The Abandoned - A Horror Novel (Horror, Thriller, Supernatural) (The Harrow Haunting Series)

by Douglas Clegg

  She was the most wonderful woman I had ever met as a boy, and I was relieved when my father would send my little brother Cody and me to stay with her for a summer or a holiday. At first, she kept her girlfriend a big fat secret, until finally I just told her that I wanted to meet “this Cynthia,” and soon enough Cynthia Marchakis was produced—a sleek, handsome half-Greek half-WASP goddess of six foot one with silky dark hair and lips as juicy and thick and red as filet mignon, extra-rare. Cody and I were in awe of both of them—the bookish aunt who bird-watched and got us both out in the yard to identify the finches as accurately as possible; and that goddess whose kiss on our cheeks seemed to bestow a thrill as enormous as a roller-coaster ride. My grandfather died by my eleventh birthday, and then I didn’t see Aunt Danni or Aunt Cynthia much. My father married what he called a good woman, and he cut his hair and stopped drinking. He and his fifth wife settled in Stoughton, Wisconsin, where we ate cheese and skated on silver, frozen ponds. Somewhere in all that, I managed to get a trip to Aunt Danni’s when I was fifteen.

  And that is when she told me the truth about all things related to the Smithsons, which was our family name. “Insanity,” she said. “Depression. Two suicides on two branches. Fallen branches all over the damn lawn. Too many failed artists. No one with discernible talent.” She listed all the failings of her own generation, including hers and even Cynthia’s. Then she started in on my father’s foolishnesses, and I managed to stop her since it was like reliving a very bad stomach ache on my part.

  “But you’re not like that,” I insisted. “You live here. You have a beautiful house. Cynthia is wonderful. You’re the only couple I know that’s lasted this long. None of dad’s friends have stayed married for more than a few years at a time. And now that dad has this good woman, maybe he’ll stay married, but maybe he’ll meet a middle-aged Swedish-descent waitress at the Stoughton Pancake House and that’ll be it for the good woman and him.”

  “I’ve done some bad things in my life,” she said.

  “Like?”

  “I mean being bad,” she said. “There’s a streak in our family tree that just doesn’t work right.”

  “Why are you depressed?” I asked.

  “I guess... I guess I miss my dad,” she said.

  I went over to my aunt Danni and wrapped my arms around her and told her that no matter what, I loved her, and she was not bad, and that if I could I would live with her all the time.

  And I tried to—I spent that summer with her and got to know the village of Watch Point better than I ever had before. I didn’t think I’d be coming back after that summer, though. I was wrong about my dad—he stayed in Stoughton, working at a local bank, and the good woman worked at the hospital in town. Cody loved her, although I never grew that attached. Instead, I wrote letter after letter to Aunt Danni, and ran to the post office, waiting to get her letters in return.

  She died in a normal, everyday accident by the time I was entering college. The funeral was so fast, during my orientation week at school, that I didn’t hear about any of it until after my first day of classes. I wept; I hid from the other students at college for the first few weeks, and skipped so many classes that I ended up with bad grades.

  I wrote letters to Cynthia, but never heard back from her. My father told me when I asked him, “Danielle’s in a better place, Luke. Think of it that way.”

  The good woman told me, “She’s not in heaven, I know that much.”

  So when I saw an ad posted on the bulletin board of the craptacular little high school I got stuck teaching at in Riverview, New Jersey, the little notice about a position up at a town called Parham, not far from Poughkeepsie, I thought I would finally have a reason to be in Watch Point again.

  A reason to see that village again that I had loved as a boy and remember the aunt who had been my rock during all those turbulent years.

  When I got off the train the day I arrived, I walked straight up the sloping hill and took the first left, then the next right, then another right, all the while clutching the too-heavy suitcase, and wishing I’d just called for a cab at the train station.

  But walking down Hibiscus Lane, I came upon the low white fence, overflowing with roses of all hues, and the slate path up to the two-bedroom house where my aunt Danni had lived her life—the belle of Watch Point—and where now her partner Cynthia waited for me.

