Ghost Program

by Marion Desaulniers

  “Counseling?”

  “Of course. You nearly lost your life. You’re going to need the services of a psychologist. They aren’t cheap; most charge over two hundred dollars a session. I’m here to help you past those obstacles. And what about physical injuries? I take it that you’ve been to a doctor?”

  “Yes. I’ve got some injuries.”

  “And those are documented.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’d like you to retain my counsel. You wouldn’t have to come to my office; I know you’re hurt. I’m more than willing to come to your house so we could discuss some details. You would have to come to a court hearing, but that would be a month out. I’d be honored if you’d hire me. God, I must sound like I’m begging. But it’s really an open and shut case, and I’d like to have it if I could.”

  “When would you come?” I asked. The woman reminded me of a used car salesman.

  “I could stop by tomorrow.”

  “I might be in Seattle.”

  “I could probably manage that. You’d help me a lot if you could e-mail me the address of our meeting place. I could set up a time now.”

  “Can you come at five o’clock tomorrow evening? You can call my cell for the address. I don’t have it with me now.”

  “Good.” She gave me her phone number.

  I said goodbye and hung up.

  I realized at that moment I’d be getting a car to drive again, but also that there would be a significant delay before I’d have the money to pay for it. I’d be more reliant on Brent for transportation than I’d previously realized. Or I could learn to use the Seattle bus system, a method of transportation that for now was confusing and alien to me.

  “Sam?” Gregg was sitting up in bed and brushing off his brown suit with his hands.

  I desired a pain pill, but realized I had no water to wash it down with.

  “Gregg, can you go downstairs and bring me a glass of juice? Please, it’s painful for me to walk.”

  “Of course. You needn’t feel that you’re a burden. You’re my sister after all, and your suffering causes me to suffer as well.”

  “Thanks.” I laid back down on the bed, figuring I’d stay there until the needling pain in my side died down.

  Gregg came back a few minutes later with a glass of orange juice, which he handed to me with a smile. “Your drink, my lady,” he said jokingly.

  I took the juice from him, feeling around on the floor next to the bed where I thought I’d dropped my prescription bottle. Gregg saw what I was reaching for so he bent down, picked it up, and handed it to me. I plied a pill out and swallowed it down.

  “I’m going to hunt down Tony,” said Gregg. “I’d like to know if he’s seen anything unusual.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “He spent the night walking the perimeter of the yard to guard against intruders. Will you be all right by yourself if I leave?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I didn’t know how I was going to get dressed without my efforts being painful, but I’d figured once the pain medicine kicked in that I’d manage decently. “I’m fine. Go find him.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said and left.

  As he’d promised, Brent had left my crutches by the side of my bed so I pulled them to me and sat up. I needed a fresh outfit, and if I looked in my dresser, I’d be able to find a t-shirt and a pair of sweats or yoga pants. I placed the crutches on the floor vertically, then leaned against them to stand up.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I mumbled.

  I made my way over to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a black cotton t-shirt and a pair of black stretch capris, then hobbled back to my bed. I removed my shirt, studying the marks on my chest, still truly amazed at how disfigured and marked up my torso was. Two of my ribs were covered by thick, swollen lumps, the skin dark in color, and though a clean shirt couldn’t ameliorate my injuries, it felt good to wear something fresh, and as I put it on, I instantly found myself in better spirits. It wasn’t as easy to get my pants off because of the cast, but I was able to shake free of my old sweats and panties and pull on the capris. I tossed the old clothes onto the floor and laid back on the bed. A night of sleep had refreshed me physically and psychologically, leaving me with a more positive outlook on my situation. I heard footsteps on the stairs and wondered if it was Gregg returning.

  The door opened. It was mom. She carried a platter of breakfast, a combination of bacon, eggs, a bagel with cream cheese, and a coffee. Her hair was styled in pale, spiraled ringlets down her back, her mascara thick.

  “I figured you weren’t feeling so great, so I brought breakfast up to you.”

  My stomach suddenly growled at the sight of the food as she placed it in my lap.

  “Hungry?” mom asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The instructor’s coming by at three. Are you ready for the exam?”

  Was I? “I’ll study after breakfast.”

  “Good.” She left the room.

  I relaxed and ate as I looked out the large window onto the yard.

  “Geesh,” I said. The lit cave was back. What was up with that? Besides that, the yard was empty. I was 3/4 of the way done with my breakfast when the woman stepped out of the cave.

  “Yaaah!” I exclaimed, sitting forward and nearly causing my plate to fall on the floor.

  She descended the white, glowing steps, calm, glancing about as her booted feet stepped onto the green lawn, drawing her closer to whatever it was she looked for, the breeze causing her lavender ruffled skirt and puffed sleeves to blow very slightly. But who was she? Her brown pinned up hair reminded me of Gregg as well as the set of her brown eyes, and the similarity gave me a strange feeling, a notion that I should meet her outside.

  I scooted to the edge of my bed and grabbed my crutches. It would be cold for me outside but I didn’t have time to grab my jacket. I pushed open the bedroom door and started for the stairs. After two minutes and a seemingly endless amount of pain and effort, I was outside in the backyard.

