Resurrection House

by James Chambers

  “Six months,” said Peter. “And the house is supported by a fund established by Red Moriarty. I contribute every cent of my own earnings, minus expenses, but as you noted, I’m not a wealthy man. Red assured the support of the house independent of the resources of its owner.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carroll,” said O’Flynn.

  He had begun work on his book three years ago, determined to dispel the cloud of half-truths and rumor that obscured what was really happening at Resurrection House. O’Flynn had no doubt that dead bodies did indeed return to life on the property, and he feared that it marked the advent of something monumental. The denial of the place’s significance by the world at large only bolstered his conviction. He intended to set down the most factual account of the house’s history that he could assemble, at best to expose the truth behind the phenomenon, at worst to awaken the interest of the self-obsessed public. Moriarty’s organization had routinely stonewalled his investigative efforts and requests for interviews. It had taken him four solid months of persuasion to arrange his meeting with the new owner. He could feel it was going to be worthwhile.

  “Do you like it here? Does it feel like home?”

  “I’m quite comfortable. It’s a charming house. Of course, I’m still adjusting to the others but we get along fine,” Carroll said.

  “So, you, what…?” asked O’Flynn. “Get up in the morning, brush your teeth, come down to breakfast? All while the dead carry on around you?” “Pretty much. The others keep to themselves. They’re like ghosts, in a way, but ghosts with substance. Anyway, I’m well occupied. There’s plenty of work to tend to as the house’s caretaker. Administrative affairs, fielding requests for visitation, and other duties.”

  “I’d imagine keeping contact with lawyers takes up a good deal of your time. Last I checked there were 734 pending legal actions connected to the house.”

  “You’ve done your homework. But we’re up to an even 750 as of this morning. Not everyone wants to see the house continue to exist. Not everyone is happy that I own it. Most of them are crackpot cases that will never see the inside of a courtroom.”

  Padraic took a leather-bound scrapbook from his briefcase and flipped through stiff pages of newspaper clippings. “It raised quite a stir when Moriarty chose to sell to you. Here’s one,” he said, stopping at a page. “The headline reads: ‘Moriarty Sells to Incompetent.’” And another, ‘The Headless Household: Visionless Amateur To Buy 1379.’ Do you feel there might be something to the criticism?”

  “I understand it,” said Peter. “But I’ve never cared about what people say. I’m not here for publicity or to play public servant. This is my home, and if the public doesn’t like the way I choose to run it, they can take a flying leap. It’s none of their business. I keep everything in complete compliance with the law and I take good care of the grounds. These people all have their own agendas. They don’t understand what the house needs.”

  “But you do?”

  “I’m learning,” said Peter. “Something miraculous is taking place here. It should be perceived for what it is, not for what we hope it to be.”

  “What is it?” O’Flynn asked.

  Peter pondered the question for a moment, then said, “It’s difficult to describe. The dead do return to life. They’re not mindless shells, but they’re not the people they were before they died, either. They have purpose.”

  “Which is?”

  “I haven’t figured that out, yet. They’ve told me…some things…but it’s a jumble.”

  Padraic decided to shift gears. He wanted to gather as much information as he could before he dropped the bombshell he had been sitting on for the past nine weeks. “How do you get along with your neighbors?”

  “Very well. They’ve all been unexpectedly supportive.”

  “Most of them only moved here to be closer to the house. Two of them were bidding against you, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, but they’ve been good about the way things went. They’re genuinely involved. I won’t tolerate anyone whose sole interest in the house is to make money.”

  “And what interested you, Peter? What drew you to bid on the house in the first place?”

  Peter laughed. “If you had asked me that six months ago, I would’ve told you the same thing that won it for me, ‘I don’t know.’ But I have an idea, now. Something special is happening here, and I think I’ve always known that. One of the world’s grand mysteries is playing itself out before our eyes. I’ve learned quite a lot about myself since moving here. I’m meant to play a part in whatever is coming.”