  She came to the door smelling of lavender and gin. She had lost much of her sensual allure—or what I had remembered of it when I had been a boy—and she had put on too many pounds for me to pretend that it was a temporary change of shape. Yet the goddess still shone through Cynthia Marchakis, and the lips were still big fat juicy steaks. “You got so tall! I bet you wow all the girls now. You were sort of scrawny before, but you filled out. You look like you turned out good.” She laughed, her voice like a Long Island foghorn. Cigarettes had done a number on her vocal cords, and as she puffed away, offering me a drink from the largest display of liquor I’d seen on a kitchen counter since my college graduation party, she regaled me with stories about Danni and my grandfather and my dad and my other aunt (Francesca, who didn’t talk to my father, my brother, or me because of a long-ago rift that was never spoken of among the family). We settled on the old spring-loaded couch, and as I took my third sip of a cooling gin and tonic, I said, “Have you met anybody yet?”

  It came out of my mouth too easily and too innocently for her to take offense, and she grinned and puffed and said, “Why? Why? I’ve met a lot of people in life. I don’t need to meet any more people from now ‘til the day I die.”

  “I really appreciate your putting me up like this,” I said.

  “It’s your house,” she said. “Well, your grandpa’s.”

  “It’s yours now.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll just give it to you. I wouldn’t mind a change of scene.”

  After another drink between us, we were laughing about old times and talking about Cody (who was in the military and overseas, so we were worried for him and yet very proud of his decision, which reflected back to my rather ordinary cowardice and my father’s unending antiwar sentiments). And then she dropped a bomb in my lap as we sat there: “There’s something she wanted you to have. But I just couldn’t send it to you. Not after she went. But it’s important, and you should have it. You’re old enough now.”

  Before I could ask what it was, she had leapt up and run into the kitchen, drawing open cabinets and drawers. I heard the metal clanks and clinks of forks and spoons as she searched for whatever she’d held back.

  When she emerged from the kitchen, she had a piece of paper that had been folded into a square and seemed far older than six or seven years.

  When I opened it, I knew immediately what it was.

  A suicide note.

  Dear Luke,

  I love you. I hope we see each other again someday. You were one of the great joys of my life. I hope you knew that. And I hope you know that what I’m doing today is not about my feelings for you or your brother (hi Cody! I love you, too.)

  I talked to you once about all the bad things in our family. Unfortunately, I have at least one of those. No, not depression. Not insanity. Not even ordinary fucked-upedness. What I got is the Big C. And I’m going. And I know I’m going. And Cynthia knows I’m going. Your dad doesn’t know, but I guess he will someday.

  But I wanted you to know that I’m doing this not because I want to abandon you. I feel like you got abandoned a lot, even when you had a lot of family around. But if I could be here forever, just for you, I would. If I could turn to God and make a deal where He gives me another twenty-five years just so I could be here for you when you came around, I would, believe me.

  But I can’t. And I’m going faster than fast. I’m not a coward at all. I just don’t want the last month of my life in a hospital. You know me.

  I don’t like any of them. And I want this to be on my own terms. The doctors tell me (I’ve been to three) that there’s a one-in-ten ch
ance I’ll lick this. But even when they tell me that, in their eyes they’re really saying, “Yes, Danielle, you have a hope in hell, but only if you’re one of the really lucky ones, and if you can feel that thing inside you growing, if you get those pains, you’re not on the mainland with the rest of us. You’re out on some strand, and the dark water’s pouring in. And you’re going to have to go to the outermost reach. You can’t come back to the mainland.”

  And you know what, Luke? It’s fine by me. I’m A-OK with it. Now Cynthia knows nothing about this, so don’t blame her. Don’t blame anyone but me. If you were in my shoes, I think you’d do what I’m doing, too. I’m not some big self-sacrificing martyr. I’m not a TV movie-of-the-week. I just am tired of this fight. I know where it’s headed because I’ve worked as a nurse for twenty-five years, for God’s sake. I’ve watched others go with exactly what I have. And I know how they go. And I refuse to do that to you or to Cynthia or to Cody or to your aunt Fran or your dad. I learned from taking care of Grandpa. When you’re meant to go, you’re meant to. When our old cat Wooster died, she went out in the woods and just lay down and waited for death to come. God, how I wish it were like that for me. Would that I were a cat!

