you doing?” Tamra resisted her grandmother’s tug.
“Shh!”
The configuration of the room looked the same as her grandmother’s room—a kitchenette to their immediate left, a modest living room space that opened onto a tiny patio, and a hallway into the single bedroom. Except for an orange crevice of light revealing the fold of thick curtains, the room lay entombed in thick shadow.
“Genie?” Annie called again, drowning out Tamra’s muffled protestations.
As Tamra fumbled for the light switch, Annie gripped her hand. She was staring in the direction of the living room. Tamra followed her gaze. A figure stood motionless in the corner of the dark room.
Tamra slapped her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.
“Genie?” Annie said. “Genie, is that you?”
Tamra clung to her grandmother like a little child, fixated upon the shadowy form. Yet even stranger than Tamra’s display of fear was that the person standing stiff in the corner showed no evidence of movement.
“Let’s go!” Tamra pleaded.
Annie motioned for quiet, then separated herself from Tamra. She crept toward the living room. Then she removed something from under her skirt, and the next thing Tamra knew, the beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness, shining directly into the face of Eugenia Price. The woman’s lips moved silently, yet her eyes were closed. She stood in a catatonic stupor.
Tamra issued a slow gasp.
“Genie?” Annie’s voice was laced with caution. “Are you all right?”
Tamra crept forward, watching with breathless fear. What in the world was going on? Part of her was astounded by the brashness of this seventy-two-year-old woman. Part of her wondered why her grandmother was carrying a flashlight under her skirt. The rest of
her could not imagine why Eugenia was sleeping standing up.
Annie stood directly in front of Eugenia. Her flashlight beam splashed eerie, elongated shadows across the ceiling.
“Psst!” Annie motioned Tamra over. “Come here!”
Tamara could not believe she was doing this. The resolve she’d had just moments ago had evaporated like the fog on a summer’s day. She tiptoed across the carpet to her grandmother. Her eyes did not leave the elderly black woman standing stationary in the corner. All this talk about people changing struck Tamra with the force of a ton of bricks. What could Eugenia be doing? Could her grandmother have been right all along?
Tamra inched her way past the dinette table into the darkened living room.
That’s when she noticed the writing on the walls. Like some mad scientist’s chalkboard, crude sketches, unfamiliar words, and equations were inscribed, seemingly helter-skelter, throughout the living room. Pictures and shelves had been removed, replaced by scrawled lengths of text. Why would someone do this? Tamra stood dumbfounded before turning back to Eugenia Price.
Annie allowed the beam to search the features of the woman. Dressed in a nightgown, Eugenia’s eyes were shut, and there was no REM. Her skin possessed an unusual pall, not quite dry but unreflective of light. Acne stippled her forehead, and a small, moist lesion glistened on her cheek. Her breathing was faint, slow, and almost indistinct. Tamra wondered if she might be paralyzed or experiencing some psychological condition. Despite the flashlight beam in her face, Eugenia remained unmoved.
Annie leaned toward Tamra and whispered, “Do you believe me now, Doubting Thomas?”
As Annie said this, two things happened simultaneously. Eugenia’s eyes sprung open, and a second figure emerged from the shadows behind them.
Chapter 32
Annie fumbled the flashlight, recovered, and spun the opposite direction.
It happened so quickly, the only conclusion Tamra could reach was that her eyes were deceiving her. She blinked hard and steadied her gaze.
Janice Marshman rose from the sofa, holding a digital pad. Its screen cast a soft glow upon her sharp features.
“She’s been like that for hours,” the director said.
“Oh, my!” Annie trembled. “What’re you doing here?”
The director spread her hand before her face, squinting in the light. “I suppose I could ask the same thing of you, Miss Lane.”
A rush of adrenaline tore through Tamra’s body, and close behind it followed a chill. She turned to see Eugenia’s glazed eyes staring at her.
Just like Bev Beason’s.
Tamra took a step back. Something crunched under her feet, and she glanced down to see an overturned box of cereal, its flakes ground into the carpet. What was going on here?
“I was worried about her,” Annie said to the director. “That’s what I’m doing here.”
Tamra returned her gaze to Eugenia. Despite the darkened room, nothing seemed noticeably different about the woman. Short-cropped, wiry hair, thick lower body, and arthritic knuckles. If someone was swapping bodies, Eugenia Price’s was not exactly a prime model.
“It’s me.” Annie stepped toward Eugenia. “It’s Annie. Are you all right?”
Eugenia’s lips had begun to move silently. She opened her palm and, with her opposite hand, began scrawling invisible figures with her fingertips.
“What’s wrong with her?” Annie said with a note of panic in her voice. “And why is it so dark in here? Maybe we should turn on a light and—”
“No!” the director blurted. “No. You might hurt her eyes.”
“Her eyes?” Annie turned back to the director. “She’s never had problems with her eyes.”
“Please, Miss Lane,” the director urged. “You have no idea what this is about.”
Annie allowed the flashlight beam to trace the cluttered floor, past gum wrappers and overturned soda cans, until it came to rest on the far wall. Strange angular symbols were etched in ink and pencil. Jumbled combinations of letters trailed off into incoherent scratch.
