Resurrection House

by James Chambers

  The lawyers shuffled papers past Peter like tag-team blackjack dealers. He signed each one, some more than once, his wrist growing numb and his fingertips tingling. The incessant explanatory chatter rattled on too fast for Peter to assemble the details. He would sort it all out later. He was determined now to forge ahead, the course of his life plotted and fixed after so many years of aimlessness.

  The paperwork took nearly an hour to be done, and then the room fell quiet except for Moriarty’s soft voice speaking German into his cell phone. Peter gazed out the window while they waited. Swaying green leaves caressed the vacant blue sky, and he thought of his new home and its garden, which would soon be in full bloom. He wondered if he wasn’t getting himself in over his head.

  Red pocketed his cell phone and resumed speaking to Peter as though the interruption had never occurred. “Not everything is about money, of course. How funny is it that I had to make billions before I learned that lesson?”

  Peter started to answer, but Red cut him off. “A laugh riot, right?”

  “Money isn’t everything,” said Peter.

  “Maybe power is the thing, eh? That’s what you’ve really bought here today. That’s what the others bid on—the power to decide the fate of 1379 Hopewood Boulevard. Roughly a quarter of them wanted to raze the place, salt the ground, scorch the earth, and remove the blemish of Resurrection House from existence. An almost equal number proposed plans to enshrine it, turn it into the destination of pilgrims worldwide, complete with space for spontaneous prostration and prayer, speaking in tongues, and the burning of biers. Most of the other offers came from folks who wanted to make it into an amusement park or a museum, a meditation garden, a low-cost day care center, for Christ’s sake, a concert venue, a night club…”

  Red’s voice trailed off as he faded into thought. A haze of distance spread over his eyes as though an ancient memory had kidnapped him into the past. And then it was gone.

  “The owner of this house must be someone very special, indeed, Mr. Carroll. There is no place for the banal at 1379. Do you know how many other people tendered offers with proposals like yours?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. How many?”

  Red held up his thumb and index finger to form a zero and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “Three simple words you wrote told me that you were the one, no matter what you could pay.” Red slid his chair back and rose to his full height of nearly six and a half feet.

  “The all-important question,” he said and spread wide his arms. “What do you plan to do with 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and its residents?” Then he swooped forward like a diving kingfisher, stretching over the table toward Peter, his figure propped on his lanky arms. “Your answer: ‘I don’t know.’

  “You were the man I was looking for, a man with an open mind. Honest. Unafraid of the unknown. We had you checked out thoroughly, of course. Watched you for several months. Background investigation and credit check. Dug up your history. Reviewed the orphanage records. All to be solid and secure that you are who we think you are.”

  “You had me followed?” Peter said, half standing. He flashed a look of concern at his ineffective but affordable lawyer, Finnerty. The attorney shrugged.

  “Tut-tut! A formality.” Red wagged his index finger. “Don’t get indignant when you’re on the verge of getting what you want, son. You’ve been searching a long time for something. Why risk losing it when you’ve finally found it?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Peter.

  “Come, come, my boy. Two years in a seminary, a year volunteering at a hospital in India, two-and-a-half years spent drifting across the good old U.S. of A. Sounds like you were looking for something all that time, something extraordinary.” Red settled back into his chair. “What goes on at 1379 Hopewood is damn hard to understand, and especially so for anyone maimed by preconceptions of reality, convictions of faith, or plain old stubbornness. You’re as close to being free of these traits as anyone I’ve ever met. You’re a rootless loner with more intelligence than your station in life indicates, and you’ve never even committed to an opinion on whether the phenomenon is genuine or not. That’s exactly what’s called for. The house will explain itself if you let it. Events will unfold. Secrets will be revealed. And you must be prepared to follow where they lead. Are you…prepared, Peter?”

  Peter hesitated, caught off-guard by Red’s insight into his life then he said, “I’ll take good care of the place, Mr. Moriarty. You have my word.”

  “I hope so, my boy. I’d hate selling to you to turn out to be a mistake.” Red looked to one of his associates. “Is the paperwork done, Tomas?”

  The lawyer stepped forward. “All in order, sir. We have Mr. Carroll’s check. The house is now his.”

