by Sandy DeLuca
“Vacation?”
“Sort of.” He laughed softly.
I moved up beside him, watched as he removed pine needles from a headstone. A name emblazoned on marble appeared: MELINDA CURRY.
“Our names are still here...”
I backed away, tripped on something, and then lost my balance.
Ben rushed to help me up. His hands were cold.
Feeling confused and embarrassed, I allowed him to help me up, my eyes flitting to that gravestone. I took a deep breath, rationalized I’d invented ghosts and children in the file room. This had to be another coincidence.
“Donna, are you all right?” Ben asked, concern in his voice.
“I don’t know. I hit my leg. Same place I got cut. It’s bleeding. I wanted to go to the studio, but—”
“You shouldn’t go anywhere. You need a ride home? Hey, look, I can drive you to the ER.”
I steadied myself. “No, Joe will take care of me.” I didn’t want to spend hours in an ER waiting room. “I’ll call him. He can take a few minutes out of work.”
“Come to my office.” Ben guided me to a Jeep parked at the edge of the trees, helped me inside, and then hurried to the driver’s side. Before long, he helped me through an entrance, and into his office.
“Phone’s there.” He led me to his desk, pulled out a chair and eased me into it. I called Joe. He’d be there in ten minutes.
“Want coffee or something? I can go to the vending machine.” Ben seemed on edge.
“You got work? You don’t need to wait with me.”
“No, you’re bleeding pretty badly. I shouldn’t leave you.” He pointed to my foot. Blood soaked through my jeans, trickling onto tiles.
“Where’d you get that cut?” he asked.
“Accident at work,” I told him. “Hey, that grave—Melinda Curry—what do you know about her?”
Ben sighed. “She was the first to die.”
“How do you know that?”
“Listen, you should be careful. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. I mean, there are things here, and once you’ve seen them—”
“You’ve seen them?”
“They never left.”
“Who never left, you’re talking about kids, right?”
“I’ll wait with you until your husband gets here.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “I never wanted to scare you.”
“I’ve seen them already,” I told him.
He touched his key ring. “They stay quiet for a while, and then they come back. Most people are too wrapped up in themselves. They don’t notice things haunting this place.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying more than I should…and done more…Don’t want anything happening to you, Donna.”
“Things have already happened.”
“You just don’t know—” He stopped speaking suddenly, looked to the floor.
“Ben, little kids go to heaven. Become angels and shit like that, right?”
“Maybe they don’t know they’re dead, and keep suffering here.”
“Ben, I don’t think—”
“Maybe the hereafter is just darkness. Maybe there’s no heaven, like we were taught.”
A car engine sounded outside. A door slammed. Suddenly Joe rushed through the door. “Donna, what happened? Not sure you should be out alone anymore. Not after this.”
“I’m all right. Ben helped me.”
“Who?” Confusion spread across my husband’s face.
“Ben—” I turned to thank Ben, and only a stream of vapor remained where he’d stood.
* * *
Joe dressed my wound, helped me out of my clothes and into bed. “You really should have gotten a new stitch or two, but you’re damn stubborn. Don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’m fine. Go back to work.”
“No, I want to stay.”
He held me, speaking softly, telling me how much he cared. I was glad for his love—for his touch—but I thought of others, and wondered if Evie had left because I’d hurt her, and had Alex missed me earlier?
Rain hit New England hard the following day. The Pawtuxet River overflowed, shutting down roads. Schools closed, and there’d been no traffic, but for an occasional city truck. I needed to catch up on my painting, so I told Joe, “I want to paint.”
“Sure, baby. It might be good for you.” He helped me to my studio, set up my easel and turned on bright overhead lights. I wanted to tell him I didn’t love him, but it would have been unkind.
Maybe a certain kind of love is better than none at all—and maybe Joe had been everything I needed.
