by Paul Seiple
“I’m not sure what I saw here,” Don said.
“It started when Lisa brought that guitar home,” Cynthia said, pointing to an acoustic guitar wedged into the corner of the room.
“She thinks the guitar is cursed. Tyler wanted to learn to play. I couldn’t afford a new guitar, so I picked one up at the pawn shop.”
Don didn’t say anything.
“A few weeks later, Tyler started talking back. He never did that before,” Cynthia said.
“How old is Tyler?” Don asked.
“He’s thirteen. Thirteen-year-old kids talk back,” Lisa said.
“They don’t float in the air,” Cynthia said.
“I can try to find someone to help you,” Don said. “But there is nothing I can do.”
“Can you just stay until Mason gets here?” Lisa asked. “Tyler is calm when others are here.”
“Who’s Mason?” Don asked.
“Some kook she found on the Internet who claims to talk to the dead,” Cynthia said.
“He’s a medium,” Lisa said.
“We need a priest,” Cynthia said.
A knock on the door put an end to the bickering.
“Hello?”
A short, frail-looking older man with a graying beard and matching shoulder-length hair introduced himself as Mason Atkins. He closed his eyes and stood still. Mason stayed this way for a few minutes before opening his eyes and asking for the guitar.
Lisa grabbed the guitar from the corner and handed it to Mason.
“Ah yes. Another musician swearing his allegiance to the dark for a chance at fame.” Mason carefully placed the guitar against the wall. “Legend has it that bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, right here in Mississippi. For his soul, he became one of the greatest blues guitarists of all time.” Mason chuckled. “He couldn’t play a note before that.” He picked the guitar up again and strummed the strings. “Your son isn’t possessed, Miss Curtis. Not yet, anyway. But I must remove this guitar from your house.”
“Take it, get it out of here,” Cynthia said.
“Will Tyler be normal now?” Lisa asked.
“He will be fine,” Mason said, strapping the guitar to his shoulder. “I see this all the time. People bring an object into their home, and that object brings with it a history. Sometimes that history has negative energy.”
Don, thinking back to everything he had read about demons and the supernatural, spoke up. “I thought objects couldn’t be possessed...only people.”
Mason smiled and extended his hand. “You are right, officer.”
“Don McDowell,” Don said, shaking Mason’s hand.
“Demons—and let’s make no bones about it, a demon is involved here—cannot possess objects. However, objects can carry negative residue. I like to call it demon dust.” Mason paused to laugh. “It’s like a dinner bell, telling them it’s time to eat.”
“Mom, I’m hungry.” Tyler’s weak voice echoed through the hall.
Lisa cut a glance at Mason. She didn’t speak, but her eyes held a hint of fright.
Mason placed his wrinkled hand riddled with liver spots onto Lisa’s. “He’s fine. Give him a peanut butter sandwich.” Mason tapped the neck of the guitar. “I’ll be on my way now.”
Don followed Mason out of the house.
“What are you going to do with that thing? Burn it?” Don asked.
Mason stopped and faced Don. “Oh no.” He held the guitar out toward the sunlight. “It’s easy to destroy the object. Impossible to destroy negative energy. It’s better to keep it contained to the object instead of playing hide-and-seek with the darkness. This beauty is going into a sealed case. I’ll have my assistant bind the negative energy.”
“Bind the energy?”
“Debbie will use a trapping spell to make sure this energy is contained.” Mason reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt and pulled out a business card. “Give me a call anytime you want to see how other worlds works.” Mason winked.
Don looked the business card over.
“You’ve seen the other side, haven’t you?” Mason asked.
“I saw a ghost once. And I saw that boy in there levitate over the bed while speaking in tongue.”
“How long have you been a cop?” Mason asked.
“About ten years.”
Mason smiled. “Give me a call. I could use someone like you on my team.” He lifted the hatch on a beat-up Pinto station wagon. The car was green with faux wood-paneling down the sides. Mason gently placed the guitar in the back and waved goodbye before spending five minutes trying to get the car to start.
