Messages from the Dead

by Sandy DeLuca

  She shook her head. “I bought it at an auction in the gallery. They found a lot of items like this; in walls, and in the basement. Anthropologists claimed they had no value, no historical relevance. According to old records, an art teacher came here once a month when it was a hospital, gave classes to sick kids. She brought them clay, paints and paper.”

  “That’s sad,” I told her.

  “Damn things have started a new movement; the whole Mada thing. I think it’s a kick.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mada,” I said to myself in a whisper.

  I left her, flicked on lights, and then went to an easel. I rested my canvas in a corner, and then reached into my bag. I retrieved my sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. I placed the paper on my easel, and then began to draw.

  I knew Alex would be beside me in a minute. I heard shuffling papers, and then her footsteps. I felt her breath on my neck. And I heard children laughing, and an old nursery rhyme echoed in the distance.

  “What are you working on, Donna?” Alex folded her arms and smiled wide. I didn’t want the distraction. I didn’t want to smell her perfume, or hear her voice, so I thought about Andrea, things she’d said to me about children.

  I envisioned how Andrea looked when hurrying into class. Fiery, eyes glowing with life, and her soul filled with secrets, and I wished she’d come rushing in at that moment.

  Alex had been different, enigmatic. She reminded me of twilight, and secret places, where shadow and light intertwined. That evening, as rain made crystalline patterns on windows, and tree branches tapped against glass, she pressed close to me, whispering with her smoky voice.

  “Shock me,” she said.

  “How could I shock you, Alex?” I looked up from my drawing; charcoal, chiaroscuro. It had become a woman’s face. Someone I’d seen the day before in the park; alone on a bench, gazing at the sky. Another figure hovered in the background; an image from my subconscious; a dream—nameless, menacing and evoking uneasiness.

  “Your work should give people chills…make them scream.” She pointed her index finger at me. “That’s the kind of response I want to see at Gallery Alexandra’s first opening.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t paint like that all the time. I’m happy being ordinary.”

  Alex shook her head. “You’re not ordinary. The drawing you did for the last school exhibit sold, didn’t it? You’re never going to make a name for yourself with average canvases. Nobody will notice, except a housewife who’s looking for something to hang over her mantel, or a doctor who needs happy colors in his waiting room.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try harder.”

  “Tell me about Hellixa’s?”

  She laughed. “I’ve told you more than my other students already, but if you really want to know…”

  “I do.”

  “We do rituals. We drink. Smoke a lot of dope. We worship Mada. You know the story. They named him the new god of the contemporary art scene. He was obscure until all kinds of shit turned up in the walls and bowels of this building. They found more stuff downtown, in old textile mills.”

  I thought about the art supply store Andrea and I had visited.

  “Do you know an art supply store in that area?”

  She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Used to be one years ago. The old Hellixa’s was in the same building. They did séances there; and there are accounts of spirits appearing. Just smoke and mirrors…maybe not all of it, though.”

  “I know. My gram is into that stuff.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “The old Hellixa’s burned down, and the owner insisted that when he died, he be buried on the property. He got his wish. He was murdered in a bar a few blocks from there. Why?”

  “Andrea and I went to an art store down there.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know of any new places, but I can’t know everything, can I?”

  “I guess not. So, you get naked and dance around a cauldron at Hellixa’s?” I waved my charcoal stick, laughing.

  She laughed, too, and her eyes twinkled. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Well, tell me.”

  “Maybe someday I’ll take you there. Or maybe you’ll find it on your own. Or maybe you have already?” She smiled. “Now shock me.”

  “I’m trying.” Once again, I glanced at the sculpture on her desk. Its eyes seemed to follow me, and it looked as though it moved, glowering, with a mocked expression, bearing sharp teeth, yet for a while I felt special, because Alex stayed beside me, but the mood changed when Clarissa Gentry, the sculpting teacher, arrived. She drew Alex away from my side with a sly look. Alex excused herself, locked her office, and they moved away, walking close together.

