The Veil: Dark Stories from the Other Side

by Mae Ronan

  The damp air of the cellar clung to my skin. Foster flung me down to the floor, and then went to a nearby cabinet for a long coil of rope.

  “Put your back against the pole,” he said.

  I looked behind me, and saw a wide metal pole that stood from floor to ceiling. Beside this was an identical pole. Bound to it was a quivering young woman.

  “Sarah,” Foster said, “this is Amy Deck. Amy – this is Sarah Rose.”

  He stood looking at us for a moment. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he asked.

  “Is this a joke, Foster?” I demanded. “What is this?”

  “Hush now,” he said. “Sit down, and put your back against pole.”

  “No.”

  “If I have to do it, it’s going to hurt.”

  “You bastard!”

  I screamed and stamped, and snorted and kicked; but nevertheless, I was five minutes later tied just as tightly to my own pole, as poor Amy Deck was to hers.

  By the time Foster had finished his work, he was sweating profusely, and the grease stains were beginning to run over his skin. He sighed heavily, and wiped his brow with a rag.

  “Goodnight, girls,” he said. “Scream for a while, if it makes you sleepy. No one will hear you.”

  I watched him, thunderstruck, as he ascended the staircase. I cried out when the basement went black. I could hear Amy Deck weeping.

  ***

  I became better acquainted with Amy the next day. We woke from a tense and troubled sleep, as a bit of suffused sunlight began to stream through the grimy lace curtains of the single filthy window.

  My eyes opened first. I stretched painfully against the pole, and winced as the rope scraped my raw wrists. I looked to Amy. She sat with her head hung down to her chest, and her long golden hair fallen past the side of her face. There were deep cuts all down her bare arms. There were dried patches of blood on her legs, and even crimson splashes over the curtain of her beautiful hair.

  When she finally lifted her head, it took her some time to look over at me. Finally she did; but her face was blank, and her dark eyes were utterly vacant.

  “What’s your name?” she whispered. Her words passed clumsily through her dry, rasping throat, and fell heavily from her chapped lips.

  “My name is Sarah.”

  “Well, Sarah – welcome to hell.”

  “Why are we here? Why is he doing this?”

  But she turned her head away from me, then, and let it drop wearily down. She did not speak again for two days. I tried many times to get her to talk; but she ignored all my efforts, till finally I asked about her family. Her head snapped up, and she gazed with rapt attention. “My family,” she said softly. “My family is dead.”

  I stared at her, horror-stricken. Those were the last words passed between us that day. I spent what time I slept that night, plagued with nightmares, filled all with the idea of my dear father, lying dead.

  It was Amy who spoke next. I felt her looking at me, sometimes, as I stared at the wall with glazed eyes. I rocked to and fro as well as I could, and muttered to myself nearly constantly. But Amy never asked me to stop.

  Finally her voice sounded from the neighbouring pole.

  “How long did it take?”

  “What?”

  “How long did he spend with you?”

  “Since July.”

  “Since July? He must like you.”

  I looked towards her; and our eyes met. We burst out laughing, but after a while began to cry.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked her.

  “Since April. I only knew him for three weeks, before that.”

  “Since – since April?”

  I looked to the dark rags she wore, torn and tattered. I then looked down at my own clothes, and tried to imagine what they would look like, six months hence.

  But Amy’s face softened, even as she frowned. “Don’t think on it,” she advised. “It’s better not to think on it.”

  She turned her head very politely, then, and left me to my own tears.

  ***

  Though of course I couldn’t tell it at the time, I figured afterwards that I spent three weeks with Amy Deck, beneath the house of Foster Vine. We sat bound to our poles, sometimes gazing off absently into the darkness, sometimes staring at each other for want of something real to see. When we talked, though our hands were fast as useless, we stretched our legs towards one another, and crossed them at the ankles. Most nights we fell asleep that way.

  There was not much that could comfort me, then; for of course I thought that I would die there. I only trained my eyes upon the invisible clock before me, and watched its hands spin round in circles.

  But there was a certain expression that came into Amy’s face, a sort of sinister sneer that besmirched her countenance, whenever she spoke of Foster Vine. It was, certainly, the very blackest brand of humour that could be bought; and doubtless was bought at the greatest price imaginable. Yet it touched my heart like a star in a dark sky, and was the only thing which could make me smile – for a part of me knew that Amy did it, only for me. She changed the persistent melancholy of her pretty face, for just a few minutes every day, and looked at me as if we were sitting together in a shopping mall. Her eyes shone like twin beacons across a sea of murk.

  “Did you love him?” she asked me once.

  “No,” I answered. “I never thought I did.”

  “But he –”

  “He intrigued me.”

  “He’s like a vampire,” Amy said, leaning her head back against the pole. “It’s more of a spell than anything else. I hated it when he came for me – but I wouldn’t tell him no.”

  “A spell,” I echoed. “Yes – it’s like a spell.”

  “Do you hate him now?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t feel anything.”

