Tomorrow was Sunday, but he hadn’t had a real estate appointment in weeks, and he entertained the idea of giving it up altogether. After all it was Cheryl’s idea not his, and he didn’t particularly enjoy it. Sure the occasional commission check was nice, and he had gotten a whopper from the Porter place deal, but there were many more things that were important to him than money and he relished the idea of having his Sundays free from the burden of his real estate practice. Yep it was time to move away from the hassle.
Aiden’s eyes were growing weary and Ellie decided it was time for bed. After a soft protest he agreed after Randall consented to letting Chubs sleep in his bed with him. After brushing his teeth Aiden crawled into bed and Randall pulled the covers up around his neck. Chubs was more than happy to nestle up next to him, relishing the rare treat of sleeping on a bed. Randall bent over and kissed him gently on the forehead, he was unaware that Ellie stood at the doorframe watching. It brought tears to her eyes.
“Okay champ. Time to get some sleep. You too Chubs.” Amicable tail thumping occurred. He clicked off the light and headed for the door.
“Dad.”
The unexpected title hit him like a sledgehammer, stopping him dead in his tracks. Aiden was already half asleep and probably unaware of what he had just said but it spoke volumes about the relationship they had developed over their few short weeks together. Randall had never been a father, though the yearning was still there. He felt his eyes water just a bit.
“Yeah champ.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” And with that he closed the door.
Ellie had sidled back into their bedroom and Randall was unaware that she had heard the conversation that transpired between them but she had, every word. It scared her a bit to think how Randall might react, but it filled her heart with a hope for Aiden’s future, that he might yet get to have the dad that all kids deserved. Randall entered the room and stripped down to his boxer shorts before crawling in bed. He was exhausted and his head was spinning. Ellie glanced at him lovingly, thanking a higher power silently in her head.
She rolled over and kissed him on the lips. “I love you Randall Jackson.”
“Back at you.”
She was silent a moment. “He’s never had a father figure before.”
Randall opened his eyes and turned on his side to face her.
“I know.”
“It’s not too much to take in is it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just want to know what you’re thinking. If you become that part of his life…” She considered her next words carefully. “Then I need to know that it’s for keeps.”
The thoughts tumbled through her head. It was crazy she knew, Randall had reentered her life, or rather she had entered his just a short month ago, but they had always had a special kind of bond between them and it just felt right, natural even. Randall was quiet in the darkness, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. When he spoke it was soft and genuine.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way Ellie.”
“Have you ever given any thought to what Denny said earlier.” A pause. “About us I mean, about our future?”
“One thing at a time Ellie.”
She grew silent and closed her eyes, content for the time being to leave it at that, unaware that he had already purchased the ring.
SEVENTEEN
The first entry was dated:
23 February 1969
Moving day. Katrina and I are elated. The house is more than we ever dreamed. I spent the entire day in the basement sorting through old files and deciding where to set up the preparatory. Katrina spent her time wandering the floors above, marveling at the banisters, high ceilings, and of course the grand staircase. I have to admit the woodworking inside the house is quite breathtaking, though I am not one to concern myself normally with such artistry. Still the precision and skill in which each piece was crafted is extraordinary and I can appreciate the patience and persistence one must invoke in order to accomplish such a monumental task.
Katrina will have a grand time deciding how to use the abundant and spacious floor plan and I fear that we do not possess adequate furnishings to complete the entire décor. I don’t suppose we will ever find proper use for all ten bedrooms let alone the six baths, but the main entryway and adjoining entertaining rooms suit the mortuary perfectly. I shall have no problem providing adequate service to my patrons in their time of sorrow. Indeed we are quite excited to begin our new lives here and look forward to many happy years in our new home.
Abby flipped through the remaining pages quickly like an animated picture book. Porter definitely was not meticulous in his journal keeping, the diary entries were sporadic, skipping dates sometimes weeks at a time. He had an elegant prose that leapt off the page and she could almost hear Porter’s accent within her head as she read, this combined with lavish illustrations and well placed footnotes gave the reader an inside view of the inner workings of his mind. It read like a good book, one that she couldn’t put down. She wondered what Porter would think if their roles were reversed and he were reading her diary. She stifled a laugh picturing him thinking what a mundane piece of drivel this is, penned no doubt by a typical boorish American.
She sat at the desk in the hidden room, her secret room as she had come to think of it, an area of the house that was uniquely her own, escaping Jack’s knowledge and providing her sanctuary while he was away. This was her third trip down to Porter’s hidden study, although the second time she had not spent any time down here, utilizing it as a test run to see if she could navigate the tricky ramp with more success the second time around. She had put on a pair of worn leather gloves that she would no doubt wear in the wintertime when Darrow took her for an evening stroll, but for now they served a different purpose allowing her to control the speed of he wheelchair and protecting her palms from developing more painful blisters. It took her a while to gather up enough courage for the second trip. She had spent the days wheeling herself about the second floor, strengthening her arms and building her determination to regain some of her independence. These training sessions were done in secrecy of course. She did not want Jack to know anything of her excursions about the house while he was gone, and so she continued her routine of being utterly dependent upon him whenever he was around.
