by K. J. Young
“Bravo!” Roy says, struggling to his feet and applauding. Next to him Alma raises her eyes, startled, and gently begins to clap. Roy adds, “Now you sound like a man to be reckoned with.” He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. “I’m proud of you, my boy.”
“Thank you,” Mark says, a slow grin crossing his face. Getting the old man’s approval gives him a boost like he’s never had before. Why couldn’t he have a grandfather like Roy? Even Alma appears to approve, smiling in his direction. Mark no longer dreads seeing his family today. Instead, he feels ready. Ready to take on any bit of disapproval or attempt to control him. It’s as if Roy has outfitted him with a coating of armor, a shell that will deflect anything negative tossed his way. “Is there anything else to keep in mind?”
“Just one thing.” Roy fumbles in his back pocket, pulls out his battered wallet, and rummages around for what seems like ages before pulling out a twenty. “If the car needs gas, go ahead and stop on your way. And if it doesn’t, keep this for yourself.”
Mark nods. “Thanks, Roy.”
Chapter Eighteen
The note from Mark’s mother is the usual:
Dear Mark,
I love you and miss you. We would love to have you join us for dinner this evening at five o’clock. Grandma Norman is coming and is eager to give you your birthday card. Hope to see you there!
Love,
Mom
It doesn’t escape him that she used the word love twice. His mom has always been prone to theatrics. When his dad (his real dad) died in the car accident, she wept and wailed for months, carrying on as if it were the end of the world. Mark was eight at the time, and Brian ten, almost eleven. Like a big weakling, Brian cried as well, turning to their mother for consolation. This annoyed the hell out of Mark, who actually knew how to control his emotions. A year later his mom married the new guy, replacing his dad, so obviously the whole thing had been for show.
For years now the three of them have ganged up on him, something that rankles him to this day. And now he’s going to face all of them at once, but with his new strategy, he will finally be the man in charge.
After their practice session, Roy urges Mark to call his parents. For the sake of privacy, Mark calls from the kitchen, cradling the telephone receiver between his shoulder and ear. When he gets the family answering machine, he breathes a sigh of relief. After the beep, he speaks into the mouthpiece, saying, “I’m able to come for dinner tonight after all, but I can’t stay late.” He ends with, “See you at five,” then hangs up the phone. Why his parents insist on eating so early is beyond him. At least he’ll get it over with and have the rest of the night to spare. And it will be nice not having them tracking him down and popping up in his life unannounced after this. Roy is right. He is ready to be done with them.
Good riddance.
Stopping at a traffic light on the way to their house, he rolls down the window. When a teenage girl in an adjacent car calls out, “Nice wheels!” he gives her a thumbs-up. When the light turns green, he stamps on the accelerator and flies right past her.
The trip from Alden Manor to the family’s boring trilevel in the suburbs goes quickly. As he turns down the street, he’s struck by the sameness of the houses, with their aluminum siding, asphalt-shingled roofs, and black shutters. One leafy maple tree stands sentry in front of each home. Some of the residents make an attempt to stand out with lawn ornaments: old-fashioned wagon wheels, reflecting balls on pedestals, garden gnomes. Tacky crap. These people are oblivious to the fact they’re leading sad, cookie-cutter lives.
Mark parks the car in the driveway, strides confidently to the front door, and presses the doorbell. His mom opens the door wearing a striped apron she’s had since he was a kid. “Mark?” she says, her tone uncertain. “Your hair is so different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s me.” He grins broadly. “Can I come in?”
She ushers him in, saying, “You don’t have to ring the doorbell. You’re family.” Taking a step back, she studies him with a long, measuring look. “I’m so glad you came. I made your favorite for dinner. Roast beef.”
Already he feels his throat tightening. Roast beef is not his favorite dish. It’s Brian’s. Normally Mark would correct her, but Roy’s voice rings in his ear. If they provoke you, don’t answer. “Smells great.”
