It's Not the End

by Matt Moore

  “I can convert a small corner of my shop into a studio for you,” Laurel continued. “I’ll show you how to set up accounts and keep books. Hell, I can keep your books for you.”

  Before Arthur could process this, Connie added: “It’s not just having something to do. I ran some numbers. About lowering the rent? A competitive rent, after mortgage and taxes, would leave you just enough to buy a cup of coffee. I mean gas station coffee. And that’s assuming the bank will renegotiate. To do that, they’d want you working full-time. And if you’re working full-time, it’s better to move back into the house instead of carrying a rent and a mortgage in this uncertain market.”

  Arthur’s shifted in his seat. Jacqueline had intended that he move back into the house, but only after the last tenants—Midori and Yoji—had moved out. But there were five more sets of tenants between now and then, including Bronwyn and Owen.

  Unless this was how Owen would appear. “If we’re lowering the rent, let’s call Bronwyn and offer it to her.”

  “I did,” Connie said. “I floated the idea. She thanked me and told me it’s not right for them.”

  Arthur’s heart skipped beat. “Them?”

  “Oh, forgot to tell you. She has a son named—”

  Owen.

  “—Owen. Just turned eighteen. To teach him some responsibility, she wants to put his name on the contract. But she says a house that size is just too big.”

  Arthur’s breath left him.

  Laurel took his hand and said: “I know it’s a lot to think about. And maybe selling the house is the smart move. Let it go. Start something new.”

  Head going light, Arthur asked: “She’s certain? Bronwyn. She’s not—”

  “She told me she’s signing with Century Gate condos in the morning,” Connie replied.

  “Excuse me.” Arthur stood and stumbled to the bathroom, falling to his knees before the toilet.

  A new future unspooled before him. One without the comfort of Jacqueline’s predictions. He’d need to make decisions, their outcomes unknown.

  Arthur, alone.

  He’d always assumed she’d meant that when he moved back into the house after Yoji and Midori, he’d be by himself. But perhaps she meant that when he returned, she’d be gone, the bedroom silent. They could both be at peace because by then he’d have finally figured his shit out and wouldn’t need her anymore.

  He was far from that place now.

  But if he accepted Laurel’s offer and returned to his house, Jacqueline would be there to motivate him. He could keep up with the mortgage. Keep his house. Keep his Jacqueline, even if her predictions were no longer accurate.

  And finally he’d have a camera back in his hands.

  Certain he wasn’t going to vomit, he stood and returned to the living room.

  “Was about to come and check on you,” Laurel said, standing. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Okay, I’ll work at your store. Let’s figure out how to keep my house.”

  Laurel embraced him. Connie joined a moment later.

  All the doors stood open except to the master bedroom. Had he left it open or closed yesterday? Maybe Connie had been by. She’d left him three voicemails that morning. Once he’d told Jacqueline what he needed to say, he’d listen to them. Then call Reggie to decline.

  Trembling, he stepped forward, twisted the handle and entered the bedroom.

  Alone.

  His heart skipped a beat. Arthur wiped the sweat beading on his forehead. Sunlight had warmed the room hotter than the day outside.

  He swallowed and told the emptiness what he had spent the entire night preparing: “You were wrong about Bronwyn and Owen. So I’m opening a studio at Laurel’s shop and moving back here. I don’t have a choice.”

  Her voice from everywhere: Arthur, alone. Alone.

  “Yes, I’ll be alone.”

  Bronwyn and Owen. Anna and Jorge.

  “Damn it, Jess, I listened. Did what you asked. But you were wrong. Now I might lose the house. Lose you. I have to—”

  Arthur, alone.

  “Alone. Because I can’t grow a spine, right? Can’t man up? You wanted me to find you with him, right here, wanted me to get angry. But the shoot ran late. And all this time I thought this was you trying to say you were sorry for cheating on me. Make it easy for me by telling me what to do. But if I’d had to make tough decisions after you died, I wouldn’t be here. So I’m making tough decisions now.”

  Alone.

