Deep Night

by Greg F. Gifune

  Raymond felt a surge of discomfort as they crossed the town line and ventured along Main Street. It hadn’t occurred to him until just then how similar his feelings were to when he’d gone to Gull’s Peak, the small town in northern Maine where the cabin was located. The forest there—so thick and sweeping—watched him from the back of his mind, silent, black and unforgiving, and as the gentle sway of branches slowly increased, bending and bouncing, giving way for the emergence of something harsher than the subtle breeze pushing its way through them, Raymond let the memories go as one might release a tethered balloon. They drifted away, back into the darkness, and he focused again on the countryside gliding past his window.

  Little had changed since he’d been here last. That’s how people in Lighthouse Shores liked things—the same—always the same. Their previous visits here, particularly the ones after the tragedy involving their parents, had altered the sense of serenity he had always felt in this town, the consistency of things, as if in some ways their very presence and the pain that accompanied them brought about palpable changes not only in them, but in their grandmother and the very fabric of her sleepy little town as well. All these years later Raymond still felt uneasy here, nervous, an intruder trampling about in places he had no business disturbing. It was a dichotomy that had always baffled Raymond, the way pain and anguish could so effortlessly coexist alongside exquisite beauty and tranquility, each feeding one off the other with appalling symmetry. And the concept rarely seemed as ordinary as it did within the borders of Lighthouse Shores.

  A hazy rain kicked up.

  Seth switched on the wipers.

  The incessant squeaking that followed broke the silence and shuffled Raymond’s thoughts and memories back to where he kept them bound, the secret places where they were powerless and could do him no harm. He placed a hand against his cheek. Despite the heat in the car it was cool and clammy. He considered popping another anti-anxiety pill, but decided against it. He was only supposed to take two a day and wanted his mind clear as possible.

  Seth drove on.

  Though neither man spoke a word, the inertia of the moment fell away as they turned onto Duncan Road, the car slowing to a mere creep. Huge trees hundred of years old towered on either side of the street, branches stripped bare in the winter wind.

  Do you remember, Ray? Do you remember how the leaves in full bloom would create a canopy way up there, a ceiling of leaves? Do you remember walking this street with Nana and gazing up at those magnificent trees? Can you remember the beauty here?

  He felt himself nod, or perhaps only thought he had, eyes scanning the houses as the car skulked along.

  Do you see the beauty now, Ray? Can you still see the beauty of a barren winter day?

  The car stopped.

  Can you still see the horrible beauty of what festers beneath it, waiting, watching?

  Raymond sat up expectantly. Before them sat a presumptuously large Victorian-era residence set back from the road atop a small hill, the winding white gravel driveway, the perfect lawn and sculpted grounds and bushes out front, the curtains in the windows—everything looked the same as it always had, frozen there like a paused video awaiting their return. Beyond the small cluster of trees behind the house lay miles of sandy dunes, and further, the vast waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Raymond could remember the day he and Seth had sat in front of this house trying to convince themselves to go inside and tell their grandmother what they already knew, that her son was dead—killed—mangled beyond recognition in the twisted metal remains of what had once been the family car. Their parents—her son and daughter-in-law—were dead, and life could never be the same.

  That same gnawing feeling deep in his gut burrowed forth as he took in the house now. The house and all it represented, then and always.

  Do you remember realizing you could never escape the darkness, Ray? Do you remember it being here too, how it followed you and Seth even on your visits? Do you remember feeling it in those rambling, soulless old rooms?

  Raymond turned from the window. “You gonna park it or what?”

  Always the tough guy, Seth thought. Ever since the change in him in high school, when he transformed himself from victim to fighter, he’d tried so hard to be the strong one, and maybe he was; maybe he always had been.

  Seth slid into the driveway and parked behind the Lexus sedan already there. A decal of the American flag adorned the back window, but the distraction was short-lived as their attention was quickly drawn back to the house, and the large, partially open front door that faced the street.

  In the shadow it cast along the front steps, stood Nana. Tall, sophisticated, and still looking twenty years younger than she actually was, she was dressed in one of her usual, rather formal dresses and a pair of tasteful heels. Her hair (dyed raven black as it had been for years) was, as always, flawless as her makeup and manicure. Though her style was somewhat dated, she possessed the fetching beauty and presence of a silent film star, and was an individual one noticed immediately, regardless of circumstance. Her high cheekbones, large dark eyes, full lips and olive skin—all trademarks of her Mediterranean heritage—only served to compliment a vibrancy rarely found in someone nearing eighty years of age, but which she enjoyed in abundance.

  Realizing they had seen her, she raised a hand, offered a restrained wave and smiled coolly as she moved down the steps. In the misty rain there was something ghost-like about her grace and elegance, her presence partially obscured amidst the first stages of an imminent storm.