“You need for me to call someone?” Don asked, walking to the driver’s side.
Mason smiled. “She’s finicky, but loyal.” He turned the key again. A plume of black smoke escaped the exhaust. The car started. “Remember, if you want to see how the other side lives, give me call.”
Don stepped back and watched the Pinto disappear in a fog of exhaust.
“Hello?” Terrence said, opening the huge wooden doors of Don’s museum. “Anyone home?”
“Come on in, detective,” Don said, dusting a glass case that housed a 1986 Hondo acoustic guitar.
Kim followed Terrence through the doors. Before she could speak, a voice cut her off.
“She’s been touched by madness.”
“Excuse me,” Terrence said.
An old man with a long white beard stepped out from Don’s office. He was wearing a plaid shirt, a fishing hat that had few tufts of white hair peeking out from underneath, and his back hunched. He walked with a slight limp but no cane.
“Who is this?” Kim asked.
The old man extended his hand to Kim. “Mason Atkins.”
Kim was hesitant to shake his hand. She nodded. “What do you mean ‘madness’?”
“Mason sees things that try to hide in this world,” Don said, putting the dusting wand down.
“Like a clairvoyant?” Terrence asked.
Mason chuckled. “I can’t read your future, young man. But I can see if the things that lurk in the dark have taken a liking to you.” He eyed Kim. “And my dear, I’m afraid you’ve drawn the attention of a nasty bunch.”
“Cut the bullshit. What do you know about me?” Kim asked.
“Kim,” Terrence said.
“It’s OK, detective. It’s common for people to become frustrated when they’ve been touched,” Mason said.
Mason reached out and grabbed Kim’s hand. She tried to pull back, but the old man had a surprisingly tight grip.
“You’ve seen something so rare, that even those who have witnessed demons possess the souls of innocents refuse to believe.”
“Let her go,” Terrence said.
Don placed his hand on Terrence’s shoulder. “He’s not hurting her.”
“Miss Strode, you’ve seen The Mayhem, haven’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“An energy has latched itself to you like a parasite, slowly sucking the life away,” Mason said, letting go of Kim’s hand.
“Why me?” Kim asked.
“Your father is the cop who put Elvin Hayes away, correct?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“Whoever invoked The Mayhem is seeking revenge against those who had a part in Hayes’s fate,” Mason said.
“Is my dad in danger?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Strode,” Mason said.
“What do we do?” Terrence asked.
“Tell me what you’ve seen, Miss Strode?” Mason asked.
Kim started with the flash in the window at the Tate residence. Then she told them about the incident at Lake Norman where, after passing out, she viewed Luke Barton’s death through his eyes.
“Kim, why didn’t you tell me about that?” Terrence asked.
“Miss Strode, you actually saw Jaime Barton drown his brother?”
“I saw something that looked like the kid kill him, but his face turned to snakes.”
“Very
interesting. A serpent demon,” Mason said, twirling a few scraggly hairs from his beard around his index finger.
“And then this morning, Tommy Lloyd died in his hospital room. I saw the words ‘The Mayhem was here’ written on the wall. No one else could see it.” Kim swiped to the photo on her phone and handed it Mason. “Can you see the words?”
Mason brought the phone closer. He only saw a pale-yellow wall. He shook his head.
“Well, they are right there in blood red against that shitty yellow wall,” Kim said.
“How do we stop it?” Terrence asked.
“There’s no known way to reverse the curse. Its origins trace back to Native American lore. One of the lesser known hypotheses about The Lost Colony of Roanoke is that the Tsenacommacah people cursed the colonists with some variation of The Mayhem,” Mason said.
“We don’t need a history lesson. We need to find a way to stop this,” Kim said.
“How do we find who created the curse?” Terrence asked.
“Start with people close to Hayes,” Don said.
“He had no one,” Kim said. “His mother died when he was eighteen. He never knew his father. No siblings.”
“It could be a fan of Hayes,” Terrence said.