Dr. Calibri wrote me out of work indefinitely, and I wondered if I’d become a woman who’d never work again, one who babbled about dead children and phantoms who haunted her. Would I end up in an asylum, spend my remaining years there? Or would I live to tell terrifying stories…passed down from long ago?
* * *
I painted with fervor for two weeks, beginning after a quick breakfast and a shower, and then falling asleep from exhaustion when the sun set. Joe brought me meals and kept our house clean, sitting by me as I slept, content to keep me safe—even as I dreamed.
I sometimes dreamed of Lena standing over Melinda Curry’s sickbed, mumbling chants, sprinkling the child with holy water.
“What did you do?” I asked my grandmother.
She turned to me. “It’s what we all did. What you’re about to do.”
The dreams dissipated by the end of the third week. By then I felt strong enough to bring my paintings to Alex. And Joe agreed to drive me there, helping me carry my art to the studio.
“I’ll wait in the cafeteria,” he told me, after making sure my canvases had been piled neatly on a wooden bench. “Come get me there when you’re done.”
“Don’t you want to meet Alex?” I asked. “She’s probably in her office.”
“No,” he said, turning, moving away, just as Alex exited her office.
“Donna. I’ve missed you. What have you got there?”
“Things I’ve been working on. I wanted your feedback.”
“Sure. Was that your husband I saw?”
“Yeah, that was Joe.”
She smiled slightly, and then said, “Well, let’s see.” She didn’t waste time, quickly gathering a stack of small canvases, hanging each one on studio wall hooks.
My heart raced as she stepped back, studying each one.
“Well, what do you think?” I asked when she looked my way.
“Most of these remind me of scenes from Disney. I love your bar paintings, the people…and that blonde woman. You’re on the brink of achieving something, but you’re not quite there. You’ve got to delve deeper. Go back to whatever inspired you.”
“I can’t… It might ruin my marriage. Maybe this was a mistake?”
She smirked. “What’s more important, being who you really are, or in a situation where you’re not really happy?”
“I’m not sure,” I told her.
“You’re sure. You’re just afraid of yourself. Someday you’ll be old, looking back and kicking yourself for not taking the leap.”
“I’ll try,” I told her.
Alex tried to soothe my uneasiness. “You just need more time.” Her eyes sparkled. Now she spoke in a teasing tone. “You know, I’m using magic to help you. And you realize there is no harm in what I’m doing—in what you’re doing?” She smiled. “I believe in Mada.”
I laughed. “Okay, drama queen. I’ll see what I can do.”
Now she laughed, deep and hard. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.”
Weeks passed, and I didn’t return to The Dark Shepherd. My paintings became photo-real landscapes. Sometimes a demon face, or two, peered out of foliage—but my work didn’t have the impact Alex desired.
So I went to her, ready to sever all ties, to settle into an ordinary life with Joe. I told her, “I can’t come into your world. I’ve tried, but I’ve got a good husband. H
e loves me. Why can’t you understand, Alex?”
She folded her arms, speaking in a hard, uncaring tone. “You’ve disappointed me. You just don’t get it.” She tied the belt of her leather coat around her small waist, and then grabbed her bag. “The opening at my new gallery is tomorrow night. You don’t have a damn thing I can show. I wanted you to be the star. I wanted you to paint a shocker, but you just don’t have the drive. I think this is the will of Mada. What else could it be after all I’ve…we’ve both done.”
I wanted to cry, but held back those tears. I realized I’d been wrong about myself—about what I’d wanted. I hoped I still had time to do what I needed to. I looked Alex in the eye, spoke with fury, with an annoyance I’d restrained. “Fuck Mada. Stop with that nonsense. Look, I have a couple of ideas. If I work all night, at least one of my canvases can hang in your exhibit. You’ll have what you want—and so will I.”
I had a few places to go. I left Alex there, knowing she’d wait. Knowing I could give her what she needed.
21
I remembered Lena’s possessions stored away, and a promise I’d made long ago.
