Messages from the Dead

by Sandy DeLuca

  “Told you,” a little girl’s voice muttered softly. She must have wandered in by mistake, maybe losing her mom in a throng of people at the license bureau.

  I swore I’d latched the door behind me. Mrs. Carcieri, my supervisor, would have my ass if she found out I hadn’t locked up. I made my way to the steel cabinets, then called out, “Who’s there? You have to leave. Come on, we’ll go find your mother.”

  I peeked around the corner.

  Melinda Curry smiled at me. “Our names are still here…told you…”

  “Are you going to tell me what you want?” I tried to stand my ground, but her eyes bore into me, making me tremble.

  “I want you,” she hissed.

  “You can’t hurt me,” I said slowly, trying to convince myself.

  She laughed, eerie, menacing. “You listen to your gram? She knows what we can do.”

  I backed away, moving toward the door, praying I’d truly left it unlocked. Melinda moved with me, arms outstretched, feet inches off the floor, her innocent face now covered in blood.

  She held a scalpel in her right hand.

  Her eyes were hollow and dripping with black liquid. Other ghostly figures moved behind her. Hissing. Laughing. Singing that damn nursery rhyme.

  “Hush A Bye Baby…”

  I continued walking backward, inching toward the door, taking deep breaths, when my back touched splintered wood. The children came closer, as my hand felt for the rusted latch.

  “Locked,” hissed the wraith-child.

  I looked into Melinda’s eyes. Fire burned within them, when tiny fingers touched my face, forcing me off balance. And others came from atop tall filing cabinets, floating downward, and then Melinda bent down. I felt the scalpel slice into my ankle; then they surrounded me.

  And everything turned black.

  * * *

  I awakened, and Joe sat beside me, holding my hand, fear in his eyes, and he looked exhausted.

  “How you doing, baby?” he asked.

  “My head hurts like hell. Where are we?” I asked as I strained to get up. I felt pain and weakness, so I lay back, taking in my surroundings. Nurses scurried back and forth. Shelves laden with bandages, gauze and various tools hung on walls. “What happened?”

  “Paramedics brought you to the ER. You fell. Mrs. Carcieri found you. There’s a nasty cut on your forehead. You smacked the edge of your cart. It’ll hurt for a while, but you won’t have a scar. There’s another cut on your ankle. Nobody’s really sure how you got slashed there. It’s worse than the other. Six stitches. You lost a lot of blood. Good news is they wrote you out of work for two weeks.”

  “The kid had a scalpel. That’s what happened.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I wish I could change jobs, and be with you when you need me. I’ll take care of you now.”

  “Joe, Melinda was there. Other kids, too. I didn’t think they could hurt me—not physically—but they did. They’ve been watching me when I work.” I thought back to visions I’d seen before everything turned black; eyes, red-rimmed and evil staring at me, from atop steel cabinets, hands reaching for me, and the stench of something rotten. “They were coming for me. They did it,” I told him.

  “Who? What are you talking about, Donna?”

  “Kids from Castell—they died there, and wanted to take me. Do things to me.”

  “You were alone. Mrs. Carcieri heard your cart fall. It happened seconds before she unlocked the door.” He leaned over and kissed me. “I’ll take you home as soon as the paperwork is done.”

  “Good thing Mrs. Carcieri got there in time. I don’t know why they take people…I…”

  Joe wrapped his arms around me. “Relax, baby. It’ll be fine. Doctor said you might be confused for a while.”

  “Joe, you don’t under—” Andrea stood behind Joe; her finger to her lips, she smiled, and then was gone.

  “Andrea, come back,” I screamed, hard and long; and before I knew it, someone whispered into my ear, telling me I’d be all right, and then plunged a needle into my arm, but I realized I’d never be the same when Melinda came to my side, smiling, taunting, holding a scalpel to my face.

  She wanted something from me—they all did. Something they’d already taken from Andrea—from countless others. I’d fight them with everything I had, but I wondered how long it would be before they’d finally get their way.

