On The Bridge

by Ada Uzoije

  “I believed him, too. Why can't Jean and her husband do the same?” his wife asked, raising her voice at once.

  “Remember, he hates everything religious. The fool even turned our daughter away from her beliefs, her very faith,” he said angrily, and his frown darkened his eyes.

  “Call Father McBride!” Betsy exclaimed her command. Lonnie did not question his wife on this. He absolutely understood why they needed the priest.

  Norman had calmed down from the moment they arrived home. The drive from his wife's parents’ home to their place was like climbing Mount Everest. The silence that filled in the car was just the opposite of the laughter that was there when they left their home two days ago.

  Doug looked out at the green trees that cast a spell of emptiness that he felt in his heart. His heart yearned for love and empathy from his dad. He watched his dad driving and wondered what he was thinking. He briefly looked at his mother who sat next to him in the back seat. She had refused to sit in the front seat, her way of showing her disillusion with her husband and his behaviour. Doug’s mother sat mute, locked up in her own dark thoughts. She knew instantly she had failed her son by not standing up for him. Her parents must be shocked at her cowardice. Doug could sense how she felt and Jean knew he could.

  They finally arrived home. Norman, regretting his fallible parenting methods, could not face Doug. He stayed in the car and Jean and Doug left him alone. They couldn’t care less what he did for now.

  “Doug,” Jean called out her son with a voice that begged to be listened to.

  Doug did not answer, but he stood still at the edge of the stair leaning on the banister. His action proved to her that he wanted to hear her out. Jean bowed her head and spoke gently.

  “I am ashamed of myself, Doug. I thought it was just the dreams, perhaps the drugs, but now I am truly scared for my only son,” she confessed. She folded her hands and moved a foot or two closer to Doug. She sighed deeply and said, “What else do you remember at the bridge?” she asked sincerely.

  “Why are you asking, mum? Why now?” Doug asked, vexed that his mum had waited so long to get to the root of this problem.

  “It’s just, nothing makes sense,” she replied, staring into space. “I was there and your dad was there too. Why are you the only one bearing the fear? Why are you the only one being haunted?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Doug said defensively. He felt betrayed and quite fed up with it all.

  “Why is this man chasing you? What if this is real and not just a hallucination?” his mother asked.

  “Oh, I thought you didn’t believe in these things,” Doug was shocked by his mother’s theory.

  “I was once very religious,” she said, thinking back to her youth. “Daddy made me go to church every Sunday. We even prayed before we ate,” she confessed.

  “Really?” Doug uttered a faint laugh at the absurdity of it.

  “I don't need to go to church to know there is Evil and Good.”

  Jean’s phone rang. It was her father.

  “Is Norman there?” her dad asked.

  “No, he just drove off. Don't ask me where to though. I haven’t a clue,” Jean said.

  “How is Doug doing?” her dad asked.

  “He is here with me,” she replied and after a moment she continued. “Dad, I am sorry for Norman’s...” But before she could finish her dad cut her off.

  “Listen very carefully!” he implored urgently. “Do what is right for your boy.”

  Jean agreed. This was no time to back down anymore.

  “Anything to make this stop, I will do daddy,” she assured him and looked at her precious boy who listened intently.

  “Take him to see Father McBride…Right now!” Her father’s tone was bordering on alarm. “He is waiting for the two of you as we speak.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  St. Peter’s was not like any other church in the fairly big town of Whisper Lake. It stood in the centre of the town, almost hidden away from the road. The art and architecture were designed to enhance the total experience of worship, which involved the intellect, feelings, and senses of its parishioners. In fact, it was purposely, and quite deviously, erected in the shape of a cross.

  Nearly every characteristic in this Catholic Church was symbolic. The roof symbolized charity, which covered a multitude of sins; the floor symbolized the foundation of faith and the humility of the poor and the vaulting represented the priests who bore up the dead weight of man's infirmity heavenwards. This rich colour, unique iconography and beauty of its interior were in sharp contrast to the simplicity of the other churches in the town.

  Father McBride sat in one of the empty rows of seats in the west wing of the building. It was no secret to well devoted Catholics that the western direction represented death and evil. Beside him sat a worshipper. The man spoke quietly to him as if he wanted no one to overhear them.

  “Thank you, Father,” the man said after pouring out his heart to the kind priest who would never judge a soul. They both rose from their seat. The father stood bowed by age next to the 6-foot man. The priest was soon to retire from the priesthood. His glorious white hair, his deep set eyes and a face rife with laugh lines soon came to greet Doug and his mother, who had just walked in the church.

  “Jean, you have not changed a bit,” he said while waving at the mother and son to come closer.

  “Father,” Jean acknowledged the priest as she kissed the back of his hand.

  Doug, not knowing what to do, kept his eye on the father's long black robe and collar which made him look somewhere between wise and imposing.

  “And this is your son?” the father asked.

  “Yes, Father,” Jean answered politely, her arm firmly around her son’s shoulders.

  “Hello,” Doug said shyly.