It was now mid September exactly two weeks from the day she had first discovered the study. She had not heard or seen anything of Brenda during this time and she was concerned, not knowing why her specterly friend had not appeared to her. Finally boredom had provided the needed courage to venture once again into the study and she was surprised to find that she could now navigate the ramp quite easily, allowing her time to read Porters intriguing diary. She continued flipping through the pages, scanning for entries that caught her eye, and reading other entries at random, hoping that one would give her an idea of what was occurring at Talcott Manor.
23 May 1980
Katrina’s birthday. Oh happy day! Sixty years ago today the Lord graced the Earth with his humble servant Katrina Anastasia Vesalic, known today as Katrina Anastasia Porter, my loving wife. Kat was quite distraught at the prospect of reaching her fiftieth year but I assured her that on this day her beauty shown more brightly than the first day we met. To honor the occasion I had purchased for her a diamond pendant of the most unusual beauty. I had crafted a fourteen karat gold setting in the shape of the letter K, upon the center I had placed the most spectacular diamond that shone like the sun on a clear summer day. When I placed the pendant around her neck I could have sworn that she herself shone more brightly than the sun, forgetting for the moment her woes about her advancing age. I do believe this shall be a birthday that we shall remember for all of time.
1 January 1981
We have welcomed in the new year with joyous hearts. Kat and I celebrated with a quiet dinner for two. She cooked an elaborate feast of pork tenderloin in a white wine sauce
(which was quite flavorful if not a bit overcooked), russet potatoes, cauliflower, and crisp snow peas. For dessert Kat fixed bread pudding and I must say it was the best I ever tasted. I had three helpings and am quite sure that it shall go straight to my belly but I shan’t worry about that now. We opened both bottles of Chateau St. Michelle that we have been saving for a special occasion. Kat had one glass and I imbibed the rest. I’m afraid I overdid it just a bit and this morning found me absolutely shattered.
I have begun preparations for the busy season. As my colleagues are still on holiday this noon I however am not. It is a shame that so many deaths occur around these times of celebration, but I suppose it is God’s will and I shall do my best to comfort their loved ones.
The diary was growing tedious, she flipped to the back half, hoping for something to jump out at her.
7 January 1989
There was a strange rumbling within the boiler room this evening, and when I went to investigate I found the room frigid to the point where my breaths formed in miniscule ice crystals on my mustache. I am quite perplexed as to how this is possible even in the dead of Winter as the boiler room is located below ground in the cellar and my preparatory in the next room remained a pleasant nineteen degrees Centigrade. More troubling are the strange noises that I have heard coming from the room late at night while I am at rest in my bedchambers. They are quite loud as to be audible two floors up and I fear that I may have trouble with the pipes. I do loathe plumbers so, but I’m afraid I have no choice but to call for one in the morning.
26 June 1989
Kat had a bit of a scare last night believing that she saw the spirit of a little girl. She awoke screaming something about being burned alive. The shrill terror in her voice curdled my blood and it was all I could do to calm her. I insisted that she had nothing more than a vivid nightmare. She must refrain from the terrible habit of eating blood sausage so close to bedtime; it does give her such terrible dreams.
Abby licked her fingers and turned the page. It seemed that Brenda had been paying visits to the residents of Talcott Manor long before she appeared to her, although she had failed to mention this detail. She related to the terror Katrina must have felt upon seeing Brenda for the first time. Her own experience still sent shivers down her spine whenever she recollected it. What concerned Abby most were Porter’s references to the odd noises in the boiler room. She skipped ahead hoping that the journal could give her an idea of what had been occurring in the mansion, not knowing exactly what it was that she was looking for. The next thirty pages held no information of any use. Porter prattled on and on about his business, his eating habits, and his fondness for wine. Finally an entry caught her eye.
13 March 1990
Katrina has become quite paranoid. I dare say now that the state of her mental health is of great concern. She insists that she has seen several spirits wandering the mansion despite my reassurances that such things do not exist. Indeed all of my efforts to quell her fears have been met with great resistance. Last night in particular was a harrowing ordeal. Kat flew into hysterics once again, claiming to have seen a ghoul of some sort. The fear in her mind was so great that she was besieged by convulsions and I was forced to physically restrain her, once subdued she slipped into a catatonic state and I made sure to check frequently on her throughout the night for fear that she might swallow her tongue and asphyxiate.
I must admit that a shadow of guilt lingers on my mind that perhaps my odd profession might have been the cause of her fears. The marriage to a mortician is certainly not an easy endeavor and I can’t help but wonder if after all these years her subconscious fears may have been triggered by my trade. I can only pray that her condition will better itself over time but I am not optimistic about the possibility. If the situation does not improve I will have no choice but to seek professional help. Of course I am no doctor but her paranoid delusions trouble me to great extent and I fear that perhaps she may be suffering from the early onset of schizophrenia.
