Wayward Souls: The Sequel to Beckoning Souls (A Psychological Thriller)

by J. R. Tate

  “You don’t like Britney, do you?”

  “I never said I didn’t like her, Russ.” His face is stoic, unemotional, and I want to shake him to make him snap out of the trance he’s in.

  “She thinks you don’t. You hardly acknowledged her.”

  “It’s not that, Russ.” Finally he moves farther into the living room, folding the blanket up. “With everything happening, I don’t want that many people around. I don’t want people talking.”

  “Talking about what? You claim that everything is fine.”

  “Things aren’t fine, Russ. Things will never be fine again.”

  Damn it, here we go again. I can’t fight again. Rather than a few times a week, it’s happening nightly now. “It will be if you allow it to be.” I sit on the arm of the couch, keeping my voice level. I’m not going to get angry. It isn’t working with him.

  “You sound like my therapist.”

  “Because it’s true. I’m not asking you to get over mom. I’m not putting a time frame on the grief you must be feeling, but this other stuff! Dad, I know you’re seeing things again. And don’t tell me you’re not, because I’m seeing it all too.”

  He looks down at the floor, shaking his head. “I never wished any of it on you. If there’s one thing I can prevent, it’s you going through what I have. From you seeing what I’ve seen. Why is this happening to us? Why are we cursed?” His voice cracks, and he slides his back against the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, burying his face in his hands.

  I sit on the floor across from him, and his shoulders shake. “Don’t think of it as being cursed.”

  Looking up, he squints his eyes, red and soaked. “How the hell would you think of it then?”

  “A blessing. To help those souls who can’t quite crossover. To get them there.”

  “What if I don’t want to help them? Their unfinished business is none of my damn business.”

  “What if it were you? What if it was mom? What if she’s needing help?” This grabs his attention, and he shifts his weight, his eyebrow arching as he thinks about what I’ve just said. “Dad, have you seen Mom? Has she come to visit you?” By his reaction, I’d say he has. He doesn’t even have to confirm it.

  “No. No one has come to visit me.”

  To hell with it. If the man wants to live his life in denial, so be it. “I think you don’t want to tell me because the less you let me in on, the less you think I’ll be involved. But guess what, Dad? If I continue to see things, I’m going to embrace it. I’m going to see what I can do to help. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  He smiles, but it’s not a happy one. A sarcastic laugh escapes his lips, and he rests his head on his knees. “Your sheltered view means one thing. It means you still have your innocence. You see this as a fucking game, and it’s not. Just wait until you get put in an insane asylum. Wait until they put little electrodes on your head and shock you like you’re a fucking piece of bacon. Wait until they threaten to poke your brain until it severs your nerves, making you a vegetable. Then you come and tell me how inspired you are to help these ghosts. No one will believe you. Your mother didn’t even believe me. And look where we are now.”

  Standing, I look down at him. “I used to feel sympathy for you, Dad. Now I’m not so sure that’s what you need. You’d rather wallow in your own self-pity instead of trying to make things better. Buying this house wasn’t a way for you to move on – it was you running. But now we both know that everything followed us. The same problems we had back in the city are right here, right now, and until you wake up, they’re not going away!”

  He looks up at me, and though the words are harsh, I don’t regret saying any of it to him. It’s like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks past me, like I’m not even there. Leaving it at that, I take the stairs two at a time to my room, slamming the door so hard that it rattles the pictures on the wall. I can’t keep making excuses for him. We need to do something about this before he gets committed again, and if that happens, I fear he’ll never come back out.

  Chapter Six

  Nathan

  I try not to take my son’s words to heart. I don’t want to fight, and I don’t even touch on the fact that he might be right. The house falls silent, except from the conversation on the TV, and I finally gain enough energy to stand and turn it off. I feel a slight buzz off of the few drinks I had at the bar and realize I probably shouldn’t have driven, but I’m safely home and I sit on the couch, staring at the wall. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep, but I’m scared to close my eyes. It’s a situation where I can’t win for losing. If I don’t get rest, I’ll start hallucinating, and then I really won’t know what is real and what isn’t.

