by Bill Crider
Père Hull took one look at Parks and said, "You got ghosts, boy."
"Doesn't everybody?"
"Yeah, but most not so bad as you. Worst case I seen in forty years." Père leaned over the arm of his wheelchair, peering closely, the teal scarf overflowing from his lap. Parks was about to ask who else had them this bad, but Père beat him to it. "A traveling preacher fella come through town at the time, in middle of July, set up his tent and had an all-night sing. I could hardly see him 'cause'a all the ghosts he carried wrapped around him. He had a bowed back from carrying them for so long. They nearly snapped him in two. He was dead by that winter."
"I bear up," Parks said.
"Your mama's behind you."
"I know."
"I can't really see her face, but it's her, all right, that much is clear. Aunt Tilly, she's holding your left hand, and Baby Sis Claudine gripping your right. She was my youngest cousin on my Pa's side, died when she was five. She always grabbin' on somebody. Those hands hurt you some tonight, don't they?"
"Yes."
"You should visit all their graves. They might loosen up a touch then."
Parks had thought about it before, but he was scared that if he showed up at the cemetery, they might wind up tightening their grip even more. He never should have come back. Should've stayed in L.A. and just had the lawyers mail the papers. He sipped the moon and checked his watch. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet, and there wasn't a sound in the house except the soft murmurs of the TV. Some sitcom where families laughed together and helped each other through the tough times.
"You should go before you pass out," said Père. "You ain't used to that kind of drinking no more. You sleep past five AM and Floyd might just tie you to the bed and beat hell out of you."
"You're right." Parks was already feeling the effects, and figured it would be wiser to grab a whore at Louie's and pay her for the night, get up early to catch the eight AM bus. He took out his wallet and figured he had just enough. Mama wouldn't follow him in there. "Sorry about all this, Gramp."
"Don't be. We all got our loads and hardships. You'll either make it right later on, or you won't."
"I will."
"Maybe so. Probably be better for you in the end if you did."
There was nothing left to say to that. Parks got his jacket back on, picked up his satchel, sensed the potential and promise of the script inside, took one last look around the place, and flipped open the busted screen door.
There was a sudden blur of silver motion in front of him–he thought for an instant that his mother had taken shape, come in to hug him goodbye one last time–and then something shattered his right eye.
The pain was so intense he couldn't even scream for a few seconds, and found himself on his knees gasping and writhing against the wall. As he trembled and drew in a deep breath to shriek, he felt a wad of cotton being thrust into his mouth, a thick band of tape sealing against his lips. They used twine on his wrists.
It happened so fast, with the same kind of often-practiced actions as they'd shown in the kitchen. Some Brooms had scissors in hand, others held ten penny nails or wire. He couldn't make them all out but there seemed to be more kids now than he'd thought. So many of them that they crowded the room.
They'd brought Floyd's toolbox inside.
In agony, Parks turned his head aside. He saw Père Hull's body jittering and contorted in his wheelchair, the crippled left foot thrust straight out, the man's skinny arms pulled unnaturally far behind him as he convulsed. The crocheting needles quivered in his flesh, stuck somewhere in his face, through the tongue or in his ears. Or somewhere else. The Brooms covered the old man and were carefully handing each other tools, using them on Père in ways Parks couldn't quite distinguish, then replacing each back in the box, dripping.
As Parks thrashed again he realized a screwdriver had blinded him and was still jutting out of his head. Jesus, he thought, it must be wedged into my brain. How else would it not fall out? If he wasn't crazy before he'd have to be now.
The television was still on, low, the laugh track proceeding on and on with tinny unreal hilarity, and Parks wanted to scream at the kids to turn it up, it's not as bad if you drown the crows out with some chatter and laughter and noise.
But Myrtle got migraines.
He struggled but his hands still hurt. He ought to be able to break free of a knotted piece of twine but Baby Sis Claudine and Aunt Tilly were holding on too harshly. They wouldn't let go.
The Brooms paraded before him, the same angelic face and the same primitive soul, until the shortest Broom pressed a cheek to his without a word. The children moved to him now with the tools and scissors and he remembered what the hideous voices used to say to him when he was a boy, how they'd command and beg and beguile, and as the shadder continued to thicken around him they came for his other eye, and he knew this was going to take a good long while.