The Tormentors

by Jack Phoenix

  Then she heard a vehicle in the driveway. It was a tow truck, and out of it stumbled her husband, still wearing the same clothes and even dirtier than before. She saw him slip the driver some cash. The truck pulled away as Roderick lurched into the house like the living dead.

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, “where the hell have you been!”

  She went to embrace him, and he simply walked past her, heading up the stairs.

  “Rod! For God’s sake, talk to me.”

  “What?” he rasped, his voice nearly gone.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Trying to deal with something.”

  “Okay. Care to elaborate?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Totaled.”

  “What!”

  “Yeah. Totaled.”

  “How!”

  “I flipped it.”

  “You flipped it? Are you okay? Where is it?”

  “Mechanic.”

  “Oh, my God, is that dried blood on your head?”

  “Probably.”

  “We need to get you to a hospital! Did you call the police?”

  “No. Not calling anyone. No hospitals.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “Look, I’ve called some doctors, and we need to take you somewhere and get you evaluated, you know, get some help. But first you should get some sleep, you look like hell.”

  Roderick gazed blankly up at the ceiling, “No. No time for sleep. Have to do something. Have to stop them.”

  “Oh, my God, please, listen to yourself,” his wife said, her hands cupped together, nearly crying. “You’re not well. Please, please, let me help you.”

  A peculiar smile stretched across his face. “You’re right. I need help. I need help. I need to go get help!”

  And with that he dashed into the kitchen, and grabbed a set of keys off the hook.

  “Rod, wait!” Elizabeth hollered, chasing him. “Wait, where are you going? Rod, you can’t…you can’t leave, look at you!”

  He ran outside to their other car, Elizabeth’s five-year old red Toyota, and clumsily hopped in. Elizabeth tried to grab him and pounded on the window.

  “Rod! Rod, goddamnit, get out of the car!”

  The ignition started.

  “Rod, no! Don’t do this, tell me what’s wrong! Tell me how I can help you! We can get you help, please, please, don’t go!”

  The car blew out of the driveway; it nearly ran over her feet.

  * * * *

  Doctor Jones wasn’t surprised to have a knock on her office door just as she was wrapping up her day. After all, students often came calling late in the afternoon in a panic about some last-minute question, especially before summer finals. She was surprised, however, to see Roderick Whithers standing before her. Just as he had behaved with Diana, he didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. He brushed past her, shoving her slightly with his shoulder.

  “Mister Whithers?” Doctor Jones said, repulsed. “Please, won’t you come in?” Her sarcasm was lost on him.

  Roderick hadn’t even looked at her yet. He was pacing across the floor, breathing heavily. She could tell he was ill. He was bleach-white; his eyes were dark and bloodshot. He even looked thinner. Dark patches of dried mud were all over his clothes.

  “What are you doing?” Doctor Jones demanded.

  “I need your help,” he said, still pacing like his body couldn’t keep still.

  She asked, “What kind of help?”

  “I need you to tell me how to stop them. What do I have to do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do,” he said ominously, stepping closer to her. “The ones who have been attacking me. Tell me how to stop them.”

  “How dare you, Sir,” she said, indignantly. “I have lead nothing but peaceful protests, I would never, never resort to violence.” He began to speak and she interrupted him. “If someone has attacked you, I had nothing to do with it, and I suggest you call the police. Now get out of here before I call security.”

  “No!” he shouted, his voice wavering, his hands raised and trembling, as if trying to keep his head on straight, “I’m talking about the demons!”

  Doctor Jones took a long pause before saying “What?” almost with a smile.

  “The evil spirits. There are evil spirits after me. They’re everywhere, they can go anywhere—look like anything.”

  “Listen, Mister Whithers,” she said as calmly as she could, “it’s clear to me that you’re on something. So, why don’t you just have a seat, and I’ll call for a paramedic.”

  “No!” he shouted again. “Please, just listen to me, I know you know something!”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about; you’re having some kind of delusion, and you smell. Very badly.”

  “No,” he said again, “please just listen to me and don’t talk to me like I’m crazy. Everyone talks to me like I’m crazy.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Please, just…”

  “Okay,” she said, cutting him off, “say what you have to say, and then I’m calling security.”

  “I’ve been seeing these things, these evil spirits,” he began, attempting to keep his composure but failing, “and I think it has to do with the Mound.”

  “And what do these evil spirits look like?”

  “Three women. Well, kinda women. Not really. They look different every time I see them.”

  “How, interesting…”

  “Sometimes they look like regular women, but sometimes they look like dogs or snakes or something. Sometimes they have wings and sometimes they have snakes in their hair and they’re always screaming at me, always screaming at me!” his voice rose, as if he were trying to talk over someone. “I have to make them stop! I have to make them go away! I know they are some kind of evil spirits sent to punish me for disturbing the Mound, and, please, I promise you that I will leave the Mound alone if you just tell me how to stop them!”

