Vein River

by Kellie Honaker

  “Today we celebrate Vein River’s oldest living resident! Abigail Stone turns ninety years old today! Happy birthday, Abigail!”

  It’s the morning news—what’s left of it. People send birthday wishes to the news station in the hopes that their loved ones will be wished “happy birthday” on the air. One lucky entry gets an ice cream cake from the local ice cream shop. The camera pans out from the sharply dressed reporter, to include an exhausted looking woman in a wheelchair. She’s in a very white, very sterile looking room, surrounded by seniors who share her lack of enthusiasm. She smiles politely for the camera and accepts her cake.

  Based on my mother’s age, I do a rough estimation of how old Angelina would be today. If she were alive, she’d be in her nineties. The tv didn’t turn on by itself. Everything in this house happens for a reason, especially if it’s bizarre. I frown. The so called cleansing I did with Miss Jenkins didn’t last very long.

  “You know her, don’t you, Angelina?” I whisper.

  The tv fizzles with static then shuts off.

  “Never the subtle type, are you?” I mumble.

  I decide to forget the cereal and throw some clothes on, instead. I sense I have a busy day ahead of me. I need some strong coffee and one of Bella’s cinnamon buns. And apparently, I should buy some flowers. I need to talk to the birthday girl.

  It doesn’t take long to get back to Moof’s part of town. I drive Sticky Bun with a sort of gnawing dread in my gut. You’d think I’d be excited to be on a quest for answers, but I have a feeling that whatever I find won’t be good. I stand in front of the building beneath a morose sky. A hint of rain is on the wind. I stop at the door to read the plaque commemorating Sister Mary Elizabeth for her charity work.

  I look up at the bell tower—the bell long since gone. What would drive a woman to hang herself—in a church, no less? I wonder if she haunts the property? I snort derisively. That’s all I need. I’m already haunted by a teenage lunatic; all I need is a suicidal nun added to the mix. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is for Copper.

  I walk meekly beneath the gargoyles’ gaze and enter the building.

  The inside of the rest home isn’t nearly as ominous as the outside. There’s nothing dark or remarkable of note. It’s like it isn’t even the same building. If I had to describe it in one word, it would be sterile. Everything is white, everything is clean. Everything is blank and boring. Past the front desk and down the hall, several residents sit in their gloomy wheelchairs just outside of their rooms. Nurses dart in and out like bees gathering pollen, tossing dirty bed sheets into an oversized hamper. More than a few sets of watery eyes stare at me in fascination. One pitiful soul in particular clutches a doll to her chest and hums lullabies. She strokes it lovingly on the head. The doll is nearly as hairless as she.

  I add my name to the visitors list at the front desk.

  A dark-haired receptionist in her mid-forties reads from the list. “You’re here to see Abigail Stone. What’s the reason for your visit?”

  I find the question odd and perhaps a bit nosey. The woman has hard, black eyes and a sour-puckered mouth. No doubt she hates her job. The truth would only spur more questions, so I tell the most believable lie I can come up with.

  “I’m doing a paper on the oldest living resident of Vein River.”

  Finding this answer completely acceptable, the receptionist purses her lips and takes a skeleton key from a wall behind the counter.

  “She’s getting lots of attention on her birthday,” she says flatly. I catch a hint of jealousy.

  Trying to keep things light, I say, “well, it’s not every day you turn ninety.”

  She scowls. “Follow me. We lock the looney tunes in the tower.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, incredulous, wondering if I’ve somehow been transported to the 1800s.

  My reaction gives her an unusual spark of glee. This woman does not belong in this line of work.

  “Abigail,” she says, “she’s not wound too tight. She actually likes it in the tower. She throws an infernal fit if we move her to a different room. There’s bars on the windows, and the door stays locked, so she can’t come barreling down the stairs. She’s perfectly safe.”

  Perfectly ignored, you mean.

  As if reading my mind, the receptionist says, “She claims the ghosts keep her company up there. The nurses hate going up there at night. They hear her having full-length conversations where she answers herself in different voices. Once you get so old, you completely lose your marbles.”

  We round a corner and ascend a winding cement staircase. It’s several degrees colder than the rest of the building. I feel heat blowing from the vents installed in the wall, but it doesn’t break the dankness in the air. I wonder if Abigail catches cold often.

  At the top of the stairs is a heavy wooden door with three iron bars for a window. The receptionist unlocks the door and gestures for me to enter. No sooner than I slip inside, she closes the door without the least bit of formality.

  “Yell when you’re finished,” she says, the bolt turning with a click. She pockets the key and plods down the stairs.

  What a bitter, unhappy woman.

  The room before me is sparsely furnished: a small bed, a desk, a lamp. It’s the sort of room you’d expect from an author with writer’s block trying to squeeze out a masterpiece on a deadline. There’s no distractions, no TV, no radio, the only thing to serve as entertainment is the small window that Abigail is currently gazing out of.

  She’s a frail old woman with a shock of blazing orange hair. It’s startling in contrast to her nearly translucent skin. The freckles on her saggy arms indicate that she was a genuine redhead back in the day, but this Sunkist soda pop look is far from natural. Not only is the poor woman locked in a tower, but she’s also been subjected to a horrible dye job.

