“Demons,” Deidre proposed gravely. “Excited and released into purpose by the fooling with things best left alone.”
Baker looked at Deidre, and he felt that exceptional patience of his waver for a moment. But then he realized that no amount of reason would undo what the church had put in this woman. She spoke from ignorance and fear, and Baker was not a fan of either. But still, it was her right and he gave it to her.
“There are such things as inhuman spirits and they can be called into action by sinners or saints,” Baker explained. “What makes one sensitive and prone to this type of visitation is still unknown. We have theories on the catalysts for such occurrences, but believe me when I say that the innocent and guilty alike can be haunted. So, coming back to my point, in many cases we have found a connection between the haunting and a physical item on the haunted premises. In such instances, we removed the items from the afflicted structure and we would store them, in rooms such as this. My uncle called this his black room.”
“What, he would keep trophies stored here?” Sherman asked.
“This isn’t a trophy room, Mr. Drummond,” Baker said solemnly. “This was a prison. My uncle was its warden and I was willed this property strictly to sit upon those haunted items as the new guard. But now, I suppose I have no prison to maintain.”
“Why would your uncle give these items away?” Deidre said as a dark realization set into her. “He was giving these accursed things to people. He was sending demons home with them. Why would he do such a terrible thing?”
“He suffered from dementia,” Baker guessed. “He surely wasn’t right in the head. And I can tell you from my own experiences that my uncle perceived many enemies in his life. He could carry a grudge like a birthmark.”
Sherman nodded. “Yes, I have seen signs of that from him toward people in the building. But what would happen to someone taking these items home?”
Baker shrugged. “It would depend, I think, on the level of sensitivity one has to the supernatural. In most cases, I would think the energy would sit there, undisturbed. But it is possible to reawaken a spirit within it.”
“I took something from the black room, Mr. Johnson,” Sherman confessed, and he seemed lightened, somewhat, by this admission. “I took something and I think it has haunted me, sir.”
“Please explain,” Baker said.
“Well, as I prepared the items in the room, I noticed a very nice quill and inkwell. It looked quite old. I aspire to be an author, you see, and I thought it would complement my meager and plain work desk.”
Baker nodded, thoughtfully. He knew Sherman had a desire that burned elsewhere. “And why do you believe yourself haunted by this item?”
“I write poetry, lighthearted and lyrical, in tone. But recently, my muse has grown considerably darker. My imagination sprouted fangs, suddenly. I don’t normally think of the macabre and grotesque when I work. I am certainly not a fan of it. There is a place for it, I suppose, around campfires and on Halloween night. But I thought myself more of a Longfellow than a Poe. I am driven to write, sir. I do this every night. But what I write now scares me as I can’t understand the inspiration for it. It is not me.”
“And does the quill and inkwell still sit on your desk?” Baker asked.
“No sir. I suspected it the influence and tossed it. But still my work is marred.”
Baker looked to Deidre, and the anxious expression on her face gave Baker a strong suspicion.
“You took something, too, Miss Ahearn,” he said, positive about his assumption. The woman had listened to Sherman’s story with more familiarity than empathy.
She was silent for a moment, but finally her grey face shook slightly. “Yes, I took something. I was working the day that Mr. Drummond opened the room to the public. I was working here in this building. On my way out, I noticed that some of the leftover items had been consigned to the sidewalk with a note encouraging people to give the items a home. I noticed a cookbook. A very old one, as it was wrapped in aged leather and written in hand. I took it, as I am fond of cooking.”
“And were you bothered after taking it home?” Baker asked.
“I made a lovely shepherd’s pie with one of the recipes. It tasted like perfection, but I took violently ill the following day. When I recovered, I made a few more dishes from the book, as I suspected turned meat for my poisoning. Each dish made me sicker than the last. And even when I took the book from my kitchen, nothing would settle and linger in my gut. I can only hold down bare crackers and water, now. I’ve lost ten pounds or more. I had decided to see a doctor tomorrow, before I waste to my bones.”
“And do you still have the book?” Baker asked.