  I waited a while, and then peered outside, gazing down at the teacher’s lot, watching as Alex’s black Volvo pulled out, and then Clarissa’s red Jeep followed, and then I looked to a new charcoal I’d started; Castell College at night, children standing on the rooftop, sad faces gazing from windows. Where had this come from?

  Fatigue began to plague me, so I shoved canvas, paints and charcoal in my locker; then I passed Alex’s office, glanced at Mada, and despised that thing even more. I looked away, rushed through doors, and then began to trek down stairs.

  Two more flights and I’d exit to the first floor. I stopped for a moment, caught my breath, and then noticed someone sitting on the stairs—a little girl—and I moved to her side.

  “Hello, are you lost?” I bent down, looked into her eyes, noting marble skin and scratches on her hands.

  The child shook her head. “I’m just waiting.”

  “For who?”

  “The nurse.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Yes, we’re all sick. That’s why we came here.”

  The child rose, and then seemed to float down stairs. She turned to look at me. Her eyes were hollow, with dark circles beneath. “I’ve got to find the nurse.” Blood dribbled from her lips. “Our names are still here.”

  “What?”

  The child disappeared into shadow. Light footsteps sounded. I moved down stairs, opened a door, and Ben stood by the glass doors.

  “You see a little girl?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “No, Donna. The school is nearly empty. Nobody here but security, and a few stray students—like you.”

  “The girl looked sick.”

  “Woman was looking for her daughter earlier and found her by the bookstore. Kid fell. Cut her lip. Scratched her hands pretty bad, too.” Ben didn’t look me in the eye. His voice was gravelly.

  “Ben, I don’t think…”

  He looked through the glass, into deep night. “You been back to see Charlie?”

  “No.”

  “Go home, Donna. It’s snowing now, and getting icier.” He opened the door for me.

  Wet snow fell, covering pavement and school grounds, and the sky had turned pitch-black, but for a round full moon. I looked upward, and small figures stood atop Castell’s roof edge, children holding hands singing, “Hush a Bye Baby…”

  Snow began to intensify, and so did the singing voices.

  “Donna, come here,” another voice broke through the ghostly choir—the little girl I’d seen earlier. She moved swiftly, stopping a few feet in front of my car. “You need to come here.” She tilted her head. Snow swirled, as her eyes glowed yellow-green.

  “What do you want from me?” I screamed.

  She levitated several inches off the ground, held out her arms, as if to welcome me. I ran, leaping for my car. The specter turned, watched me with glowing eyes. She hissed, “I said, you need to come here.” Green spiraling mist flowed from white lips.

  She floated closer to my car, eyes fastened on me. I quickly unlocked my door, stumbling into my seat, and then slipped my key into the ignition. I flipped on wipers, and then the specter’s face manifested about a foot away from my windshield. A blood-curdling wail erupted as I stepped on my gas, plunging my car forward. The girl seemed to explode, becoming one w
ith the falling snow, when headlights and bumper touched her.

  I sped through the storm, and then looked to the roof—children stood there, swaying hypnotically as the wind howled.

  I checked my rearview mirror before descending down the snow-covered hill. Lena stood there, gaze fastened on the rooftop. It couldn’t be. Lena would be home, most likely tucked under covers, her cats snuggling by her side. She’d never go out without a coat, hat and heavy boots, but she wore only a thin nightgown, and no shoes. For a second—a flash—she turned—looked my way, and then was gone.

  I remembered a conversation we’d had after we’d watched a horror movie on TV.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.

  “You know I do.” She looked thoughtful, as though a memory had suddenly emerged, and then said softly, “Ever hear of ghosts of the living?”

  “No, Gram,” I told her, anticipating another strange account.

  “Souls appear to a loved one when something traumatic happens. It’s as though the spirit tears away from the body, cries out for help. Happened to me when somebody I loved a lot got hurt real bad.”

  “Who?”

  “Guy I almost married, before I met your grandpa.”

  “I’m sorry, Gram.”