  “Abigail?” I approach the woman from an angle, trying not to startle her. “Hi Abigail, I’m Annie.”

  Abigail continues to stare out the window.

  “So…” I say, not knowing quite how to break the ice. “You’re a redhead?”

  Abigail, her eyes still not leaving the view of the street, grins wryly. “Actually, Dear, I’m as white as Christmas, but thanks for noticing.”

  I chuckle beneath my breath.

  “Those girls at the cosmetology school show up every so often to practice on us. They act like it’s such a treat for the seniors, when really it’s us doing them a favor. Do you see what they did to my head?” she tugs on a frizzy lock for emphasis.

  “I’m sure they’re thankful,” I say placatingly.

  “And what are you doing here, exactly? I don’t see a comb in your hand.”

  “I’m Ruby McAllister’s great niece. I believe you knew Angelina when you were younger?”

  A look of despair washes over her face, and she returns her gaze to the street. “I still know Angelina,” she mumbles.

  My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The dead like to visit the dying. When you get old, you’ll understand that.”

  “I’m not dying, and she visits me.”

  She studies me fiercely. “We’re dying since the day we’re born, child. Do you have The Cough?”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve seen Angelina more than once?”

  “I’ve experienced her more than once, yes.”

  Abigail narrows her eyes and tilts her head; her expression says you better not be lying to me, kid.

  “So, you’ve been visited multiple times, haven’t kissed her feet, and you don’t have The Cough. What is it that makes you so special, you think?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Do you have The Cough, Abigail?”

  She snorts derisively. “No.”

  “I moved into the house above the bridge. I’m a blood relative of Angelina’s, so that’s one theory of why I’ve seen her so often. You’re the last person left that actually knew Angelina when she was alive. I
was wondering if you could tell me what she was like and what you believe happened to her.”

  Abigail stares at the wall, her eyes roaming the surface of it as if Angelina were standing in the flesh.

  “She was beauty personified,” she whispers.

  I can barely hear her, so I get down in the floor and sit close to her heels.

  “She was an absolute goddess that could bring you to your knees. If you didn’t want to possess her, then you wanted to be her. She was the recipient of admiration and envy, and yet I don’t think she ever wanted either one of those.” She takes a deep breath and lowers her gaze to the floor. “Times were different then. A woman wasn’t allowed to love another woman. But I couldn’t help it. I loved her. Fiercely I loved her, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Angelina was the type that could have her pick of the litter. She could have a single man and a married man alike. All she had to do was snap her finger. Every woman in town hated her for that. Angelina had a way of peering into the soul. Even then she knew how to read people and understood what they wanted from her. She always seemed to exist on a different plane, away from everybody else. She was the sun and everyone was merely planets revolving around her.”

  I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. She just stares sadly at her feet.

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I was told she joined the army.”

  I gape at her. “And you really believe that?”

  She shrugs. “She’s a frequent visitor of yours, why don’t you ask her yourself? She wants what everyone wants.”

  “What is that?”

  “To be understood.”

  I’m thoroughly confused, so I try a different question.

  “The nun who…” I glance at the belfry and clear my throat. “…used to work here, did you know her? She would have been the same age as you.”

  She grins wryly. “It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody, and if you’re of the same generation, you might as well be siblings.”

  “So you did know her.”

  She emits a dry little laugh. “I know her better now than I ever have.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Mary Elizabeth is the one that likes to hang from the rafters.” She points to the ceiling and twirls a finger. Then she chuckles as an afterthought. “Well…I guess they both do.”

  She gets a look on her face that I don’t understand. Coming here was a waste of time. Either she knows something and she’s not going to tell me, or the hateful receptionist is right, and the woman’s off her rocker.

  “I’m getting tired, it’s time for you to leave now.”

  I nod and yell for the receptionist.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” I say politely.

  She stares down at her lap. “If there’s a way for you to leave here, I suggest you take it.”

  28

  Annie

  I don’t want to do this, but I feel like I have to. It’s a hell of a night to get this started, with the thunder rumbling in the sky. But I can’t wait. There’s a feeling of urgency in the air, a prickling sort of energy. I feel Angelina’s impatience. She’s taking it out on everyone she’s given The Cough to. The coughs are bloodier and more frequent, the victims paler and more withdrawn. Copper is merely a flicker of the boy he used to be, and I’m scared that I’m losing him.

  I pull Angelina’s scrap of cloth from the bottom of my dresser drawer. I tentatively pull it from the sandwich bag. I expect a flood of sensations to wash over me, but it doesn’t. I cradle it carefully in the palm of my hand. It’s amazing how something so insignificant can instill such dread in me. I take a deep breath and place it beneath my pillow. Miss Jenkins suggested I do this. She said sleep is the deepest form of meditation, that my psychic ability would have a stronger chance of coming to the surface for an extended period of time. If I’m asleep and the world around me is quiet, it’s more likely that I’ll have a full blown vision instead of sensations and mere glimpses.