  I lean back, resting my head against the cushion. I dread tomorrow. There is a memorial for my wife at the hospital. I’m not sure why they waited this long after her death to do it, but the letter they sent me mentioned something about a scholarship fund they are setting up in her name. I guess it took a while to get everything in order. I feel honored that they’re doing it – she was a damn good nurse, but it’s like opening up an old wound that is close to healing. I try to think up an excuse to get out of it, but it would look horrible if I didn’t go.

  I walk to the back window and stare at the black void I now own. It’s too dark out to see anything, but again, it is raining. The pond is probably deeper with all of the moisture, and my plans to rebuild the dock will have to be put on hold. I don’t think I’m going to beat how tired I am. Attempting to not sleep when my body is urging me is stupid.

  My legs are like noodles as I go up to my room, and I look at the window that supposedly broke open last night. Dr. Carson’s words bounce around my skull – they are trying to communicate with me through my dreams. That doesn’t seem far-fetched. I’ve read plenty of blogs and stories about this happening to lots of people.

  I click on my laptop. Hershel Roberts suggested I read up on the history of this area, and what better way to stay awake? I Google Highway Six-Thirteen and multiple stories pop up about ghost towns and abandoned homesteads all along it. I knew there were a few here and there, but I never realized that pretty much every town that tried to incorporate and form ended in failure.

  Scrolling through images, I stop on one that catches my eye. It’s my house, though from many years earlier, looking in better shape. A family stands in front of it, the mother and father behind five kids, all girls. No one is smiling, and the picture gives me the chills. That’s how pictures were back then. Everyone looked unhappy.

  I click on the website, taking me to the caption under the picture. The Dawson family, circa 1912. “1912,” I say aloud, making sure the date is right. Lenora Dawson was the grave out back, and she had died in August of 1912. Did they live here? Did they just bury her out back? Times were different then – maybe that’s how they did things.

  Continuing to read the caption, I’m completely intrigued. Albert Dawson, father, date of death: April 1913. Cause of death, unknown. Damn it, I wish there was more information on why these people died. I study the picture – the mother is holding a baby wrapped in a blanket. That must be Lenora, and I squint, trying to get a better look at her face. Zooming the picture in, it just blurs the already faded photograph, skewing any chance to see if it’s the girl I saw last night. But the girl I saw last night was older, but a few years.

  I close the laptop and scoot it across the desk. This wasn’t a wise decision to do, especially before bed. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn. The memorial for my wife isn’t until around lunchtime, and I’m sure if I show up with no rest, they’re going to admit me into the hospital. I swivel my chair, jumping when I see the child in the corner again. The same little girl from last night.

  She giggles and swings her rag doll around. “My father is coming…” She speaks well for being so small, though she still doesn’t pronounce everything correctly.

  “You’re not real,” I say back.

  She laughs
and brushes the doll’s hair. It looks almost as creepy as she does. “Where’s my mommy?”

  I scoot to my bed and climb in, pulling the covers around me and over my head. I feel like a five year old trying to be brave and not to run to my parent’s room. “Go away! Damn you! Go away!” What if Rusty hears me yelling? He already thinks I should stay in a padded room. This will just solidify it.

  The outline of her small hand presses into the blanket. And that giggle! It’s enough to make a grown man piss himself. I clench my eyes shut. Wake up from this dream, damn it! Maybe when I open my eyes, it’ll be morning. Maybe the biggest worry I’ll have is facing everyone at the memorial.

  “Where’s my mommy? Father is coming soon…” Her whiney voice is still there, right by my ear, and I move farther away until I hit the wall.

  “I don’t want to help you. Find someone else!”

