Sunfall Manor

by Peter Giglio

  Edgar sits down on the other side of the room and glances at Mike’s antique grandfather clock. The clock’s old, but Mike keeps it in perfect running condition. 3:51 a.m. Only a couple hours ‘til dawn.

  “Hello, Ladies and Gentleworms,” Mike squeals in a strained falsetto, taking the puppet strings into his hands. “Allow me to introduce you to Grim and Cy.”

  As far as Edgar can tell, the only difference between the two puppets is that Cy has one eye and Grim has two. The same old puppets Mike always uses, now with different names. Then Edgar gets the joke—Cy, short for Cyclops—and laughs. But, much as he hates to admit it, he’s laughing at Mike, and that makes him feel bad.

  Mike continues his routine, making the puppets argue back and forth in no meaningful way.

  “You stole the cookies,” Cy says.

  “No, you stole the cookies,” replies Grim.

  Similar banter fills the next few minutes, though it feels much longer to Edgar. The puppets begin to tussle, their wooden legs banging the Formica tabletop, a hectoring cacophony. Mike grabs another puppet with his right hand, awkwardly moving Cy’s strings to his left, and the two wooden children become intertwined.

  The new puppet has three eyes—two in the right place, the third on its forehead—and a long mane of blonde hair.

  “Boys,” the new puppet shouts.

  “It’s Mom,” the tangled mess responds twice. Edgar can’t tell Cy or Grim apart any longer.

  “Violence never solves a thing,” Mom says. “Now you boys make up and play nice or it’s lights out and no boysenberry pie for you.”

  Mike tries to untangle his puppets so they can carry out the next scene, but only manages to make a greater mess. Frustrated, he drops the glorified wooden blocks to the table and steeples two fingers beneath his chin.

  Edgar applauds politely.

  “Still needs something,” Mike says. “Still…” Then he snaps his fingers and rushes into the bedroom. A few clatters, thuds, and squeaks later, he returns with a guitar. Strumming, though not creating anything approaching a tune, he sings about a faraway planet named Astrolox, a land where everyone, regardless of race or religion, gets along in peace. Although it sounds like Mike is inventing the lyrics as he goes, Edgar has heard this song many times before. It’s always the same—every word, every hesitation—and Edgar once again applauds, though more enthusiastically this time.

  Edgar doesn’t normally enjoy any of Mike’s routines, but now, in light of tonight’s grim events, he finds himself viewing Mike through a new filter. The guy’s efforts are starting to shine.

  Mike honks his bright red nose and says, “That’s the ticket to stardom. Yessir, yes indeed.” Back at the kitchen table, he shakes a cigarette out of a pack labeled Basic and lights it. He takes a drag, followed by a few unhealthy coughs, then honks his nose again and smiles. “Yes indeed,” he repeats.

  Mike finishes his victory smoke—he only has one when he’s marking an accomplishment. Then Edgar follows him to the bathroom. Mike takes off the clown getup, letting the large yellow suit fall to the floor. He leans over the sink in his underwear and starts to clean the makeup from his face. His dark skin is deeply scarred by burns and blades and other things Edgar can’t begin to identify. This is a revelation to Edgar, though hardly shocking.

  It doesn’t take long for the hot water to fog the mirror, but Mike keeps scrubbing his face without wiping the glass, repeating his mantra: “Yes indeed.”

  Unable to resist, Edgar writes a message on the misty glass.

  YOU’RE GREAT!

  Mike opens his eyes and looks at the offering. He studies it for a moment, then smiles. “I always knew I wasn’t alone. But…but I can’t read, so I don’t know what you’s tryin’ to tell me. Is it good? Do you like my act?”

  Edgar nods.

  “Been hearin’ that America’s Got Talent is gonna do tryouts in Omaha soon. Tryin’ to get my act together to win the million bucks. Think I can do it?”

  Edgar draws a crude thumbs-up below his previous message, and Mike’s mostly toothless smile becomes a crooked grin, milky makeup running down his dark face. “Really? You really do? I’m what this country needs, you know, good ol’ fashion family entertainment. The kind Walt gave us when we was kids.” Mike begins singing a mangled version of “When You Wish upon a Star,” and Edgar removes himself from the bathroom.