  The candor and conviction of Peter’s answer surprised Padraic. He faltered a moment before his reporter’s instincts took over. “Then the business of Resurrection House is a matter of faith for you?”

  “Faith is belief in that which cannot be proven,” said Peter.

  A woman whose chest had been shorn open in a car crash staggered up to the kitchen doorway. She peered in at the two men. Padraic paused and waited for her to withdraw. Instead she stayed, observing them without the slightest trace of self-consciousness.

  “Do you know where Red Moriarty got his wealth, Peter?” said O’Flynn.

  “Not really. From his businesses, I assume.”

  “Do you know where he was born? Or who his parents were?”

  “No,” Peter said. “Is it important?”

  “No one knows. That’s the thing. For all practical purposes, Moriarty came into existence fully formed in 1947 as the head of a small Zurich-based financial company. There’s no trace of his life before that date, and no one who works for him will discuss it. I’ve known a number of journalists who’ve tried to investigate him, but all of them dropped the story sooner or later and never went back to it. I’ve only found one shred of evidence of Moriarty before 1947, and quite frankly, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  O’Flynn again opened his briefcase. He withdrew a transparent envelope containing a yellowed, black-and-white photograph, which he slid out and passed across the table to Peter. The sleeve of Peter’s shirt drew back as he reached for the paper, and O’Flynn noticed the unusual band of bright metal worn around his wrist. It struck him as unlike any substance he had ever before seen.

  “Interesting bracelet,” he said.

  “A gift from the dead, believe it or not. Moriarty wore one like it, too,” Peter said. “Now, what am I looking at here?”

  “It’s a copy,” said O’Flynn. “I purchased the negative from a man in Dresden whose grandfather was a news photographer. I had it restored. It was taken in 1900.”

  Peter examined the photograph. At the center of the image Red Moriarty lay dead among a group of bodies scattered awkwardly around a room in a ramshackle cottage. From the clothes and décor, Peter could easily believe the photo was a hundred years old.

  “I don’t understand,” Peter said.

  “The dead man at the center of the room? The one who looks like Red Moriarty? That’s Avery Mann, great-grandfather of Rudolf Mann.”

  “Rudolf Mann?”

  “The physicist and cult founder. Lived in Germany. He died last year.” O’Flynn reached into his briefcase once more and produced another photograph.

  “Are you suggesting that Moriarty is related to Mann?” Peter asked, as he accepted the second photo, leaving it face down on the table.

  “Not quite,” said O’Flynn. “I’m suggesting that Moriarty is Avery Mann. I think “Monster” Moriarty has been dead for a century and no one has caught on.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Peter said. “The phenomenon began in 1972 and it’s contained to this property. Besides, even if Mann had come back to life, he would’ve decomposed entirely decades ago.”

  “Well, it’s an imperfect theory, I admit. I was hoping you might help me clear away the murk of history,” O’Flynn said. “There’s one thing I am certain of, though. See that man by the fireplace?”

  Peter looked at the image of a well-dressed man, lifeless and slumped by
the hearth. “I see him,” he said.

  “He’s your great uncle, Wilhelm Köehler.”

  Padraic tapped his pen against the table and his right leg started to twitch. The kitchen grew cold, and another broken figure appeared in the doorway. Outside a trio of pale bodies passed by the windows, dimming the sunlight with carousel shadows.

  “That’s not possible,” Peter said.

  “Actually it is. Wilhelm’s brother, Ernst, came to America in the 1910s. His family lived in this house for a time. Ernst was your grandfather. Your ancestral name is not Carroll, but Köehler. Have you ever read Rudolf Mann’s Seven-Fold World? Do you know about the seven heralds?” O’Flynn continued.

  “No,” said Peter. “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m sure there’s a connection to Resurrection House. I just haven’t worked out what it is. That second photo, by the way, is Rudolf, taken a year before he died. They say he went mad after his wife burned to death in the sixties.”

  Peter flipped the picture over. He attempted but failed to stifle a gasp.