“That makes it nearly impossible,” Kim said. “He had a cult-like group of followers who call themselves the Haydes. Most have probably blended into society by now.”
“The demons will lead you to the one who summoned them. In the only documented case of The Mayhem, the summoner succumbed to her demons before her revenge was complete...”
“We know this. He told us yesterday.” Kim pointed at Don. “How do we protect my dad?”
“I can have Debbie perform a protection spell. It may help. But, honestly, Miss Strode, I’ve never dealt with something of this nature. It couldn’t hurt to pray.”
“Who’s Debbie?” Terrence asked.
“My colleague. She’s a white witch.”
“I don’t believe in God,” Kim said.
“You’ll have no choice but to believe in God after this is over,” Mason said.
Ten
Sara Tate pulled the comforter tight against her chin. She spent a good part of the night worrying her father wouldn’t come home. She finally dozed off about five in the morning. An hour later, a coldness woke her from sleep. At first, it was a subtle breeze, but as time passed, the room felt like a meat locker. The bedspread covered in her favorite Disney characters couldn’t protect Sara from the bone-chilling freeze. Her teeth chattered. She wanted to cry again but fought back tears, fearing they would turn to ice.
“I’m sorry.” The voice blew frigid air onto the side of Sara’s face, sending her blonde hair away from her ear. “I didn’t mean for them to take your father.”
“You’re not nice,” Sara said.
A drop of water hit the bedspread, burning a hole through the fabric. Sara sat up and pressed against the headboard. Jessica Challis sat on the edge of the bed. She clutched a stuffed toy bear. Tears trailed down her cheeks. Each time one hit the bed, another hole appeared.
“I thought we were friends,” Jessica said. “Look, I brought you a present.” She held the bear towards Sara. “Her name is Gorgon.”
“You had my daddy put in jail,” Sara said.
“I fixed it, though. I went and talked to the police. Your daddy should be home soon. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ve been so lonely in this house.”
Sara reached for the stuffed bear. Jessica smiled as Sara took the toy and brought it to her chest. “Gorgon? I like that.”
“Are we friends again?”
“I guess so,” Sara said. “But promise me you won’t hurt my daddy again?”
“Pinkie swear,” Jessica said.
Screams from Charlie’s room took Sara away from the conversation. Jessica was gone.
“Charlie?” Sara said.
Charlie Tate thrashed in his bed. The sheets wrapped around his body like tentacles. He screamed again.
“Charlie, honey, what’s wrong?” Norma asked, rushing into the room.
“My stomach hurts so bad.” The boy’s face was turning blue. “Help me.” He leaned over the side of the bed and vomited.
Sara stood in the doorway watching Norma try to comfort Charlie. She held the boy against her body, rocking him.
“Get dressed, honey,” Norma said to Sara. “We’re taking your brother to the hospital.”
Sara ran back to her room just as Charlie let out a guttural cry.
“What’s wrong with your brother?” Jessica asked. She entered the room, walking through a wall.
“Did you hurt him?”
“Of course not,” Jessica said.
“Sara, come on. We have to go,” Norma said, trying to carry Charlie down the steps. Norma lost her balance momentarily, twisting her ankle, but she held on to her son.
Sara ran down the stairs after her mother, carrying her new stuffed bear.
“Open the car door,” Norma said, handing the keys to Sara as Charlie leaned over and vomited again.
Sara raced to the car and got the back door open just in time for Norma to drop Charlie onto the backseat.
“Get in,” Norma said. She walked with a considerable limp to the driver’s side.
“Mommy, are you OK?” Sara asked.
“I’m fine, honey. We have to get your brother to the hospital.”
From Sara’s bedroom, Jessica watched the minivan speed away. Her breath caused the glass to fog. She giggled and scribbled the word “Mayhem” on the clouded window.
Sara watched cartoons with a nurse while an ER doctor checked out Norma’s ankle. Charlie was in another room being monitored. Charlie fell into a deep sleep after they left the house. He woke when they arrived at the emergency room with no recollection of what happened. He was in no pain.