  “Okay, I’ve heard enough. Look, I’m sorry about whatever it is you’re going through, and that you think you’ve got the Furies after you or something, but you have to go away now. Is there someone that I can call for you?” Doctor Jones asked, fingers at her chin.

  “Wait, what did you say?” His head shot up and his finger pointed at her.

  “Is there anyone I can call for you to come and pick you up?”

  “No, no, no,” he shook his head, “the other part!”

  She replied, “It’s not important. Look, it’s obvious that you’ve been through a lot and that you’re not well. I think you need to go home right now and talk to your doctor.”

  “I asked you not to talk to me like I’m crazy!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do, Sir, you’re standing here saying that there are evil spirits after you and you’re implying that I or a tribe of natives have something to do with it.”

  “But you said that you were part Indian, right? And Indian burial grounds and stuff, I know that you people believe in evil spirits and stuff and that they get pissed when you build on an Indian burial ground…”

  She interrupted him again, “I think you’ve seen one too many movies and, frankly, that’s just insulting. If there are evil spirits after you, they’re not mine. Now, please leave before I call security.”

  He headed for the door, but then suddenly stopped, “Wait, just please say that word again?”

  “What word?”

  “Furies,” he insisted.

  “Well, you just said it, that was the word. Please leave.”

  “No, please you have to tell me what that is,” he looked as if he were going to cry.

&n
bsp; “Very well,” she acquiesced. “It’s just that what you described vaguely resembles something from Greek mythology, that’s all.”

  “Resembles what?”

  “Vaguely, I said. I simply think that if you’ve ever heard the stories or seen pictures maybe it’s helping to influence your delusions.”

  “Resembles what? Please just tell me.”

  “And then do you promise to leave?”

  “Yes, for God’s sake, yes, just tell me.”

  “Okay,” she said, pulling a book off of her bookshelf that said, Goddesses and Other Female Deities by a Doctor Glenda Laughlin. She flipped to the index and then flipped some more. She dropped the heavy book on the table saying, “Here we are,” and he leaned over to look at the pages she had opened for him. On the page was a black and white etching of a man with his ears covered, a look of suffering on his face. Around him were three plump and naked women with bat wings carrying torches. They circled him; their mouths open as if in the midst of a scream. The caption under the picture read, The Furies Pursuing Orestes.

  “The Furies,” Roderick said to himself, nearly inaudible.

  “That’s what the Romans called them. They were also called the Erinyes or Eumindes, which meant ‘Kindly Ones’,” enlightened Doctor Jones, who could never resist and opportunity to inform and educate, no matter the circumstances.

  “’Kindly Ones’?” he looked at her, shocked, and then his voice quivered again, “What the hell are they?”

  “Mister Whithers,” Doctor Jones whined, her feet stomping on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum, “you said you’d go! Now, please, just go!”

  “Tell me what they are!”

  “Demigods from Greek mythology,” droned Doctor Jones. “They were avengers of wrong-doing, they punished the guilty.”

  “The guilty?”

  “Okay, that’s enough, I told you all I’m going to tell you, no get out of here, and you truly do stink.”

  “It’s them,” he stated, ignoring her demands. “They killed my father and now they’re after me.”

  “We’re talking about mythology. The Furies are personifications of guilt, that’s all.”

  “I don’t know, but it’s them. How do I stop them?”

  “You’re taking this prescriptively, Sir, that’s not a good thing. Now, get out of here!”

  “No, what else do you know about them?”

  “Loads. But we’re done! I’m calling security,” and as she picked up the phone, he bolted out the door, taking the book with him.

  Son of a bitch, she thought to herself, fine just take it, I’ll get another one. At least he’s gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wade was once again astonished by Samantha’s calmness, a trait so rare in little children. Just as she had behaved at the zoo, it seemed evident that the child would be more than content to sit quietly, reading one picture book after another. He stood in the corner overseeing, paying keen attention to the books she was selecting. There was something about a house of napping people and pets, some revisionist tale about the Gingerbread Man involving cheese, a book about an emotional pigeon, and something from an author named Polacco. The children’s section of the library was full of bright, comical posters and primary colors and stuffed animals and puzzles to entertain reluctant readers.

  Samantha had apparently picked up her reading habits from her mother. Wade had always caught Elizabeth reading for leisure while they were in school despite all the textbooks she had to power through. And now her daughter was blazing through books like a tiny cyborg. She was uninterested in hopping on one of the computers and playing online games, or heading to the audio-visual section and grabbing a stack full of movies like most of the other children.

  “Can I help you find anything today?” the children’s librarian asked from his desk.

  Wade replied with a smile, “Oh, I think she’s doing okay.”

  “Fantastic. Is this your daughter?” he wondered.

  “No, I’m just baby-sitting,” he answered, approaching the desk. “Sam here is on a vacation, aren’t you, Sam?”

  Samantha, oblivious to their voices, pulled another book off the shelf.