“You’re right,” Annie said, staring at the wall. “I have no idea what this is about.”
Then Eugenia brushed past them and meandered to the couch. The director stepped aside as the woman passed. Eugenia sat down and stared forward listlessly.
“Parasomnia is the clinical term,” the director whispered, glancing at Eugenia. “It’s a sleep disorder. Involves nightmares, sleepwalking, and unpredictable arousals. Miss Price asked me to chronicle her episodes, which I obliged. I did not, however, expect other residents to intrude.” She lingered on the last word, erasing any doubt as to her anger.
Then the director motioned them to the front door.
Waxen blobs marked the remains of candles here and there. Cereal bowls were stacked on the kitchen sink, along with crumpled cigarette packs and half-eaten squares of toast capped with butter. Either Eugenia had suddenly lost interest in cleanliness or she was aiming for the slob-of-the-year award.
The director led them out and closed the door behind them, leaving the shadowy figure unmoving on the sofa. Tamra winced in the hallway light.
“I’ve been suspicious for a while now,” the director said, looking at her digital device. “As you may have detected from our last conversation.”
Annie nodded, but Tamra could see the wheels of her mind churning.
“She reported it to me several weeks ago,” the director said. “Waking up at odd places. Unable to sleep normal hours. For fear that she may injure herself or others, Eugenia asked me to look in on her.”
“I had no idea.”
Tamra cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Marshman, but if Eugenia’s got something that wrong, shouldn’t she be seeing a doctor? And all that weird writing on the wall—that’s more than just sleepwalking.”
The director’s lips curled at the edges. “I see you have your grandmother’s spunk. But who said she is not seeing a doctor? Parasomnia is hardly terminal, unless, of course, the victim wanders onto the highway or off their balcony. And, for the record,” she turned the electronic pad and aimed the screen at them, “that is exactly what I am chronicling for her health care provider.”
Tamra felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Oh.”
“As far as the scribblings,” the director continued, “we are far more concerned with Miss Price’s mental well-being than our walls. She is currently undergoing tests, at the request of a distant in-law, for a variety of possible conditions.”
The director gripped the device politely at her waist. “While I appreciate both your concern for Miss Price, I feel compelled to remind you about our policies. Entering the apartment of other residents uninvited, at the least, looks suspicious. At worst, it may constitute a criminal offense.”
Tamra could see her grandmother’s body tense at the director’s words.
“Excuse me,” Annie objected, “but we’re friends, ma’am. I’ve known Genie since I moved here. If she was suffering from some condition, I didn’t know about it. And as far as a criminal offense, if being concerned about my friend is against the law, then I’m guilty as charged.”
The director remained steely. “Indeed. I appreciate your concern. But from now on I would suggest you leave any further investigation of individuals or this facility up to me or a trained investigator. While I do appreciate your concern for Miss Price, in the future I would suggest more … discretion.” She smiled. “Good day, ladies.”
Annie and Tamra watched the director move lithely down the hallway.
Finally, Tamra said, “You don’t believe her, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
Tamra shook her head. “We need to report this. Go to the police or something.”
“What are the police going to do? So my neighbor has a condition that forces her to sleep standing up.”
“And write all over her walls? C’mon, you don’t believe that, do you?”
Annie raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s t
he one believing all this wild stuff?”
Tamra drew her fingers through her hair. “I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”
“Well, before we go anywhere—especially to the police—we need more evidence.”
“Uh-uh,” Tamra said sternly. “You’ve gathered enough evidence for today.”
“Excuse me? You’re the one who wanted to investigate.”
Tamra took her grandmother by both shoulders, turned her around, and nudged her toward her apartment. “Well, I’ll take over from here. No more investigating for you. And what’re you doing with a flashlight under your skirt, anyway?”
Chapter 33
He considered himself a modified realist, although Zeph Walker understood the incongruity of those two words. His unbelief was really a carefully constructed rationalization, a dismissal of his own culpability in some universal formula. God could do His thing, Zeph reasoned, and nothing on earth could stop Him. Which meant that any refusal to act on Zeph’s part was a component of that universal formula. That’s how destiny worked, wasn’t it? Even your resistance was predetermined.
Yet as the pieces were aligning—the man at the morgue, the ninth gate of hell, the Meridian prophecy, the remnant—Zeph’s resistance was eroding as fast as sandstone in a rainstorm.
The morning sun had yielded to dry afternoon heat. As Zeph raced away from the Black Pass, the image of the Meridian petroglyphs and the prophetic figure with the slash on its mouth smoldered inside him. Those cave paintings had to be 150 years old! What ancient hands had squeezed the blood of berries and cacti onto that rock? This was more than coincidence. This was destiny.
Sweat stung his eyes, and he hunched forward at the wheel, his mind careening down corridors he had long feared to tread.
The screeching of the tires jolted him back to earth. Zeph took his foot off the gas and yanked the truck back into its lane. Driving off the cliff would not put him out of his misery. He may have shed many of his childhood convictions, but Zeph’s belief in a place called hell was not one of them.