  “Why tell me these things over and over? You’re wrong. But you’ve never been willing to change or admit you were wrong.”

  Bronwyn and Owen. Arthur, alone. Bronwyn—

  “Shut up!”

  —and Owen. Arthur, alone. Bronwyn—

  “Connie thinks I should sell this house.”

  —and Owen. Arthur—

  “But maybe she’s right.”

  —alone.

  “Sell it and let some else deal with you!”

  The front door opened downstairs and Connie called out: “Arthur?”

  Jacqueline’s voice: Bronwyn and Owen.

  Arthur froze. Soft voices conversed downstairs. Footsteps moved across hardwood. Outside, Connie’s Prius and a familiar red Mercedes were parked at the curb. Realization tingled that Bronwyn had changed her mind.

  He hurried across the upstairs hall and tried to descend quietly down the creaking back steps.

  Footsteps moved up the front staircase. “Arthur, are you up there?” Connie called out.

  Feeling foolish, he replied, “I’m up here.” He turned and met Connie in the upstairs hallway. “Was trying to sneak out. Didn’t want to be here for a showing.”

  “No, that’s fine,” she said. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “No, not yet. I wanted to . . .” He couldn’t finish.

  Connie embraced him. “I know it’s hard. But I’ve got great news.” A grin curled at the corners of her mouth. “Bronwyn called me this morning. She had a long talk with Owen, who said he’s old enough to take care of a house. So she wants to take another look. The kicker is Owen is going to school here. So I floated a four-year lease for the lower rent and she seems agreeable.” Her grin became a wide smile. “For four years, the bank will have to go for it. That means we don’t have to worry about the mortgage while getting the studio off the ground.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  She half-turned toward the staircase. “Do you want to meet them?”

  “I . . .”

  “I know it’s not your favourite, but it would be a bit Howard Hughes if you left right now. I’ll keep it short.”

  “I’ll be down in a second.”

  As she descended the stairs, Arthur moved back into the bedroom. Numb, his voice trembled: “You knew.”

  Alone.

  “Damn it, don’t tell me that!” he hissed. “Stop punishing me! You cheated on me so don’t tell me I’ll be—”

  But that’s not what she’d said. Never had been. This whole time she hadn’t been saying “alone.” She’d been saying—

  “A loan.” The pieces fell into place. “A loan against the house to buy in with Reggie?” Arthur, a loan.

  Tenants would keep coming. They’d pay off the mortgage. Partnering with Reggie would be a success, letting him pay off the business loan against the house without having to make hard decisions. And after Yoji and Midori, Arthur would move back in and find how “glass” and “northeast” and “bus driver” figured into his future.

  All he had to do was just let it happen.

  He left the room and went down the front stairs to find Bronwyn and a young man with a strong resemblance to her chatting with Connie. They turned and Connie made the introductions.

  “It’s such a lovely house,” Bronwyn said. She placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder, who flinched at the motherly contact. Arthur sympathized. “I didn’t think Owen would be able to handle helping me care for a home, but he convinced me.”

  “Yes,
well,” Arthur sputtered. He looked at Connie, then back to Bronwyn. “I know you’re new to the city, but do you have any interest in buying the house?”

  Sometimes Arthur parked in the shade of the oaks across the street from the house where he’d lived with Jacqueline. Paint flaked off the porch, leaving a patchwork of rotting bare wood. With several of the panes broken, the city had slapped plywood over the lower floor windows several months back. Since his last visit, a section of iron railing had collapsed into the yard.

  Most days he’d just look before continuing on to a shoot. With Laurel’s help, he’d used the profit from selling his house to set up a small shop in the Garden District where he specialized in architecture. Working first with Connie and then her connections, his stylized photos made listings stand out. And sometimes, through personal referrals, he did the occasional wedding. When he could, he sent business to Reggie, who’d been successful with that other partner.

  But today, he grabbed his camera off the passenger seat and got out. According to Connie, a young Internet millionaire had bought the property. On Monday, demolition would start to make way for a new, modern home.