  17

  I felt tired for days. My head throbbed, my ankle hurt like a bitch and bruises covered my legs. Joe took time off from work to care for me, feeding me soup, changing my bandages, holding me when I cried; tender when he spoke to me.

  “I’ve been checking on Lena. She’s stable and asking for you. I’ll take you there in a few days.”

  “Did you tell her what happened?”

  “I just said you’d had an accident. She’s on heavy meds…not too coherent.”

  “I’m glad she’s getting stronger.” I thought of Lena, standing in the snow, ghost children behind her.

  Joe sighed. “I might be able to get on days in a few months. If not, I’ll look for something else.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Donna. We need to be together. I need to look out for you, and to be a better husband.”

  I realized how much he loved me, and I needed him more than I admitted. I felt guilty for things I’d done. For things I’d planned to do without him. I wondered if I really deserved him, because I still went to places dark and forbidden in my mind, and I went to Alex every night in a recurring dream that played out like a surreal clip from an old noir film; black and white, murky, sensual, and always the same:

  I arrive at class, and Alex is waiting for me in her office, the strange sculpture of Mada by her side, its eyes glimmering, mouth moving. Alex says, “I want to show you something.”

  She reaches for a ring of keys on her desk, rises from her chair, and then comes to my side. “Come on.”

  We walk toward a door hidden behind rows of unpainted canvases. Figures move in the shadows, and they follow us.

  Alex unlocks a rusted bolt, beckons me to follow her, then reaches for a switch, revealing a room shrouded within murky light. Fog streams from open windows, covering floorboards, and billowing around paintings on easels. Countless faces stare at me, from canvas and board; children propped up on beds, by windows, with blood on their clothes. Others lay on operating tables, cut from neck to stomach. Alex turns to me. “Doctors really thought they were helping, but it was torture.”

  “Alex, what is this?”

  She points to another painting. Ben Gable wheeling a body down a long, dark tunnel. “They called it the body chute.”

  Ben turns, smiling, gazing at me with pitch-black orbs.

  “Did you paint this? Did you make Ben look this way?”

  Alex shakes her head. “Ben’s always been this way—ever since I came here. We can’t change him, but we can change you.” She leans over and kisses me softly on the lips.

  “Alex, I have to be a good wife. Joe loves me. I can’t mess that up.”

  “It’s already a mess.” She laughs, then turns, running through the open door. And I follow, down four flights of stairs, into an unlit corridor, to a place where a boiler hums.

  “Alex?”

  Steam swirls through that dimly lit boiler room.

  Melinda is standing there, scalpel in hand. Others stand behind her. And behind them are overturned stretchers, broken beds and bones piled against walls. Melinda’s lips curl. “Alex is dead.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “You did,” says a woman, and nurses lift dead bodies onto crates, wheeling them away, licking blood from ruined flesh, calling out, “You’re the one we need, Donna.” And I feel a scalpel touch my neck, see dark liquid trickle onto my hands, and I scream.

  I always awaken to Joe’s voice. “It’s okay, baby. It’s just a dream.”

  But it’s more than that—a twisted oracle conjured by ghostly children. And they wai
t in the gloom, hovering on the rooftop, moving in darkness outside our home. And I tell myself I’ll be ready when they come back again.

  * * *

  My wounds healed, but Dr. Calibri extended my medical leave, telling me, “You’re fine physically, but we’ve got to get through what’s going on in your head. I’m prescribing new medication to ease anxiety and depression. That, along with some therapy, should help.”

  Joe returned to his job, leaving me alone. “Doctor says you can’t drive.”

  “Bus runs downtown, and the train is in service, too,” I told him.

  “I’ll worry. You shouldn’t go out alone. What if you black out—what if—?”

  “Look, I have to go out alone sometime, Joe. Besides, I think work, school, and Andrea’s disappearance caused me to break down. I’m going to be fine.”

  “My defiant little wife.” Joe shook his head.

  “I know my limits.”