  I climb into bed and Salem snuggles in beside me. I place my hand beneath the soft fur of his belly. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The thunder cracks and rattles the floorboards. I flinch but lay perfectly still. I concentrate on the downpour clattering against the roof and the soft rattle of Salem’s purring. The initial fury of the storm recedes, and the steady hum of rainfall is oddly comforting. This is the most peace I’ve felt since I’ve been here—and I have cloth from a dead woman under my head. I grin at the irony.

  A low whistle interrupts the humming torrent against the roof. I know that whistle, yet I am oddly unafraid. I open my eyes. A girl stands at the end of my bed. She’s soaking wet, as if she just came in from the rain. Her dark hair is pulled over her face, the long tendrils dripping puddles onto the floor. She’s wearing a white gown that stops mid-calf and her bare feet leave impressions on the floor. There’s a soft blue hue about her, similar to the numbers on a digital clock. Her skin is pale and slightly swollen, as if she’s been in the water for too long. Her hair is parted down the middle and it provides me the slightest glimpse of her face. Her lips are thick and seductive, her nose small and perfectly shaped. She would be undeniably beautiful, if only she were alive. There’s a black abyss where her left eye should be, and even though there’s no orb in her skull, she’s stares at me with intensity.

  I pull the covers from my body. Salem is nowhere to be found.

  She exits my room and I hear the creaking of footsteps down the hallway.

  I get up and follow her.

  She leads me outside. The rain has set in and it falls down in sheets. I should be blinded and drenched to the bone, but I am somehow shielded by her light. The rain parts for her as if she were a goddess, and they are showing the utmost respect.

  She begins the ascent up the mountain, through the field of violets. The flowers seem to vibrate as she passes, the colors bleeding down the stems. I know where we’re going. Angelina is going home. It’s a long walk to our destination, but I am undaunted by the distance. I feel as if I am merely floating, instead of walking in my bare feet. I will not get tired on this journey. My guide is in control.

  We glide across the barren field and into the soggy woods. I pass over mud and through thorny brush as if I were a spirit myself. We arrive at the house standing in the mist. I feel desolate and alone. The broken windows watch us with hopeless eyes as we make our way inside.

  She stops inside the foyer, her head turning right, towards the fireplace. She stares at the painting of herself as if the person inside of it is a stranger. But then I sense the longing, the yearning of someone terribly maimed that wishes desperately to be restored. And then her energy shifts to something else, a subtle sort of anger; a simmering resentment. She turns away from the painting as if it injures her.

  We climb the stairs without lifting our feet. I follow her to the bedroom like a dutiful lover. It’s Angelina’s room, this is something I just know, and being here feels painfully intimate. A twin sized bed is pushed into the corner and I think of her with a sort of ache.

  Is that where you laid your pretty head? Is this where you died?

  Questions. So many questions.

  She stares at me harshly with her missing eyes and I wonder if she can hear my thoughts.

  A thumping resounds in the far corner of the room beneath the rump of a musty teddy bear. The little brown creature falls to its side as the board beneath him shudders. I see the crack in the floorboard and run my fingers along the plank. I glance at Angelina for reassurance.

  She doesn’t move.

  I pry the board up and peer into the blackness. I slip my fingers into the hole and wonder if I’m touching the void. I fully expect something to touch me, to grab my hand and pull me through. But nothing does. My fingers brush against something solid, tangible. I pull it out and blow the dust from it.

  I run my fingers across a smooth leather cover. A large “A” is embossed on the front. I fan the pages and s
ee nothing but handwriting. Angelina’s diary.

  I stand up to show her, but she is already behind me. Her chin tilts forward, looking at the book, then back at me.

  “No one understands,” she says with her beautiful, disgusting mouth. “I want you to feel what I feel.”

  I hear her in my head and in my ears simultaneously. She is both inside of me and out.

  She takes a step closer, her lips mere inches from mine. I’m staring into the black, black nothingness of her eyes. My throat constricts from the skin around the void, the sockets decayed and repulsive.

  A breath escapes her in a seductive whisper.

  “I only want you to suffer.”

  I’m jolted awake and lie gasping for air. The room is deathly dark. I’m in bed. My hand is still safely tucked beneath the belly of my kitten.

  It was only a dream. I reach for the lamp on my nightstand and fumble in the darkness for the switch. The lamp clicks to life, and the room is flooded with warm, yellow light.

  There on the table, as if left by a friend, is a leather journal with an “A” on the front.

  Tentatively, I reach for it. I open the cover and take a deep breath; who knows what I’m in for.

  Angelina’s Diary

  July 7, 1944

  Today I hoed potatoes and made a cake. One for the living, the other for the dead. The government has encouraged us to grow extra vegetables to help with the food shortage. It’s been a dry year for Vein River thus far, so we don’t have very much to spare, but if everyone bands together and contributes, we can fill a few soldiers’ bellies at least. Every little bit helps, right? Sometimes I wish I could do more. I wish I could pick up a gun and blast those Nazis all to hell. But Mama says women have no business joining the army, so here I am hoeing potatoes.