I started with Irma's daughter, Fiona. According to Lilian on Telluride Road, Fiona Weiss had left home sometime around 1980 and had never spoken to her parents again. I Googled the name, and there were some hits, but none pertained to the Fiona I was looking for.
I did find several pages listing the lyrics to artist Fiona Apple's 1996 hit, “Criminal”, however.
The only search result that actually dealt with Fiona Weiss was Irma's obituary, dated to 1991. I'd suspected before that Fiona had gone on to live under an assumed name, probably so that her parents wouldn't be able to track her down, and I felt more certain now that this was the case.
That left only the family patriarch, Willard Weiss. I'd already tried finding his contact information online, and had only dug up outdated phone numbers. Lillian had shared with me a rumor that Mr. Weiss had been set to enter assisted living, and I figured that was my best lead. I Googled “Detroit assisted living facility” and prepared to make a list of phone numbers. I'd call each one and ask to be connected to Willard Weiss, pretending to be some long-lost nephew or something. I mean, how many such facilities could there be in the metro Detroit area?
Turned out there were more than fifty.
“Son of a bitch...”
It was possible that Willard was still alive, and that he was a patient at one of these facilities, but it was going to be difficult to track him down with so many to sift through. Moreover, if he was on some kind of no-call list for privacy reasons, it was possible I'd never get anywhere even if I did call all fifty on the list.
I'd emptied out a small cooler and filled it with ice from the ice machine down the hall. Plunging my bare foot into it and cooling my ankle, I racked my brain for another angle. Right now, I was alone in all of this. I had no one I could look to for assistance. My only desire was to see this renovation through to the end so that I could possibly land a TV gig. Was that too much to ask? When the work was done, Irma could keep the damn house for all I cared. What if I went back there and bargained with her? 'Say, Irma, if you let me finish this video series, I'll surrender the house—fully renovated. You'll be able to shower in between all of the spooky shit you like to do, even wash dishes, how does that sound?'
Another hour ticked by as I remained mired in indecision. I felt an overwhelming urge to hit up the bar downstairs before it closed, to drown myself in liquor and call the whole project off.
I also thought about reaching out to Mona Neeb and explaining myself. I wouldn't tell her exactly what was going on, but could tell her that the house was actually filled with deadly mold, or that I'd been attacked by local gang members who insisted on turning the house into a meth lab, and that I'd have to pick another house to work on—a house far, far away from this one. Would she—and the producers at HIN—be understanding if I backed out of the project?
Maybe.
Maybe wasn't good enough, though. The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to risk it. The folks at the network could just as easily label me a quitter and lose interest.
Hours of inaction saw me entertaining the avenue I most feared. Perhaps, I thought, I could go back to the house and try reasoning with Irma. It was a terrifying prospect, not to mention a reckless one, but if I could somehow figure out what the spirit wanted from me, then perhaps I could forge a diplomatic solution to the haunting.
But how would I protect myself? If I entered the house and she came after me again, how could I stay safe long enough to escape? My ankle was in no shape for running.
She touched you, once, which means she can interact with the physical world. At least, to some degree. There were plenty of blunt tools in the house. If diplomacy failed me, I could take a wrench to her. It was the only thing I hadn't tried yet. If nothing else, I hoped that swinging a wrench around would give me enough time to escape the house if talks went south.
It wasn't much of a plan, but I stood up and stepped into my boots.
And then I sat back down, because I realized how stupid it was.
Until the sun was up, there was no way I was going to explore that house on my own. I needed someone to come with me. Having no friends in the area, no one I could lean on at such an hour, I returned to my previous solution, that of getting a priest involved. I punched some search terms into my browser and went looking for a Catholic priest who could accompany me to the house for a blessing. It was late as hell—closing in on midnight—but my distress was sufficient to compel me to call. There was no telling if a blessing would dissuade the spirit in the house, but at the very least, having someone there who could watch my back would be a great comfort while I sought out Irma for a dialogue.
I called a few numbers and ended up hitting voicemail boxes. There was one voicemail recording, though—that of the Thomas Aquinas rectory in downtown Detroit—that offered a special number for urgent calls. The recording explained that a priest was always on duty for pressing matters, such as the anointing of the sick, or the administration of last rites.
I wasn't sure if the blessing of haunted houses fell under the umbrella of “urgent spiritual matters”, but I dialed anyway.
Three rings later, a man answered. “This is Father Kaspar.”
I began by apologizing profusely for the lateness of my call, and it wasn't until repeated assurances that it was “no problem” that I finally explained my reasons for disturbing him. “Father, my name is Kevin Taylor. I'm in a bit of a bind. I hope you won't think me crazy, or feel like I'm wasting your time, however I've been having numerous supernatural experiences in this home I'm working on. It's getting to the point where I can't set foot in there anymore, and I'm in need of some help. Could you bless the house for me? Maybe sanctify the place and urge out any spirits that linger there?”