  Raymond’s emotions were so evident Seth could practically feel them himself. Just seeing Nana brought forth in his brother a look of relief and hope he’d only seen in him while in her presence. Yet in all the years of his life Seth still couldn’t determine if that reaction was good or bad. As with so many things, the truth could probably be found at some point in between. “You ready?” Seth asked.

  “Yeah,” Raymond answered in a tone calmer and more genuine than before.

  “Then let’s go,” Seth said, and stepped from the car.

  * * *

  Alessandra Isabella Roma immigrated to the United States in her late teens, already married to Seth and Raymond’s grandfather, Rocco, a man nearly twenty years her senior who died when his grandsons were just toddlers. As was the case with many immigrants in those days, due to a clerical error, the original name of Roma was changed to Roman, something that always bothered Nana and something she made a point of explaining every chance she got. “Roma,” she would say to people who showed even vague interest, “means one from Rome, of course. So Roman becomes a rather ironic and fascinating error. Now, the meaning of my first name, Alessandra, is ‘defender of man,’ and my middle name, Isabella is the Italian form of Isabel, and means ‘consecrated to God.’ It’s all so stoic and dutifully old-world Catholic! But rather delicious too, don’t you think? People so rarely take the time to learn about their names. Pity, really. At any rate, in the end, the attempt to butcher our family name was not a success. The spelling changed but the meaning remained the same. Some may consider it miraculous but I contend you can never destroy who any of us truly are. No one has that power but God, and God would never be so vulgar as to use it, don’t you agree?”

  Since the death of their grandfather, Nana had remarried twice. Once when Seth and Raymond were in elementary school, she was briefly married to a surgeon from Chicago, a man they met only once and to whom she stayed with for less than a year. For the next few decades, Nana remained single then eventually settled down with her third husband, a German-born retired businessman ten years her junior named Rolf Kropp, whom she had met on one of her many trips to Europe. He was a man they had never known well, and to whom they seldom spoke. He was a quiet, private, introverted man who looked like a German diplomat direct from Central Casting. Though friendly and gracious, he often remained aloof and spent most of his time reading in his study or tinkering with plastic model airplanes he was fond of building.

&n
bsp; As always, Nana remained the main attraction.

  Though she retained a faint accent from her youth, her English was flawless, as were the four other languages she spoke fluently: French, German, Japanese, and, of course, Italian. She was almost completely self-educated, and while she and Rolf enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, Nana conducted herself like some displaced countess, royalty in exile awaiting liberation that was surely destined to arrive at any moment.

  Like Ms. Jean Brody, she was fond of saying: “One must never be too provincial.”

  In the light rain, she welcomed both her grandsons with a hug. The three stood silently joined for what seemed a long time, oblivious to the weather. In turn, she took their faces in her hands and kissed them. “It’s so good to see you both,” she whispered, as if fearful someone else might hear and intrude upon them. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Nana,” Raymond began, head bowed and feet shuffling like a child, “there’s—”

  “Shhh,” she said, placing a blood-red fingernail against his lips. “Come inside.”

  She escorted them past the large foyer to the dining room. A large area with high, long windows draped in thick velvet curtains, the room was filled with dark furniture and an ostentatious crystal chandelier dangling over the sprawling table. Rolf appeared as if by magic from an adjacent hallway in a pressed white oxford and slacks, his silver hair slicked back and his manner awkward and overly formal. Coming just shy of clicking his heels together he shook Seth and Raymond’s hands in turn, made minimal small-talk then with a slight bow took his cue and disappeared down the hallway from which he’d come.

  Nana floated about the room as if she rarely spent time there. She hovered near a large hutch, one hand poised near the door handle, behind which stood numerous pieces of fine crystal. “Something to settle the nerves?” When they hesitated she grinned mischievously and motioned to a fully outfitted bar in the far corner of the room.

  In a stern voice Seth said, “I don’t drink this time of day, thank you.”

  Raymond shook his head in the negative and smiled weakly.

  “Oh how tiresome.” She rolled her eyes and strolled closer to the table, but upon closer inspection of Raymond, turned more somber and tenderly cupped the side of his face with her palm.

  “I need to talk to you, Nana,” Raymond said suddenly, emotion filling his voice, “I—”

  “It’s all right,” she said calmly. “I know why you’re here.”

  Seth’s expression betrayed him before his insolent sigh did. Here we go, he thought, more mystical nonsense that will do nothing but further cloud the entire situation and make things more difficult to decipher. Clearly something beyond their scope of understanding had happened, was happening, but he failed to see how their grandmother’s melodrama could help the situation.

  She ignored him as what little light there was in the room dimmed. She looked to the nearest window and considered the dark sky a moment. “You used to love to walk in the rain, Raymond.”

  Raymond nodded.

  Nana turned to Seth, who had taken position in front of the table but had opted to remain standing. “You’ll excuse us?”

  He answered without looking at her. “Of course.”

