by Sandy DeLuca
First Edition
Message from the Dead
© 2013 by Sandy DeLuca
All Rights Reserved.
A DarkFuse Release
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Ann Marie Colardo-Garofalo
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Greg F. Gifune, Dave Thomas and Shane Ryan Staley for believing in my work.
Author Notes
This novella is loosely based on my short story, called “Shocker,” written in the ’90s; originally published in Twilight Showcase and Midnight Gallery. The story takes place in Rhode Island, but I’ve taken liberty with landmarks, street names and establishments. Castell College is fictional.
Prologue
A woman sits at a wooden table, hands pressed against its edges. Her face is pale, in flickering candlelight, and she wears a simple blue shift dress. She sees beyond the confines of this gloom, and is familiar with death. She reaches for my hand, and then closes her eyes. She begins to sing. It’s an old nursery rhyme, one my grandmother sang to me.
The woman sighs, and then clutches the edge of my sweater. She tries to speak, but voices of dead children spill from her lips.
And they say in a ghostly chorus, “We are here.”
Rain pummels windows, and subtle rapping begins. The departed are relentless, and I allow them near, remembering why I am here.
1
My mother died when I was five, beaten to death by her boyfriend, and I’d slept in a room off the kitchen, as he murdered her by the sink. His name was Bill—or Will—and he’d only been around for a week or two.
I remember other men drinking whiskey with my mother, but none of them stayed long, and I’d hear my mother cry until someone new poured bourbon, or rye, in a lowball glass my dad left behind, along with a photo of him and me—tucked away between dishtowels and detergent.
My father left my mother when I was six, and I think Mom still loved him, because she’d gaze at that photograph in between love affairs—sometimes setting it on a counter and placing a red rose from the garden beside it. I don’t know where Dad went, but I screamed for him when I found my mother’s body.
I don’t remember much of what happened after I began to yell, just my grandmother scooping me up, telling me I’d be all right, and the cops searching the house. And I looked to the stairs, saw my mother’s ghost, mouth open in a silent scream, transparent—because wall panels and crooked photographs bled through her gingham dress. And she came again later, when I learned they’d found Bill—or Will—upstairs sleeping, in my mother’s bed, blood spattered on his face and clothes.
After Mom died, my paternal grandmother, Lena, cared for me, and I lived with her until I became old enough to go on my own. She never spoke about her only son, and I wondered if she mourned for his departure—for the pain he’d inflicted on me.
She tried to keep me safe, to hide secrets about herself, and about things she’d done. She believed the deceased walk among us, and she spoke with them in darkened rooms—performing séances, as grief-stricken families yearned for communication with those who’d passed.
I have cloudy memories of my grandmother seated at a table, whispering in an unfamiliar voice, communing with phantoms. Scenes I was not supposed to see, things done long after I’d been tucked into bed—the living and the dead, comingling in bizarre synchronicity.
Gram told me we should fear the living, and not the dead. She didn’t tell me words once said over bloody flesh could destroy us all, and childhood dreams could turn deadly. My own dreams were simple, and as a child, I’d fill my bedroom walls with colorful renderings of people I imagined, and city scenes—much to my grandmother’s delight. She encouraged my artistic cravings, taking me to New York, and to modern galleries and museums.
Lena was beautiful, strange and brilliant. At sixty-five she remained slender, with thick blonde hair, possessing a wardrobe reminiscent of the early ’60s. She designed and sewed most of her attire—from offbeat coats to lavish feathered shawls—and kept her home abundant with cats, books and odd souvenirs she’d brought back from her travels.
I loved to dust the treasures she kept on bookcases, tables and window ledges. One day I discovered a fascinating object. “Where’d you get this?” I asked. I held a tiny marble sculpture in my hands, a woman with cards on her lap, and at her feet. Ghostly, sorrowful faces surrounded her. She wore an elaborate robe, her hair a mass of ringlets, and her hands long and slender.
“Man I knew a long time ago made it for me.”
“Is it you, Gram?”
“Yes,” she told me. Her eyes watered a bit.
“Who are these people?” I asked, tracing doleful—yet beautiful—faces with my finger.
“Spirits.”
And I remembered women who sat at Lena’s dining room table— hands clasped, desperation in their eyes. I wondered if they’d been fearful when ectoplasm escaped from my grandmother’s lips, white wisps of smoke manifesting faces and spindly fingers. I often heard shrill screams and footsteps pounding, and several times ghostly faces looked my way as I peered from behind potted plants.
“I know you’ve seen what I do.” Lena’s eyes twinkled, and then her gaze flitted around her vast parlor, resting on photographs, paintings and lavish furnishings. “None of this matters. What’s inside you makes all the difference.”
Lena sold her house when I married Joe. We moved into a large colonial, and she settled into a small apartment, entrusting me with possessions her new space couldn’t accommodate, giving me boxes filled with chalk pastels, charcoals and papers she’d bought in New York, Boston and Providence. I assured her I’d keep those treasures safe, tucked away, but I didn’t know within an ornate box lay secrets, dark and terrifying.