  Then I was close to where she stood, by the edge of the cave, on the grass, peering at me with curious interest and a with a quiet, knowing look on her face, the smooth susurrous rustle of pine branches and chirping bird-chorus all around us. Although she was pretty, I guessed her age to be a little over forty, and her soft hair was pinned up behind her head. Her slightly parted lips insinuated that she had much to say if only she could find someone to say it to. I hobbled towards her and when I got close, she spoke.

  “I think,” she said, “that you know my son.” Behind her eyes hid a capable and potent vitality, and I squirmed a little under her gaze.

  “Depends who he is,” I said.

  “His name is Gregg,” she said, studying my face as if trying to deduct what type of person I might be. “He refuses to come with us. You see, we’ve left all this behind, and I would like my son with me.”

  “Your Gregg’s mother,” I said.

  “They call me Katherine.”

  “Gregg doesn’t realize he is dead,” I said. “Should I have told him? I didn’t want to do something I shouldn’t.”

  “Gregg died well before I or his father. He was still young, only nineteen, and he passed away from tuberculosis. I’m well aware that, although he should have left, he continued to reside here with us. He may have appeared a man to other people, but in so many ways, he was still a boy who needed his parents, his family. Even now, he cannot cope with the harsh reality that he will have to leave the only home he has ever known, but it is time for him to leave the earth and stay with us. Not being able to see him... it is--it is causing me a broken heart.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him that?” I said, my mind reeling fast and out of control.

  “I’ve tried but he will not listen to me; my presence with him has only reinforced his belief that everything is as it should be. I think, though, he should listen to you. Gregg is more than a trifling bit fond of you, and my time here must be lim
ited.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, chilled to the bone from the cool breeze and my lack of outerwear. “I will try to help you.” Had she been watching us?

  “That is all I need to know,” she said and vanished up those steps, her form dissipating quickly.

  I remained outside for another minute, shaking violently from the cold and with things weighing heavily on my mind. Eventually I came back to reality and realized that I had only a few hours to study for my final math exam and that if I failed, I would have to repeat the course. Annoyed, I lurched back through the house and up to my room. It was empty when I got there so I sat alone on my bed and read quietly. Mom came by later to collect my empty plates and bring some bottled water.

  ❃CHAPTER 17❃

  The calculus instructor showed up at three as planned. Mom walked him into my room and showed him to a chair where he sat uncomfortably while I took my test. I wasn’t sure that all the answers were right, but I figured that I’d get at least a ninety percent, thus passing my class. The instructor took my completed exam, mumbled some words of sympathy for me, and left the way he came.

  So I was done with community college. That was it. All I needed to do was pack for Seattle. I thought about Seaside, wondering what it would be like to only see it on the weekends. I was excited, but also wary. What would life in Seattle be like? Better or worse than it was here? I wouldn’t see Mel in class anymore, though I’d probably hook up with a lot of my friends from high school who had moved onto university. Would Brent and I stay close or would we drift apart? What was I going to do about Gregg and his mother’s strange entreaty? I had taken my entire math exam on my soft bed, and I still sat on it. I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling, studying the porcelain bowl lamp. Brent would come by the house in a few hours, and then I’d have to say goodbye to my bedroom, my house, the town that I had grown up in. An unanticipated feeling of melancholy washed over me.

  I sucked down another pain pill with some old juice and grabbed my crutches off the floor. I had a strong desire to leave my bedroom and head outdoors. This time, however, I’d do it right. I found a thick coat hanging in my closet and threw it on, fumbling with my arms, the crutches, the jacket sleeves. A walk would erase the oppressive mood that hung over me, threatening to spill into tears.

  A few minutes and a lot of painful steps later, I found myself in the entryway by the kitchen. Mom saw me and frowned.

  “Sam? Are you sure you should be moving about so much?” she asked.

  I ignored her and opened the front door, finding myself on the front porch. A weak ray of sunshine struggled to break through the clouds but was clearly losing its battle. Fog rolled through the road below the driveway.

  Running behind the garage was a paved trail that led up a slow incline to the top of a hill. On that hill was a sitting bench and a clear view of the mountains, the ocean, and the town nestled below. It’s where I’d come so many times in the past when I wished to mull over things or just be left alone to think. I slowly, painfully began my walk.

  The grade was very slight, and the hike up the hill contained several switchbacks so that pretty much anyone could walk it without much effort. Once my crutch got too close to a fern bush and several of the dark green leaves got stuck in the handle. Another time I had to step out of the way of a slug, but I finally reached the end of the trail.

  Looking out over the scenic viewpoint, propping my crutches against the wooden bench and sitting down, I gazed out over the foggy valley, sighed deeply and clutched the armrest of the bench as the sky swirled above me and the earth moved below me. I closed my eyes and relaxed, not bothering to open them when I heard a slight rustle in the brush behind me, and not even I heard the whisper of my name. As the wind blew through the pines and caressed my cool body, I cleared my mind of any thought, instead focusing purely on the physical sensations of being in that place, the smell of pine, the muted sound of cars on the highway below.

