The Card

by Brandon Luffman



  THE CARD

  Brandon R. Luffman

  Copyright 2013 Brandon R. Luffman

  Contents

  Title Page

  Beginning

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Also By This Author

  Frostwalker Excerpt

  Sometimes, Jason felt like the glue that held their little triumvirate together. As Brian and Freddie glared at each other, the tarot card trembling in Freddie’s outstretched grip, Jason felt the strain. He took out his agitation on his lighter, a battered Zippo that had been a gift from Freddie some years ago, repeatedly opening and closing the lid with its comforting PING!-snick sound. It was an unconscious habit, but it soothed his nerves.

  “Take your damned card and shove it.” Freddie was seething, and his words were clipped. A tiny string of spittle clung to his lower lip, but he didn’t seem to notice. Freddie thrust the card toward Brian.

  Brian sat back in his chair, hands raised, palms outward in a gesture of refusal. “No way. That’s not mine. I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “You’re always giving me shit. I know you did this. I don’t know how, but you did it.” The card Freddie now flicked at Brian was a perfect match for the rest of the deck. But it was like no tarot card that Jason had ever seen.

  As Brian picked up the card and prepared to fling it back, Jason reached out and took it from him. “Look, guys, give it a rest. Freddie, I’m sure he was just joking and—”

  “I was not joking! I didn’t have anything to do with this! Look at it. It looks just like the rest of them. You know I can’t draw stick figures, much less some weird old man.”

  Freddie’s chair squalled across the floor, sliding away as he stood and began sweeping up the remainder of the cards from his interrupted reading. “I made this set by hand. I know every card in it—intimately. I did not make that one, and it is not a part of my deck.”

  Jason slipped his lighter into his pocket and examined the card while they continued to argue. It certainly looked like the rest of Freddie’s work, drawn in his detailed and competent style. The back was decorated with an intricate Celtic knot pattern that made his eyes feel out of focus if he looked at it too long. On the front stood an old man in a grey hooded robe, surrounded by a fog the color of sand. All that could be seen of his face was a puckered mouth beneath a hooked nose and flanked by the jowls of old age. A small tuft of white hair adorned the sharp angle of his chin. In his right fist he gripped a lit candle, nearly burned to a nub, stalactites of congealed wax flowing over his knuckles. His left hand was raised with three fingers extended, the thumb and pinkie curled under tight. Beneath was the legend: The Vizier. He looked thoroughly unpleasant, with the sort of face that would only sneer, never smile. Wouldn’t want him hanging around the playground, would you?

  The clatter of Brian’s chair falling over startled him from his reverie. Having sprung to his feet, Brian was shaking a finger at Freddie across the table. “I never said your religion was stupid! I said it was made-up hocus-pocus! I’m entitled to my opinion!”

  Freddie drew in breath to shout back, but Jason raised his hands to stop them both. “Guys, that’s enough. Look, it’s getting late. Let’s call it a night. We’ll worry about this some other time.”

  “Right,” Freddie said. “You always take his side!” He grabbed the backpack he’d carried his things in when he came over to visit and stalked to the front door. Snatching his jacket from the coat rack, he stormed out.

  “See you at work Monday,” Jason began, but Freddie was slamming the door before he’d fairly gotten started. He turned to Brian, who was gathering his own things.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” His tone was indignant.

  “You know what, man. Why are you always screwing with him? You guys are supposed to be friends. We’re all friends. Why do you always have to give him grief?” Jason waved the tarot card at him before dropping it in the kitchen trashcan among egg shells and cigarette butts.

  Brian shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. I told you, I didn’t put that card in his deck. I dunno, maybe it was an extra or something and he just forgot about it?”

  “There aren’t any extras! He made that deck by hand. He would know if the card was his or not!”

  “Either way, I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Brian was putting his jacket on as he walked toward the door.

  Jason stooped to set Brian’s forgotten chair upright. “Whatever, man. Just, how about apologizing to him? Maybe give him a couple of days to cool off and then call him.”