  “Be careful, Donna. Make sure you take your meds when you’re supposed to—the hallucinations might…” His voice was soft, tinged with fear. He didn’t understand what I had to do. We were as different as night and day, and eventually he’d have to let me go.

  * * *

  I visited Lena each morning, taking a commuter train to and from the hospital. Her condition continued to improve, but she remained too weak to go home.

  “Is Sylvia taking care of my cats?”

  “Yes, Gram. They’re fine.”

  “She cried so hard for Andrea that night, such a shame. Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So, what really happened to you?”

  “I’m a klutz. I tripped, fell and hurt myself.”

  “You’ve been seeing things, haven’t you?”

  “How did you—?”

  “Tell them to go to the light, Donna. If you believe, then they can’t hurt you.” She closed her eyes, drifted to sleep, fingers moving, lips trembling.

  A nurse entered Lena’s room. Syringe in hand. “Meds are doing a number on the poor thing. She gets a bit spacey.”

  I knew Lena had seen the children, long before me. I knew she’d battled the darkness before I ever realized it, and I had yet to learn if she’d won that battle.

  * * *

  I took the bus to the city every other afternoon, visiting modern art galleries on the East Side, and spent my days studying works of contemporary painters, especially German Expressionists—the pain and torture they expressed. Once back home, I sketched twisted figures and bloody scenes.

  I slept very little, and when slumber came, I was plagued by bizarre dreams of Alex. In the beginning she walked through Castell, children following her, gliding through a smoky landscape. As time went on my dream visions became violent. Faceless specters inflicted pain on Alex, biting, scratching and cutting her, until blood rained from an inky sky. The last series of dreams ended with Alex’s dead body nailed to a wall.

  I rationalized the nightmares were due to a combination of exhaustion and horrific art exhibits. I kept them from Joe, and from my doctor. They were only dreams, not waking visions of children come to taunt me.

  The dark, eerie feelings stayed with me constantly, and I decided serene New England landscapes wouldn’t induce night terrors. I’d speak to Alex, and hoped she’d understand…and maybe I just needed to see her again.

  18

  I went to Alex on a sunny Saturday afternoon, fearing phantoms might haunt me at night. She looked as though she’d been waiting for me, smiling wide when I knocked on her office door, gesturing for me to take a seat by her desk.

  “How are you, Donna? I heard what happened. I’ve missed you and your paintings,” she said, eyes flickering to the stone slab on her desk. “Are you painting the kind of stuff I love?”

  I collected my thoughts for a moment, and then began to speak slowly. “Not all the time. I go back and forth.” I waited a moment for her to speak, and when she didn’t, I continued my confession, looking into eyes without expression, without sympathy. “Maybe my dreams—my visions—will go away if I paint the way I used to. I could have been killed…”

  Her face remained serious, and her words cold, like ice. “Donna, then it’s no use. I can’t exhibit your work. Collectors want to feel a rush of adrenaline when they come to my gallery. They want guts—a visual statement, bringing them over the edge. You’ve got to release those feelings—visions. Get them on canvas. That’s the only thing that’ll help you.”

  “Oh, are you my doctor now?”

  “No, but I want to nurture your talent. You’ve got to let go, pull out all the stops. In all the years I’ve been teaching, there’s been no one like you.”

  “Wow,” I told her, “pretty intense, but I’m not sure I want to risk my life for art.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that your art is more sophisticated than you are?”

  Maybe she’d been right, or maybe she’d confused me more. I needed to change the subject, to find out if she knew anything about Ben. “Hey, do you know Ben Gable, the security guard? He’s been here a while.”

  “Donna, Ben Gable used to be a security guard here about thirteen years ago. I was in high school, taking advanced classes. Nice guy. How do you know about him?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  She waved a finger back and forth. “Somebody’s pulling your leg. Ben Gable hanged himself down in the boiler room. They closed the school for a few days after it happened.”

  “Can’t be,” I told her. Terror filled me. Was Ben really a walking dead man? Or had someone played a cruel joke on me?