  “Feel this,” Amy said, as she moved her leg over mine. “I’m here with you, Sarah.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “But for how long?”

  “As long as we can.”

  ***

  Foster came down every morning, untied our hands, and gave us a bowl of soup to eat. Then he shoved us individually into a dank little bathroom. After this we were done up again, and could only wait for the next day.

  After perhaps a week in the basement, Foster came down unexpectedly of an afternoon. He dragged us upstairs one by one, and tossed us together into a darkened room. He disappeared for a little, but then returned, and padlocked the door from the inside.

  ***

  We hid together beneath the rubbish heap six hours later, shivering against one another, and dripping blood. Last we had seen of him, Foster lay moaning upon the floor, his head cut open like a melon from the tire iron (his very own tire iron, which he had spent recent hours beating us with) that Amy dashed against it.

  We made from the house as quickly as we were able. Unsure as we were as to when Foster would take up the chase, we dismissed the single exit from the empty lot as too far away for our shaking legs to carry us. Yet we had little hope, too, of our present hiding-place.

  At least, for the moment, we were free.

  I wanted to strike out after dark. Amy, though, was much weaker than me, and could not move. I would not leave her. We lay together on the ground, curled up into a ball, and laid our heads against one another’s shoulders.

  The morning dawned like a cold apocalypse. The barren, dusty lot was stained all over with our falling blood. The rusty vehicles all around seemed as if they were eyeing us, and were turned against us like dragons. I watched the door to the house, waiting for Foster to appear.

  Amy was still sleeping, it seemed. I touched her face, and spoke her name; but she did not wake. I shook her for what must have been an hour. I could hear and feel no breath.

  I leaned my head down over her, kissed her cheek, and rained tears upon her dirty skin. For a very long while I cried, and could not bring myself to let her go. But finally I found the strength to crawl headfirst from th
e fetid pile, and set off across the lot.

  I was just approaching that small, solitary opening – when something struck me across the back of the head, and I fell upon my face.

  ***

  I came to myself in the basement. My first impulse was to scream; my next to look desperately towards Amy’s pole. Sure enough she was there, and strapped as tightly as I. But I could not tell if she lived.

  Foster sat at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing us darkly, with a thick white bandage wrapped round his head. He said nothing. He only stared.

  Probably you would expect me to have been defeated; to have been completely and utterly hopeless. Yet you should know that there was a strange, inexplicable lightness settled down over my heart, which lit my soul like a flame, and carried away its heavy burden as if on wings of gold. I looked at Foster Vine – and smiled.

  “What do you smirk at me for?” he demanded. “You’re going to die, Sarah Rose.”

  “Surely I will,” I answered, with my eyes turned towards the sunlit window. “Perhaps today – or perhaps another day. Either way I’ll die.”

  “It will be today, Sarah. Make no mistake about that.”

  “That’s well enough,” I answered clearly. “That’s well enough.”

  “Are you afraid, Sarah?”

  I closed my eyes against him. I felt that lightness bubbling up in my chest, to sweep away the darkness there. It left a white, shining glow in its wake.

  “I’m not afraid,” I told him. “I’m not afraid, Foster Vine. I’ll fly away.”

  “You’ll – you’ll what?”

  “I’ll fly away, Foster Vine.”

  “You’ll rot beneath these planks, is what you’ll do.”

  “I’ll fly away, Foster Vine.”

  I looked to Amy, but could perceive no movement from her. So I threw my leg over, and draped it across her thigh. “We’ll fly away, Amy,” I whispered.

  Again I closed my eyes; and then I began to sing.

  “Some bright morning when this life is over, I’ll fly away. To that home on God’s celestial shore – I’ll fly away.”

  “Stop that,” Foster growled.

  “I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”

  “Stop that!”

  “When the shadows of this life have gone, I’ll fly away. Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly – I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”

  “Sarah!”

  I opened my eyes, and saw Foster drawing near to me. I raised my voice in song; and he struck out at me with his fist. It landed heavily on my cheek. But I was not silent.

  “Oh how glad and happy when we meet! I’ll fly away. No more cold iron shackles on my feet – I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”

  “SARAH!”

  “Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away. To a land where joys will never end – I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away – in the morning. When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away.”

  I expected, this time, for him to wring my neck; but was full surprised when I saw him stumble backwards, and fall down to the floor. He crawled back towards the wall, and huddled there on his haunches, clutching himself and sobbing. I watched him quietly.

  “I don’t know, Sarah,” he whispered finally. “I just don’t know.”

  He rose to his feet, and went to the cabinet where he kept his rope. He took out a handgun. I drew a deep breath.

  Bracing myself for the impending bullet, I gritted my teeth, and clenched my fists. I looked to Foster. He gazed at me with strange eyes. Then he fell back against the cabinet; pressed the gun to his temple; and pulled the trigger.

  I screamed for a good long while. After perhaps two hours of my relentless screeching, I discerned movement from my left-hand, and whipped my head around to see Amy, awake and groaning.