  But no, I have to overcomplicate things and buy a book on how to do this exactly right, and it’s a big secret from Cynthia, although I’m guessing she’ll know by the time you read this (Shh! Don’t tell her, she’s going to hate me enough as it is, but I can’t stand to put her through what we’re going to have to go through if I go to the hospital now.)

  Okay, enough comedy. I love you, Luke. I want to see your face in heaven someday when you’re an old man and you can tell me what your life was like, and we can have Grandpa over and play Parcheesi or Boggle. Just like we used to play in the attic, sometimes, when it was cool up there and Grandpa wanted to go through the old pictures and things. That to me would be heaven. It’s where things go when everyone forgets the value of things. I think of it like our attic—when people are ready to die. When it’s their time to only look back and not forward, they climb the stairs. They sit among the memories, and somehow, they’re in a better place just sifting through the past. And then, they’re somewhere else. They’re beyond the attic.

  That’s how it’s going to be. Please try to understand this. You’ve always thought beyond the normal idiocy of people, Luke. Don’t fail me now. I chose life when I could. Now I have to choose to climb the stairs to the attic. To sit among the memories. And then to move beyond the attic of the past.

  It hurts me to leave you more than you know. But I promise, I’ll be one of the many friendly faces waiting for you when you get to the other side from here. I promise, if any promise in the universe could ever be made, I make that one and will keep it. And I can’t wait (but don’t rush over here. I want you to be about ninety years old or something. Okay?)

  And don’t put up with any crap from Cynthia. She is going to be pissed at me for years to come over this. If you get this note, don’t drop out of college or anything, but plan on spending at least a summer with Cynthia. You can talk some sense into her, and you both have a lot of fun together.

  Love you with all my heart and anything else that matters. Meet me in the next world, but only after you’ve had great-grandkids. Okay?

  Danni

  When I finished reading the note my aunt had written several years before, Cynthia said, “I was mad at first, but you can’t stay mad at the dead too long. And I feel like she’s here. Not like a ghost. But I just feel her with me sometimes.”

  I could barely see through the tears in my eyes. I set down the letter, folding it up again. I swiped at my eyes with the backs of my hands since I didn’t have a tissue. “Why didn’t you show this to me before?”

  “Are you angry?”

  “No,” I said, but it was a lie. But what was the point of the truth? I couldn’t take back the past few years that Cynthia had kept the note from me.

  “I guess I was angry with her,” Cynthia said, another puff on her endless cigarette. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Then, I had to ask. “How did she do it?”

  Cynthia answered in a fairly off-the-cuff manner, as if she’d told the story a million times and now it was like saying that someone had gone to the store. “She went off by herself one day. She was supposed to be going in for another blood test. She just walked a little ways out of town, to a place nobody really goes. And then ...”

  “Like the cat,” I said. “She went off by herself.”

  “Yep,” Cynthia nodded. Took a sip of her drink. “Just like ol’ Wooster. Went out to a lonely place and just gave it up. You know, once a couple of months had passed, I was a little afraid to show you the note. I was depressed. I was upset. Your aunt Fran came down on me like a ton of bricks. Tried to get me thrown out. Blamed me for everything, including your grandpa’s death. She had lawyers figuring out how to shut down my bank accounts. It was pretty awful. And I just wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But finally, she called her dogs off. I think your dad got her to back down. By then, a year had gone by, and I was afraid to show you the letter. I was afraid you’d be angry. Everybody was angry with me for awhile. And I was still looking for that hole. The one to crawl in.”

  “I know. I understand. Can I ask one thing? What did she have?”