She wipes her hands on her apron. “Come on in. Your dad will be happy to see you.”
Mark follows her into the living room, where his stepfather and Brian sit waiting for him. Both of them greet him with tight smiles and false pleasantries, Brian saying, “Glad you could make it, little bro.”
His stepdad adds, “It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you, Mark. I like your haircut.”
Mark doesn’t need his approval, so he just nods and takes a seat across from them on the couch. The living room is for company—that’s always been the rule. Normally, family members are restricted to the family room, with its plaid furniture and orange shag carpeting. His mother heavily dosed the carpeting with Scotchgard when it was first installed to make it stain resistant. The house stank of it for days.
This room has a tightly woven beige rug. Porcelain figurines of small children fill the curio cabinet in the corner. A family portrait, taken shortly after his mom and stepfather’s wedding, hangs above the couch. All of them smile broadly in the photo, except for Mark, who had taken a stand and refused to say cheese. Mark has been in this room a dozen times in his entire life.
Still in her apron, his mother sits on the opposite end of the couch. She says, “We’ve been worried about you, Mark.”
And so it begins. Luckily, he’s prepared. “I’m doing well—thanks for your concern.”
“Of course.” She twists her hands and shoots a look at his stepfather, who doesn’t react. After a long silence, she says, “Did you know that Brian has a new job? He’s the nighttime manager at the car dealership now.”
“Good for you, Brian!” Mark exclaims. “I always knew you had it in you.”
“If you ever want to buy a vehicle, I can get you a deal.” Brian leans forward eagerly. “Help with financing too.”
“That’s kind of you, but that won’t be necessary.” Mark keeps his voice deliberately light. “I drive an Excalibur right now. It’s one of the benefits of my current job. A company car.”
He expects them to react, to leap up and look out the front window at the car parked in the driveway, but they’re strangely mute. “We saw you pull into the driveway,” his stepdad says, by way of explanation. His eyebrows furrow. “Does your boss know you’re using his car for a personal outing?”
“Yes, he’s aware.” Mark surveys the room, suddenly remembering. “Where’s Grandma?”
His mom and stepdad exchange uneasy glances. She scoots closer and rests her hand on his elbow. “Oh, honey. She wanted to come, she really did.”
“Is she okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” his mother reassures him, drawing back. “She still misses Grandpa, of course, but she’s in great health and keeping active.”
“So why isn’t she here?”
His stepdad clears his throat. “After much thought, she chose not to come.” He speaks slowly, each word precise. “To be completely honest, the last time your grandmother saw you, your outburst scared her. It scared all of us, if you want to know the truth. We’re concerned about you and your temper.”
Mark swallows to tamp down the emotion raging through his body. The last time he saw his grandmother was months ago at a gathering for his brother’s birthday. Brian had taunted him about something in his past. He wouldn’t let it go, even after Mark repeatedly told him to knock it off. The evening ended with Mark throwing a lamp. He intended to hit Brian, but the edge of the shade collided with his grandmother’s shoulder on its way across the room. She wasn’t hurt, and besides, it was a long time ago. He can’t believe they’re bringing it up now. He takes a breath and counts to five. “I’m not that person anymore.
I’ve moved on, and I don’t wish to discuss it.” To change the subject, he says, “Did she drop off my birthday check?”
“That’s what you’re concerned about?” his stepdad says, incredulous.
Before Mark can answer, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get that,” his mom says. When she returns a moment later, she’s followed by a woman Mark hasn’t seen for years, but even so, he’d know her anywhere. She looks much the same, right down to her silk bow-tied blouse, pencil skirt, and short haircut. Mark’s mom says, “Look who was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by!”
Dr. Temple slants a smile in Mark’s direction before taking the spot on the couch previously occupied by his mother. “Good evening, Mark. How have you been?”
Mark knows the score and chooses his words with care. “Never better, Dr. Temple. What brings you here tonight?”