  “What is it?” O’Flynn said.

  Peter composed himself. “I’m sorry, but we’re done. It’s time for you to leave.”

  The walking dead filled both exits from the kitchen. Their heavy stares bore down on O’Flynn. He retrieved the photographs, slipped them away, and left a manila folder filled with papers in their place. “All right, I’ll go. But look through this folder, Mr. Carroll. The documentation of your ancestry is irrefutable. I know Moriarty had you investigated before selling, and if I could dig it up, you can be sure his people did, too. So you have to ask yourself, why didn’t he tell you?”

  O’Flynn stood and approached the corridor with caution. The dead parted to let him pass. A small group of them trailed him all the way to the front gate, and he was sure that had they been free to act, they would’ve torn him limb from limb.

  In the kitchen Peter collapsed at the table with his head in his hands.

  He could not be mistaken.

  The person O’Flynn had identified as Rudolf Mann was the Scowl.

  * * * * *

  Excerpt from

  The Second Death (1963)

  By Rudolf Mann

  Consider that the worship of death is the essential, underlying foundation of every significant religion in the world, and the question of existence becomes crystal clear. We live to die. Life is a chrysalis. Death is the end state.

  In many Asian cultures people treat their deceased ancestors as though they are still among them. They bring them food and presents and implore them for their assistance and blessings.

  Dozens of societies in the past, such as the Egyptians and the Celts, have buried their dead with worldly goods, fully expecting those who had passed on to have need of such things.

  Christians worship the one who conquered death, who held in his hands the power of a second life, the one who returned to the Earth after his own demise and promised one day to impart the same gift to all his followers.

  And what of reincarnation? I purport that it is the repetition of the act of dying not the act of living that achieves spiritual advancement.

  Throughout history, throughout the world, people have constructed their beliefs around human sacrifice, whether abstract or concrete. Unknown quantities of blood have been spilled over the concept that life springs from death, renewal is born of decay, and that only through the act of killing do the living become fertile and enriched.

  So our purpose is clear.

  Life and death must become one.

  The flesh must not be left to rot and wither and the soul loosed aimlessly into the universe.

  The dead are worshipped, and so in order to become gods, we must die.

  * * * * *

  A frigid draft braced the diner. Outside rain poured from the night. O’Flynn sipped his coffee and stared at the torrent of shadows beyond the water-rippled plate glass window. He sat in the last booth of the diner three blocks from Resurrection House, precisely where Peter Carroll had asked him to be. It was pushing one o’clock in the morning and with the bad weather, the place was deserted.

  He started to doubt if Peter would turn up after all. Weeks had passed since the interview, and he had fairly given up hope of hearing from Carroll again despite the information he had shared. He agreed to the meeting without hesitation when Peter contacted him.

  Soft bells jangled as the front door opened. A blast of damp cold spit through the entrance, and Carroll entered, his slender body hidden beneath the glistening folds of a thick raincoat. A waitress started her way around the counter to seat him, but Peter ignored her and trundled toward O’Flynn. He slid into the seat, leaving his hood in place so that his eyes peered out from darkness like the headlights of a distant, oncoming car. His shoulders slumped.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Peter said in a faint, withering voice. “It’s a miserable night.”

  “It’s fine. I was pleased to hear from you,” said O’Flynn. He raised his hand, beckoning the waitress. “How about some coffee?”

  Peter seized O’Flynn by the wrist and slammed his arm to the tabletop, pinning it there. “No. That’s all right. Nothing, thank you.”

  “Well. Okay. Guess you don’t really need the caffeine,” O’Flynn said. “You can let go of my arm, now.”

  Peter grunted and released his hold. “Heard your book is done.”

  “That’s right. There’s a lot more I’d like to have done with it, but it’s a start. I think people are really going to open their eyes when they read it. I’m already planning a follow-up.”

  “I see,” Peter said.

  Rain pattered down in a nervous beat against the window glass.