“No,” Deidre said, firmly. “I had the same realization as Mr. Drummond. I don’t know why I thought the book capable of the black magic it had wrought, but I did. I fed the damned thing to the furnace in my building.”
“Is there a cure, Mr. Johnson?” Sherman asked, hopefully.
“Yes,” Deidre chimed in. “Something that doesn’t involve any murky business, of course. I won’t clasp hands in a dark circle and draw the devil in.”
“The solution to both of your problems should please you, especially, Miss Ahearn,” Baker said, with a reassuring smile. “Have someone from your church bless your homes, for although you have destroyed their vessels, the spirits still obviously linger with you. Something inhuman sounds at work here. But they are usually frightened off easily by religious symbols and people of the cloth.”
“So the cure for this science of yours is a man of the cloth?” Deidre said, sarcastically. “Imagine that.”
“The cross works, for whatever reason,” Baker admitted.
“I am not a very religious man and I wouldn’t know how to broach that subject with someone who was,” Sherman admitted.
“I have contacts,” Baker said, patting the man on the shoulder. “Give me a day to unpack and I will get you the information.”
“Could you share it with me, as well?” Deidre requested. “I don’t wish to involve my priest in this.”
“Consider it done. Just give me a day.”
Deidre sighed. “Well, I just wanted to pay my respects and see if you wanted my care of the place to continue. Considering the circumstances, I won’t be offering my services to you. I hope you aren’t offended.”
Baker smiled and shook his head. “No. And I am actually accustomed to cleaning after myself.”
“Good day to you both,” Deidre Ahearn said, turning and leaving the apartment.
Baker dug coins from his pockets and offered them to Sherman. “I moved from a rather large place to live here and I fear many of my belongings may be redundant in a fully furnished place such as this. If I sort through this mess and put some items aside, could you get rid of them for me?”
Sherman stared suspiciously at Baker. “You want to give some things away? Like your uncle?”
Baker caught the man’s meaning and laughed good-naturedly. “No, no, Mr. Drummond. I have no desire to haunt or curse anyone. These items can be sold, given away or burned, for all I care. They carry no energy save for mine.”
Sherman smiled back at him and took the money. “I’ll handle it for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Baker said. “I would love to read your work, sometime.”
Sherman looked at him with surprised appreciation. “No one has ever read it. It would be nice to get an opinion of my worth as an author.”
“I am not an avid reader of poetry, but I would gladly share my impressions with you. Here, I think I have something you can use.”
Baker walked to one of the trunks in the formal room. He found the one marked OFFICE and unlatched it. He opened the container and rummaged around, finding and retrieving a small silver sculpture of a duck. He handed it to Sherman.
“It’s a paperweight,” Baker explained.
“I love it. Thank you, sir,” Sherman said. He then spotted a very ornate jewelry box in the trunk. Sherman put the pa
perweight aside. He picked up the jewelry box without asking. Baker forgave the intrusion. The man was strongly and strangely taken with it. Baker wondered if there was a tiny bud of sensitivity in the author.
Sherman opened the box, slowly. A tiny ballerina spun and music played. A gold band had been draped over her and vibrated at her feet as she danced. “Is this an item you wish to part with? I know a child in the building who would adore it.”
“No,” Baker said, gently taking the box from Sherman and closing it. “This has too much sentimental value. Come back late in the day tomorrow. I will have inventory for you and that contact at the church.”
Sherman nodded and collected his paperweight. He shook hands with Baker. Sherman then left, closing the apartment door softly behind him. Baker felt that his display of kindness had brought the building supervisor to his current and future causes. He was putting on, of course. Baker had little interest in Sherman Drummond or his poetry.
Baker cracked the jewelry box open again. He stared down at it, watching the tiny dancer. His uncle had been right about one thing. He had warned Baker not to take a wife. Richard Johnson had never loved another human being and Baker was the only one who ever knew why. It was the journey he and his uncle had both taken, and the haunted items that filled up their black rooms. Loved ones were targets for the negative energy – for the inhuman spirits and the demonic.
