Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental.

  Fountain Dead by Theresa Braun

  Fountain Dead © 2018 Unnerving

  Fountain Dead © 2018 Theresa Braun

  “Evil from the past seeps into the present and twists itself around the reader's mind. Braun is an author to watch out for. All my favourite horror ingredients—ghosts, a frighteningly haunted house, and characters I care about.”

  —Catherine Cavendish, author of the Nemesis of the Gods series and The Devil’s Serenade

  “With all the fantastic flair of a classic haunted house tale but with a decidedly unique and terrifying sensibility, Fountain Dead is everything you can want in a ghost story... and so much more. A must-read for the fall season.”

  —Gwendolyn Kiste, author of The Rust Maidens and Pretty Marys All in a Row

  “Scary and intelligent, Braun's story will creep under your skin as she deftly weaves the past and present together.”

  —Tom Deady, Bram Stoker Award

  winning author of Haven.

  Fountain Dead

  Theresa Braun

  “We are many, many people, yet we are one. What we do with our thinking, what we do tomorrow with our thoughts, what we do with our actions and interactions with people determines the course of the universe itself. You are not powerless. You are not without power.”

  —Little Crow

  October 1908

  GIRL FOUND IN WOODS, MOTHER LEFT FOR DEAD

  The Winona Republican

  Bernard Larson

  Winona—two-year-old Lily Hayes was found Wednesday near her mother’s decomposed body thanks to local hunters who had heard the girl crying in the vicinity of Maiden Rock on Lake Pepin. The girl is thought to have been stranded for two, possibly three days. Lily’s distinctive eye colors—one blue and one brown—helped authorities reunite her with her aunt, Rita Anderson, originally of the Sioux Indian Tribe three miles north of Winona proper.

  The deceased, Anna Hayes, was shot in the back of the head. Anderson has implicated Hayes’ husband Maxwell Durley, who is now a suspect. “I didn’t like him. He seemed purely interested in her money, but she didn’t see it. She was in love,” Anderson said.

  Durley allegedly absconded with the sum total of Hayes’ holdings, approximately $20,000.

  Several of the sisters’ family members experienced a windfall upon purchasing property plentiful with quantities of gold and iron ore. Due to newfound wealth in Indian communities, ill will and hostility toward them has increased. Many Indians say conspiracies to cheat them of their money through inheritance abound, ergo what Anderson claims Durley did. “I filed a report. I was suspicious. No one listened,” Anderson said.

  In recent months, many suggest the problem is widespread. Individuals accused of participating in such conspiracies include law enforcement, prosecutors, doctors, morticians, and even members of the press. Related deaths of persons investigating these crimes have begun accumulating. According to The St. Paul Times, attorney Jimson Smith attempted to gather evidence for a case, but was thrown off a speeding train. The Mankato Tribune reported Timothy Houston was scheduled to give testimony on behalf of a Dakota Indian victim, but he was stabbed to death at his boarding house.

  The silver lining? Although her father is still on the run, Lily Hayes is now living with her aunt. Additionally, President Roosevelt recently established the Bureau of Investigation (BOI) to target criminal activity throughout the United States. A White House spokesperson stated that targeting will include the prosecuting of those involved in the increasing epidemic of “killing rich Indians.”

  Summer 1988

  Mark brooded in the backseat of the brown AMC Pacer, fingering the upholstery seam. For a split second he mentally super-sized his hand, trying out the look. Then he tucked the hand under his thigh with the Andrew Jackson biography, not yet overdue, from his favorite library branch one hundred and twenty miles away. Since his parents never asked his opinion of the family’s move, he reveled in his literary contraband, a little piece of his old life.

  Over a dozen of St. Paul’s public libraries had long faded in the rear view mirror. A montage of puppet shows, story times, and stints lounging on beanbag chairs jeered at him. Those physical landmarks, the triggers to his memories, got further away with every passing roadside mile marker.

  Dad, at the helm of the vehicle to nowhere-ville, hadn’t said much on the drive.