The priest did not mock, and he didn't appear to need convincing that otherworldly entities sometimes meddled in human affairs, however he did want to know why this was so urgent that I had to call him at quarter to midnight. “I'd be happy to come by and bless the house. Why don't we arrange something later on this week? I can call you tomorrow and depending on my schedule, I'd—”
“I know I'm asking a lot, but this is a matter of grave importance, Father. You see, I'm on a strict deadline to get this house renovated and I can't afford to put off my work. I no longer feel as though I can enter the house safely, however. Truly, I believe that whatever is haunting that house presents a real threat to my safety. I wouldn't normally insist on something like this, but I'm set to return there in the morning to continue work. If there's any way you could meet me there tonight, I'd appreciate it immensely.” I paused. “Again, I'm sorry for the hour. I'd be happy to compensate you for your time, or buy you a drink. Under the circumstances, I just don't know who else I can turn to, Father.”
Father Kaspar sighed and gave a grunt of assent. “I'm actually on my way back to the rectory right now. I just finished visiting a parishioner of mine in the hospital, so I'm already on the road. If you give me a few minutes to gather my things back at the rectory, I could meet you at the house in...” He mulled it over. “If you're sure this can't wait, I could be there within a half hour. Maybe forty-five minutes, depending on where the house is at.”
My heart swelled with relief. “It's at 889 Morgan Road,” I explained. I gave him a description of various landmarks near the house and he seemed confident that he could find it. “I appreciate this, Father. Thank you.”
“No problem,” replied the priest. “I'll meet you there by 12:30. Please, don't be late.”
“Of course. I'll be waiting in the drive, in my van.”
“All right. See you then. God bless.” Father Kaspar hung up and I immediately pocketed my phone. Putting on a jacket and lacing up my boots, I hobbled out of the hotel room and to the van.
It was time to settle the matter.
Hope you're ready, Irma, because this time I'm not coming alone.
Twenty-Eight
I made the drive quickly, running all of the yellow lights and some of
the pink ones. Fifteen minutes later I was on Morgan Road, driving up and down the street and looking out for the priest. More than once, I passed the house. The lights in the lower story were still going, and from a distance, with its major flaws hidden by darkness, it almost looked cozy. I wondered if Father Kaspar would show up and be disappointed at its lack of conspicuous hellishness.
A few minutes past midnight, I finally eased into the driveway, waiting there with the doors locked and engine running. I left the brights on, too, painting the whole front of the property in brilliant light.
I draped my arms over the steering wheel and waited.
And waited.
Now and then I peeked at the rearview, hoping that the priest's headlights would appear further down the road, but 12:30 came and went with no sign of him. I was in no position to complain about his tardiness after calling him out so late at night, and if for some reason he decided not to show up at all, I knew that I wouldn't be able to blame him. My request to meet here at this hour had been more than a little unreasonable. Still, perplexed by his lateness, I reminded myself that the tangle of roads in this part of town could be hard to navigate with so many of the streetlights out, and I resolved to give him more time before freaking out.
Several minutes ticked by. I watched them pass on the clock like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Had he really gotten lost? Decided not to show up after all? I left my phone sitting on the dash, expecting a call that never came. They say a watched pot never boils; was I psychically warding off the priest's calls by staring at the phone?
It doesn't work that way, you imbecile.
Even though I was surrounded by tons of metal, I didn't feel secure in the van. Night had fallen hard over the property, and it occurred to me that this was the first time I'd really been outside the house after dark for a prolonged period. Usually, I marveled at the dense night from within the house, and without the benefit of bright headlights. Now, I was on the outside, looking in. It didn't feel right.
The yard felt alive. Blades of grass shifted in the wind, each of them looking like tiny fingers making a come-hither motion. Pressing my head against the window, I watched the blades bend then ease back into an upright position, bend and then straighten, as if to beckon me towards the house. There was something hypnotic about it.
When next I looked towards the house, I noticed an intermittent dimming of the lights in the windows. The light waned briefly, then brightened in perfect time with the susurrations of the breeze. Sinking into my seat, into the dark recesses of the van's cabin, it was like looking across a small body of water at a beachside property. The wax and wane of the yellow light was something akin to the turn of a lighthouse beacon, or else a bit of morse code intended by the occupants to reach someone situated on the opposite shore. The signal it was sending me seemed to indicate a message of “all clear”.
The house was calling out to me, in a way.
Flying insects kamikaze'd against the windshield as I slumped in the driver's seat, eyes burning with a sudden desire for sleep. I'd been up since early that morning and hadn't planned to stay up this late. It was only the undercurrent of anxiety, and the need to keep searching for the priest's headlights, that repelled the Sandman whenever my head got too heavy. When this was finally over with, I'd return to the hotel and sleep well into the morning. I wouldn't even bother setting an alarm.
The fuel gauge appeared to tick down a notch as the minutes went by. It was 12:45 now, and there'd still been no sign of any other car. It's no big deal, I reiterated. He's running a little late. So what?
When 1AM threatened to rear its head, I had to think long and hard about calling him—not out of impatience, but worry. What if something happened to him? What if he isn't coming over after all?
Finally, at ten after one, I broke down and called Father Kaspar.
It rang three, four times, and then went to voicemail.
OK, I told myself, he doesn't like talking on the phone while driving. No big deal.
