The Haunting of Sam Cabot (A Supernatural Thriller)

by Hall, Mark Edward

  The dream shifted suddenly, as dreams have a way of doing, and I was looking down into the old water-well in the back yard, the one that had swallowed and partially eaten an almost-certainly forgotten young man named Devlin. In the well, Linda and Sean lay on their backs side by side, vacant eyes staring up into a star-studded night sky while earth rained down upon them, clogging their mouths and noses and filling their blank eye sockets. Through some sort of dream magic the well appeared wide enough to hold both prone bodies. I was, it seemed, at least through the initial part of the dream, merely a mute and impartial witness to the horror that was unfolding before me, unable to do or say anything to prevent any of it from happening.

  Then the dream changed again and I could see that the reaper was no longer shoveling soil, now he was scooping coal into the Hulk’s fiery maw where beyond, Linda and Sean lay placid on a bed of glowing coals. It was to be their crematorium; I understood this on that subterranean plateau I’ve already discussed at length in this story, that pure and basic animal sense that has nothing whatsoever to do with intellect. I stood and watched as flames licked around them, melting their flesh like wax.

  “Used to be a coal furnace,” the reaper said, throwing a shovel-full of the dusty black stuff into the Hulk’s maw. These were the exact words Carlisle had uttered on our first day at Farnham House, and not surprisingly the reaper sounded very much like Carlisle. But he did not look like Carlisle. As he shoveled, his cowl began to recede and I could see part of the creature that occupied it. It was the mask, of course, its blank, idiot eyes, its eternally implacable grin, its wrinkle-studded skull. The sum of its parts, although nearly comical, were somehow alive and piss-down-your-leg terrifying. It was laughing at me in my terror, in my total inability to react. I tried to speak, but my mouth only made futile sucking sounds like a beached fish desperate for oxygen. And as the cowl slipped further, I began to see that the face was no longer a mask; it had become a living nightmare with expression and nuance, and suddenly it seemed to float there in space, independent of its surroundings, starkly illuminated by the Hulk’s terrible death-light. The lips were very still, but as I stared at them they seemed to smile without making the slightest movement.

  I tried to move; I needed to get away from that terrible disembodied face, but knew that it would not be allowed. Instead I was drawn to it as an insect is drawn to the sudden electrocution of light. I found myself with my hand outstretched, trying to touch that loathsome face. The thing made no attempt to brush my hand away; instead it floated closer in encouragement even as my entire hand up to the wrist vanished into that awful visage. The feeling was both warm and icy, a prickly feeling, like frostbite. Then a singing arose. A thin ethereal melody that I knew I’d heard somewhere before in another life. Perhaps it was a product of my own mind, or perhaps a conduit between my mind and the insanity it had succumbed to. I cannot say for sure. I remember moving mutely forward as the singing filled my senses and the phantom absorbed me, digesting me until the Sam Cabot I had once known was gone.

  A sudden and overwhelming panic gripped me as I writhed desperately in terror, trying to break free of the hideous bonds that now entrapped me. But it was too late. I was trapped, and I was suffocating, going down a spiral without end.

  “Please know that the decision to offer your wife and only son as a sacrifice was the right one,” the reaper said in a soft whisper that was nearly a snake-hiss. I jolted violently and felt pain in my mouth and wetness at my crotch. Dear God, it was me talking, not the reaper. Somehow I knew this to be true. The words were coming from my own hissing mouth! I’d seen them in the grave, I’d seen them burning in that terrible furnace, and it was I who had put them there; it was I who had led them here to this terrible place. I turned, still trapped helplessly in that body as I tried to run. It was like walking on the moon, moving underwater; my body was hot with fever, prickling with needles, my mind screaming in panic, screaming for release.