  “Magnificent.” Red exhaled the word like fine cigar smoke, his eyes closing to narrow slivers, his lips curling in a wry smile. “You’re aware of your civic and legal obligations as owner and manager of the maintenance fund, Peter?”

  “My client is fully informed on all such matters,” Finnerty said with an air of accomplishment.

  “Yes, well, I’m going to assign one of my team to you for three months, free of charge, to advise you and help you get on your feet,” said Moriarty. “He’ll report to the house tomorrow morning. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

  With that Red Moriarty stood and walked to the door. His cadre of suits swiveled and followed. Peter and Finnerty rose on polite instinct.

  Red paused to shake Peter’s hand with his dry palm and bony fingers and said, “I almost envy you the journey you’re beginning, Peter. There’s a lot I could tell you, but it’s better to learn it for yourself. I will share a word of warning with you, however.”

  Red leaned in, wrapping his free arm around Peter’s shoulder and pulling him close. Peter’s eyes fell to the odd metal bracelet encircling Red’s wrist, its luster something like that of polished gold but diffuse and fluid. It shimmered like a heat mirage. Palpable warmth radiated from the thick metal band as though it conducted heat from Red’s body. Or, Peter thought, to Red’s body.

  “The dead walk their own paths,” Red whispered.

  Then he and his entourage left. Finnerty and Peter stood alone in a room that felt like it had been flushed. And that’s how Peter Carroll came to own the house where the dead live.

  * * * * *

  Excerpt from Chapter 1 of the forthcoming book

  A History of Resurrection House:

  The Odd Events at 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and What They Mean to You

  by Padraic Irwin O’Flynn

  Thirty years ago 1379 Hopewood Boulevard was just another well kept home on a sleepy residential, middle-class, suburban street. The three-story, World War I era house stands off-center in its lot, a bit too far back from the road, shaded by oaks and pines that have grown there since the time of its construction. A low picket fence borders the property and a tangle of rose bushes spreads to either side of the front gate. Its garden is old-fashioned, a seemingly random combination of plants, flowers, and shrubs that becomes charming in the bloom of spring. A wide front window, draped with lace curtains sewn by Carla Montgomery, looks out over the narrow brick path to the front door.

  The house’s first residents were the Köehlers, a family of German immigrants who lived there for ten years before vanishing into the shroud of history. No trace of them exists following their departure, purportedly to New Jersey where Mr. Köehler had obtained employment as an engineer. The Montgomery family took up residence in the home in the twenties and occupied the house for several decades, staying, in fact, until the strange events in the summer of 1972.

  At that time Carla Montgomery was the house’s sole occupant, her husband some years dead from an industrial accident, her children all grown and off in pursuit of their lives. The Montgomery family is best described as average—the father, an electrician and small business owner; the three children, a recording engineer, an advertising copywriter, and
a high school gym teacher; the mother, a homemaker. None of the Montgomery children agreed to be interviewed for this book, and in past statements, they have uniformly maintained their disbelief in any of the unusual events recorded at their homestead, particularly those directly involving their mother. It is, they declare, a cruel hoax, and they were apparently eager to accept Red Moriarty’s generous financial offer for the house and property in late 1972. They wanted nothing more than to put all the stories behind them and get on with their lives.

  Their mother was well liked by her neighbors, who looked after her and gave what help they could. And yet in August of 1972, three days passed before anyone knew Carla Montgomery had died.

  Finally, bored waiting to be found, she went outside and announced it.

  “I’m dead, you know. Feels kind of funny,” she said.

  A group of local kids who were playing nearby at the time recalled the event in recent interviews with the author.

  They didn’t believe her.

  No one did.

  Not until Carla started to rot.

  By then others like Carla had come to visit and finding the homey environment to their liking, decided to stay. Where those early few came from remains part of the mystery of 1379 Hopewood Boulevard. No one saw them arrive. No one has ever identified them and the bodies are long gone. Perhaps they came in the dark when the shadows concealed their hideous, decomposing features. Possibly they tunneled underground from the confines of their graves in the cemetery half a mile away. Or maybe, still living, they slipped inside looking for a warm, hospitable place to die. Whatever the explanation, events were well underway at the house before anyone realized what was taking place.