Instead of answering his question, she repeats, “Never better?” Her eyes doubt Mark’s sincerity.
Mark still remembers his first appointment with Dr. Temple. He was in eighth grade when she told him that her specialty as a psychiatrist made her uniquely qualified to treat children like him and that she would never betray a confidence, which was a lie, because eventually he suspected everything he said during his sessions was relayed to his parents. He caught sight of the doctor’s notes a few appointments later when she was making small talk with his mother. It was only for a second but long enough for him to read the words, Prevaricates when asked pointed questions, and lacks impulse control.
After that, he spun tales of top grades and outstanding behavior. All of it lies, but if she thought he prevaricated, that’s what he would give her. She called him on it, but he never broke. That was then. As a kid, he had to talk to her, but now his welfare is none of her business.
“That’s right. Never better. I have a well-paying job, a beautiful girlfriend, and I’m happy and healthy. All is fine in my world.”
“You’re a home health aide, I understand? Does your employer know about your legal history?”
Mark knows now that this whole evening is a charade. There might be beef roast in the oven, but his grandmother was never going to come. His parents set up this ambush with Dr. Temple to try to exert control over him again. He stands and says, “I think we’re through here.”
“Wait!” Dr. Temple stands. “Do you think working with the elderly is a good fit for you, given your history of violence? I ask as someone who cares about you, Mark. I want to help you.” She holds out a business card. “I have a colleague who would love to work with you. He’s exceptional. I think you two would get on well.”
Through a sudden swell of anger, Mark turns away from the psychiatrist and addresses his family. “I don’t appreciate that I was invited here under false pretenses. I’m not the same person anymore. I’ve moved beyond my difficult past. Since you can’t respect me as an adult, I have no choice but to cut you out of my life. Please don’t contact me again.” Wheeling, he heads to the front door, his mother on his heels.
“Mark, don’t do this! Please, just stay and listen. We’re trying to help you.” His mother follows him outside. “I want the best for you, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” The reference to others getting hurt is painful. In junior high, he once broke a girl’s arm, but it was a complete accident. He got into a fight with a kid who’d been bullying him, and she happened to get in the way. Another time, when he was twenty, one of the lowlifes at the restaurant he worked at made fun of him in the parking lot after his shift. That time, Mark’s temper had gotten the best of him; he threw the guy against the side of the brick building, and his injuries required a trip to the hospital for stitches. That one didn’t count, either, because the asshole had it coming, and everyone knows that head wounds cause excessive bleeding.
None of this qualifies him as dangerous. Under the circumstances, most guys would react the same way.
Mark climbs into the Excalibur and starts the engine. As he’s backing up, his mom is moving alongside the car, crying and pleading for him to stay. “Mark, I love you. Please don’t do this!” She slaps at the windshield and says, “Just come back inside for dinner. I promise we won’t bring it up again.”
Mark believes her, but it doesn’t matter. He’s done with all of them.
Chapter Nineteen
When Mark returns to Alden Manor, he discovers Nurse Darby is still there. She’s made dinner, some kind of pasta dish, which Alma and Roy have eaten in his absence. When she finds out Mark hasn’t eaten yet, she offers to reheat some for him.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He suspects Nurse Darby knows she’s on her way out and is trying to accrue points. A real Hail Mary pass on her part. While he eats dinner, she gets Alma ready for bed. Mentally, Mark gives her credit—not that it helps. Once the new person is hired, she’s history.
While he’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating his pasta and green beans, Roy comes in, eager to hear about his visit home. When Mark is done relating the tale, conveniently leaving out the parts that don’t put him in a good light, the old man’s face softens, and he exhales an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mark, but I think you’ve made the right decision. You’re a fine young man, and you don’t need that kind of aggravation in your life.”