  His new friend still singing, Edgar studies the various artifacts on myriad shelves—porcelain clowns and barnyard animals, crystalline angels and rosy-hued cherubs, and photographs, all framed in Wal-Mart’s best. A younger version of Mike, looking crazy as ever, stares back at Edgar from a color-faded image, his arm around a younger boy.

  Mike steps into the living room, wiping his face with a towel. “You still here?” he says. “Didn’t scare you off none with my singin’, did I?”

  Edgar picks up the photograph and hands it to Mike.

  “Good, good. Thought you’d run off on me.” He looks at the image. “Ah, you’s interested in history. Makes sense, I s’pose. This here is me and my brother, Ty. He went off and died in Vietnam. Me, I couldn’t go on account of bein’…well, I couldn’t go. Hey, you’re not Ty, are ya? Come back to check in on me?”

  Edgar shakes his head. Though he doesn’t know who he is, he’s sure he isn’t Ty Collins. For one, he doesn’t feel a particular connection to the sixties. And he’s pretty sure he’s white, a thought that makes him chuckle. “Of course I’m white,” Edgar says. “I’m a ghost.”

  “If you’s Ty, knock somethin’ down right now. But don’t break anything nice, ‘less you is one of them poltergeists or somethin’.”

  A few silent moments pass, then Mike says, “Nah, didn’t think you was Ty. Different handwriting on the mirror. Ty could read and write real good, but even smart folks had a hard time figurin’ out his chicken-scratch hand. And I didn’t figure you was angry neither. Don’t guess angry spirits draw thumbs-ups on crazy folk’s mirrors.”

  Mike sits down on the couch. “Stay for a while if you can, ‘less you got some folks to haunt. I don’t get many visitors, and I could sure use someone to talk to.”

  Edgar sits next to Mike.

  “All right,” Mike says, “move that remote control if you’s still here.”

  Edgar moves the remote an inch, and Mike laughs. “Boy oh boy, this is cool. ‘Bout the coolest things that’s happened to me since Shadowall.”

  “Shadowall?” Edgar asks, intrigued.

  “Bet you wanna hear about Shadowall,” Mike says. “Everyone likes to hear this one, even if they look at me funny while I’m tellin’ it, like I’m lyin’. I’m not, but I do tend to ramble. If I ramble on too much, you go ahead and move that there clicker again. I’ll know to stop if it moves.

  “It started when I was five years old. I’d just come out of the hospital on account of a ruptured ‘pendix. Mom says I just ‘bout died of fever. Was in there for more’n a month. Pretty scary business for a little guy.

  “Anyway, it was my first night back home from the hospital, and I couldn’t sleep to save my skin. Just tossin’ and turnin’, trying to find a comfortable way to the sandman. And that’s when it happened. One of the walls of my room lit up real bright. At first I thought it was on account of a passin’ car outside my window. But this was more like the wall was…was making its own light…like the light was coming from inside instead of outside.

  “I was only five. Didn’t know what to make of the whole thing. Heck, I’d been read my last rights and pretty much written off as a goner. So I just stared at the bright wall, thinkin’ that God was maybe gonna take me home after all. Wouldn’t have hurt me none. The way I’d seen heaven in pictures, with clouds and pretty music, I figured I might just get a good night’s sleep up there.” Mike laughs. “I sure needed it, too. Still do, as a matter of fact. But ever since Shadowall, I can’t sleep at night no more. That’s why I worked graveyard shift so many years, down at Henderson’s farm, doin’ all manner of things th
at wound my stomach in knots. But that’s not what you wanna hear ‘bout.

  “Shadowall didn’t scare me none, not like Henderson’s farm did. No sir, it didn’t, but I’m afraid that if I’m asleep I might miss it when it comes back. Ain’t never seen nothin’ else like it. No sir. I hate to do this to you, but can you move that clicker a little if you really want to hear about Shadowall?”

  Edgar moves the remote.