  “There were so many of them after you left,” said Peter. “Shoulder to shoulder in the cellar, spilling from every room, the entire house filled with living corpses. You didn’t know what it was you were doing, did you, Mr. O’Flynn?”

  “What are you talking about? What did I do?”

  “The photographs, the papers. The information. I had nightmares for days afterward.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Not me. Them. The dead. You spoiled their fun. Forced a revelation.” He sniffled and wiped his wrist across his lips. The motion drew his sleeve back, uncovering the same milky, bronze bracelet O’Flynn had first seen during the interview.

  “Peter? Are you all right?”

  Drops of blood fell to the table. A fresh crimson smear was visible on Peter’s sleeve.

  “He was there in the house all along, and I never knew,” Peter said. “Had never even heard his name. But he knew who I was. He knows what I’m meant to do. He was playing with me, amusing himself. They all were for a while. Time doesn’t mean the same thing to the dead as it does to the living.”

  Peter jerked back as the waitress set a coffee mug down in front of him. She filled it then topped off O’Flynn’s cup. “It’s okay with me if you sit and talk, fellows, but you gotta order something. Coffee’s the cheapest. All done with your pie?” She reached for the crumb-dappled plate in front of O’Flynn and strained for a glimpse beneath Peter’s hood. He turned away. She took the dish and retreated behind the counter.

  “Even you could sense the truth,” Peter said.

  “Are you sick, Peter? You don’t sound well. And you’re bleeding.”

  “You must think me quite the fool.”

  O’Flynn placed his hands palm down on the table. “I don’t think you’re a fool, Peter. I never did. What are you getting at?”

  “You’re right about Moriarty. He’s been dead for more than a century,” Peter said. “Rudolf Mann is one of the living dead, too. He lives in my basement. They’ve been hard at work down there making up for lost time. My father made a mess of it or it would’ve started years ago. But he got frightened, so he took their secrets and ran. It should have been him in that picture, not my uncle. Father’s dead, now, of course, but he hid well when he was
alive. They traced him to America after World War I, but from there…nothing. Not until 1972. Not until someone died in Resurrection House. That’s where my father buried it, underneath the cellar floor, but not deep enough. Once the first of the dead rose there, it beckoned the others like a radio signal. And they came. Even Moriarty showed up in person to take back his long-lost possession.”

  “What did your father steal?”

  “A seventh of Anlo’s charm.”

  “The charm is real?”

  “Yes,” Peter whispered. “They won’t tell me where it came from or how long it’s existed. Moriarty found it in 1873. Its powers are…unimaginable. They call it the Fiery Heart of the Earth.”

  “Then, all of it could be real,” O’Flynn said. “But how has Moriarty lasted so long?”

  “A piece of the charm. He wears it on his wrist. It sustains him.”

  Peter stuck a spoon in his coffee and twirled it idly in a steady circle. Padraic eyed the ghostly pallor of his skin. “Do you know there are other places like Resurrection House? Consecrated ground where the dead walk? They’re remote and not widely known.”

  “I had my suspicions about that,” said O’Flynn.

  “Well, they exist. They’re much further ahead than Resurrection House. They haven’t been missing their heralds for a hundred years. The soil there has been properly blessed with the flesh of the dead and the blood of the living. That’s what the dead do. Day and night. Their flesh soaks in the power of the charm and when it rots from the bone, it serves to fertilize the land. Now the concentrations are high. The decay is stopping. The bounds of the soil can be cast off.”

  “What do they want?” said O’Flynn.

  “What they planned more than a century ago. The heralds are all present. The sale of the house was a test. Red knew who I was, as you said, but he wanted to know if I would come on my own. And I did. It’s in my blood. This power, energy, radiation, whatever it is—it’s part of my being. It always has been. It courses through me.”

  “Listen to me, Peter,” blurted O’Flynn. “Come with me. Now! Don’t go back there. We’ll get far away and we’ll tell the world the truth, whatever it is, about Resurrection House. Please, Peter, before there’s no chance for you, leave with me.”