  I came awake with a sudden wrenching jolt, as if I had just been shat from the bowels of Satan. I was in the living room chair, my body caught in the throes of violent convulsions. Blood ran down my chin. My tongue was wounded, bitten half off, my nightclothes were wet at the crotch as the unmistakable smell of shit wafted up from where I had soiled myself. I had fallen asleep as I’d contemplated the dream, only to be drawn back into its terrible embrace. I knew then what I had known and tried to deny since coming to Farnham House. Something had found me, something had targeted me, perhaps had even drawn me here, and I was not strong enough to resist its terrible persuasions. My wife! My son! I knew what had to be done! I had to do it or go mad. I had to do it or die.

  After cleaning myself up, I went back upstairs and sat in the chair near my bed. I stared at Linda for a long time, the way her hair fell against the pillow, spreading out beneath her like a silk veil, the way her face shimmered in the dim moonlight from the window, so beautiful, so . . . innocent. I had never felt so helpless, so hopeless, so filled with despair. I got up and went to Sean’s room, stood above his bed watching him sleep, afraid to touch him, afraid of what burned inside of me. I paced the floor for what seemed hours trying to puzzle out the nightmare, trying to find something in it that would give me a way out. But it was no good. Its intentions were clear. I had to succumb to the demons that had now fully invaded me. I had to or else. I had been receiving instructions for far too long to turn back now. The language was clear. The lesson was irrevocable. I stood in the hallway, doubled over with grief, wracked with convulsive sobs, my fists balled into helpless knots. Just before dawn, I went back down stairs, took the twelve gauge shotgun off the rack in the study, loaded it with ammo and stood at the foot of the stairwell for a long moment looking up, my finger twitching spasmodically as it caressed the trigger.

  I turned and slipped out the back door and walked calmly toward the woods.

  The wind was sharp and cold, quickly numbing my face, slowly numbing my body, then my senses. I liked it. Numb, I did not have to think or feel. I looked up and saw a billion stars, cold pinpoints of light in the darkness. Never in my life had the stars made me feel so completely small, so completely alone.

  Chapter 20

  I staggered out of the woods at dawn covered in soil and sweat and blood, the now ruined shotgun still clutched tightly in my blood-slicked hands. I have no memory of what happened out there. I’m still not sure. The circumstances that play out at the end of this story have convinced me of nothing. I may never know the real truth, and the simple truth is, I don’t ever want to know.

  I’d gone there fully intending to take my own life. But I could not do it. I’m not a coward, and I would have, except that thing inside me would not allow it. That left me with few choices. It made me realize there was only one way to stop the pain. I had to appease the reaper; it needed to be soon and I needed to be alive to do it.

  I was back at the house, showered and had changed into clean clothes before Linda and Sean got out of bed. When they came down I had breakfast nearly ready.

  I smiled and acted like everything was hunky dory. Linda poured a cup of coffee staring at me. “You can’t keep doing this, Sam.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

  Linda sighed. “You’ve got to let go.”

  “Let go?”

  “Something’s happened. We’re not the same as we once were, you and me.”

  “Stop talking nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. Go look in the mirror.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said, discovering it nearly impossible to speak around my swollen and bruised tongue.

  “Afraid you might see the truth?”

  “So, I had a bad night.”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  “I bit my tongue,”

  “There’s blood and dirt all over the house. Jesus Christ, Sam.”

  “I’m okay now.”

  “We
ll I’m not okay, and neither is our son.” Sean sat at the table his head cocked to the side resting in his hand, fidgeting with his Cheerios, acting like he wasn’t hearing us.

  “If you want to save your soul, you’ve got to stop,” Linda said. “You’ve got to stop now.”

  “I . . . I’m . . . sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s happening. It was just a bad dream.”

  “It was more than that, Sam. You think I’m stupid? You think I didn’t know you weren’t in bed for most of the night?” She stabbed her thumb toward the living room meaning she wanted a word with me in private. “We’ll be back in a minute, Sean,” she said. “Hurry up and eat your breakfast. You’ll miss the school bus.”

  “I don’t want to go to school, Mommy.”

  “What are you talking about? You always go to school.”

  “Not today. I’m scared.”