  “That’s so cool,” Mike says. “All right, all right. So the wall’s so bright that it’s got a rainbow halo around it, the way the moon sometimes gets when the clouds’re just right. And I’m squintin’ real good, my best Clint Eastwood, waiting for somethin’ to happen. Suddenly shadows start dancing up there on the wall, just like there’s a projector and someone’s putting on a show in front of the bulb. But the only projector in town is down at Holiday Drive-In, and, I swear on all that’s holy, I’m the only one in the room. For ten nights in a row the most amazin’ shows play out on my wall. Dancing girls, which is okay ‘cause they was only shadow, and puppets, and dinosaurs, and…well anything you can imagine! It all went right up there on Shadowall—every little thing my heart desired. After every show I slept like I’d never slept before. The best ten nights of my life.

  “Then it all went away.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. And you’re right—I am crazy. Made peace with that a long time back, and it don’t hurt me none. But I don’t think I was too bad back then. I ‘spect that fever tore up my brain a good deal—why I can’t read. Yessir, I think someone was looking out for me back then. I don’t know if it was a guardian angel, or aliens, or any number of weird things. But it or he or she or they wanted me to be okay. Move the clicker a little if you’re here to bring back Shadowall.”

  Mike frowns a little when the remote doesn’t move, but his smile returns quickly. “Yeah, was afraid of that. Still, this is pretty cool, talkin’ to a ghost and all. Bet you was a nice person who did a bunch of good things for others. Someone real special and important. Whatever you are…thank you.”

  And with that, Mike closes his eyes and falls asleep, a look of contentment on his face.

  – VII –

  Cry from Below

  Edgar hears the piercing whine the moment he steps into the hallway. Instead of going up to the attic, he moves down the stairs, the teakettle cry growing louder with every step. It dawns on Edgar that Mac isn’t asleep because he’s too high, and Mike isn’t the victim of childlike exhaustion. He’s also sure that Art and Carolyn and the girl with many names aren’t downstairs having a tea party.

  On the first-floor landing, he peeks into Art’s apartment. Art is sprawled on the floor.

  Edgar looks through the window in the foyer. No sign of Ralph’s car yet. Then he looks in on Carolyn. She’s still dead. He considers going down to the cellar to locate the ruptured gas line. But how? He can move through walls, not floors and ceilings. Shaking his head, he returns to the second floor landing, thinks about the cellar one last time, and then takes the narrow stairway to the attic.

  A little less than an hour before sunrise, this is the most attic time Edgar’s ever been granted, and he doesn’t want to waste another second.

  – VIII –

  The Attic

  The newspapers are arranged in two different sets. The west side makes up those Edgar has gone through; the east side, those he hasn’t. Although he doesn’t read every word, Edgar scans the headlines of each story and always pays special attention to the obituaries.

  Now he’s working though the papers at a fast clip, still being careful not to miss a single page. Mercifully, the papers, though plentiful, aren’t dense publications. He breezes past world news stories about Iran Contra and Oliver North, skims local reports about bake sales and corn carnivals and Big Red football, drags his finger down the obits, looking for anything that tracks. Paper after paper, nothing does.

  Then…

  Allan Dale Poe, 24 years of age, of Sunfall, died Tuesday, September 25, 1989, as a result of an accident in the family home where he was residing. He was born on March 21, 1965, in Lincoln, Neb., to Dale and Jane Poe. He is survived by his mother, Jane.

  At the family’s request, no services are scheduled.

  No longer Edgar, Allan looks up, consumed by a flood of memories and a wave of sorrow. He remembers that Art Stillwater’s living room was once his bedroom. The south wall of the attic suddenly becomes bright, just like Mike’s childhood memory, a rainbow halo expanding…expanding…

  And Allan remembers everything.

  – IX –

  Home

  1989

  Allan couldn’t leave. His mother needed him. Ever since his father’s death the previous winter, the result of a motorcycle accident, Jane Poe’s drinking had become reason for grave concern, forcing Allan to withdraw from grad school at UNL and move home. Although he held onto his job at The Book Rack, a used bookstore in nearby Lincoln, which allowed him to escape three times a week (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday), it wasn’t enough. He missed his apartment, his friends, and his classes. He missed his life.