  My heart sank as I continued my trek away from Castell, knowing something had happened to Lena. I skidded down the hill, swerving, heart pumping; I wanted Lena to hold me then, wrap her arms around me, tell me everything would be all right, but I knew the dead wanted something from us; and they wouldn’t rest until they’d been sated.

  16

  The storm picked up considerably, making a mess of the highway, causing traffic to slow. Images of children filled my head as I drove, taunting me, reaching out for me, in a billowing rush of snow. I feared a ghostly child would manifest before me, cause my car to skid off the road. It didn’t happen, and I felt somewhat relieved when I pulled into my driveway. I gathered my bag, walked quickly to the front door, and unlocked it. I shivered uncontrollably—mostly from fear. I needed something hot, so I went to the kitchen, which is where I found a note from Joe taped to the fridge.

  “Lena, Belmont Memorial Hospital. Hurry.”

  I felt faint, so I braced myself on the kitchen counter, waiting for the spell to pass, and then quickly ran from my house, forsaking hot liquid—and my fear of the dead. I don’t remember driving to the hospital, or how I maneuvered my car through blinding snow.

  When I arrived, I spotted Joe and Sylvia waiting outside the ICU. Sylvia took my hand, “She called for you, turned pure white, and then collapsed. Oh, God, I’m glad they saved her. It’s congestive heart failure.”

  Joe spoke somberly. “She’s not out of the woods yet.”

  “Oh, Gram, did you see them? Did they hurt you?” I cried out.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Are you all right, Donna?” Joe asked.

  Sylvia leaned close to me and whispered, “They’ve got my girl…and I know who they are.”

  I knew who they were, too. I told myself I’d fight them, keep them from hurting me—from hurting people I loved. I squeezed Sylvia’s hand and wept. The three of us stayed there, waiting for sorrow…and the dead.

  * * *

  We remained at the hospital that night, and Lena’s condition didn’t change. Doctors said she had a 50-50 chance of survival. It broke my heart to leave her, knowing she could slip away, and I might not have a chance to say good-bye.

  Visions I’d seen haunted me, and I heard a ghostly voice in early morning, when I awoke, and I saw a girl child’s horrific face when gazing in the mirror. I’d see darkened shapes out of the corner of my eye, and when I turned, wisps of streaming vapor crept up my stairs, and over my threshold. I wondered if Ben had experienced those visions and voices, within shadowy corners of Castell, atop its olden roof, so I called his office the next morning. No one answered, and no recorded message kicked in, but I had to see him—talk to him.

  I scanned the phone book, looking for a home number, and found a listing for a B. GABLE in Providence. I dialed the number. It rang three times, and then a woman answered.

  “Hello, I’m not sure I have the right number. I’m looking for a Ben Gable who works at Castell Community College.” I took a deep breath, hoping for the best.

  The woman paused a moment, and then she spoke slowly. “Are you joking?”

  “No, I’m his friend. I’m trying to reach him.”

  She paused again, and then her voice became icy. “Ben’s been dead for years. Don’t dial this number again. You hear?” She slammed down the receiver, and then the dial tone buzzed.

  “What’s going on?” I asked myself, anticipating a demon voice to speak, but those apparitions did not haunt me for a while, though I dared them to, cursed at them to appear, to reveal what they wanted. I asked myself if Ben had been one of the dead, and if he waited in darkness with others.

  * * *

  Lena’s condition remained the same, and I visited her each night, staying longer on nights when I had no classes.

  When going to school, I made sure not to be alone, arriving a few minutes before classes began; when the parking lot brimmed with other students making their way to class, and I didn’t linger when classes ended, exiting Castell—shoulder to shoulder with classmates. I went to work each day, heart heavy, my mind preoccupied with phantom children, Andrea’s disappearance and Lena’s deteriorating health.

  Those feelings and thoughts stayed with me throughout my workday, and remained strong on the day the children came for me, again.

  My day began as usual, filled with mundane projects, devoid of satisfaction. I’d loaded a gray cart with paperwork, wheeling it to cabinets, and then quickly separating documents.