  “She’s shy,” Wade explained.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” the librarian assured him and then turned to Samantha’s direction. “Sam—I like that name. It’s very pretty.”

  She continued to flip through the book.

  “Exciting job you have here,” commented Wade.

  “Is that sarcasm, Sir?” the librarian askedc with a chuckle, leaning forward.

  Wade laughed, “No, not at all. I bet you have a great time.”

  “Children’s lit is the best.”

  “I’m honestly a bit unfamiliar.”

  The librarian asked, “So, no children of your own?”

  “Nope.”

  “Married?”

  He smiled. “No, no, I’m single.”

  “Well,” the librarian gleamed, “I’d be more than happy to show you some children’s books that grown-ups can enjoy too.”

  “Oh would you? I haven’t read a kid’s book since I was, well…a kid!”

  “You’re missing out! There are all kinds of cool stuff in here. You know, some of these writers are just amazing. It takes a level of brilliance, I think, to not only entertain kids but to tell powerful stories while having to censor themselves. It’s easy to talk about tough issues if you’re allowed to use big words and cuss and show lots of violence, but to get those messages to little kids is a real challenge. Take the book our dear Sam is holding right now.“

  Samantha finally acknowledged the librarian’s presence and his words. She held the book up in her hands, revealing the cover and asked, “What’s this about?”

  “That,” the librarian said, stepping away from his desk and leaning on one knee to be eye-level with the child, “is about a little boy who has to leave his mommy and daddy but these two wonderful people,” and he pointed at the adult characters with glasses on the cover art, “take him in and raise him as their own.”

  “Why does he have to leave his mommy and daddy?” she inquired, her little voice lifting with curiosity.

  “Well, you’ll just have to read it and find out!” he said enthusiastically. “Would you like to take it home?”

  Samantha gazed at the cover, mulling over the decision, as the librarian stood up and turned to Wade who asked, “Is it about child abuse?”

  “Yes,” the librarian answered, “yes it is the true story of the author’s childhood, so it’s technically a memoir in a picture book. But, like I said, it’s amazing how he’s able to convey the subject matter without having it be offensive or blatant so that little kids can read it.”

  Samantha, as young as she was, was familiar with the term ‘child abuse’.

  “I don’t want it!” she exclaimed, harshly shoving it back onto the shelf with little care.

  Wade was startled by her action. Samantha just stood there silently. She had once again gone slouchy, her head and shoulders hanging, her eyes to the ground. It was as if at that moment, her life and energy were invisibly leeched. Wade thanked the librarian, shaking his hand, promising to stop in again. He noted that Samantha must be tired and perhaps it was time they departed.

  * * * *

  Roderick’s mother used to bring him and Rebecca to the library quite frequently, though little Roddy never shared his sister’s love of reading. Becky would shine, a bright star within the quiet and calm atmosphere, a burning celestial body, whenever she would discover that new book for the week. Little Roddy would always bring a toy truck, rolling it about on one of the tables until a library worker said it was making too much noise. Sometimes he’d bring a toy gun, hiding within the stacks and pretending to shoot patrons as they browse
d until he was told that the library was no place for horseplay.

  He would often take the toy gun and point it at his mother or sister after they had found a book to sit with, making every effort to distract them from the words on the page, deter them from paying attention to fictional characters rather than him. He hated going to the library for this very reason. He’d have to find some way of entertaining himself while they were occupied with their stupid books. Little Roddy never saw Robert Whithers with a book, and since he emulated his father as many young boys do, he decided that reading must be a girl’s pastime.

  Therefore, Roderick Whithers would not have come to the library to seek information unless he was desperate. From the moment he walked between the pillars and entered the enormous doors, he could feel the eyes of the other patrons look up from their tables, no doubt disgusted by his appearance. The staff, however, was used to bums and hobos wandering in off the street, and no employee seemed to take any significant notice. This was a drastic difference from the academic library at Doctor Jones’ school, where they had asked him to leave.

  The reference librarian masked her aversion to the stench of this man in his filthy dress shirt, covered in dirt and dried blood with the accumulation of two days’ worth of body odor. She was more than willing to put her best effort into finding the information he was seeking as quickly as she could, perhaps so she could remove his offensive presence that much sooner. He took a seat at the furthest table in the corner while the librarian brought him various books, encyclopedias, and old dictionaries of mythological beings that had popped up in her electronic catalogue under ‘Furies’. She told him that if he required additional information there were online sources. Roderick didn’t thank her and she returned to her desk, leaving him to read in peace.

  He read more than he had read in years, at least since his college days. He found the entries in the encyclopedias. One of them read:

  “Furies, The-Roman; Also known as Erinyes (Greek) or euphemistically Eumenides; demigoddesses; spirits of vengeance and/or retribution/justice; Persecutors of mortals who break natural law; Said to have sprang from three drops of blood from Uranus after being castrated by his son, the Titan Cronus.”