  Pacing the sidewalk, he searched for the perfect angle to capture the yellowing, overgrown grass sticking up through the railing’s rusted lattice. Close up, narrow field—a symbol of the inevitable fall of people’s constructions to the passing of time and nature.

  Bronwyn and Owen had lived in his house for nearly six years. He never knew if the Lumleys heard voices, but suspected the next occupants—Caroline and Michael Deveraux according to the city records Connie had checked—had. They’d lasted three months before moving out. Watching the housing listings, he’d seen his house up for sale three more times in the space of two years before it had become abandoned.

  He looked up, backing away until he found the perfect angle to shoot the master bedroom’s shattered windows for the last time. Whether Jacqueline still spoke her string of broken predictions to the empty room, he didn’t know.

  The Wall of Gloves

  The second most terrifying thing is the wall of gloves: winter ones, thick and heavy; a white leather golfer’s; multicolour woolen mittens; a lady’s white, silk elbow-length. All lovingly tacked to the barn’s walls. So many.

  Too many to be from . . .

  “Where do you get them all?” I pant.

  “Some I find. On the street or bus. Others”—his gaze flits to the white, elbow-length—“I keep.” He raises the cleaver, focusing on my hands shackled to the table.

  I turn away, shutting my eyes so I won’t look on the most terrifying thing: the wall of hands.

  Of the Endangered

  “You can see the town from here,” Baako, the messenger who’d led Noah from Charlotte, called back over his shoulder from the crest of the hill.

  Noah urged his horse to a trot, eager to finally reach the town of Dean End. Despite the joy of spending time in the pristine forest, the basic furnishing and simple meals Baako had described now sounded like heaven. Ironic, Noah mused, considering Baako’s belief that they were headed for the border of Hell.

  As they reached the crest, the green canopy gently descended into the valley below. Opposite, the forest rose up the far side before giving way to bare, rocky peaks. The sun setting behind them, they cast dark, pointed shadows like the teeth of some ancient, massive predator across the town in the valley’s heart. Three stone bridges straddled narrows in the river. Hugging the far bank, a long, grey, low-slung building stretched for almost a half a kilometre. Columns of smoke rose from chimneys before being dispersed by the valley’s winds. The peaks of its black roof reached six or seven metres high. Four water wheels, each taller than three men, turned in the river’s current.

  Small farms nestled in the lowlands, filling the open terrain. But on the far side of the valley, a score of massive farms—some over a thousand hectares—had been carved from the forested slopes.

  “Pendore’s factory,” Baako said, naming one of the town’s elders. He pointed to the massive farms. “And those are his people. Salvation and resurrection, we should let him deal with it.” He spurred his horse to a canter and Noah followed, thinking he caught a whiff of sulfur on the breeze.

  Two weeks ago, Noah had been in Charlotte, rounding up a pack of six-legged, beagle-sized lizards. While making arrangement to transport the creatures he’d caught to Philadelphia, word reached him that a man had come east from the wilderness, looking for a monster hunter from Pix. Curious, Noah agreed to meet him. Charlotte sat on the frontier of civilization, as far as Noah knew, and aside from a few tiny settlements everything to the west remained the realm of monsters.

  The man from the east, Baako, described how a demon was attacking his town. While Pendore, one of the town Elders, wanted to hunt the demon along with the Riders, the local constabulary, the other two Elders sought Pix’s expertise. Noah had been happy to oblige.

  During their two-week journey west, Baako had explained there had always been rumours of some Hellbeast in the forest to the west of the river. But five years ago, when Pendore’s people had moved across the river to begin clearing land for their massive farms, rumours had become sightings. Then small farm animals had been attacked or taken. Now the whole town lived in fear. For generations, Dean End’s faith and devotion had held Hell’s power in check, Baako had told him, but Pendore threatened all of that.

  Noah hadn’t understood the animosity or blame directed at Pendore, but suspicion buzzed like an itch he couldn’t reach at seeing the factory. The skill and knowledge required to build something so complex shouldn’t have existed. Not this far east, not anywhere. To say nothing of maintaining the massive farms.