  “For what? I told you, I didn’t do it. Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks all his New Age crystal fondling is nutty?”

  Shaking his head, Jason joined him by the door. Outside, Freddie’s car spun gravel as it left the driveway. Brian was looking at the floor now, quiet. After a moment, he spoke. “Okay, I’ll call him next week sometime. But I’m not going to take the blame for something I didn’t do. I’ll apologize for giving him a hard time, but that’s it.”

  Jason nodded. That’s the best I’ll get out of him.

  They said their goodbyes, and Jason headed to bed. Saturday night with his friends had been exhausting.

  * * *

  Jason didn’t hear from either of his friends on Sunday, and on Monday morning when he arrived at the textile mill where he and Freddie worked, he was surprised to see that Freddie had never clocked in. Jason spoke with his co-workers, but no one knew if Freddie had called in sick. Company policy had long been that personnel matters were private and the shift manager refused to discuss Freddie’s absence.

  That afternoon, after the end of his shift, Jason drove to Freddie’s house to check on him. The short gravel drive ended beside the small mobile home that Freddie always called his “Cracker Box Palace”. Jason saw the rust-flecked Honda Civic that Freddie had driven since high school parked by the cinder block stairs that served the door on the end of the house. It was spring and the days were warm, but a chill would quickly return in the evening. He grabbed his jacket and walked to the door.

  Balanced precariously on the top of the block stairs, Jason tapped at the door. There was no answer, and after a few more knocks, he opened the door. Stepping inside, he could see nothing at first, his eyes still dazzled by the lowering afternoon sun. Jason called out. “Hello? Freddie, are you here?”

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw the familiar shapes of Freddie’s laundry room, but the only response to his call was the quiet ticking of the house. Jason noted a faint smell, like an exotic spice from someplace where sand is more common than water. Perhaps Freddie was using some strange new incense.

  The narrow laundry room opened onto the kitchen. Aside from a few bits of silverware in the sink and an empty microwave dinner carton, the room was clean. Jason passed through, stepping lightly. “Freddie?” Why am I whispering? Louder, “Freddie? Hey, man, are you here?”

  The stillness of the darkened living room was unnerving. The curtains were drawn, giving everything the dim cast of dreams. The room was normally inviting, with a comfortable couch that Jason had spent many evenings watching movies on, and all the mementos and personal touches that Freddie had used to make the small house his own. Then why does the place feel like a tomb? Subtle fear began to flutter in his chest.

  Jason continued through the living room and stepped into the passageway that led to the trailer’s single bedroom. The short hall featured the bathroom door on one side, a small window on the other, and the bedroom door at the end. As he passed the bathroom, Jason glanced inside: Nothing. The window showed the small backyard, recently mowed. Stars were beginning to speckle the eastern sky.

  Turning to the bedroom door, another scent wafted on the air,
like something dark and moist. Noisome, Jason thought, wondering why that term had come to him, but knowing it was right. He reached for the doorknob, but stopped. He could feel his pulse thumping in his temples and tried to slow his breathing. Relax. You’re just here to check on a sick friend. Jason opened the door.

  As the door swung open, a redoubled wave of the dusty spice smell passed over him, quickly subsumed by the stronger odor of sewage and stale sweat. His mouth went dry and his throat clenched shut as he saw the still form of Freddie slumped over the desk at the other side of the small room. OhGodOhGodOhGod…

  A deep blue cloth had been draped over the large desk and a fan of tarot cards lay scattered across the surface, covering other cards in a partial reading. One bow of Freddie’s glasses stuck up by his cheek, pushed out of place by his head lying face down on the velvet cloth. Jason’s vision blurred and he took rough swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

  He approached the desk, circling carefully toward the chair, afraid to touch anything. As he drew closer, the room seemed to grow dim around him, and all he saw was the perfect curve of Freddie’s pale ear. Jason focused on the ear, unwilling to take in the entire scene. Wiping away his tears again, he drew in a shuddering breath of fetid air.

