Help for the Haunted

by John Searles

  “I’ve done everything you’ve asked! Everything!”

  “I don’t believe you! I’m sorry, but I don’t! You’ve used up all your currency! Spent! Done! Gone!”

  “Please. The two of you calm down. Now tell us what you did to her.”

  “Her? You mean it! And I told you, nothing!”

  “How about telling the truth for a change? Now spit it out!”

  “You want the truth? Okay, the fact is this: there is not a single thing wrong with me, but there is something very wrong with the two of you! Who else would put—”

  “Don’t start that up again! I warned you! Now stick to the subject!”

  “I am sticking to the subject! Because it all comes back to the way we live our lives around here! It’s not normal!”

  I opened my eyes. Sun streamed through the window. Quickly, I got out of bed and threw on some clothes, making my way down the hall and the stairs. When I stepped into the living room, my mother was seated in her rocker, wearing her bathrobe and slippers, while my father paced back and forth by the curio hutch.

  “There’s Sylvie,” Rose said. “Ask her. Go ahead. She’ll tell you.”

  “Tell them what?” I asked.

  “Tell them that I didn’t touch their fucking spooky old rag doll!”

  “Rose!” my mother said at the same time as my father yelled, “Watch your mouth, young lady! We don’t talk like that in this house!”

  “Oh, that’s right, because it’s so holy around here!”

  “It’s true,” I said when they stopped speaking long enough for me to find a way in. “Rose didn’t touch it.”

  My words brought a blanket of silence over the room. Something made me think of those horses again. The first time I glued a broken one back together, I’d taken another down from the shelf to compare. I remembered tugging at the legs of the unbroken horse and realizing how difficult it would be for a person to snap them. A hammer, a saw, or at the very least, a good hard whack against the desk—that’s what it would take.

  “Sunshine,” my father said in a softer voice, “it’s very noble what you are trying to do, but I don’t want you lying to cover for your sister. That doll is our property and an important part of the work your mother and I are doing.”

  “I’m not covering for her.” My voice remained calm, though I felt a churning inside. I took a breath and told him, “Rose didn’t drop that doll down the well. I did.”

  My parents looked at me, stunned, which was no surprise. My sister, however, looked stunned too, making me wonder if she hadn’t really expected me to go through with it, if perhaps she’d just been shooting off her mouth the night before.

  “Sylvie,” my mother said, speaking up first. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  Before I could answer my father held up his hand. “Stop right there. I still don’t believe Rose had nothing to do with it. I know you, Sylvie, and this is not something you’d ever do. Not on your own anyway.”

  “So here she is confessing and you’re still calling me a liar?” my sister said. “There is something wrong with you, Dad. You see the world the way you want to see it. Even when all evidence points to the contrary.”

  I assumed talking to him that way would bring about more shouting, but instead my father turned all his attention to me, coming closer, pulling off his glasses. “Look me in the face, angel, and tell me truthfully that your sister had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

  That churning started up again. I stood there, feeling trapped. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to be their good daughter, the one who lived up to expectations, the one who won essay contests and brought home perfect grades, the one who gave honest answers. But in that moment, I wanted to protect Rose too.

  “The truth,” my father said quietly.

  “The truth,” my mother said from her rocker.

  “Okay,” I said. It was just one word—truth—but with it they cast a spell on me. “Let me back up and tell you why we did it.”

  “We?” Rose shrieked.

  “I knew it,” my father said. “I just knew it.”

  “Not we, me. I did it,” I said. But then I turned to my sister. “Rose, I just want to explain why we thought the doll had to go. That way they understand the truth.”

  “Sylvie, don’t,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “Not now. You don’t understand.”

  “All you have to do,” my father said to me, “is tell us what happened.”

  His face was before mine still, and I could see small pouches beneath his eyes. It made me wonder how things had gone the night before after he downed that icy tumbler of scotch and headed out the door for his final meeting with Sam Heekin. I watched Rose throw herself on the sofa, crossing her arms and kicking her feet on the carpet in frustration.

  “Go ahead, Sylvie,” my father said.

  After a breath, I began. First, I told them what happened in the truck stop bathroom: how we allowed the waitress to touch the doll, how I worried for my mother inside the stall and later on the drive home when she became ill. I told them that after we returned home with Penny, nothing felt the same, from the broken horses in my room to the all-consuming tension that filled the house. And then I confessed to sneaking downstairs one night, only to duck into the kitchen and find Penny gone from her rocker when I returned. I told them how I let Rose in on what I discovered and how my mother confirmed that something similar was happening when I pulled back the covers and saw Penny in her bed the night before. I spoke faster as I neared the end, telling them about stepping into my room and noticing all the horse limbs scattered on the floor. And so, I said, Rose and I had started talking about the need to get rid of that doll, because of the power it had, or the power we were giving it. But even though the two of us discussed the idea, I made it clear that I was the one who carried out the act.

  “Before things got any worse around here,” I told them, looking at my father’s weary face then at my mother in her chair. “I made up my mind to protect us. I’m sorry. Maybe it wasn’t right. But that’s exactly what happened. I know it’s part of your work, but I felt afraid. Not just for myself. But for all of us.”