“Your mom’s going to be fine. I doubt it’s a break,” the nurse said.
“Sara.”
“Daddy.”
Sara hopped off the couch and ran to her father. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Ben held Sara at arm’s length. “Don’t even think about that. How’s your brother?” He turned, looking for Norma. “Where’s your mom?”
“Mrs. Tate is in x-ray,” the nurse said. “She twisted her ankle, but she’s fine. Your son is in room 21 resting comfortably.”
“Ben,” Norma said, limping into the waiting room on crutches. “Just a sprain.”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” the nurse said.
Ben waited for the nurse to return to the information desk. “Something’s not right with that house,” he said.
“I slipped trying to help Charlie down the stairs,” Norma said. “It had nothing to do with the house.”
“And Charlie. What’s wrong with him?” Ben asked.
“The doctor says he thinks it’s food poisoning,” Norma said.
“We ate the same thing last night, Norma. No one else is sick,” Ben said.
“It’s Jess,” Sara said, tossing her stuffed bear to the couch. “She’s doing this.”
“Who’s Jess?” Ben asked.
“She lives in the house too. She told me she was my friend, but I think she hurts people,” Sara said.
“This is your imaginary friend?” Norma asked.
“She’s real.” Sara picked up the bear. “She gave me this.”
Ben snatched the bear from Sara, Ben turned to Norma. “You think this is normal.” He tossed the bear in a trashcan. “We’ve got to get out of that house.”
“Charlie is finally asleep,” Norma said, putting on an apron.
“I wish the hospital would have kept him,” Ben said between sips of coffee. He stared out the kitchen window at the decrepit shed where Sara hid the night before.
“The doctor said he was fine,” Norma said.
“He’s safer there.” Ben poured another cup of coffee. “Something in this house makes me angry. The anger went away when I left this house.”
“We will figure out the problems.” Norma cracked a couple of eggs into a pan on the stove. “I’m sorry they took you away. I begged them not to.”
Ben put his arm around Norma and brought her close. He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t be sorry. I can’t let my anger get the best of me. You shouldn’t stand on that ankle.”
“I’m fine. I need to move around. It’s just a sprain.”
“I want eggs,” Sara said. She sat at the table, wiping sleep from her eyes.
Ben smiled and took a sip of coffee. “I’m going to try figure out how those squirrels are getting in today.”
“You won’t find anything, Daddy.”
“And why is that?”
“Jess lives in the attic. She’s not very nice. Squirrels aren’t making the noise. It’s her.”
Norma scooped eggs onto Sara’s plate and took a seat beside her. “How come we can’t see Jess?”
Sara stabbed at the eggs with a fork. “Charlie saw her. She made him sick.”
“Honey, Charlie has food poisoning,” Norma said.
“I told you, Norma, no one else got sick.” There was a hint of anger in Ben’s tone.
“Don’t get mad, Daddy. That’s what Jess wants.”
“There is something really wrong with this house,” Ben said. He put the coffee mug in the sink and left the room.
“Jess is upset with me,” Sara said.
Norma placed her hand on Sara’s. “Why is she mad at you?”
“She told me not to tell anyone she was here. But she hurt Charlie. I’m afraid she’s going to hurt all of us.”
Norma kissed Sara’s forehead. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you, baby.”
“Be careful,” Norma said, steadying the ladder as Ben disappeared through a cloud of dust into the attic.
“How the hell does a house have an attic without an attached ladder?” Ben asked.
Norma ignored Ben’s question. “Do you think there is any truth to these things Sara is seeing?”
“If you’re asking me if I think this house is haunted, yes,” Ben said.
A faint smell of decay clung to dust swirling around Ben’s nostrils. The beam from the flashlight barely penetrated the signs of neglect. No one had been in the attic for years. Ben stepped onto a small wooden platform surrounded by pink insulation. The stagnant air burned as Ben inhaled. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. With each step he took, the temperature seemed to rise ten degrees.