  Jason was surprised to see his hand reach out to Freddie’s shoulder and stopped himself. What am I doing? What am I going to do? Oh, Freddie…dammit, Freddie. But he had to see—had to know for sure, beyond a doubt.

  Grasping his friend’s shoulder—it feels like a stuffed animal…a stuffed animal…a stuffed—he pulled to bring him upright.

  There was a cracking sound from within Freddie, and the desert spice scent bloomed into Jason’s nostrils: a choking sage—cloves from Hell. A rising scream filled his ears. A distant part of his mind knew that the scream was his own, but his thoughts were swallowed by horror. Freddie’s eyes were like chalked marbles and lay sunken in his sallow, withered face. What took the last of his fleeting composure was the expression Freddie wore: Teeth bared and eyes wide in an expression of terror so atavistic that all humanity had been wiped away. When his lungs had been emptied and his scream became a whistle, and then silence, Jason surrendered to darkness.

  * * *

  Jason awoke to what felt like an ice pick spearing his brain. Reaching up, he felt the damp roughness of a washcloth draped over his forehead. It was warm to the touch, and much of the moisture had evaporated from it. His eyes felt like they had been rolled in sand.

  Sitting up with a groan, he found himself on Freddie’s couch. Brian was sitting in a chair nearby, head in his hands. When Jason turned and put his feet on the floor, Brian looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. The rumble of an engine and the flicker of lights on the wall revealed an ambulance idling in the front yard. People in uniforms were walking through the house: paramedics, sheriff’s deputies.

  When Brian spoke, his voice was weary. “You feeling better?”

  “My head is splitting. I don’t know what happened. I found…I found him, and then I don’t remember what happened after that.”

  “I tried calling you earlier. Then I was driving by and saw your car here, so I stopped in. I called 911 when I found you babbling on the floor. I’m sorry, man. I never got to apologize to him.” Brian’s voice went quiet, and he looked away, then at the floor.

  “Mr. Weston? Can I speak with you a moment?”

  Jason turned to see a rotund man in an ill-fitted suit standing in Freddie’s bedroom.

  Carefully, with one hand on his aching head, he stood and went to the bedroom door. He didn’t enter the room.

  “Mr. Weston, I’m sorry about your friend. I understand you were the one who found him?”

  When Jason nodded, he continued. Jason answered his questions, barely hearing them, but nodding in the right places.

  “Had Freddie been sick?”

  “Was there any sign of depression?”

  “What’s all this tarot business about?”

  “Was Mr. Silver involved in a cult?”

  Then the detective’s voice fell away, and Jason’s eyes were fixed on an object on the floor. A tarot card was lying under the edge of the desk. The visible end showed the words “The Vizier”. That can’t be. This can’t be here. With shaking hands, he crossed the room and bent to pick up the card.

  Jason gave a shuddering sigh when he saw that it wasn’t the same card. It was very similar, but the man in this one was younger, the goatee showing streaks of black. The candle in his fist was taller and his other hand held only two fingers erect.

  “Mr. Weston? Are you okay?”

  He blinked and turned back to the detective. “Oh, sorry, I was just distracted. What was the question?”

  “No, that’s fine. No more questions for now. Sorry again about your friend.” The man patted Jason’s shoulder and stepped around him before walking out the door.

  * * *

  When he thought back on it in the following days, the rest of that evening was a confused blur. The paramedics had wanted to take him to the hospital for a checkup, but he assured them that he was fine. It had just been such a shock, seeing Freddie that way.

  After the funeral, a brief talk with Freddie’s sister, his only surviving relative, had revealed the official cause of death: The Coroner’s report noted “extreme dehydration leading to cardiac arrest”. Freddie had been 26 years old.

  Now, two weeks later, something like normalcy was returning to Jason’s life. He had been having dreams about finding Freddie, sometimes in his trailer, sometimes in a dusty tomb that he knew was deep underground and more ancient than the pyramids. Once, he had dreamt of finding Freddie packed into a picnic cooler, bone dry and freezer burned. But the dreams had faded, and he’d had none in the past few days.