Suddenly it seemed important to sift through those things, so I climbed the attic stairs as the sun set and foggy night cast its darkened spell. I bent, reached beneath an old braided rug and found an ornate key. I stood, and then unlocked the door. Smells of dampness hit me as I opened that door. Dust and neglect were evident when I flicked on the lights. Rain trickled down windows, and cold air drifted in through cracked glass.
I moved past empty racks, boxes and neat piles of Lena’s handmade clothes. They were part of her—a part of her life’s work.
I searched for a decorative box adorned with angels and Victorian women. I found it in the midst of velvet skirts, embroidered blouses and feathered shawls. I knelt before it, and then lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of black-and-white photographs; Lena, as a girl, posing in a park, surrounded by roses, violets and daisies, my grandfather outside church after Sunday Mass. Snapshots of my father when he’d been a child. Small boxes filled with my parents’ wedding pictures—my mother looked angry, fiery—my father aloof. More photos of Lena, dressed in pink satin, a diamond on her left ring finger. Finally an eight-by-ten print. Lena posed with a man, handsome, dark.
I stood, held it underneath a light.
Charlie.
Fear filled me. My hands shook, and I dropped the photograph. It sailed over old clothes, over the scratched wooden floor, and then landed beneath a window.
I spun on my heels. Lena stood there—transparent, floating with toes pointed. She raised her arms, parted her lips, and then slowly said, “The dead are calling. You have to go.”
Vapor rose up, consuming her. She cried out, and then was gone. Rain assaulted windows, and lights went out. Other voices called out. Hisses erupted. Footsteps sounded behind me. I ran through the gloom, and held my breath until I stepped over a dusty threshold, leaving behind horror, hoping Lena had not been doomed to darkness.
I ran downstairs, grabbed my keys and made my way to my car, whispering, “I love you, Gram.”
I gathered my strength and prepared for my work, taking one last look, and Lena stood there, hands pressed against cracked attic glass. But I sped away, knowing she slept in an overstuffed chair, cats draped across her lap, dreaming, while her spirit journeyed to mysteries she’d left for me to unravel.
22
I shivered with terror as I drove through the city, passing places of light, where theaters and galleries offered culture and goodness. I journeyed by darkened clubs, where I’d tasted forbidden love, and went to a deserted part of town, where crumbling buildings loomed over a barren landscape. I got lost, circling round and round, but finally found Walden Street. I parked my car near a graveyard, just as Andrea described— mournful, desolate—Charlie’s resting place. I knelt, began to claw at wet earth; deeper into a shallow grave, and I uncovered bones, hair and teeth. Silver charms, like Alex wore, lay inside a crumbling skull. Worms crawled through moist dirt. Something creaked behind me. I turned. The art store sign swayed in the wind, and lights flickered in an aged building.
Charlie stood in the doorway. “I’ve been waiting for you. I have what you need. Come in.”
“This place. It’s hard to find,” I told him.
“I’m always here. Not that hard.”
I didn’t hesitate, determined to please Alex, and I believed I knew what the dead wanted of me, so I followed.
Charlie stopped, turned, and then spoke slowly. “I love Lena.”
“I know, but what did you make her do?”
He shrugged. “She speaks to spirits. I taught her to call them—to bring them back; to bring me back. After a while she didn’t want anything to do with it. But I couldn’t let go. She left me, but now you’re here.” He sighed. “And there’s always hope she’ll change her mind.”
“Is that what this is all about? Love?”
“It’s about a lot more.”
He led me through the shop, and then moved far ahead of me—his footsteps sounding—ashes from his cigarette leaving a trail. I passed papers, paints and canvases, dusty and ancient. I stopped halfway down a flight of creaking wooden stairs, deciding it had been a foolish idea, so I turned and began to move quietly back upstairs, hoping I could make my way out before Charlie tried to convince me otherwise.
“I can’t do this,” I said. I continued my climb upward, then noticed someone hovering in darkness, gazing down at me from the landing, eyes menacing, face obscured by shadow.