May God have mercy on us all.
It’s not schizophrenia you twit, it’s all too real, and for that God should have mercy. Small beads of perspiration had formed on her brow, emerging like dew on early morning grass. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, suddenly aware of how stuffy the room had become, her own carbon dioxide fueling the rise in temperature. If only there was a damn window in here. She did her best to ignore the unpleasant conditions and turned the page. She immediately wished she hadn’t. The page was blank save for sixteen words scrawled across the middle in a different hand than that of Porter’s. Who the hell wrote this?
The dead shall walk the Earth
And the beasts shall feed upon the flesh of man
Abby cascaded into a world of horror and bewilderment. She was not a practicing Christian but she believed that the words were almost Biblical in origin. She closed her eyes and did her best to search her memory. Come on Abby think, she tapped her hand gently against the side of her head as if to jar her memory. Think think think. She wished now that she had paid more attention in Sunday school, instead of dozing off while the other kids sat riveted to their seats besieged by the scalding sermon administered by their teacher as he spoke of fire and brimstone, and eternal damnation for those wretched souls who had chosen a less than a virtuous path through life.
(He shall come again to judge the living and the dead)
Wasn’t that the gist of it? Her perspiration had spread, moving to the back of her neck, forming large beads swelling in size until they became too large to support their own weight and rolled down her back and along her spine before being absorbed by the thirsty fibers of her waistband.
She stared again at the journal. The words were bloated and uneven, almost like they were painted upon the page instead of written. More disturbing yet was the color, not black like the rest of the journal but red, blood red. She scratched at the letters with her thumbnail, the superficial layer chipped off in tiny red flakes. There was no doubt about it; the words were scribed in blood.
Good God had Porter been loosing his mind?
Am I?
Her hands were trembling now. She placed them palms down flat against the desktop, holding them firm until the shaking subsided. Then with resolute determination forced herself to turn the page and once again begin scanning the diary for useful entries.
19 April 1991
The past year has been absolutely dreadful. Kat’s delusions and paranoia are getting worse, and I am hard pressed to find one shred of recognition within her of the woman I married. She doesn’t speak very often anymore and spends most of her time sleeping or staring out the window. I have consulted several doctors but none of them seem to know what is causing Kat’s disturbed mental state. I was informed that she is far older than most patients who develop schizophrenia and they have all but ruled it out as a possibility.
12 December 1992
Strange sounds from the basement occurred again last night. There appears to be no trouble from the pipes and I am hard pressed for an explanation. The sounds once relegated to the boiler room have spread throughout the entire basement. It is quite unnerving actually. The tones which I had first thought to be rumblings of air pockets within the pipes have altered in pitch somewhat, now sounding low and guttural as if being produced not from the pipes but some sort of animal, a wild boar comes to mind. If it weren’t for the sake of sheer impossibility I could have sworn that the sounds resembled that of someone trying to speak to me, perhaps in a language I cannot comprehend. It appears as if Katrina’s delusions are catching and I to am prone to the power of suggestion. Writing about such macabre topics has no doubt fueled my imagination and I will not be writing about such topics again.
No, this is of no use. Come on Porter you can’t ignore these things forever. Speak to me. The diary began to prattle on again about Porter’s work and other trivial things, she flipped through the pages more fiercely, hoping to find more passages of interest. She had navigated almost h
alfway through the book before she found them.
23 October 1993
Kat is no longer coherent. She spends all of her time entranced in a catatonic state. Alas the burden has become too great and I have hired a full time caretaker to attend to her while I am working. I could not afford to pay for a live-in caretaker and at night I am forced to see to her needs constantly. She has regressed to the mental state of an infant, and one devoid of emotion I might add. I clothe, bath, and feed her daily, but the strain of the constant care is beginning to wear on my moral fabric. I can’t help but think it would be easier if she were to pass quietly in the night, but have forced such vile thoughts from my mind.
14 February 1994
Saint Valentine’s Day, although I am in no mood to celebrate the mysteries of love. The sounds in the basement have grown louder and more forceful, and I am afraid that I can no longer ignore them. It has begun to speak to me. The words absolutely discernable now (I can no longer dispute this) penetrate my skull and pierce me to my very soul. They speak of the unspeakable, compelling me to act out my darkest thoughts. I will not listen. I will not listen. I will not.
2 May 1994
I awoke this evening to find myself standing over Kat as she slept with no recognition of how I came to be there. Indeed I had retrieved a large butcher knife from the kitchen during my sleepwalk and clutched it tightly in my right hand. The incident has left me absolutely petrified. Although my memory fails me I know within my heart that my intentions towards my wife were not good. I feel it is best if Kat no longer lived here for her own safety.
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