A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  “What kind then?”

  “The kind that makes you question everything.”

  “Like?”

  “Like ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night.” He turned and leveled a stare at her, blue eyes holding steady, unsmiling as they darkened.

  She laughed. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” She reached over and punched him on the shoulder—a playful light in her eyes, a flirty smile on her lips.

  He snorted, then turned his head back to his computer before standing up. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. “I’m going to step out for a smoke. Okay, Phaedra?” Something about his voice and mannerisms seemed off.

  “Hey, I didn’t … I didn’t hurt your feelings or anything … did I?” The smile fell, sincere remorse filling her eyes. Then, “You’re … you’re serious?”

  His eyes looked like he’d been up for forty-eight hours straight without coffee. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  The doors swished behind him as he walked away. She watched him with equal parts of disbelief and a sinking feeling battling in her chest. Then she turned her attention back to her computer. She’d completed all the updates to the patients’ files. All save the one she’d brought with her from HR on her way up. The file for Faye Stewart. She opened it and read the synopsis.

  Hair color: white. Eye color: green. Symptoms: psychosis, with delusions and hallucinations. Calls herself the Rhiannon, a being with magical powers who can talk to ghosts and control them to fulfill her desires. Claims she is the descendant of a deceased race she calls the Aos Sidhe or the Fae. Very clever. Harasses people she believes to be evil by following them around and telling them their “sins,” accusing them of murder, betrayal, adultery. On more than one occasion, the people she’s harassed have turned up dead or insane. Special care instructions: use battle buddy teams; do not engage alone. Stay away from her room. Prognosis: to date, patient has continued to be resilient or allergic to all medication and treatments attempted.

  Phaedra sat back, aghast. The chick was a real nutcase, that was for sure. Then again, who was she to say that about anyone else? Hadn’t she done what she had to in desperate times? Was this job not another stop in her long run from guilt?

  She scowled. What guilt? Memories of her mother lying in bed, screaming obscenities at her, flooded her mind. Memories of being a little girl beaten and neglected. She’d expected the time she spent taking care of her during hospice to be a time of reconciliation and resolution. Instead, her mother had bitterly harangued her every move, vicious because she wasn’t her sister.

  “I had to.” She choked on her whisper as her throat constricted, but she was unable to convince even herself. She slammed her fists on the desk in front of her. “I had to!”

  Her tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed her scrubs.

  Meanwhile, the Thorazine wore off, and he found himself on a bed of crisp white linen. He chuckled. At least the mattress was soft. The shadows on the ceiling fluttered. He didn’t have to look at the window to know that the blackbirds still danced on the window sill—the same blackbirds he’d watched outside the window as they flew along with his father’s car. The memory of his mother’s suffering made him smile.

  He remembered the leathery new-car smell of his dad’s Mercedes.

  His mother had sniffled and sobbed in the front seat. “I don’t want him to be locked up, Derek!”

  “I know, Misty. Neither do I. We don’t have a choice. He’s sick. Corey is sick. If you’d seen what I’d seen in that wine cellar, you’d agree.” His dad darted glances toward the passenger seat as he drove through the pastoral back roads.

  “What? What did you see? What could merit having him locked up in some obscure nursing home?”

  All that could be heard for a few moments was the rush of wind as the car sliced through the heavy stillness.

  “Blood. I saw blood, Misty.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “More blood than one person can possibly hold. And hair … so much blonde hair.” The eyes that stared through the windshield at the white lines held a kind of vacant terror. “Misty, all those blonde girlfriends of his that we didn’t see again …” He glanced at her.

  She’d gone pale and quiet. She turned to face the road.

  “What? What is it?”

  “All those nightmares I’d had for weeks on end … about girls who never stopped screaming.”

  A significant look passed between them. All those nights away on business …

  “Jesus. We’re lucky we don’t have the police knocking our doors down.” His father leaned into the steering wheel. The car lurched as he pushed harder on the gas pedal.