  “Sit the fuck up,” came the harsh guttural voice. “It’s time for you to die.”

  I opened my eyes, taking a deep breath of cold air. “Is somebody there?” My voice was tremulous. I noticed that there was suddenly more fog than there’d been minutes before, and I strained my eyes to see where the voice had come from, if indeed I hadn’t dreamed or imagined it.

  My stomach sank as I felt the weight of the small bench shift as if someone or something had sat down on the other side of it.

  Appearing through clouds of gauzy mist, smiling an obscene smile, He licked his blackened lips and spoke with the lilt of a Southern accent, calmly, smugly, as if He knew that I was no better than captured prey. His eyes were cold, dark, venomous, and He had a heavy, sickening presence.

  “I wouldn’t try to run; you wouldn’t get far,” He said. “Ah, hello my newest possession, a porcelain beauty left here for the taking, for me.” The glee in His voice was unmistakeable.

  I tried to scream but couldn’t find my voice. Instead I whispered, “Who are you?”

  “Roland P. Jennings,” He replied. “Former resident of Seaside, born in Texas, sentenced to die, and executed six months ago. They shouldn’t have done that, should have known that there was no way to stop me.”

  “Why are you doing this?” My shaky voice was still a low whisper, and I was too frightened to scream.

  “Why not? You’re beautiful, and I like to hear a beautiful girl scream before I destroy her.”

  “Don’t do this,” I said quietly. “It’s wrong; you’re condemning your soul.”

  “Too late for that,” He said. “I’ve killed so many of them; I’m already damned, and now there’s no going back.”

  My breath hitched in my throat as I looked at his long black trench coat and black snakeskin boots. Creepy guy wasn’t just repellent and evil; he was a nerd. Like some kind of goth cowboy. Hands shaking, I reached for my crutches, pulling them close.

  “Don’t,” He said in his Southern drawl. “Now you know better than to try and run away from me.”

  I leaned my weight on the crutches and whipped myself off the bench, screaming bloody murder. As far as I could tell, no one but him heard me. Wearing his malicious grin, creepy guy shifted His weight and stood up.

  “Come on now; I told you not to do that,” He said, walking slowly towards me, his boots crunching on the gravel by the bench. “And it’s so much worse if you fight me.”

  I backed up a few feet.

  “I’d prefer if you were willing,” He said.

  “Willing for what?” I heaved.

  “To die slowly.” He brushed his hands off on his pants and licked his black lips, lips that couldn’t cover his jagged teeth. “As a favor to me.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “Now you’re just being crass,” He said and kicked at the crutch under my right elbow, causing me to fall to the ground wailing as my ankle could not yet support my weight. I grunted as the wind was knocked out of me, falling on my side, then the other crutch clattered to the ground and was still. I whimpered and rolled on my back, shaking all over, then slowly slid backward on my butt in an awkward attempt to get away from Him.

  “Hey, no. It’s so much better if you cooperate. Okay?” He said.

  Heart racing, I screamed.

  He slammed his booted foot into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me and effectively ending my cry for help. The pain was terrible, and the fight went out of me. Tears rolling down my face, I realized that I was going to die.

  I’ve narrowly escaped death twice but everyone’s luck runs out eventually.

  “Stop,” I wheezed. I curled up in a ball on the ground and closed my eyes, attempting to block out the scene in front of me.

  Boot steps crunched closer to me. Cold hands touched my shoulder and back, pulling me to a sitting position as an odd moldy, fetid smell wafted through the cool air.

  “Open your eyes,” came His voice. “Come on now, girl.”

  I opened my eyes and saw the buttons on my blouse fall
off as He pulled at my collar, and I made a small yipping sound when the edges of my sleeves rubbed and cut my armpits. Breathing heavily, I looked down at myself and saw my blouse and bra hanging in shreds off my shoulders, my pale stomach and breasts exposed and shivering in the cold, humid air, then I looked up at His pale face with its silver, leering eyes and began to blubber as He used a small penknife to gently traces circles on my skin.

  “I like you to watch, makes it so much better for me,” He said.

  I tried to reply, to scream, to do anything, but I couldn’t make a sound. The lump in my throat stopped me from doing anything but taking quivering, ragged breaths as I looked into silver eyes filled with malice.

  He tilted the knife, and I jerked rigid as my skin opened up, blood running out of the shallow cut underneath. Adrenalin blocked the physical pain, but not my terror. I gazed down at my belly again as He sliced it. If I hadn’t been so miserable, I would have laughed at the utter geekiness of the act; He had traced a bloody pentagram onto my stomach.

  “Mmmnnn,” I said, spiritless, defeated.

  “There now; that’s not so bad.” His words sounded strangely contrite for a person who planned on slowly killing me. He pulled my hair away from my eyes and mouth where it had been hanging and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Nothing to fear but death. And it’s not an end, sweetie, just a rite of passage.”

  I feared that the bloody pentagram was part of some Satanic ritual to turn me into an undead zombie slave made to do His bidding, and my shoulders shook as I cried some more. Creepy guy knelt down next to me and licked the blood that dribbled out of the weeping cuts on my stomach, then traced the side of my breast with His tongue.