Increasingly, I felt the desire to exit the vehicle. My fatigue was getting to be too much, and unless I got some air I was bound to nod off in the driver's seat. My legs were sore, and my back started to act up, the seat positions leaving much to be desired.
The only thing holding me back was a small voice in my head. Each time I went to reach for the car door, it spoke up. I wouldn't do that if I were you. If you leave the car, you're going to be out in the open. That's just what the thing in the house wants.
I chose to ignore that voice.
I powered down the van and stepped out to take a leak in the grass. I promised myself I'd only be outside for a few minutes—just long enough to wake myself up. Marching up and down the driveway, praying that the priest was just moments from arriving, I stretched my legs and batted away a number of big, dive-bombing beetles that zipped through the air near my head. There are some bugs, but this isn't so bad, is it? You're safe out here until Father Kaspar arrives.
Without the headlights on, the property was miserably dark. To ameliorate the dimness I made frequent trips towards the porch, repeatedly setting off the motion-activated light. Every time the LEDs flashed on, I panned across the entire yard and sighed with relief at my solitude. See? There's nothing out here. Irma's inside the house. You have nothing to worry about.
What I was really trying to do as I marched in circles was muster the nerve to go in alone.
It was getting close to 1:30—a whole hour past the planned meeting time. I was tired of feeling helpless in the face of this threat, and started considering my options in dealing with it if the priest didn't show. On top of all that, I was just plain tired. The night air wasn't refreshing me like I'd hoped it would, and more than once, while spacing out, I felt dead on my feet. Recalling that I'd left the air mattress in the living room, I toyed with the idea of slipping inside for a brief power nap. I could inflate the thing and lay down for a minute. Just until the priest arrived. In fact, I didn't even have to sleep—merely laying down would feel divine.
The bugs were getting to me. A large moth drifted over from a thicket of tall grass and nearly used my shirt sleeve as an air strip. I batted it back into the yard with disgust and stood on the porch's lowest step. There, a red, buzzing beetle the size of a dime found its way into my hair. Clawing it out and leaving my greasy hair a mess, I stomped on the pest and retreated further onto the porch.
But the insects kept coming, and I noticed something in common between their flight paths. They were coming towards me because I stood directly in the path of their target—the house. The bugs should have been drawn to the light, but I watched as several fluttered past the glowing LEDs only to land upon the exterior walls, or the front door. Observing this, I couldn't help feeling that there was some subtle migration taking place, and that I was the only animal in all of creation that hadn't gotten the memo. If I didn't follow the insects to the house, I'd be left behind completely.
I eyed the van and considered returning to the driver's seat, but was immediately repelled by the thought of confining myself. With every passing moment, the siren call of the air mattress became harder to ignore. My ankle was beginning to throb and I wanted to take off my boots for a spell.
Would it be so bad to go inside on your own?
Time and weariness went a long way towards eroding the terror I'd felt earlier that evening. I'd spent hours looking for ways to put a stop to this haunting, or at least to rationalize it. At that moment, I was just tired enough—and maybe still buzzed enough from my trip to the bar—to feel dissociated from it all. Ghosts began feeling very much like abstractions in the face of my very real ankle pains and growing sleepiness. My courage was further goosed by the fact that, in all the nights I'd slept in the house, nothing bad had really happened to me. Irma had never actually hurt me—this sore ankle was my own doing.
Perhaps I'd pop inside for a second to rest my ankle. Where was the harm in a quick break? I absolutely wouldn't sleep, of course
. I'd stay alert, perhaps snack on some of the granola bars I'd left behind. Yes, suddenly I was feeling hungry, and the granola bars sounded like the greatest treat on the planet. From one of the windows I'd keep a lookout for Father Kaspar—who, surely, was just having a lot of trouble finding the place. At the first sign of trouble, at the first disembodied voice, I'd lace up my boots and get out of there.
That small voice in my head had completely changed its tone. It seemed to say, Come on in! Pull up a chair! Make yourself comfortable! A man should be able to relax in his own house! Welcome home, Kevin!
Having paced around for an hour, I hadn't seen anything from the outside to ward me off. The house was still. The resident ghost, once so fond of looking out the windows, hadn't made a single appearance yet. Close as I was to the door, I'd heard no demonic mumblings.
To a first-time visitor, the house would have looked like any other work in progress. It would've seemed innocent, inviting.
I should have known better, but the closer I got to the door, the louder that voice in my head cheered me on. YES! COME ON IN, KEVIN! REST THOSE TIRED FEET! JUST OPEN THAT DOOR AND LAY DOWN FOR A SPELL!
I wondered if maybe the ghost was gone for the night. “Maybe Irma went out to the club,” I said with a snicker. “There's still time before last call, I guess.”
A cold wind left the flowers on the Callery pear rustling noisily, and it carried my little remark off into the distance, too. I instantly regretted saying anything and hoped that no one—either within the house or lurking outside it, in the shadow—would hear me.
It was with an unusual torpor that I stepped away from the door. I felt leashed, reeled in, and the fisherman on the other side of the front door wasn't keen on giving me too much line. The air was thinning and I looked anxiously to the van, felt my keys in my pocket.
The House of Long Shadows Page 17