  She dropped her hand from Raymond’s face and held it out to him as the beginnings of a smile teased her lips. “Come for a walk in the rain with your Nana, my love.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Alone in the grand dining room, Seth felt more uncomfortable and insignificant than ever in his grandmother’s rambling home. Though he’d never had large sums of money, he was certain he would never live like this even if he had. Perhaps his father’s hippie, minimalist values were more deeply ingrained in him than he realized. He glanced around. The immaculate floors, glossy furniture, high ceilings and austere silence reminded him of a museum, though for Seth, there was nothing of particular appeal here, aesthetic or otherwise. He loved his grandmother, but Raymond had always been the one beguiled by Nana, not him.

  He wandered to the tall windows on the far wall, his footfalls echoing along the floor, and gently pulled back a small section of velvet curtain to reveal a view of the grounds behind the home, the surrounding sand dunes and fog-covered Atlantic Ocean below. Amidst gray skies and a drizzling rain, waves roiled and crashed the shore, spraying water up in great misty bursts like a scene from some turn-of-the-century gothic novel.

  A blue umbrella with white polka dots appeared along the path leading to the dunes and beach beyond. Despite her heels, Nana walked arm-in-arm with Raymond, her usual graceful stride unaffected by the uneven and sandy terrain. Her free hand held the umbrella to shelter them both.

  They were an odd pair at best, his disheveled brother seemingly held together with chewing gum and duct tape, slowly ravaged from the inside out and struggling to hold himself together alongside Nana, with her long and fashionable raincoat, white silk scarf wrapped about her head and down around her neck á la Gloria Swanson, considerable black sunglasses—which she wore regardless of weather conditions—designer clothing and a style and flair just shy of Nora Desmond.

  And what of him? What did they see when they looked at him? He wondered.

  He watched them walk slowly along the path to the dunes. Raymond hesitated long enough to help Nana down onto the sand before they continued on along the beach, just beyond the reach of ocean spray.

  What happened to you that night at the cabin, Ray?

  Seth felt an odd tingling sensation in his temples. Flashes of the dream he’d had that night returned: the storm, the screams and…something else…something close and yet still just beyond his memory and understanding. There, in the darkness.

  What happened out there didn’t happen to me.

  Seth released the curtain and turned away from the window. The light shifted and dimmed as the curtain fell closed, and the tingling in his head increased, became more a mounting pressure that spread up into his nose and behind his eyes. A slight dizziness emerged then left him just as quickly as a sudden popping in his head relieved the pressure, and he felt his nose begin to run.

  It happened to all of you.

  Seth reached up, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Blood.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a nosebleed. He found cocktail napkins on the bar, grabbed one, held it beneath his nostrils and pinched.

  Tilting his head back, he sat in one of the dining room chairs while echoes of screams and storms still lingered in his mind. Seth closed his eyes, embraced memories of Peggy instead, though he couldn’t be sure why he had thought of her just then. Perhaps because she represented a safe distraction—sanctuary—from all else haunting him, or perhaps because at that moment he feared he might never see her again.

  The bitter metallic taste of blood dripped along the back of his throat as a distant voice in his head whispered to him. Three words. The screams and storm sounds were replaced with three simple words, he was sure of it, but they were spoken in a swirling, garbled voice he couldn’t decipher.

  Seth pulled the napkin away and looked at it. A spot of dark red blood about the size of a half-dollar stained the center of the cloth. He sniffled, swallowed and again tasted blood, but after inspecting his nose, realized the bleeding had stopped.

  The three words in his head were spoken once more then faded away.

  This time they were unmistakable.

  Let Them Out.

  * * *

  Louis lived in a small, three-story apartment building in Boston’s North End. A predominantly Italian-American neighborhood known for amazing fresh food, cappuccino joints, topnotch restaurants, and in parts, its longtime and historical connection to organized crime, in recent years many of the narrow streets and quiet avenues had become home to a slightly more diverse body of residents.

  Though Louis had lived there more than three years now, Darian knew how miserable he was in the apartment. It was clear to anyone who knew him how much he still identified
with being a husband and father, and how difficult it was for him to exist without Becky and his children. And now, things were even worse. Louis had been on Darian’s mind a lot lately, but the evening prior he’d been unable to shake his feelings of paranoia and dread concerning him particularly. He’d called twice that night but there’d been no answer, so Darian assumed Louis was out drinking or simply hiding out at the apartment and not answering his phone. That morning he’d decided to go and check on him. He knew the lie about going to work would get Cynthia off his back for at least a couple hours and hopefully buy him enough time to make sure Louis was all right.

  Through a now drizzling rain, Darian found a vacant parking space half a block from the apartment building, pulled in and quickly dialed Louis’s number on his cell phone. It rang four times before the answering machine kicked on.

  He must still be asleep, Darian thought. Probably tied on a good one last night.