  “Please, sit down,” the father ushered Doug and his mother to have a seat on the pew.

  “Could we perhaps go to a place more quiet? I’m sure Doug will not talk with all these people walking in and out,” Jean requested.

  Father McBride agreed and led them to his office, just at the north side of the church. They came to a heavy wooden door with copper knobs which opened into an old room which resembled an antique shop. He took a seat in the stately office with dark red carpets and drapes, dark wooden desk and bookshelves and as he looked around the room, there stood effigies of angels and saints, mounted crucifixes and he distinctly caught the smell of furniture polish.

  Father McBride encouraged Doug to do the talking. He was genuinely listening to him. It was very easy to open up to the priest with the permanent friendliness on his face. Only his grandfather had a more soothing quality than this man, and Doug confided in him with ease. Jean keenly watched her son as she never had before. He was all grown up and not a child anymore, though she remained anxious about what the priest was going to suggest.

  Finally, after Doug had finished, Father McBride paused for few seconds as if he was searching for the right words to open a sentence.

  “Do you remember anything happening before the suicide on the bridge?” he directed the question to Doug.

  “No,” Doug answered, looking very tense and afraid at the question.

  The priest turned to Doug’s mother.

  “Has he been baptized, Jean?” he asked her.

  “He has not,” Jean said, thinking very deeply about this question, “My husband refused.”

  “When someone commits suicide, people presume it is caused by material factors such as money, relationships or illness. But,” he said with authority, “if you open your third eye you will see there is a Suicide Demon, out of this world.”

  The sound of the statement sent shivers down Doug’s spine.

  “Suicide Demon, father? Is there such thing?” Jean said, not terribly convinced.

  The father disregarded Jean’s fickle acceptance in his suggestion, as he could see his words his sinking deep into Doug’s mind, the intended target. In Doug’s expression
sat an urge to hear more, and he wanted the father to continue.

  And so the priest did carry on with his spiritual diagnosis. He shifted in his chair and looked at Jean for a moment.

  “I believe Doug may have unwittingly invited this demon. This could only be done by something specific he may have done on that day,” he said in a learned tone of voice that made him seem far superior and he turned to concentrate on the boy.

  “Did you talk to this man before his death, son?” the father said, looking straight into Doug’s eyes.

  “I did…but it was very brief,” Doug answered, all the while feeling his body shaking with fear.

  Jean was shocked at this as she never recollected Doug having a conversation with anyone other than her and Norman. She remained quiet behind her frown and she replayed the incident in her head to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

  “What did you talk about?” Father McBride continued. Now he had made himself comfortable in his chair, anxiously awaiting the boy’s answer, preparing for what he was going to say.

  Doug paused for a long while, playing with his hands and looking up at the ceiling, stamping his right foot on the floor. “I am thinking...”

  “Focus, Doug, go back to that day on the bridge. What did you talk about?” the father prompted him to think harder upon it. Jean now looked frightened. She was not prepared for any talk about demonic things. She desperately wished that this was not true.

  “They are not real” she inadvertently thought, not entirely believing her own conviction, but she hoped she was right.

  “Oh! Now I remember!” Doug rose from his seat. He stood for a moment, looked around the office, making sure he did not make eye contact with his mother and then went to stand behind the door.

  “Share it,” the father prompted him, trying to coax the child with firm support. He knew it was the moment of truth, but any deviation from his polite tone in the aid of information could sink the boy’s trust. It was a fine balance.

  Jean was now more terrified than ever. She looked at her son as if he had gone crazy.

  “I saw the shadow,” Doug said suddenly. He scratched his neck and reluctantly passed a glance at his mother, who was attentively watching him with wide eyes. It made him nervous.

  “Don't be afraid. Talk,” the father prompted him once more, holding his attention to what he needed to focus on.

  Doug figured that he had revealed this much already that he may as well bite the bullet and come clean, even in his mother’s shocked presence.

  “The shadow came out of the man's mouth when he was hit by the truck,” Doug said quickly, completely aware of how insane it sounded and his own words shocked him into tears. He wept as he pleaded now.

  “I don't want to remember! It is horrible!” His mother rushed out of her seat and embraced him tightly.

  “And did you see where the shadow went?” the priest asked still in the same tone, but secretly quite concerned about the boy and the insidious entity that he could not thwart.

  This was all too much for Jean. It was taxing on her boy and it scared her to death to hear of such things.

  “Father, I know you mean well, but my son can't do this anymore. Please. You are not helping,” Jean defended with a clear tone of voice, still maintaining her politeness.

  “His eyes have seen something they were not intended to see,” the priest urged. “The demon took notice of him and it will never leave him without the mercy of God.”

  Jean cradled her crying son now, the priest’s words hitting her with fear.

  “What do you suggest then, Father? It breaks my heart to see him this way,” Jean implored.

  Father McBride took a while to think on it. He could not abandon young Jean and her son, not to the ineptitude of his knowledge. Luke could help.

  “Let him come back in tomorrow. Father Luke is not back until tomorrow afternoon. He always has a solution to things like these,” Father McBride said soothingly, but his voice could not hide his concern.