“Where are you going, Donna?” A lightbulb flickered above, and then brightened, revealing Charlie leaning against a railing, smiling down at me. Posters of missing girls, torn and faded, tacked on a wall beside him.
“How—?”
“Can’t play around with this stuff, and once you’ve set something in motion, it’s best to follow through. We all do our part sooner or later.” He climbed downward, never taking his eyes off me, reaching my side, and then holding out his hand. I didn’t take it, just followed him through a door. The smell of rot—of death—permeated the air.
He removed a large burlap bag from a shelf, gathered tubes of paint from dusty boxes, brushes, canvas. He filled that bag, not forsaking bottles filled with crimson liquid. “All of it charmed, and guaranteed to create a masterpiece.”
I understood, but that understanding drifted away as I made my way into the night, into rain and haze.
Later, as I got into my car, I noticed dried, crusted stains on my palms. Memories of what occurred in the ghostly art store flickered away like fleeting, misty dreams. Images of fire, smoke and faces, masked with terror, came forth when I squeezed my eyes shut.
I looked to empty buildings and a forsaken graveyard. I leaned over, touched the burlap bag by my side. I envisioned Alex, the children, Ben and Charlie. I’d work through the night, bring Alex her treasure, and then I’d be free.
* * *
Lena sips tea, looks to the street, and then speaks slowly, “I knew you snuck out of bed when you were a kid and saw what went on.”
“Could never fool you, Gram.” I lean close to her, and then ask, “Was it real? Or just theater?”
“It was real, Donna. The dead talked to me since I was a kid. Scared me at first, but after a while I realized what they wanted.”
“What did they want?”
“To be remembered. To reach out,” she tells me.
“Do they still come?”
“Yes, always.”
“I wish you’d told me more.”
“I tried to protect you, but…you’re the one who…I tried. I’m so sorry.”
I hold her, knowing she might not have much longer…and the rain falls, like icy tears, bringing me closer to a darkened destiny.
23
Lena drifts to sleep, and Sylvia touches my shoulder, speaking in a whisper, eyes darting to my grandmother’s frail body. “He took her to the college—back when it was a hospital. They visit
ed sick kids—the dead ones, too. She only wanted to do good things with her gift—at least that’s what she thought she was doing, but Charlie was evil. He’d gone to the Middle East years before, learned a lot about communing with the dead. Lena said he could make them come back. That scared the living crap out of her.”
“I would have said you were crazy a year ago—six months ago—but not after what happened to Andrea…and me.”
Sylvia looks into my eyes. “He did something awful…”
“They’ve all come to me,” I tell her.
“I hope God forgives Lena.” Sylvia’s voice is filled with dread.
I think of Lena, praying by a statue of Saint Anthony, sprinkling holy water over her threshold, saying, “Dear God, please keep the wicked away.”
* * *
I imagined an enthusiastic crowd waiting at Gallery Alexandra. People would be drinking wine and speaking in soft tones beneath mirrored ceilings. They’d nod their heads in approval, or disapproval, as they gazed at paintings and sculptures.
I’d met Alex outside her gallery, and I trembled with excitement as she lifted the canvas from my car trunk, tearing away wrapping I’d carefully applied. She looked stunned for a moment, and then carried the art inside, leaning it against a door frame. “You’ve done it,” she said, and then she kissed me quickly on my cheek.
“I don’t remember much. I was focused on my work, painting through the night, going inside myself. I felt anger, and a lot of pain. I slept for a while, and I dreamed some freaky things.”
She patted my hand. “I’ve got a class. Have to hurry. Prop the canvas against the wall, and grab some wire and hooks from the back room. There’s a hammer there, too. I’ll take care of the rest. Your shocker will be the first thing they see.” She was breathless, bubbling with excitement. “Oh, I left your exhibition agreement and some pens on the desk back there. Make sure you fill it out before you leave. Lock the door behind you, will you?”