  The first identifiable body, after Carla’s, was that of Douglas Hollander, an accountant from two houses down. One night soon after Mrs. Montgomery’s demise, Hollander joined a group of neighbors confronting Carla about her ranting in the front yard, which had begun to scare their children. They thought she had gone senile, and they wanted to help. Carla did her best to play genial host despite her shriveled larynx. She found it hard to make introductions among her neighbors and the half a dozen or so animated corpses—all in various states of decomposition—that had settled in with her since her passing. While Mrs. Montgomery huffed and puffed, four of the dead seized Hollander, beat him to death with a candlestick, and began plucking away bits of his flesh and stuffing them in their ragged pockets.

  The rest of the stunned neighbors fled and called the police.

  Officers arrived to find Carla Montgomery at her front gate, wheezing and spitting apologies. Though quite flustered, she somehow conveyed that she’d given her guests a harsh talking to and that no such attack would be repeated. Her word proved good when the officers entered the house to investigate. Carla’s guests stayed on their best behavior while the police interviewed Hollander who pointlessly tried to convince them that he was, in fact, dead. Their report quotes him as saying, “Apparently it was a misunderstanding, but that doesn’t bring me back to life does it? I’m fucking dead, now.” Given his talkative state, the police were understandably skeptical. What they made of the house’s decaying residents was never recorded.

  Hollander, however, finally made his point when the police removed him—despite Carla’s warnings—to the waiting ambulance. The very moment Hollander passed through the front gate, he collapsed. All signs of life immediately departed.

  People then began to shed their illusions about Carla and her sickly, old friends.

  * * * * *

  Morning sun limned the yard with delicate fire. A butterfly danced in the hazy air around the buttery flowers of a low, rotund azalea by the front stoop. A girl, who’d been sixteen when she died, knelt by the shrub, her glassine eyes intent on the insect. One of her ears dangled from her skull where an old scar had rotted apart like a split seam, and a shred of muscle dangled out like loose padding. She was oblivious to the coughing motor of the overworked Saturn that rolled into the driveway and chugged into stillness.

  Peter Carroll emerged from the run-down vehicle, swallowed a great big breath of warm air, and looked upon his new home.

  A trio of withered men shuffled from the backyard with curiosity.

  A middle-aged woman, her wounds still fresh and flowing, stood from where she had been reclining by the garbage pails.

  A young man missing his left leg dragged himself across the front lawn.

  Others came from the side yards. Some spilled out the front door in a slow, lumbering line. They rose from the places where they had fallen in repose behind the hedges or in the basement window wells. Soon they had Peter encircled. A few were rotted into unrecognizable armatures of bone, coated in slick decay and toughening muscle. A handful of the older ones were dry and mummified. Several could have passed for living but for the pallor of their flesh and the dullness of their eyes. And then there were the children, too many children. How many dumped by grief-stricken parents who then never returned to face the unthinkable?

  Peter cataloged the visible wounds and injuries, the crushed skulls and severed limbs, the bullet holes and torn throats, the disease-riddled flesh, telltale needle marks, and long fatal gashes. A fair number he guessed had died of less-telling causes, heart attacks or poisons. The stench of the dead consumed his senses. He pressed a handkerchief to his face and wondered if he would ever get used to the smell. Uncertainty lanced him. Moments passed in which he convinced himself that he had made a horrible error. The urge to flee fluttered in his heart. But then his will asserted itself.

  This was home, now. He was its master, and he had duties to attend to.

  “Good morning,” Peter said. “My name is Peter Carroll. I’m the new owner.”

  No response came but the unyielding indifference of the dead.

  “I’m moving in today,” he told them. “My things will be coming this afternoon. I don’t have very much. I’ve been instructed to inform you that all the established rules remain in effect. Any living person to enter this property is to be considered my guest unless I specify otherwise. None of you will be turned out so long as the rules are obeyed. Is that understood?”

  Peter sputtered a bit on the last part. Handing out orders was a new experience for him.