  Misty made a fussy sound.

  “Speeding ticket be damned. It’ll be a shit ton of work to keep this out of the news.”

  Corey had turned back to the window, watching the blur of green as the fields whizzed by. That’s when he’d seen the three black spots with wide wings that were flying alongside the car. He thought about the graceful wings of feather and muscle, about sinew and blood. Were their bones really hollow like they said? He had imagined capturing one, relishing its cries of terror and pain as he tore it apart to find out. His cheeks had lifted in a gleeful smile.

  He’d arrived at the hospital amongst a flurry of whispers, hard eyes, and scrubs red as blood. At some point, it had sunk in that this was a special nursing home, a home for crazy people, one that they were never released from. He had tried to explain that he wasn’t crazy. The doctor that had spoken with his parents had even agreed with him, saying that by public standards, he wasn’t crazy. However, they had still had him undress, take pictures, and put on a gown.

  He’d tried a different tack with the orderlies as they walked him to his wing: the crisis unit.

  “I don’t belong here, don’t you see?” he’d asked them over and over, his breath shorter and shorter.

  Their faces had remained impassive, complete with firm jaws and fake smiles. As he’d realized that they were ignoring him, a red haze had clouded his vision. How dare they ignore him, Corey Braxton Mulvaney, son of the CEO of America’s biggest gas company? He was better than all of them! He’d huffed and puffed as the red haze and rage had taken over.

  He’d awoken from the red rage to glorious carnage. The inert bodies of the unconscious orderlies had sprawled about him. Blood had poured copiously out of their raw, seeping flesh. If the other guy hadn’t opened the double doors, he would have finished them off, killed them for their offense. The other guy’s face had flashed through a few expressions, each polar to the other, none that reflected in his bright, sick eyes. He’d turned and screamed something about crisis gear. Corey chuckled at the memory.

  Then he’d seen her, that cute, juicy girl in scrubs with skin the color of mocha and light gray intelligent eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes guarded secrets of their own. She was completely different from the blonde bimbos he’d lured into his basement. Their eyes had always held a soulless vapid air about them after a few snorts of angel dust. The stupid little hood rats had begged for their lives as he cut them apart, piece by piece. But this goddess, would she beg?

  Her uniform hung from her luscious, curvy little body. When her eyes met his, he’d seen straight through her shock into a soul as cold, dark, and twisted as his own. Oh, sure. She’d championed the mask, the façade of humanity most people strutted around with, pretending they gave two shits about anyone but themselves. But in the end, she was as ruthless a murderer as he was.

  The woman’s song had filled the air, the haunting notes paralyzing his mind and sending him into a fugue-like spell. As the notes faded away, the red scrubs had stormed in with medicine-filled needles and he’d slept. He’d woken to the shrill song of blackbirds at the window.

  In his dream, the song had been the screams of his victims as they chased him through the halls of the hospital. Now, he listened as the birds continued to chirp and peck on the window. He even heard the flutter of the flapp
ing wings as he watched the shadows of them on the walls. The nurses insisted there was nothing there and that he be quiet.

  But they were there, they were!

  And it wasn’t fair … the birds wouldn’t leave, no matter how much he banged and pounded on the windows.

  Claude’s sneakers slapped the tiles as he trotted down the hallway, stepping into the elevator. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, then checked his pocket for cigarettes. The desire to smoke was a hungry ache that he looked forward to fulfilling.

  He knew Phaedra wanted him, that she wanted to jump on him like a panther jumps on its prey. Truth be told, he was attracted to her too. He thought of her full lips, warm bedroom eyes, and the curve of her hips as she sashayed about. He felt a tug in his gut and a tightening between his legs. He imagined the shifting of her expressions across her face as he—

  The elevator dinged its arrival, and a sharp shock jolted through him as he remembered the danger, as he remembered that his lust would act as a beacon, drawing the witch to him. The door spread open to sickly yellow lights that bore down on the cracked pavement. He dug his nails into his palm to draw his thoughts away from his basic appetite as he stepped out into the shadowy parking basement. Faded white lines peeked up from the ground, forgotten parking space delineations that no longer mattered.