2
I continued painting after Joe and I married. He’d smile; happy I had a hobby, even when I began to reap rewards for my work.
In the summertime, I sold my art at fairs; and a few local galleries displayed my bright landscapes, but it hadn’t been enough. I bought glossy magazines filled with work by well-known artists. Most had studied at universities, boasting of advanced degrees in Fine Arts. I wanted the art world to take me seriously, and obtaining at least one degree became my goal.
I told Lena my plans on an August evening in 1979, as twilight tinted a smoky landscape with dusty grays, and stars twinkled in a violet sky. “I’ll save enough money, start taking classes at Castell Community College. Later I’ll go on to a four-year school. I can teach art, maybe move to New York. Gram, I want to leave Joe.”
Her face became grave. She thought for a moment, and then took my hand. “Give it a chance.”
“There are things I want to do…without him.”
“Sometimes, if they love you hard enough, they don’t let go…and not even death can separate you.”
“So dramatic. Are you talking about somebody from your past?”
“Maybe.”
“Joe isn’t like men from your day.”
She didn’t speak, just clutched my hand, as though she wanted to tell me more, but there were things I’d have to learn on my own, and pain I’d have to endure.
3
At twenty-four, I’d worked a boring day job for six years, stacking files and placing manila folders in steel cabinets. I hardly saw my husband, because he worked as a night manager at a local hotel. And I’
d drifted from my marriage, tasting love from strangers…from women I’d met in darkened bars.
I dreaded each morning when my alarm rang. Sometimes the scent of a stranger lingered on my skin, and reveries of torrid lovemaking played out in misty morning. I’d eat breakfast with Joe before I left for work. He did most of the talking on those mornings.
Joe kissed me good-bye before I left, always telling me, “I love you.” I’d nod, and touch his hand prior to getting into my car, and driving to Providence.
At times my thoughts went back to childhood days, and Friday evenings, when I’d look down from my bedroom window on sultry summer nights. I’d hear Lena’s voice, low and sleepy, talking to someone on the porch. She rocked on a wooden chair, shawl draped around her shoulders, wind ruffling her hair, and her long, embroidered skirt. Crickets chirped in the flower bed, and an owl hooted in a giant oak.
Someone sat beside Lena on a wicker chair; a man, tall and well-built. He held a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, taking a long pull every so often, and then releasing spiraling smoke into the air. Shadow obscured his face, and I’d hear him hum an old blues song, deep and eerie.
Voices turned to whispers as the sky grew darker—pitch-black, devoid of stars and luminary light. After a while, the man would stand, move down the front steps, and slowly walk into gloom. His dark clothing shimmered when the moon appeared from beneath thick clouds. He turned to wave, and then cast his eyes in my direction. They seemed to glow, and flesh from his face seemingly melted, leaving a white skull in its place. Bones creaked, and a death rattle sounded from his throat. He walked farther into mist, and then he was no more. He remained a mystical vision, come to enchant Lena, in stygian night, only to dissipate in a dream. The owls and crickets became silent after his departure, and Lena sobbed.
I saw her face as I backed down my drive, and then turned onto the street. I hated the ride to Providence, as much as I disliked the file room where I spent five days a week, eight hours a day, but it was necessary, because Joe’s company had less-than-adequate health insurance, and we had numerous bills.
It was cold in that austere room in winter, where steel cabinets stood side by side on a cracked cement floor. I told myself one day I’d leave Joe, and the house we’d bought together. Those thoughts, along with my plans for new paintings and drawings, helped me get through my work day, keeping me safe until ghosts invaded my world. I don’t know how long they’d watched me, casting dead eyes on me, as I strained each day to lift stacks of folders.
Little did I know their bones, their flesh, were cemented within the foundation—and walls—of Castell Community College, and their souls were capable of evil.
4
I’d arrived early on the night of my first class at Castell Community College. A makeshift directory at the entrance pointed to the art department on the fourth floor, with double doors leading into a large room sectioned off into separate studios. I took the stairs, but regretted not joining a group of chattering students who’d piled into an open elevator, beckoning me to ride with them, warning me about endless hallways and shoddy lighting.
Someone tapped me lightly on the back, and when I turned, a child stood there, a little girl, no more than five or six. She held a tattered rag doll, smiling at me eerily. “Are you lost? I can show you the way. Come on,” she said softly, and then spun on her heels, the hem of her red-checkered dress swirling as she skipped away.
“Wait,” I called out, but no one answered, and I wondered where the girl had gone, hoping she’d realize I’d lost sight of her, and she’d return.
“What the hell,” I said, after I’d passed the same bulletin board for the third time—empty, but for several plastic tacks, and a postcard announcing an art show in the school’s gallery. Abstract work by a painter I’d never heard of, but the card declared him a rising star.