After dinner, the evening, complete with brandy manhattans, is a repeat of the night before. This time, though, Roy encourages Mark to make a drink for himself. “After all you’ve been through, you deserve it, my boy.” Wanting to be agreeable, Mark goes ahead and mixes himself a strong one and then another. As he feels the warmth of the drink coursing through his veins, he has to agree that the sensation does put the evening in a better light. When Roy announces that it’s time for bed, Mark is happy to get them settled in for the night. He’s eager to get back to reading Lisa’s journal.
Once inside his room, he wastes no time in getting the book from the nightstand drawer and opening it. Starting from the beginning, he reads each word, carefully weighing her frame of mind. At the start, Lisa is guarded but hopeful. Eventually, she’s wary and anxious, but not entirely certain why she feels that way. Something about the house troubles her. She hears odd noises at night, has trouble sleeping. On one occasion, she tries to diagnose the problem: Too much time in this house is screwing with my head.
After Ted is fired, Lisa is relieved, but the nightmares begin. She makes a point to write about them. Normally, Mark hates it when people talk about their dreams, but given her suicide, these take on some importance. The dreams always take place in the house at night, and they involve Alma and Roy and the large ballroom upstairs. Sometimes the people from the Redevine Society are there as well. To add to the horror, in the dreams she is sleeping, then awakened by noises in the hallway. Whispering and the shuffling of feet. When she goes to investigate, the terror begins. Most of the descriptions of the nightmares are brief.
Another bad dream. Trapped in the ballroom. Pounded on the door but no one heard me. Woke up with my heart pounding.
And another night: Woke up gasping for air. Had a nightmare where I was chased through the house. He keeps reading. More passages about taking care of Alma and Roy’s needs and her restless nights and troubling dreams. He notices a trend. She is either chased or trapped. Classic nightmares.
Mark gets closer to the end of the journal and reads a longer descriptive passage, one that makes him sit up in shock. Tonight I had the most disgusting dream. I dreamt that I heard Alma crying in the ballroom. When I went to find her, she was with Roy, who was a living corpse with bits of skin sticking to his bones. Alma’s headless body was alive, and her head was rolling around on the floor. Her tongue was long like a snake’s and flicked around, and her eyes bugged out when I walked into the room. They were dead but still living. Repulsive. I feel like throwing up. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget how they looked. I dread seeing them today.
Mark’s heart is pounding in shock.
He had nearly the same dream the night after Lis
a’s death, back when he was still in the apartment with Monica. He reads her description of the nightmare again and compares it to his own. Virtually identical. How is that possible?
She hadn’t told him about her dream, but they’d both seen the photo of the headless Alma from the magic act. Besides that, one of the posters talked about Roy manipulating time and said something about watching as flesh decayed off his bones. Both he and Lisa must have combined the two concepts to create any person’s worst nightmare. It’s odd that both of their brains came up with the same horrible images, but not impossible. It is, he decides, just a weird coincidence.
He looks at the date. She had that nightmare four nights before her death. He reads on, anxious to get to the end. The night before she jumped from the third floor, she woke up during the night, convinced she needed to return to the ballroom. This wasn’t a dream, she said. Feeling compelled, Lisa got out of bed and climbed the stairs, flashlight in hand, looking for some answers. She was spooked before she even reached the room, writing: The air up there was thicker, and the walls of the hallway were closing in on me, like they didn’t want me to be there. I could feel them pulling me down the hallway to the ballroom. I had no choice.
She’d become totally unhinged.
After reaching the ballroom, she had a revelation: I can’t believe I never thought to look inside the podium before. What I found! My skin crawls thinking of it. And those sounds! They will haunt me forever. How can this even be? I can’t make sense of this, but in my bones I know it’s evil. Tomorrow, first thing, I’m confronting Roy. Then I’m calling Dr. Cross, and I will make him take me away from here. I can’t stay another night. I’d rather sleep on the street. This house is not safe.
The next page has just one sentence, but the letters fill half a page, and she’d underlined the words three times, the last time so forcefully that the pen tore through the paper. It says: The Redevine Society is a cipher!