  I clench the sheets between my fingers, balling the fabric in my hands so tight that my joints ache. I don’t hear or see anything for a few minutes, and pull the comforter down. The room is empty. No sign that anyone else was ever here. Propping myself up on my elbow, I look in each corner, making sure she’s just not hiding in the shadows.

  Glancing at the alarm clock, it’s a little after seven AM. The morning sun is cascading through the blinds, and a bird chirps outside the window. I don’t feel like I’ve slept at all, but I refuse to lie back down. My body is in pain. My head throbs with my pulse and I cringe with each bout of discomfort that courses down my neck. I slowly make my way to the bathroom sink, opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

  I shake out two ibuprofen and swallow them with a handful of water. I look at myself in the mirror, and I don’t recognize myself. Much like before when it all started – I am not seeing Nathan Gallagher. I’m seeing a man at his wit’s end. I’m seeing a man who is ready to give up.

  I turn on the shower, as hot as I can stand it. The steam rises around me, and I breath in the vapors. It’s soothing, and I’m not sure if the medicine is kicking in, or if the shower is doing me good. I lather the shave cream on my face – people are already worried about me. If I show up looking like I do, it’ll just open up more questions that I don’t want to answer. Smoothing the razor down my face, the two day’s worth of stubble glides down my chest and to the drain below, swirling along with the washed away cream. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, like I have all the time in the world. Really, what’s my hurry? I don’t need to be at the hospital until 11:30, but my sense of time is out of whack. What I feel is seconds turns out to be an entire night that passes by. For all I know, this shower might be taking hours.

  I finish up and get out, and though I still look haggard, at least shaving has taken a few years off of my face. I style my hair with my hands, some pieces spiking out, and I notice that I’m starting to show signs of grey in my temples. Maybe since my hair is so dark, it’s just more noticeable. When did I start getting so old? Rose always said it made me look distinguished, but if she saw me now, she’d agree – my age is catching up with me. Or maybe life in general is taking its toll.

  I hold off on getting dressed for a bit, and stay in sweats and a t-shirt. I can’t stand wearing ties, so I’ll put it on at the last minute. Rusty is in the kitchen cooking, and the scent of whatever it is hits my nostrils, making my stomach growl.

  “Hey Russ, I wasn’t expecting you to be up yet.”

  There’s a newspaper and a glass of orange juice on the table. Coffee is brewing by the stove. For a second, everything does seem normal.

  “We have that memorial today for mom,” he says as he flips over a pancake.

  “Yeah, but it’s not until…” I trail off, looking at the clock. It’s after ten. “Shit, I didn’t realize what time it was.”

  “Yeah. You got up for a bit earlier, but went back to sleep. I guess you had a rough night. Bad dreams?”

  I pour a cup of coffee and drink down the warm liquid, savoring the flavor. “What makes you say that?”

  “I heard you yelling.” He dishes me up a plate with pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and it’s probably the best meal I’ve had in ages. I’m shocked that he doesn’t mention our argument from last night. He says nothing about me seeing anything. Maybe it’s his way to avoid drama or maybe it’s his way of keeping everything bottled up inside.

  “I don’t really remember much of it. You know how I talk in my sleep.”

  He looks up at me as he takes a large bite of food. “I’m not doing this right now. We’re not gonna fight about it before we honor Mom.”

  “Who is fighting?” I ask, my appetite fading at the mention of Rose.

  “We’re about to.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He grabs the sports section of the paper and flips through it. “Because you’re answering everything with a question. Just drop it. If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for Mom.”

  “Do it for Mom?” I ask, but let it fade.

  I hate when people do that. But he’s right – now isn’t the time, but he better know that I’m not letting it go. I skim through the front-page headlines as we eat in silence. Today, the band-aid is getting ripped off. Today I get to mourn my wife all over again. I hope that one day I get numb to it all, but today isn’t that day.

  “Thanks for making breakfast, Rusty.” I glance over the top of the paper, taking the last sip of coffee in my mug.