  Doug was quiet, still resting his head on his mother's shoulder. He listened with disbelief to the priest and his mother, discussing how a demon, an actual demon, had been behind his trying ordeal all this time. So, his hallucinations were real. Now, this newfound reality frightened him more than ever.

  “Come, let’s go,” Jean said and took her son by the hand.

  “Thank you Father McBride, we’ll be back tomorrow, then.”

  As he and his mum made their way outside the office, Doug turned back and said to the priest, “I passed out.”

  “Excuse me?” the priest asked.

  “I passed out when I saw it all, so I did not see where the shadow went.” With that he left the room with his mother, leaving the dumbfounded priest wondering.

  As they reached the main church's door, the priest came running from his office.

  “Wait, please!”

  The church was now empty. Everyone had left, apart from the three of them and two cleaners.

  “I want you to have this, Doug.” He took something in his folded hand and gave it to Doug. It was a necklace with a crucifix pendant. The priest took the clasps between his fingers and Doug turned so that he placed it around the boy’s neck and fixed it tight. “I want you to keep it with you at all times.”

  Doug winced at the coldness on his skin, but the trinket took quickly to his body heat. He looked at his mother for her to say something, but she said nothing. She seems lost in her own world and not able to make sense of what really happening to her son. She was in no way to object to the priest’s suggestion.

  Jean was speechless.

  “And most importantly, Douglas,” said the priest, “pray every night before going to bed. There is a reason why we pray before we enter sleep. It is a place where the unresolved things hide. Just pray for protection. The Lord never forsakes his children.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In her cosy apartment, Krista paced like a prisoner awaiting her fate. Her mouth babbled incoherently, although not a sound emanated from it and she clutched her own body with folded arms that reached across her back. Her socks helped her feet make no sound to distract her from her thoughts as she tried hopelessly to make sense of Rory’s demise. In and out of her head came all manner of thoughts she had safely tucked away behind a great theatre curtain of denial…that she was okay. Like all of them she spoke with every day she was not okay, she was just a good liar.

  Krista thought of the rich crush who charmed her off her feet and seemed so solid, so sure of himself. How could he falter? After all he had survived and risen above, after all the plans he had made to better his life and make his nightmarish experiences disappear for good, he folded. He broke. If he could break, anyone could. And then the young Icarus finally played open cards with her about his situation. It baffled her how he, too, could lie so well that things were okay.

  Now she knew that he had, in fact, not healed as well as he had thought.

  If that were the case, then obviously she was not okay, either. The only difference was that she was still naïve enough to hang on because her online friends had lied to her about how happy they were. With her heart broken and her trust shattered, she switched on her computer and logged into Suicide Witness. She never knew this day would come so quickly. She would never heal if she did not cut this string now. She opened her profile and in a few minutes she found the button she dreaded clicking since she joined the forum.

  “Farewell,” she said and clicked on the DELETE button. In the blink of an eye, “Suicide Queen” was no more.

  She selected her favourite Sting album again and waited for the first song to start playing. It would have an especially pleasant feel now that the anchor of darkness had been cast from her. The music poured through the speakers and she smiled to herself.

  Krista collapsed flat on her bed, very relieved that she took the first step to be with people who had interests in other things, people who were not suicidal. Soon, she would live a normal lif
e, she hoped.

  She wondered if she had done enough to help Doug. Perhaps she could have rung his parents and told them what he said online, what he confided in her. Who knew, they may not have been as bad as Doug had portrayed them.

  Yes, she thought, she needed to stop him from using the suicide site. It was most certainly not good for him. She wondered why Rory would be chasing Doug. Why? Was there maybe a connection? Or was Doug just an unlucky kid who unknowingly attached himself to a passing demon pretending to be a ghost? What really happened on the bridge? There was more to it than the naked eye could see? It was not just a man who died but rather did something implicitly threatening.

  Krista sat up on her bed. She remembered that she had a deck of Tarot cards in her drawer and she leaned over to take them out. She shuffled the cards and held the deck between her palms for a moment, her eyes shut in focus.

  Then she drew a card and said “For me” before revealing it.

  “The Lover!” she exclaimed out loud, “That’s a good one. I can do with some real love.” Krista smiled and breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of being in a loving relationship soon. “Oh, I hope he is rich and gorgeous and I hope he gets here quick.”

  Then she shuffled the cards again and pressed them between her palms, eyes shut and concentrating. Then she picked another card.

  “Doug,” she said with a smile and pulled the next card. Revealing the card she caught her breath. It was the “The Devil.” With no time to waste, Krista picked up her phone and dialled Doug's number.

  It rang and rang without answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was 7:46 p.m. when Doug and his mother arrived back from the church. There was no sign of Norman anywhere in the house. They figured that he was still out wherever he decided to flee to, as the garage was empty.

  Jean switched on the kettle as she always did when she had something pressing on her mind. A good cup of coffee always settled her down and helped her focus on solving her problems, and this was a great puzzle to her.