  For a long moment after that, no one spoke. My sister had stopped kicking the rug a while before, so the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. At last, my father said, “Rose, go upstairs and pack your things.”

  “Pack?” I said. “What for?”

  Rose stood from the sofa. “I told you, Sylvie,” she said on her way toward the stairs. “You should have kept your big mouth shut. You think you’re the smartest in this family, but you’re really the stupidest of all.”

  “Enough of that,” my father told her. He was no longer yelling, though, nobody was. “Go to your room. We’ll leave in a half hour.”

  “Leave?” I said to my parents as I saw my sister slip out of the living room and walk away up the stairs. “Leave where? I told you I was the one who did it.”

  “From what I just heard,” my father said, “it was Rose who kept urging you to sneak downstairs and watch TV. Am I right?”

  I was quiet, because the truth was being used against us both now.

  “And it was Rose who told you the smart thing to do was get rid of Penny. Am I right there too?”

  Again, I did not respond.

  “So it’s apparent that Penny is not the one having a bad influence around here. It’s your sister controlling things. Putting ideas in your head too. And I’m tired of it.”

  My mother kept her eyes on the floor. “But Sylvester, can’t we try one more time? What about her senior year?”

  “We talked about this. Enough trying. It’s not just about what happened last night. It’s about getting Rose’s head right.”

  I opened my mouth to try and convince him not to take Rose wherever they were going, but I knew it was useless.
Instead, I turned and ran upstairs and down the hall to my sister’s room. When I stepped inside, the cinnamon-colored suitcase we shared was wide open on the floor, a heap of clothes tossed inside along with her black sneakers. I wondered if she might yell at me about what I’d done, but Rose stayed quiet, grabbing things at random: a stash of heavy metal records, a few half-melted candles, a carton of cigarettes hidden in the back of her closet, even her old globe. I watched her, saying nothing until she reached under her bed and pulled out a forgotten horse. Pure white with shimmering blue eyes and a mane made of miniature white feathers like an Indian headdress. Same as me, Rose tugged at a leg to see if it might snap off. When that didn’t work, she pulled two limbs in opposite directions, wishbone style, but that wouldn’t break them either.

  “Here, Sylvie.” She handed the horse to me. “You might as well keep the last unbroken one. Write and let me know how long it survives after I’m gone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Jail. Or something close to it.”

  “I’m serious, Rose.”

  “Some school. Saint Julia’s, I think it’s called. Ask Mom or Dad about it.”

  “Let’s talk to them again. Convince them not to—”

  “It’s too late, Sylvie. Especially since you’re the one who did the convincing in the first place. Besides, this isn’t as sudden as it seems. Dad’s been cooking up this scheme for a while now. He had the place ready and waiting for me, as soon as I made a wrong move. Only it turned out I didn’t need to. You did it for me. I should probably thank you, though, since anywhere will be better than here.”

  In another part of the house, the phone rang, sounding shrill. Someone must have answered it quickly, because after the second ring things fell quiet.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I told my sister.

  Rose did her best to force the suitcase closed, but it was too full. She jettisoned the globe, placing it back on her dresser, then yanked out some clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. After that, I helped her by sitting on top of the suitcase. “Yeah, you do, Sylvie,” she said, the buckles releasing a solid thwack each time one snapped into place. “You just don’t know it yet. Life will be more peaceful here without me.”

  “But when am I going to see you again?”

  “That’s a question for Mom and Dad too. I bet they’ll tell you it’ll be as long as it takes to get my head right. Isn’t that the line of crap they like to say about me? Either way, let me give you some advice: You know how they always tell us about their rule that we can share anything with them?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t believe it.”

  The final buckle snapped shut, sealing the suitcase tight and putting an end to the topic. My sister stood and went to the door. She must have wanted at least a few minutes to herself, but I stayed put a moment longer, looking around the small space, which felt somehow void of her presence already.

  “You know something, squirt? I always knew you were bright. But you’re pretty brave, too. Dumping that doll down the well.”

  Sitting on that overstuffed suitcase, I didn’t feel so brave. What I felt was foolish. But what point was there in telling my sister that? When I stood and stepped past her into the hallway, I felt the urge to give Rose a hug. It had been years since the two of us had done that, however, and it made me nervous to think of how she might react. Instead, I said simply, “I’m sorry for ruining things.”

  Rose looked away, fixing her gaze on that suitcase we shared on all those trips with our parents. “Don’t worry about it, squirt. It’s not all your fault. Now leave me alone so I can finish up in here.”

  I didn’t want to, but I turned and retreated to my room. Inside, I sat on the edge of my bed, absently petting the soft feathers of that last unbroken horse. All the while, my mind could not help but fixate on Penny down in the well. Despite my wishes, despite any rational thought, I kept wondering if the doll was still having an influence from where she lay in that cold, murky water.