  “No one ever leaves Belle Reves.” His tenor bounced about the eerily silent space.

  He walked over to the smoking area, a corner of the basement with a dusty derelict car, graffiti, and a high window. His back against the cool concrete, he contemplated the graffitied wall before him. Black spray paint formed a weird seven-pointed star, two points to the left and two to the right, stretching out farther than the rest, like wings. Above it, a strange incomprehensible word was scrawled in ghostly white spray paint. He recognized the symbol. The same sign was tattooed on each and every occupant of Belle Reves.

  His big sister, Faye, had carried around a notebook labeled Book of Shadows. Within that notebook, the same symbol that was on the wall had been copied down with the words Magickal Energy beside it.

  Faye. Pain shot through his chest at the thought of her name. White smoke billowed out like a freight train around him. She’d been the only one who really saw him, understood him. When his face showed emotions inappropriate for the situation, emotions he didn’t really feel, she’d been the one to defend him. She’d understood that, through all the cruelty and beatings, his soul had shattered inside his head. He crouched, bowed down his head, and rocked. She’d understood how sick he was. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Faye.

  His madness was a black sun whose shadowy flames licked away his humanity. He hugged himself tight, terrified, desperate to contain that which obeyed nothing. He trembled, knowing the witch approached. Powerless, he felt the black flames destroy the earthen walls of his brain.

  He stubbed his cigarette out and looked out the window. A huge moon hung high in a deep blue sky. Evergreen trees waved and whispered in a wind that he knew couldn’t be felt.

  He knew the witch would come tonight.

  She turned from the file and logged into the computer. She peeked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t going to be caught while surfing the web. A quick search revealed a plethora of informative links. She selected one at random: Rhiannon, fairy queen, daughter of Epona, wife to the God of the Underworld.

  Fairy, as in little people with wings? Her fingers flew into another search.

  Fairies. Mythological creatures mentioned in various folklore throughout Europe. Earliest known folk legend is the Sidhe of Ireland. The Sidhe are also referred to as the hill people, or mound people. The legend goes that once a very prosperous people, the Sidhe were defeated by invaders and forced beneath the mounds. It is generally assumed that they lived on. However, early Ireland is also known for the use of burial mounds. Even the word fae has its roots in the word fate.

  Were the Fae simply ghosts of an ancient race? The hairs on the back of Phaedra’s neck rose. As she opened her eyes, she had the distinct feeling of being watched. She looked around her at the shadowy dayroom and dim hallway. Every door remained closed. Her eyes flitted to the bank of television monitors that showed the patients in their rooms. Her attention came to rest on a prominent screen marked Faye. The woman with long white hair sat up in her bed, with closed eyes and lips that moved.

  A feeling of misgiving spread through her chest, and she considered scolding the patient.

  “That’s crazy though,” she muttered. “I don’t even know it’s her.”

  Don’t even know it’s her? I can’t even prove anything’s going on. It’s just a feeling. Am I losing my mind?

  Just then, Faye turned and stared at the camera. Phaedra’s breath caught in her throat. The lights flickered. Then, one by one, the monitors switched to speckled pictures of static. She watched the volume control as it turned of its own accord. The crackling hiss of radio interference crept up to an unbearably loud roar. She shot up out of her chair, her pen clattering to the ground. An electrical hum crackled in the air. Goosebumps crawled up her arms. She shivered.

  The whinny of a horse echoed down the hallways. The lights over the nurse’s station shut off. Her chest tightened. Her heart pounded. Her hands shook. One by one, the monitors shut off.

  “Something is coming.” She whispered the words.

  She now stood in absolute darkness. The only sensation available was the sound of her own desperate breaths.