  “Amy!” I cried. “Oh, Amy – are you all right?”

  But she did not answer. She was staring at Foster, and the pool of blood beneath his head.

  The sun was just beginning to set. As it scrolled down past the basement window, its fiery light caught a silver object upon the floor, and made it glint.

  A jackknife had fallen from Foster Vine’s pocket.

  “Look, Amy!” I shouted. “Look there!”

  I fought for a quarter of an hour against the shortness of my leg – but finally managed to catch the heel of my shoe atop the knife. I dragged it towards me, did a bit of shifting footwork to slide it back to the place where my hands were tied; and finally took it up in my numb fingers.

  I worked for a long time at the rope, so stiff and sore were my hands – and so thick was the rope. At last, though, I felt it slip away. I sidled over to Amy, and fell to hacking her bonds.

  We emerged from the house in darkness. We limped along through the lot, my weak and aching arm supporting Amy as well as it could. I looked to the round white moon; and saw it wink at me.

  “Can you do it, Amy?” I asked.

  “So long as you hold on, I think I can manage.”

  “I won’t let you go.”

  I smiled graciously at the sky, as we hobbled together out of the lot. The stars danced, and the moon bid us farewell.

  Then we flew away.

  Liberty Hospital

  (Present Day)

  I.

  My name is Erica Whelan. I am sixteen years old, and I am a junior at Geneva High School. I live in Bangor, in a small, quiet neighbourhood. It’s the ideal place to live, really, if you don’t mind the snow. We get quite a bit of that up here.

  For the most part, though, there’s nothing to complain about. My house is comfortable and the neighbours are friendly. There are no significant doubts attached to the business of walking through the streets after dark.

  But my life wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I lived in a place where traversing the streets either alone or in darkness was quite the same thing as signing your own death warrant. I lived in constant fear of my surroundings, both inside and outside my home.

  Until I was twelve, I lived in an area of New York that left much to be desired in the way of safety – or in the way of keeping a hold of all your worldly possessions and your limbs. Whether you believe it or not, I will tell you that the former were once far more important to me than the latter. Anyone would say the same, I think, who is even one half as destitute as I once was.

  At that time, I shared a house with my mother, younger brother, and stepfather. My mother worked constantly, but somehow brought next to nothing home. Leroy Masterson, her truly-good-for-nothing husband, was for most of the time I knew him out of a job – though before that he had been a construction worker. A load of plywood had been accidentally unloaded on top of his legs (I believe to this day that he stood behind the truck, waiting for them to dump the wood on him) and he was dubbed permanently disabled by the state of New York. Though my mother claimed to have loved him, I know full well that the continuation of his horrid presence in our home was only a result of the steady pittance that was his workman’s compensation.

  I hated Leroy with a passion – and there were times when I felt almost the same way about his wife. The only person in the world whom I really and truly loved was my brother, Elijah, my junior by four years. He looked up to me, counted on me for the things he needed. I did for him what his mother never would. Though Francine turned up every evening by eight, always she refused adamantly to tuck him in, protesting that such a ritual was inappropriate and unnecessary for a boy of his age. In accordance with her own opinion, it seemed that the cut-off point for a tucking-in was about twelve months. After that, she doubtless ceased wrapping a blanket round her baby’s tiny shoulders, and simply tossed him headlong into his crib. So far as I remember, that’s what she did wi
th me.

  Francine had never exactly been motherly – if I truly even know what that word means.

  But as I lie awake in bed tonight, looking out my window into the darkness, I realise in my heart that I do know what it means. Or, at the very least, I know that there is but a single person in this world to whom I can attribute, with no reservations whatever, the high and honourable characteristics of a splendid mother. This person is Lauren Kelly, and she is my father’s sister: a woman whom I admire more than she could ever hope to understand.

  My father’s name was Jonathan Whelan. He became a soldier in the United States Army when he was eighteen, and served his country well for nine years, till he was killed overseas in a tank explosion. He died when I was six; but still when I close my eyes, and think of him with all my might, it seems I can see with no difficulty his handsome face.

  I have a book of photographs, which is full to bursting with vanished faces. First there is my father’s face, locked forever in time, and made immortal by a multitude of glossy paper scraps. Then there is my mother’s face, so very different during her first marriage, that its beauty and pleasantness make it barely reconcilable with the horrible, ruddy, and usually bloated countenance of Francine Masterson – which, of course, is the one I think of, when I hear the word “mother.”

  Then there is Elijah. His face is here, too, and – but no. I don’t think I can. It hurts too badly.

  I look at this book often, sometimes for hours on end, letting the old pictures take me away to a different time; when I had a normal family, a loving family; when I had a strong, loyal father; when I was Francine’s beloved darling, and not her afflicting pustule. And then there was another time, a time some years later, when all other things had gone rotten and stagnant, but still there was the single spot of light that was Elijah. It was this time that I loved best.