  Thump, thump, thump—I listened to the sound of my sister dragging our suitcase down the stairs. One last time, I told myself that I should do something to keep her from leaving. But when I went to the window and saw the car idling in the driveway, trunk popped open, I knew there was no undoing things now. Our father and mother stood by the road examining our mailbox, which had been knocked off its post. The trash cans were down, too, though they ignored those for the time being. I watched our father pick up the mailbox, inspecting the buckled sides and the bent red flag that spun round and round like some whirligig carnival game. He attempted to balance the thing on the post again, but it wobbled before toppling to the ground. My father kicked it away in frustration.

  And then the front door opened and Rose stepped outside. She lugged our suitcase down the stoop to the car. Despite his back trouble, my father went to her and heaved it into the trunk. As he walked to the driver’s side, our mother pulled an envelope from her jacket and pushed it into Rose’s hand. My sister refused it, but my mother insisted, shoving it in Rose’s pocket. And then our mother did what I had felt too nervous to do, putting her arms around Rose, pulling her close. My sister did not return the hug, standing there stiff as that headless mailbox post.

  From that moment on, things moved quickly: Rose got in the car and buckled her seat belt. My father did too, shifting into Reverse. As they backed out of the driveway, I waved to my sister, willing her to look up and wave too. But it never happened, even though I kept on waving until the Datsun pulled onto the lane and rolled away.

  For a long while after they were gone, I looked out at the empty driveway and my mother lingering on the front lawn, gazing down the road as though she hoped for them to return. With the exception of a few occasions when she mentioned her father’s passing, I’d rarely seen my mother cry. As I stood at my window, however, I watched her hands move to her cheeks, wiping away tears. When I couldn’t bear to watch any longer, I turned to my desk and began sorting those horse limbs, lining them up until they were side by side, ready for the odd surgery I’d grown accustomed to performing.

  Hours—that’s how long it took for me to carefully glue them together. All the while, so many questions about Rose and when exactly she’d be back knocked around my mind. When all the horses were returned to my shelf once more, it occurred to me that, ringing phone and chiming clock aside, there had been no sounds inside our house for some time. I stepped out of my room, locking the door behind me, listening for my mother. When I still did not hear anything, I made my way to the first floor. At last, I opened the front door and found her sitting on the stoop, wearing her robe and slippers still, a thick stack of white paper in her lap and more tears in her eyes.

  I stepped outside and sat beside her. Above us, birds chirped in the misty air, and squirrels scrambled along the branches of the birch trees. I looked over at my mother’s crumpled face. The tears that rolled down her pale cheeks seemed capable of washing away the hints of blue from the veins beneath her skin.

  “Can I ask,” I said, finally, “where Saint Julia’s is?”

  Her hair had fallen out of its pins and looked wild as hay. She brushed it from her eyes, telling me, “Your father gave me the name of the town. But my mind—well, it’s been so muddled lately. This fatigue. I just haven’t felt myself. Anyway, it’s a nice place in upstate New York where they help people like her. Troubled girls, I mean. Your father found out about it. Made all the arrangements. If I felt better, I might have been able to keep stalling him the way I have for months now.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “I don’t know, Sylvie. In some ways, that’s up to her.” My mother looked out at the empty driveway, hands resting on the thick stack of paper in her lap. When I asked what those pages were, the question brought more tears. I reached over, rubbed my hand on her back, feeling the knobby bumps of her spine. At last, my mother took a br
eath and told me that when she woke that morning, she made up her mind to fight her weariness and get out of bed to cook us breakfast. After being cooped up in that bedroom, however, she first wanted a glimpse of the sun. That’s when she opened the front door and caught sight of the vandalized mailbox and toppled trash cans. “I made my way to the street and picked up some of that trash, then lifted the mailbox off the ground only to discover this manuscript stuffed in there. It’s from that reporter your father welcomed into our lives.”

  Inside the house, the phone rang. It had begun to sound like small screams to me. “Do you need to get that?”

  My mother shook her head, waved it away. She looked down at the title on the top page. I did too: Help for the Haunted: The Unusual Work of Sylvester and Rose Mason by Samuel Heekin. “Your father,” she said, when the ringing stopped, “thought he was going to persuade the man to omit certain details he apparently told him one night when they were out having a drink after an official interview. But Sam—Mr. Heekin, I mean—had already finished the book and has no plans of changing even a single word. It will be published in another few months. September, actually. Heekin intended to give it to your father last night, but chickened out—that’s the only way to say it. Instead, he slipped it in our box after he dropped him off. Before whoever came by and knocked it off the post.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  I glimpsed an odd expression on my mother’s face then: a wide-eyed flicker that left me with the feeling she’d said more than she intended. Her mouth opened to answer, but just then the phone burst into another series of shrill screams. I asked once more if she needed to get it, and she told me, “Eventually, I should. But he’ll call back.”

  “He? Who is calling?”

  “Well, I don’t mean he. Not exactly anyway. After all, there are plenty of people calling. More reporters who want to interview us. And these people who call themselves lecture agents, who want to book your father and me all over the country for more talks. And so many strangers have been calling too, more than ever before, seeking our help. But there’s one person who has been more persistent than the rest. Relentless, in fact.