Richard Johnson never wanted to endanger another for the selfish reason of love. Baker, though, had been selfish. And he knew that his own black room had been responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughter. It was too much, the energy he and his uncle had watched over. It was a hateful and vengeful thing and the force of it grew stronger with every new acquisition.
Baker had received a letter from his uncle, days before the man’s death. He suspected it was Richard’s last correspondence. In his mad scribbling, Richard Johnson had said something that had struck a chord with his nephew.
Better that many be a little haunted, than one man consumed by the dark majority, Richard had written. The keeping of these trinkets was a mistake, and I fear they shall anchor me forever to this realm. I am going to purge myself of these glowing keepsakes. They shall go, indiscriminately, to others.
Baker had understood. He had cleaned out his own black room, in a similar fashion, before moving to the city and claiming his inheritance. The items went, without malice or conscience, as Baker felt it was every living person’s responsibility to the dead to be plagued. A few would feel this dark invasion into their lives and homes, and it would be quite pronounced. But most would attribute a small shine of it to fate and luck or God’s will.
Baker closed and then held the jewelry box to his chest. It had belonged to his daughter. And the wedding band inside had belonged to his wife. This was his piece of the pain and torment to carry and keep warm; his share of the misery. He hoped, one day, that an icy shadow would creep from the box. But his wife and daughter seemed at peace without him and this troubled him worse than anything he had ever seen or heard in his case studies.
Baker had been good to his family. He had provided for his wife and child and he couldn’t think of one sin he had committed against them, save perhaps neglect. Baker Johnson was a driven and ambitious man. But he was beginning to think his inattention toward them might have been the worst offense possible.
So he waited for a sign of them, always. He was haunted not by a specter, but the absence of such.
The door to the black room suddenly slammed shut. Baker nearly dropped the box. He sat it back carefully into the trunk and then he walked to black room. He whipped the door open quickly, and tensed himself to face whatever might be lurking there.
It was empty, of course. The black room was pouting. Energy had evidently been spilled there. One or more prisoners were striking at the bars with a tin cup. Baker made plans and they needed to be implemented right away. He was sure Sherman could recommend a good handyman.
Baker would have the room painted a bright color. And then he would hang a crucifix on its door. The space would be blessed until Baker was sure there wasn’t a flicker of energy left. There would be nothing fed to the room, no potential vessels for a stowaway. All he would fill the black room with was air.
It would be a bare and still place.
There was a time when he would have been consumed with who or what was still lingering there. But he no longer cared. It was a haystack, really, and he was done with chasing ghosts.
Baker shut the door to the black room. He noticed that the night was coming. The apartment was growing dark and cold.
He wondered where Richard Johnson, the dead old whoreson, had hidden the liquor. Baker searched the apartment until he found a bottle of brandy concealed behind a hollow bookshelf panel in the study. He dusted off a glass and filled it. He lounged and grew drunk in the ornate and comfortable chair pulled next to his uncle’s desk.
There was a firm knock on a door outside of the study. Baker wasn’t sure which entry required his attention and he wasn’t in the mood for flesh or spirit. So he ignored it and poured another drink.
That silver egg-shaped item you’re holding is an incense burner, complete with a few cones of incense. I believe it originated in the Orient given the intricate markings along the side. Well, at least it came from an Asian fellow running a thrift shop.
Award-winning filmmaker—and the world's first blind movie director—Joseph M. Monks thought we might be able to find it a new home. He lives in Southwest Florida and can be found online at joemonks.com.
ASHES
Joseph M. Monks
THE box was spectacular. Dusty, true. But that hadn't prevented it from catching his eye. Roughly eight inches long and nearly as wide, its lid was engraved with so many intricate motifs he had a hard time looking away. Mahogany, he suspected, or perhaps a black cherry. Shame, he thought, passing it by. No place for something like that anymore. Not where he was living. The realization caught him off guard. Left him feeling a little somber.
The brass capsule beside it, however, now that held promise. It sat on a fist-sized velvet pouch, the price tag tied to its fluted tip. For the life of him—which wasn't a whole lot these days—Walt couldn't figure out what the damned thing was. About the size of an egg, it had a flat base, supported by three tiny legs. The domed top started out round, but the smelter had twisted it so that it narrowed into a hollow point. Intricate symbols ringed the dome, ornate and beautiful despite their coarse nature. Walt couldn't help himself. He moved to pick it up.