  Cabinets lined walls; dozens of them, filled with historical data about city buildings, homes and citizens, including deeds to mansions, hotels and graveyards. I had my routine down pat, knowing every inch of that room, and I worked from nine to five without speaking, and on that morning, a dark and sensual memory emerged, and I allowed it to bring me back in time.

  I’d been drawing alone, across from the student lounge, sitting cross-legged on the floor, observing people playing Pac-Man, shooting pool and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups. Alex’s words rang in my head. “Push yourself to the limit. Find feelings inside you’ve denied.”

  I spotted a beautiful girl, among a crowd of students, with wild red hair—like Andrea’s, her face obscured by a black floppy hat, embellished with a fake purple feather. She wore a simple black dress, but had pinned rhinestone jewelry to its bodice and belt. She seemed detached from everyone else; part of another era, and another plane of existence, and when she waved her hand, white skin seemed to glow under fluorescent lights; and I began to sketch her.

  The drawing soon took on a life of its own. Dark shapes formed around the girl. An eerie face hovered above her, and tendrils of fog rose from the floor, billowing at the hem of her dress.

  Suddenly Alex’s voice broke the spell. “That’s some piece of work there. Bring it to my next class. I’d like to use it as an example for other students.” I don’t know how long she’d been standing there, watching me, and I felt my face flush when she knelt beside me.

  “How’d you find me here?” I asked.

  “I wanted to walk, so I took the main corridor. Saw you here sketching.” She shrugged. “I got curious.” She held out her hand, and then peered at the drawing more intently. “It’s really a cool and eerie scene. We’ll put it in the next student show. I insist you exhibit it.”

  “I haven’t finished,” I told her, and looked to where the enigmatic girl had stood, but she’d gone, and her purple feather floated in the air, sailing over coffee machines, chairs and arcade games.

  “It’s done now,” Alex whispered.

  Alex convinced me to frame the drawing, and she’d hung it at the well of Castell’s gallery stairs. An art dealer named Franciso Dwyer, a prominent figure in the local art scene, imme
diately made an offer. Then he commissioned me to create a series of paintings mimicking the same theme. I did a series of four panels, and they’d been scooped up immediately by Dwyer. Two weeks later, he sold them for a handsome profit, leaving buyers, collectors and galleries hungry for more of my work. I opened a savings account under my own name, and then began to tuck away money I’d earned from sales.

  “Magic, Donna,” Alex whispered. “Mada is listening to me, making it all happen for you. In time he’ll ask for blood, so be prepared to—”

  “Oh stop with the Mada crap.”

  She shifted her weight to one side, smiled. “Anything you give energy to eventually becomes real. Believe in gods—believe in ghosts—sooner or later they manifest.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever you say. Stop busting my balls. You know, Alex, I’ve got so much more to learn. I want to earn degrees, teach, like you, eventually.”

  “A real artist always feels like he or she has things to learn. We’re always growing, getting better, and teaching allows you time to paint—unlike your present job. You’ll get there, don’t worry.” Her words eased my heavy heart. I carried those words inside my head, remembering them when I needed strength.

  I smiled, thinking of how important Alex had become, but those thoughts muddied when I noticed a green folder on a small cabinet. It hadn’t been the first time the receptionist had left documents behind.

  I went to the cabinet, picked up the file. Stamped in bold ink was CASTELL CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL. I opened it, and then began to read. A photograph of a child, dog-eared and faded, had been stapled onto a death certificate. I mumbled to myself, “Birth and death certificates are next door.” I’d bring it over before I went on break.

  Those eyes looked familiar, so I touched the photograph, smoothing out an area over the girl’s face. She had a strong resemblance to the little girl who’d tormented me in the parking lot, and she’d been named Melinda Curry. Age six. Cause of death: tuberculosis.

  I shut the file, telling myself it couldn’t be the same little girl, and wheeled my cart to the stacks of work left for me.