  Jason was sitting at home in the early evening, watching re-runs and smoking too many cigarettes—a habit he had nearly kicked before Freddie’s death. He pondered his lighter as he flicked the cover open and closed—PING!-snick-PING!-snick—over and over. Brian had berated Freddie for the gift, saying it would only make it harder for Jason to quit smoking. But Freddie had been adamant. The lighter was engraved with an elaborate pattern, featuring a pentagram and assorted symbols. Brian had called it nonsense, but Freddie had ignored him. “A pentacle for protection,” he’d said, as if that explained it all perfectly. But the pentacle he’d worn around his neck didn’t save him, Jason thought.

  The phone rang. It was Freddie’s sister, and her voice had the nasal quality of someone who has been crying. “Jason, I’m so sorry.”

  Jason’s stomach fell. “What are you talking about, Sherry? What’s happened?”

  Sherry stammered, and he could hear her sobbing before she went on, “No one called you? Jason, they found Brian’s body this morning. He died in his bed. They’re saying it was like what happened to Freddie.” With that, she gave way to open tears.

  Jason was stunned. He found his breath heavy, and he gulped air, trying to come to grips with his emotions. What is happening here? This can’t be right. Startled, he jumped when a heavy knocking came from his front door.

  Still dazed by what he had been told, he turned off his phone and dropped it on the couch before shuffling to the door. When it opened, the detective he had spoken with at Freddie’s house was standing on his front porch. He seemed to be wearing the same cheap suit from before.

  “Mr. Weston. Perhaps you remember me. I’m Detective Arbor. We spoke at your friend Freddie’s home. You seem to be having a very bad spring. Can I speak with you for a moment?”

  Jason nodded and stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. When he felt something tickle his jawline, he realized that he had tears on his cheeks. Wiping his face, he turned to the detective. “I just heard about Brian. What’s going on?”

  “I was hoping you could help me figure that out. Do you recognize this?” Arbor produced a sealed plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a single tarot card: The Vizier. Jason shuddered. This versio
n of the card was different from the others he had seen, but largely the same. The same robed man, only his face was largely unmarked aside from a few lines around his mouth, most obscured by the salt and pepper goatee he wore. The candle in the hooded figure’s grip was a long taper, with only a few streams of wax congealed along its length. His other hand held a single finger pointed skyward from his raised fist.

  “I’ve seen similar cards, but not exactly like this. Do you think this is related somehow?”

  “Mr. Weston, let’s be frank here. We’ve already examined this card. It was found by your friend Brian’s bed. It was the only tarot card present in the house, and people we’ve spoken with have been clear that your friend didn’t take much stock in this sort of thing. Oh, and it has your fingerprints on it.”

  Jason swayed on his feet before carefully settling himself onto one of the wooden benches on his porch. His mind was a confused whirl of improperly formed thoughts. Struggling to regain control, he grasped one thought and clung to it desperately. “Why would you have my fingerprints?”

  The detective’s smile wasn’t very friendly. “We check everything, especially in the case of an unusual death. I’d say that Freddie Silver’s death meets that description. The only fingerprints on Mr. Silver’s bedroom door belonged to him, except for one set. Since you opened that door last, they must be yours. The prints on this card match yours, as well as Freddie and Brian.”

  Jason’s confusion was beginning to coalesce into something else: anger. “I don’t know anything about this.” Jason’s tears were gone now, as he glared at the detective.

  “You sure you don’t want to help me out here?”

  Jason stood and faced him squarely. “I don’t think I appreciate what you’re implying.”

  Arbor smirked. “What would that implication be, Mr. Weston?”

  Careful. I don’t know what’s going on here, but this guy is just waiting for an excuse to put you in cuffs. Jason took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. “If you don’t have any other questions, I think I’d like to go lie down for a while.”