  “Hey, maybe I’m mistaken.” She bit her bottom lip. “Show me the guy when you can. We’ll figure it out. Now, let’s talk about art.” She smiled slyly.

  A woman’s voice, sad and angry, erupted in my mind. “Ben’s been dead for years.”

  “Yeah, he’s around during classes. I’ll bring him by next semester or something.” It occurred to me Alex might be joking. I wouldn’t put it past her. She could be pitiless and bitter. Yet the terror remained, growing stronger and stronger.

  “Good.” Alex’s lips curled wickedly as she said, “That young new artist, Brenda Andrews, now she’s got spunk. She studied with me a few years ago, right out of high school. She’s come a long way. I’m thinking of making her feature artist at my new gallery. I’m having dinner with her tomorrow evening—to talk about her art.”

  “I’ve seen her work. It’s good,” I told her, still thinking of Ben, of how Andrea had told me she’d never seen him, and then I thought about Ben’s disturbing alliance with Charlie.

  “Your stuff is better. Just paint from your heart.”

  “We’ll see.” I wanted an easy way out, a simple life, far removed from pain and longing, but I also understood dark feelings—and desires—were part of me.

  “Try,” she whispered.

  And I left her, making promises I might not be able to keep, and then venturing down a dimly lit corridor, and someone called out, “Donna.”

  Andrea stood there, arms reaching out to me.

  “Andrea. Where have you been? We’ve all been worried.”

  She beckoned me to follow her, and then blended with shadow as she moved ahead, down flights of stairs, into the belly of Castell, down winding corridors, into a room dark and thick with smoke, with broken toys amid rusting machinery.

  And I told myself countless times, it must have been a dream when I found Andrea hanging from a basement pipe, belt tied around her neck, dangling like a marionette’s ruined puppet, her hands flopping, and broken bones protruding through her skin.

  “This isn’t real,” I’d whispered, as wind spiraled from an open window, and Andrea’s body swayed, and her head bobbed up and down.

  I fell to my knees, feeling everything turn black, and when I awoke, I heard children singing, as police lights flashed, and Detective Mansi brought me home, gazing at me, as he drove down darkened streets, asking me if I’d be okay. Later he told me someone called 91
1, but it hadn’t been me, all I remember is a little girl standing over me, rope clutched in her hands, telling me…

  “You’re next.”

  19

  Castell closed for a week, a barrier of yellow tape surrounding its exterior. Detective Mansi came to see me a few times, asking the same questions over and over, “How did you find the body, Donna?”

  “A girl showed me.”

  “What girl? Where did she go?”

  “I think it was Andrea…I think…”

  “That doesn’t make sense…Andrea was already dead. Think about what you’re telling me.” And he’d shake his head. “Looks like she killed herself, but it would nice to question that girl…maybe she saw something…knows something….”

  “You don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “Maybe I do.” And he’d leave me there, crying, confused and shaken.

  Sylvia wouldn’t take my calls, drawing her shades, keeping her house dark, and sometimes, when I drove by with Joe, I’d see children in her yard, surrounding the house, holding hands and swaying as snow flurried around them.

  They buried Andrea at St. Timothy’s, in a family plot, next to a cousin who’d had a similar fate decades before—pronounced dead with severe trauma to the upper cervical spine—an apparent suicide.

  But I’d seen Andrea again, on several occasions, emerging from shadowy corners and walking over icy pavement, a phantom—disappearing before I could touch her—leaving behind smoky tentacles—an ectoplasmic mist.

  Joe sent me back to Dr. Calibri, and he prescribed more pills, making me spacey, giving me a strange dream where I walked with Andrea as dead children followed and sang macabre nursery rhymes.

  After Andrea’s death—after mourning turned to denial, then anger, and finally to acceptance, I realized the fragility of life, and ordered myself to take chances I’d previously feared, and Andrea told me in foggy dreams to be fearless, because in the end death takes us all, reducing us to phantoms, cursed to walk in a murky otherworld…forever.