  Thoughts of chewing my ass gone, Linda went to our forlorn son and tenderly touched him, brushing the blond bangs out of his eyes. But something Linda had said a moment ago, perhaps unwittingly, persisted in my mind until I thought I’d go mad with it.

  You’ve got to let go.

  There was some hidden meaning there that I could not grasp.

  If you want to save your soul, you’ve got to stop.

  Stop what? What was she trying to tell me? I watched her and Sean and felt a terrible aching in my heart. They were almost not real now, I could see right through them, like gauze; they were floating out beyond my reach, and I was drowning in a sea of despair.

  “I had a bad dream last night,” Sean said.

  I stood beneath the archway between the kitchen and living room listening, suddenly wanting very much to know about Sean’s dream.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Linda asked, her voice a gentle whisper.

  Sean nodded. “I dreamed Mr. Carlisle was dead.”

  *

  Linda shot me a terrified glance. “Listen, Sean, people have bad dreams all the time. Usually it’s because they’re worried about someone they care about. I think Mr. Carlisle’s just fine. Don’t you?”

  No,” Sean said in exasperation. “I don’t mean he died. I mean he was already dead, a long time before we knew him. The man said he died and came back and that he needs other people to die so he can stay alive forever.” Sean, staring fixedly into his untouched bowl of cereal began to weep.

  “Jesus,” Linda said scooping Sean up into her arms and hugging him close. She looked at me with wild eyes. Sean sobbed against her breast.

  “What man, Sean?” I prodded, stepping back into the kitchen. I felt feverish suddenly, very much the way I’d felt in the dream just before melding with the reaper. “What man told you about Carlisle, son?”

  “Stop it, Sam!” Linda snapped. “Jesus, isn’t it bad enough?”

  “I need to know, Linda!”

  “The man with the mask,” Sean sobbed.

  “Christ,” Linda breathed.

  “Where did you see this man, Sean?”

  “Shut up, Sam!” Linda screamed.

  “Last night,” Sean said. “He was in my bedroom. He was standing over my bed staring at me. He was wearing the green mask and he told me about Mr. Carlisle.”

  My jaw dropped, my eyes widened and I had to fight with everything inside me not to come completely unhinged. After waking up from that terrible two-part nightmare I had gone into Sean’s room and watched him sleep. I remembered not daring to touch him, so afraid I might harm him. But somehow Sean had seen me as I truly was. How close had the monster I’d become come to . . . ? I didn’t want to think about that, but I could not stop my mind.

  “It’s all right,” Linda soothed, holding a sobbing Sean close. “Sean, you know it was just a dream, don’t you. Mr. Carlisle is very much alive. I’ll bet he’ll even be here today. You understand that what I’m saying is true, don’t you, son?”

  “I guess so,” Sean said listlessly.

  Linda called the school and informed them that Sean was feeling a little under the weather and that in all likelihood he would be back at school tomorrow.

  By nine o’clock, Linda had put him down for a nap. She said she thought he might be running a low-grade fever. She took his temperature and discovered that it was only slightly above normal, nothing to be concerned about yet. She stayed with him until his body fell into the rhythm of sleep. Then she tiptoed downstairs and stood facing me for a long time before speaking.

  “Are you going fucking insane on me, Cabot? Is that what this is about?”

  “I might be,” I said, and surprisingly felt nothing. It was the first time I had ever actually voiced the thought and I felt nothing. That thing, the voice that wanted me to do unspeakable things could quite possibly be insanity, couldn’t it? I reasoned. I hoped. At least in insanity my family might have a chance. They could put me away. Lock me up and throw away the key.

  NO! YOU MUST NOT THINK SUCH THOUGHTS, this sudden and very powerful voice spoke up inside me, wanting to drive me to my knees. I tried to still it, but it would not be bullied. My head began to throb with the effort. I put my hands on either side of it hoping to hold it together.

  WE HAVE COME TOO FAR TO TURN BACK NOW!