  Clomp, clomp. Clomp, clomp.

  At the end of the hallway, a white light, thin and fluid, swirled around like creamer in coffee. It became a horse’s head, small and almost indistinct at first.

  Clomp, clomp, as the light spread to a large body. Clomp, clomp. Clomp, clomp, as it came closer, became clearer, even though it never seemed to move faster.

  She saw that it was a horse that shimmered against the pitch black. As it got closer, she realized that she could see through its form. The horse now whinnied as it stood before her. She wanted to scream but found her own breath paralyzed, gripped by the tight muscles of her throat.

  Then, the horse faded away. The lights and monitors flickered on, all at the same time. As if nothing had happened.

  She continued to stare where the horse had been. In the shadowy dayroom, on a wall directly in front of her, blood dripped from a message written there. Why did you kill me?

  Memories of her mother half-paralyzed in bed, screaming obscenities at her and calling her a bad seed, sprang up in her mind’s eye. Months and months of hospice care, trapped by obligation, tending to the woman who’d allowed her to be locked away days at a time in her room—no food, no water, and no bathroom. The weeks she’d spent mashing up the blood-thinner medication and mixing it in her mother’s food. Watching the last breaths of life leave her tormentor’s body, and the subsequent joy of freedom. Then the guilt, and running away, always running, never being able to forgive herself.

  He hugged himself tight. He could feel it. The witch was in there with Phaedra.

  “I told you.” Claude’s loud whisper came from behind the double doors. “I told you.”

  Paper butterflies, all colored in black ink, hung on the walls of her room. Black butterflies—souls, all hers, all belonging to her. She was the jar in which they fluttered about, desperately tapping against the glass trying to break free.

  I am the Rhiannon, Queen of Ghosts, descendant of a forgotten race. She looked at herself in the mirror. Moonlight streamed in through the window somewhere behind her. Daughter of the horse goddess of nightmares, wife to the God of the Underworld.

  Now that Phaedra had paid for her sins, Corey could be taken care of. The ghosts of Corey’s many victims surrounded her, their empty black eyes and shrill cries demanding justice.

  She stared at the ceiling, her arms out as she spun, first this way, then the other, as she sang the old nursery rhyme.

  Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,

  To see a fine lady upon a w
hite horse.

  Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

  She will have music wherever she goes.

  A ring on her finger

  A bonnet of straw

  The strangest old woman

  You ever saw.

  I’m coming for you, Corey, she thought to herself. Are you ready for me?

  In the dayroom, Phaedra still stood, frozen in the same half-crouch that she’d been in twenty minutes ago while she had sat in her chair. Claude wondered if she’d ever move again. He sat on the floor next to her now, moaning and whimpering as he watched her unmoving figure.

  His hands hugged his head as he tried to tune out the memories that flashed through his mind. Memories of coming to Belle Reves with Faye, his sister, his twin, as teenagers. Their father screaming at them as they had been guided down the hallway, “Satanic children!”

  She laughed maniacally as Father’s eyes bulged, a gurgle issuing from his throat. The wild eyes she turned to him when his mind whispered into hers to stop. He didn’t want the witch and Faye to be the same. He didn’t. But they were, and there was nothing he could do to dam the flood of her ire.

  Meanwhile, Corey lay there, staring at the ceiling. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his insides clenched. He’d been listening to the song consisting of those blackbirds for hours. He wanted to scream.

  He tried to think of the many girls he’d dragged down into the basement. He tried to remember the fear in their eyes, the tears, the cries, the screams as he plunged the knife in again and again. The memories couldn’t drown out the birdsong from the window. He searched his brain in vain for memories that wouldn’t come. He searched for the hours of play, the torment in his victims’ eyes.

  It was as if the bimbos defied him. His fingers curled into talons. He gritted his teeth. He huffed and puffed, then realized that his breath came out in a cloud. Only then did he become aware of the icy bite in the air, the prickle of chilblain on his skin.