A piece of paper had fallen to the floor, marked by footprints—seemingly a child’s—small and somewhat deformed. I bent down, picked up the paper, and gingerly turned it over. A photocopied face of a young girl stared back at me. Bold print announced DINA TAVARES: MISSING SINCE SEPTEMBER 6, 1951.
I’d heard about the Tavares disappearance, and ever-changing conclusions about her fate. Some said the sixteen-year-old had run away with a drifter. People had seen her talking to him, walking with him in the city. Others said she’d been seen at the Providence bus terminal, boarding a bus bound for New York City. Police checked out all leads, but nothing panned out, and it remained a cold case—like other disappearances in the area. Some vanished before Castell Community College existed, when the building had been a children’s tuberculosis hospital.
I studied Dina’s childlike face, bright eyes and wide smile, and then wondered why someone had initially pinned the odd remembrance on that bulletin board. I shook my head, and then pinned it back in place. Then dread filled me, and I realized Dina would never return.
A fleeting memory of Lena flickered through my mind. She’d just picked up her morning newspaper from the front step. The headline read MISSING—a black-and-white photo of a young girl sat beneath it.
Lena tossed the newspaper on her kitchen counter, moved to her wall phone, and quickly punched in a number. She turned, speaking softly, “Donna, honey, please go upstairs. Just for a while. We’ll have sweets and chocolate when I’m through here.” Tears filled her eyes, and her hands shook.
I left her there, wondering what made her cry, what connection she had to the missing girl, knowing it would remain a secret like nighttime trysts and meetings in her darkened parlor.
I glanced at Dina’s photo again, thinking of secretive phone calls each time the paper announced a missing kid, and of Lena’s silence afterward.
I dismissed those thoughts, and tried retracing my footsteps. My hopes surged when I heard laughter in the distance. The sound of shuffling feet echoed on cement, and I moved toward soft singing, only to arrive by the bulletin board again.
I called out, “Is anyone there?”
“We’re here,” said a chorus of voices—childlike and menacing. Shadows darted back and forth in the distance. That’s when I noticed shreds of white paper on the floor; Dina’s photocopied face torn, damaged beyond repair. Who would do such a thing?
Footsteps sounded, and more laughter erupted. Dim lights flickered.
“Can you hear me? I’m lost.” Frustration mounted when my plea remained unanswered.
I walked for at least another ten minutes, and then spotted a double wooden door off to my right. I pushed it open, anticipating a brightly lit studio and students seated at easels. The room was devoid of light, but for candles flickering on a round table. Smoky wisps floated across the floor, and elongated shapes moved on walls and ceiling. A woman sat there, head bowed, face somber. I figured I’d happened upon one of the college’s faculty rooms. Maybe the woman waited for someone, or maybe she craved solitude after a long day.
“Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. Can you tell me where the art department is?”
The woman slowly raised her head and said, “Are you the one I’ve been waiting for? They need you…” Her eyes were dark orbs, and a stream of spittle dribbled from her lips.
“What? I need to find the art department.” Something was off, as though that room—and woman—belonged in another place and time.
The woman bowed her head again and clasped her hands.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
The woman began to hum, soft and low, shaking her head, slowly back and forth, and her spittle splattered onto the table. Shadows flickered behind her, and other voices seemingly joined her in eerie refrain.
“Do you need help?”
“I came here to speak to them…to wait for you.”
I quickly spun on my heels, heart pattering, fearing the worst.
“Where are you going?” Someone stood to the right of the door. A man, short, but well-built.
The woman hummed louder.
I’d kick and scream
if the man tried restraining me, but he remained still, and I held my breath, quickening my pace. A few more steps and I realized he wore a shirt with the school’s logo emblazoned on the pocket, and a hat with a gold badge pinned to its front. His features were now distinguishable—young, bright blue eyes and an infectious smile. He spoke again, “Building plays tricks on people. Where are you heading?”
I chided myself for allowing my imagination to get the best of me. “I need to get to the art department.” Then I turned, pointing at the woman, now slumped over, as though she’d gone into a swoon. “That woman—there’s something wrong with her.”
He laughed softly, and then lowered his voice. “That’s Grace Lawrence. She’s in the theater group. She’s getting into character. She uses this room when it’s empty. Sorry if she scared you.”
“I feel silly now.” The creepiness remained, despite his explanation.
“No need to feel silly. I’ll take you where you need to go. Good night, Grace.”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Come on.” He led me out of the gloomy room. The door closed behind us, and an audible thud erupted, and then the humming began again.
The security guard remained undaunted, leading me down the corridor, and then to the entrance of the art department.
“I must have passed by here a hundred times.”
“Most people do.” He smiled again. “I know the place real good. I’ve been working here a while, I came here with my grandpa when I was a kid. It was a mess after the hospital closed—after the state bought the land and decided to make it Castell Community College. Grandpa was a foreman, and I followed him everywhere, learning every nook and cranny. My name is Ben Gable, and I’m always around if you need me.”