The dome toppled, striking the shelf with a tiny clatter. Walt jumped, but quickly regained control. Before he could put things back the way they'd been, he noticed a grey residue on his palm.
Incense burner, he realized, his good mood returning. A faint scent lingered in the ash, woody and pungent. Not unpleasant, though. Far from it, in fact. Walt pursed his lips.
"Hey, slugger. Find something?"
Lana stood beside him, beaming. Walt grinned back, enjoying the moment. God, but Lana was something else. Twenty-five, with plenty of everything in all the right places. And that smile… The kind of smile that could get an old man thinking about things he hadn't thought about in years. Sometimes, he went to bed thinking: If you weren't a third my age…
A third? Not even, he remembered, turning back to the shelf. Lana wasn't into sports, but he didn't mind the moniker. For a time during the '60s, he'd made his living in the ring. Eight fights, all told, with a six-and-two record to show for it. A win or two from cracking the top twenty, his manager believed. Maybe a title shot, too, in the not-too-distant future. Promising career, had it not been for Emily. The young lady with whom he'd become infatuated didn't fancy the idea of marrying a boxer. For his part, Walter didn't find living a life without her worth pursuing. So, he'd made a compromise. One of many, he reflected. But then, you didn't make it this far without cutting a deal or two. Letting some things go…even things well within your reach.
"Think so,"
he said, reseating the dome. It took him a moment to work the drawstring, but he got the pouch open without assistance. He poked through the contents. A dozen or so dried-out nubs. He'd seen their like before, during his time in the Navy. Incense cones. These had seen better days, but still. The aroma seeping from the pouch made up his mind.
Lana followed him to the register. It was getting late. Most of the center's other residents had already checked out, or were being helped back to the bus. Walt was having a pretty good day, though, and while Lana offered her arm, he declined. He'd be fine with just the cane. He hoped.
The shop's owner had spent time in the Far East, too, Walt was sure of it. He couldn't place his country of birth, but his accent and demeanor told Walt all he needed to know. He hadn't been born stateside, that was obvious. He'd been here an awful long time, though, Walt believed, putting the gap between them at about a decade. They made eye contact as the proprietor rang him up.
"Very nice," he commented, putting the burner into the pouch and cinching it tight. Walt handed him three bills, but the man handed one back.
"But," Walt began, pointing. The tag read $2.25. The man waved him off.
"Our age? We too old for change!"
He laughed, entertained by the play on words. So did Walt, if only to be polite. He made his way to the door, which Lana held open.
Ten years, he thought. If I was ten years younger…
Walt had given up the cancer sticks when Emily had first been diagnosed. Not that it had made any difference. But he was the type who held a grudge, and still blamed them for taking her from him too soon. Old habits died hard, though, and so he'd chosen to live in the wing designated for smokers, living vicariously.
His room was small, and minimally furnished. It was plenty for him, though. There was a television, though he didn't watch it much. The bed was a twin, but big enough to remind him that he occupied it alone. The wee hours, those were the worst. When insomnia took hold and the second hand seemed to be mocking him. A single nightstand, in which a flask of Bushmills lay tucked away, liquid distraction on the worst of winter nights. The dresser was the room's sole luxury. Eight drawers, albeit none filled to capacity. A broad, veneered top, above which hung an oversized, framed glass mirror. The piece had to be an antique, or closing in on it, he suspected, a throwback to when the center had been a resort hotel catering to the previous century's upper class. The mountains, the lakefront. The nearby ski lodges. Back when that was enough to entice city folk to fill the rooms year-'round. Before vacationers began looking for something more. Multiplex theatres with screens the size of railroad cars. Arcade games. High speed internet and Wi-Fi, whatever that was. A different time. Now, the once grand rooms subdivided, the Roman tubs and pedestal sinks trimmed to a stall shower with handrails and commodes ringed by rubber tile, the dresser was little more than a reminder of what had once been. A fading reminder. Much like himself.
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