  When his mother had started dating a new man, Allan hoped she would be okay, looked after. But Kyle Irvin, ten years younger than her and filled with rage, was in even worse condition than her. Allan did his best to isolate himself in his room at night, where he would try to read. But dire arguments either bled through the walls, or he was afraid they might at any moment. Either way, he was a nervous wreck, unable to enjoy a moment’s peace in the family home.

  “He’s poisonous,” he’d told his mother that morning.

  “That’s not a nice thing to say,” she’d said, scrambling him eggs for breakfast. “Besides, not everything’s awful. You’ve got me to do your laundry and cook for you.”

  “Yeah, Mom, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You’re fine a lot of the time, but when you start drinking around him, you seem to lose yourself. I don’t want to see anything bad happen, and I can tell that Kyle isn’t our kind of guy.”

  “What kind of guy is he then? I like him, makes me feel young. Don’t you want your old mom to be happy?” Her bloodshot eyes spoke of anything but happiness.

  Of course he wanted her to be happy, but there was no reasoning with her. Still, she was right about one thing, though it was no thanks to her. Not everything was awful.

  The previous day at the bookstore, he’d met a girl. She had auburn hair not held aloft by copious Aqua Net—a fad he wished would die soon—sunkissed cheeks, and the deepest, most stunning emerald eyes he’d ever seen. More importantly, she was smart. A third year Creative Writing student, she shared his fondness for speculative fiction.

  She was flipping through Deathbird Stories by Harlan Ellison, wearing a Depeche Mode 101 concert tee, when he approached and asked, “Is there anything I can help you find?”

  “Yeah, do you have any Philip K. Dick?”

  “Get that question all the time,” he said. “No. Most everything’s out of print, and the second we get something of his, it’s gone before we can shelve it. Let me guess, you just saw Blade Runner for the first time?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Fair assumption. I’m doing a paper on his Exegesis theories, and the one copy of Valis in the school’s library seems to have gone missing. The assignment is to write about an author and his or her madness, and I’d sooner chew off my arm than write about L. Ron Hubbard.”

  “You could always take on Lovecraft.”

  “Nah, he was just a prick who wrote about madness.”

  “Blasphemy,” he said with mock indignation. They both laughed.

  They talked for more than an hour about their favorite authors. Hers were Frederik Pohl and Anne Rice. His were Robert Heinlein and Spider Robinson, which she said meant he was conflicted.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “One’s a fascist, the other’s so liberal he’s damn near a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.”

  They playfull
y argued, and he poked fun at her for reading sexy vampire novels. As they laughed and flirted, he counted three times she played with her hair, something he’d always heard meant a girl was interested. And she batted her eyelashes a lot—another tell-tale sign. Not that he’d ever paid attention to such things…until now, when it seemed like it finally mattered.

  She looked at her watch and said, “I’m going to be late for class if I don’t get going.”

  “What are you doing Friday night?” he asked.

  “Nothing that can’t be done some other time. Why?”

  “Let me take you out to dinner. I get off work at seven. You can meet me here. And if a copy of Valis comes through the door in the meantime, I’ll be sure to save it for you.”

  “Seven sounds great,” she said with a smile. Then she offered her right hand. “My name’s Ann.”

  “Ah, like Anne Rice,” he said, holding her hand but not shaking it.

  “No e at the end I’m afraid, and I can’t write near as well. Not yet.”

  “My name’s Allan,” he said.

  “Ann and Allan,” she said. “That…has a nice ring to it.”

  “I think so.”

  They slowly let go of each other, fingers trailing across palms.

  “Friday,” she said.

  “Friday,” he agreed. “Just like the Heinlein novel.”

  She pretended to gag, then shot him one last smile as she exited the store.

  On his way home, he stopped at a little bookstore that he knew in Seward. And, serendipity in full swing, they had a copy of Valis and A Scanner Darkly. So he picked the books up, and basked in good feelings all the way home.

  Allan was pulled from his reverie by an all-too-familiar disharmony, dust-filled rays no longer bleeding through the blinds of his sole window. Good feelings were gone. It was night, the time of discontent, a hectoring song by John Cougar Mellencamp blasting in the living room, but not loud enough to drown the sounds of fresh violence.