  My heart was pounding madly. I felt wetness on my chin and touched it with my fingertips. It was blood, of course, dripping from my mouth, and now from my nose.

  “Christ,” Linda said, running for the kitchen sink. She wet a cloth and put it on my face, washing the blood away. “You’re sick, Sam. I want you to see a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a—”

  “Bull shit! Look at you. You’re a scarecrow, all bones. There are hollows in your cheeks and your eyes are rimmed in black. You’re sick! Something’s eating you away, and if you don’t do something about it I will.”

  “Okay,” I said, holding my hands up defensively. “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll do it today.”

  Linda watched me without emotion. “I need some answers.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “I think you do, Sam. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And Carlisle scares me too.”

  “What?”

  “I just get a bad feeling when he’s around. Maybe now that the place is all fixed up he’ll go away. God only knows what kind of baggage a man like that carries around with him. He certainly doesn’t confide in either of us.” Linda burst suddenly into tears. I did not dare touch her although my heart yearned to. She stood facing me, tears running down her cheeks. “Sam, please, I’m worried about Sean. He’s so taken with Carlisle. I see him following him around all the time talking his ear off. Is it possible that Carlisle tells him things that aren’t meant for a six-year-old?”

  “What things?”

  “You heard what Sean just said. Christ, I don’t know, but I’m telling you he’s freaking me out. I was in the basement the other day looking over that old chest of drawers down there, checking to see if it was salvageable, and from out of nowhere Carlisle comes up behind me and scares the living shit out of me. In this short and impatient voice he asked me what I was doing down there. In my own basement. Can you believe that? I was so startled that I caught myself explaining to him and feeling like an intruder. I don’t know what he was doing in there, but suddenly I got a really bad vibe from him.”

  “Probably checking on the heating plant, you know how he feels about that thing.”

  “Yes, I do. He fixed it, and he paid for it, and sometimes . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like he’s using it . . . against us . . . in some weird way. Jesus, I don’t know.”

  She came into my arms then, sobbing. I did not know what to do. I stood rigid and did not hug her back. She didn’t seem real anymore. I couldn’t feel her. I nearly couldn’t see her.

  “Maybe we should borrow the money and pay him in full for the house. Maybe then he would get out of our lives.”

  “I do
ubt he’d take it,” I said, and felt numb. I was just going through the motions, trying to appease her.

  “Well, what are we going to do then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need to get away from here, Sam. I need to get Sean away from here. Just for a little while. Do you think we could go somewhere for the Thanksgiving holiday?” Her voice was almost pleading. “Maybe that would give us a fresh perspective on things.”

  I didn’t answer her right away. I didn’t know if I would actually be allowed to leave this place. That thing I had become a part of, or that had become a part of me, did not like what I was contemplating. I licked my lips, staring at Linda, knowing that she deserved an answer. “Okay,” I said finally, not sure if it was the truth or a lie. “We’ll go.”

  Chapter 21

  There was snow in the air. The sky was low and gunmetal gray, the temperature hovering at around the thirty degree mark. I spent the remainder of the afternoon working between the basement and the yard, enjoying fall’s sharp bite, cleaning up and storing stuff away for the impending winter; rakes, shovels, water hoses, lawn mower and gas cans. It was good being outside in the briskness of a November day. It brought back fond memories of long ago; deer hunting with my father, coming back into a warm and friendly kitchen, all out of breath and tingly with excitement, the smell of supper cooking on the stove. How good those times had been. Dear God, how much I missed them. Now it felt like the memories belonged to someone else. It couldn’t possibly have been me who had lived in those times, done all those things. Oh how their loss had devastated me, left me emotionally and physically drained for so very long. They’d been on their way home from a New Year’s Eve party . . . Dad’s blood alcohol level had been off the charts. The policeman standing at the door with his hat in his hand and a solemn look on his face . . . so sudden . . . so unfair . . . never got the chance to say goodbye; the policemen holding me back; please, Mr. Cabot, there’s nothing you can do . . . they’re gone.