  An hour later, the forest gave way to sloping farmland and a strong stink of sulfur. In open ground, Noah could make out details—simple clapboard houses and buildings with sides and windows smudged grey. What he thought had been a rock formation along the riverbank resolved into a slag pile running down from the factory, explaining the stink. Soot and ash nearly obscured “THE DEAN END FORGE” painted in white on its roof.

  The path widened into a thoroughfare headed toward the town centre. Residents eyed Noah as he passed. They’d probably never seen anything like his leather duster, denim pants, and six-shooter. When Noah had first met Baako, the younger man’s breeches, tunic, cloak, and tricorn seemed an anachronism in Charlotte. Now Noah was the one out of place.

  Elder Livingstone asked, “So, is it sufficient compensation for killing this demon?”

  Noah forced himself not to stare at the contents of the simple chest. Reflected candlelight cast dancing golden shapes across the room’s ceiling timbers and stone walls. A moment ago, Noah had wondered why it had taken two men to carry in the small wooden box. Coins, rings, an elaborate sconce, a pocket watch—all gold. He could accept goods or services as payment where the banks had not reached, but he’d never seen so much. He took a sip from his mug, ignoring the water’s sulfuric smell, and grabbed a coin whose imprint had worn smooth.

  “Interesting,” he said, estimating how much he could take with him. The encumbrance of the equipment he’d brought in his saddlebags already taxed his horse. He’d had no choice but to leave the bulk of his equipment back in Charlotte, locked in his wagon. It never would have made it through the wilderness.

  Across the table, Elder Hongtu alternated between twirling the long hairs of his neckbeard and picking at the red vest pulled taut over his belly. Elder Livingstone sat still, narrow hands flat on the rough-hewn table, owl-like eyes locked on Noah. Candlelight reflected off the silver thread woven into his vest.

  Noah cast the coin into the box, clanking as it landed. “Yeah, this’ll do.”

  Across the table, Hongtu blew out a breath of relief. Livingstone simply nodded, one hand rubbing his stomach.

  “Couple of conditions.” The simple wooden chair groaned as Noah shifted his weight. He longed for the overstuffed couches back in Charlotte. “Room, board, care for my horse. All
provided.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Hongtu said.

  “No one questions what I do,” Noah continued. “And no one touches my equipment.”

  Hongtu looked to Livingstone and they nodded. “Agreed,” Livingstone said. “We have heard some of what you utilize is rather . . . unconventional.”

  “Only I kill this thing and take the body when I’m done.”

  “We have no objections,” Livingstone said. “So long as we have proof that the demon is dead.”

  “Last, I’ll need a small wagon or cart. Somethin’ that can make it through the forest goin’ back east.”

  Livingstone and Hongtu shared another nod of agreement.

  “I am sure we can provide you with something,” Livingstone said. “We have an agreement.”

  The whole time, Noah had wondered at the absence of Elder Pendore. Or if he even knew about the meeting. “Ain’t there three Elders?”

  Hongtu leaned back, but Livingstone said, “To take action, the Elders require a majority vote. We do not need Stefen’s accord.”

  “Stefen?” Noah asked.

  “Elder Pendore,” Hongtu explained.

  “Tell me,” Livingstone said, leaning forward and fixing Noah with his owl-like gaze, “do you know the story of Pastor Dean?”

  “A bit,” Noah replied. When Baako had told Noah the name of the town, Noah had suspected—and Baako had confirmed—it had been settled by the Western Dean Expedition, a group of three hundred who’d disappeared into the wilderness a century earlier and been considered lost.

  “Pastor Dean fled Salem, fearing Philadelphia’s ‘progress’ had weakened the causes of devotion, hard work, sacrifice. They travelled far, fortified by their devotion, and when they climbed the mountain to the west they found Hell itself burning in the next valley. It is clear that providence called Pastor Dean and his congregation here to hold back the tide of evil through faith.