  He nods and puts his plate in the sink. “I gotta finish getting ready. I hope you plan to wear something other than sweats.”

  “And I hope you stop acting like you’re the parent and I’m the child.”

  He doesn’t respond and hurries up the stairs. He’s definitely mad at me, and I try to have some empathy for him. My dad is a complete jackass – I really hope I’m not starting to treat Rusty the way he treats me.

  I go up to my room and pull a pair of slacks and a blue button up shirt from the closet. I don’t own many ties, so I just grab a black one from my small stash. Rose always tied it for me, but I feel like I got it on right, but loosen it at the collar. I already feel like I’m being choked.

  Taking another hard look at myself in the mirror, I let out a deep breath.

  “This is for you, Rose. God damn it, I miss you.”

  ***

  Nathan

  “Lieutenant Gallagher, we are so sorry for your loss. We feel the void she left behind here at the hospital too.”

  Some guy in a suit approaches me and extends his hand for me to shake it. I ignore it at first, but return the gesture. The void she left behind. It almost sounds inappropriate, but I swallow the anger I feel like a bitter pill.

  “Thanks.” What else am I supposed to say? Since we’ve gotten here it’s been a non-stop line of people coming up to talk to us. People I don’t know. People who probably wouldn’t say two words to me if it were under different circumstances. Again, my tie feels like it is choking me, and I push past the crowd of people toward the restroom. Once inside, I relax when I see no one else is there.

  Walking to a urinal, I am finally able to go – it feels like I’ve been holding it all day. The door behind me creaks open and I pay no attention to it. Some other guy needs to take a piss. But when he chooses the urinal right next to mine when there’s a row of several on the wall, it makes me notice.

  I angle my body away from him. What’s his problem? He’s familiar, but I don’t say anything to him.

  “I knew your wife. Hell of a woman. I was a nurse on her shift.”

  I nod and zip up my fly, walking to the sink. He follows, staying right on my hip.

  “She used to talk to me a lot. She’d vent about things, you know? As humans, we need that, right?”

  I finally get a good look at him – he’s younger and handsome, and I feel horrible for getting jealous. Rose is dead. “What’s your name?” I ask, though I really could care less.

  “Ryan.”

  “Funny, she never mentioned a Ryan to me. You must’ve not been as
close as you think.”

  This makes him laugh. “She told me you and her were having problems at home. Like you were losing touch with reality. From the looks of it, you haven’t improved much.”

  My already short fuse is lit, and I want to slam him against the wall, but someone else enters the restroom, killing my chance to teach this guy a lesson. The fact that I get angry so fast worries me. I used to not have such a quick temper. Lack of sleep - that’s what I’ll blame it on. I wipe my hands clean on a paper towel and toss it in the trash. If I even acknowledge what he’s said, I’ll lose my cool, and that’s the last thing I need to do – Rusty will never forgive me if I cause I scene here.

  Joining the crowd again, I notice the hospital administrator and a few other suits, including the guy who shook my hand, gathering on the stage. There is a large picture of Rose on the screen, along with a sign that says, “The Rose Gallagher Memorial Scholarship,” and I choke back the emotion. I feel pride, anger, and sadness, all lumped into one.

  I know they’ll want me up there, but I try to blend in. I’m not good in front of people, especially with public speaking.

  Rusty finds me and smiles. “That’s a good picture of her, Dad.”

  “It is.”

  “What’s wrong? You look… I don’t know. You look pissed.”

  “It’s a story for another time. Don’t worry about it.”

  Ryan weaves through several people, joking and cutting up with most of the people he passes. He’s either a major ass kiss or thinks he’s mister popular, but everyone seems to know him and like him. Is he only a douche bag behind the scenes? I’m reading too much into it – he’s saying this stuff because Rose isn’t here to defend herself, but I have to wonder how much he knows. I thought we were doing a great job of keeping it quiet, but if one more person has any clue, it could spread like wildfire.