  Cynthia placed her hand on her scalp. “Up here. Brain stuff. It was messing with her mind a little. Worse was, she knew how it would go. She said it was going to be bad. I guess now I don’t blame her. But I did for a few years there.”

  “We were lucky to know her,” I said.

  “Yep,” Cynthia said, finishing off her glass.

  “I wish she hadn’t killed herself,” I said, suddenly, as if it had been on my mind for years and I could not shake the thought. “I wish she’d called me. I would’ve been there for her. I’d have come to the hospital and made it like a home.”

  Cynthia arched an eyebrow. “Luke, she didn’t kill herself. She wanted to. That was her intention. She got out to this abandoned property and she just was about to set this thing in motion, but whatever was inside her got her. Right then. Nobody was around. She fell. She died. Her gun never went off.”

  I took a nap in the guestroom bed, a little drunk and a lot confused. When I woke up, feeling sweaty because Cynthia didn’t like to turn on the air conditioner during the daytime, I had a headache to murder all other headaches. It was from a dream I’d had. And I wanted to write the dream down, so I pulled out my laptop and started writing, “The Nightwatchman looked into the hearts of the dreamers, and found their secrets.”

  It’s because of Harrow. The house. They hired a nightwatchman, and I saw him once. Briefly. In town. He was just getting into his car—an old dusty station wagon that looked a lot like the one my parents had when I was little. I guess that’s why I noticed him. It was that Ford station wagon, so dusty I couldn’t even see through the windows. I barely saw his face, but what I saw of him wasn’t important. It was when Cynthia said, “Oh, that guy. He just got hired. He’s the nightwatchman up at Harrow.”

  And I said to her, “You mean caretaker.” A nightwatchman would imply that there was something to watch at night, but a caretaker—someone who’d fix the place or make sure everything ran that was supposed to run— made sense to me. She said, “Oh, of course. He’s the caretaker.”

  But her word stuck with me.

  Nightwatchman. It conjures so many thoughts, and makes me wonder what a nightwatchman does all night long.

  So, I wrote, “The Nightwatchman looked into the hearts of the dreamers, and found their secrets.”

  It was just one sentence, but I knew it would be a novel someday. I felt better, just having gotten it down, even while the dream evaporated in my head. That will be the novel. The Nightwatchman. Sometimes it comes like that—inspiration from a dream. The Nightwatchman will be a story about a man who must take care of others, but he will find out too much about those he has to watch. Somehow I find this
intriguing, and I’m hoping it’s an upbeat tale of the human condition.

  I went to take a shower, and afterward, being my normal snoop self, I opened the medicine cabinet. There was the dental floss I’d last used at fifteen. I could identify it by my initials on the side of the little plastic box (the good woman of Stoughton always marked my stuff). This meant, to me, that Cynthia just had not done much to change the house or her life since Aunt Danni’s death. I felt the burden of death in the little house and decided to take a walk back into town, grab a sandwich or something, and just think about all this overload of information.

  I didn’t rent the little apartment until September, when I felt too uncomfortable staying with Cynthia—the cottage seemed heavy with something other than grief and remembrance. It seemed not to suit me, and I’ve always preferred living alone, anyway.

  Besides, getting back to my novel is important, and it was hard to focus living at Cynthia’s place. I want The Nightwatchman to be a really great novel—not the Great American Novel, but a novel like Wouk’s Youngbloode Hawk or Styron’s Sophie’s Choice—a novel about everything, about the world. I want to encompass the world— the day and the night. I want the character of the Nightwatchman to be fascinating, and on the edge of something wonderful. The more I think about it, the more dreams I’m having that seem to be bits of what the novel might become. Sometimes a ten-minute nap will bring me the dreams—and I suddenly see the Nightwatchman himself, with his narrow lips and the way his eyes widen as he speaks, and I see the plaid shirt he wears beneath his uniform. The Nightwatchman must have a uniform—it’s important for his sense of self. I see a green-gray uniform and a hat and in his belt I thought there’d be a gun, but in the dreams, I see a row of little knives, and I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to suit the Nightwatchman to have them.