  He awaited acknowledgment but none came. The mob simply dispersed. The dead folk returned to their places, folding back into the property like elements of the landscape come briefly to life but now exhausted of energy. In their absence the kneeling girl remained, her gaze steady in the direction of the flowers though the butterfly was nowhere to be seen.

  Peter weaved gingerly around her and climbed the front steps. The door was open. He peered down the hallway into the bright kitchen where George Gail, head of the house’s security team, sat sipping a cup of steaming coffee while he read the morning paper.

  * * * * *

  Excerpt from Chapter 3 of the forthcoming book

  A History of Resurrection House:

  The Odd Events at 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and What They Mean to You

  by Padraic Irwin O’Flynn

  Who is Red Moriarty?

  This is undoubtedly one of the most important questions regarding Resurrection House, perhaps second only to the question of the true nature of events that have transpired there and what they bode for the future of humanity.

  Old “Monster” Moriarty enters the stage toward the end of 1972 at the peak of the ravenous success that earned him his nickname. By then the inhabitants of 1379 Hopewood had grown significantly in number. Carla Montgomery had decomposed to a state of bare bones and was no longer up to the running of the household. Yet, things seemed to carry on fine without her, since there wasn’t much to be done. The walking dead proved to be surprisingly tidy and promptly tended to the remains of their comrades who reached such advanced states of decay as to no longer be considered among the “living dead.” (See Chapter Seven for their means of disposal.) But this behavioral tidbit gave lie to one of the most oft-repeated myths of R
esurrection House, that those who dwell there are granted eternal life. In truth they receive something more in the nature of a life extension—putting aside for the moment all theological debates of the nature of “life” after “death”—good only until their withering bodies ultimately dissolve into useless dust.

  This, of course, leaves unanswered the question of whether or not their consciousness or soul then ceases to exist as well or goes on to survive in yet another form.

  Hopes for the answer drew Red Moriarty to Resurrection House. The dilemma coincided rather strikingly with research endeavors into the nature of thought sponsored by several of his scientific and pharmaceutical companies. Whatever connections these firms and their studies might have had to clandestine government experiments in mind control and human psychic ability stands as firmly in the realm of dubious conspiracy theory today as it did thirty years ago. Such discussions are beyond the province of this book. Suffice to say that whatever potential Red saw in Resurrection House was enough to sustain his long-term interest.

  In only a few months’ time events had conspired toward the destruction of the house. The Montgomery children refused to take responsibility for the property or the residents, who they considered squatters. Thus members of the neighboring community formed a committee and lobbied to clear the grounds and seal them permanently. The ranks of the curious and devoted swelled as people from around the globe arrived, overwhelming the small town and causing horrendous traffic jams, ludicrously long lines at the supermarkets, and many sleepless nights for those who could not block out the sounds of the visitors’ comings and goings. Worshippers arrived faster than police could shoo them off. Strange religious ceremonies often began at midnight and carried on until dawn. Chanting was a mainstay.

  The most crucial factor, however, was the abject refusal of any official body to recognize the events at the house as unusual, supernatural, or miraculous. Every level of the United States government regarded Resurrection House as the work of publicity seekers and hoaxers. In a bizarre episode of electoral politics, 1974 gubernatorial candidates in a neighboring state attacked each other for weeks in an effort to pin the hoax on each other’s party. As a result, a third party candidate won in that state for the first time in forty-five years. Meanwhile, the Vatican condemned the place as a dangerous fraud, whose misleading theological implications would surely imperil the souls of any too eager to be persuaded to belief. Other established churches and religious leaders issued much the same opinion. Scientific organizations downplayed the events, stating quizzically that the phenomenon would merit further study only if it could be proven not to be a hoax, something no one could confirm without further study. In essence, everyone looked the other way for fear of ridicule or going on record and looking the fool a year later when the truth surfaced. Further, persistent rumors point toward the possibility of bribery and pressure brought to bear—whether by “Monster” Moriarty’s organization or other powerful factions on the world scene—in keeping bold officials from approaching Resurrection House with any credibility. Though unproven, these allegations may point to an explanation for why the place has gone unmolested by bureaucratic interference for more than thirty years.