  Swinging her legs and staring out the window, his sister Tausha’s pink dress made her look like an oversized flower crammed into the seat. Her annoyed expression declared she’d rather be wearing pants or knee-length shorts and a T-shirt, the likes of which Mom forbade. It took Mark several weeks to get his mother to back off about his long, wavy hair. That battle he’d fought from the comfort of the barber chair, quite aware the stylist would back him up. Mom hated public confrontations, so he was home free. When Tausha was ready for such battles, he’d be ready with loads of brotherly advice.

  The welcome sign they passed bragged of, or rather sheepishly counted, twenty-five thousand inhabitants. On the very day he’d been told the town name they were moving to, Mark identified the sole library in a reference phone book. The university where his parents would be teaching probably had a library too. However, he’d be a humiliating sore thumb tagging along with mommy and daddy. Which was why his brain’s answer to this whole mess was a vision of him standing in front of one measly set of card catalogue drawers. His thirst for knowledge doomed. Consequently, his mood worsened by the minute as the stitches of the upholstery seam split wider at his picking. At least his thin so-called lady fingers were efficient for something.

  Mom’s voice brought him back to the present. “Everyone should live where the doors can be left unlocked.” A hint of resentment in her tone indicated she’d never known anything like that in the Twin Cities. She was likely kissing all those lunatics, murderers, and hoodlums goodbye, singing the Green Acres theme song in her head. She’d romanticized small town life ever since finding an old diary from one of her relatives who’d passed through this region on the way to settling further north.

  “That they should,” Dad replied.

  Mark rolled his eyes.

  What kind of town is called Winona, anyway? He’d seen it spelled Wenonah on an old map and had overheard his parents engaged in an animated discussion about some Dakota princess who plunged to her death off one of the bluffs, yet another bad omen as far as Mark was concerned. Why hadn’t they sounded at all upset by the legend? How freakish that his mother’s study of myths and lore desensitized her to some things, but made her hypersensitive to others.

  Mark turned up the volume on his Walkman and bobbed to Metallica, as if that could delay the inevitable—a new life, a new school, a new everything. Two songs later, out the window was a home, but not really his home. Not yet. And this structure didn’t extend any open arms. The paint appeared dingy. The wrap-around porch failed to invite anyone to sip lemonade until dusk. Patches of front yard grass were like swatches of beard on a scabby chin.

  His mother turned to the backseat and tapped his knee.

  Mark uncovered one ear. “What?”

  “We’re here, sweetie.” She smoothed loose strands escaping her ponytail. “You know, I’m still waiting for you to show me some of the lyrics of that music you’re listening to these days.” Her tone feigned casualness, but it was bound to escalate to nagging in the near future.

  Mark had hoped she’d forgotten all about sleuthing for demonic songs liable to hypnotize him into committing murder, or something equally heinous. It was only a matter of time before she made him play the records back
wards.

  Sighing, he mentally put jotting down Van Halen verses from “Jump” on his priority list. Funny that, knowing her, she’d find a way to equate jumping with sex or devil worship. She’d already grilled him about the double meaning of Slippery When Wet. Fortunately, his sister Tausha had saved the day by interrupting that awkward conversation. He owed her big time.

  Mark had imagined documenting Mom’s confrontations and rants in a journal to be able to laugh about later, but was terrified she’d discover it. What an excruciating rabbit-hole that’d be, hours of her reading every syllable to him out loud. It would only stop when he verbally acknowledged the meaning of what was there and why he’d detailed it. No thanks.

  He pressed the stop button on his Walkman.

  Mom’s eyes widened at her daughter’s legs suddenly spread eagle in the backseat. “Come, now. Sit like a lady.”

  Tausha pouted, clapped her thighs together, and continued gnawing on her sucker. Mark didn’t know which was worse, the sound of his mother snapping gum, or if having to sit in direct earshot of his sister. Suddenly the idea of her one day being a lady amused him. Most of the time her attitude was reminiscent of Jo on The Facts of Life, a show that bugged him to no end. Unfortunately for him, Mom hadn’t found anything to nit-pick in it. Tausha was free to soak up all the girly life lessons to her heart’s content.

  Ah, that’s the whole point.

  Dad turned to his wife in the passenger seat. “Keep an open mind. It’s been empty for almost five years.”

  “Yeah, I wonder why,” she replied.

  He squeezed her hand. “You like bargains. And we need one.”

  The realtor’s Buick pulled up next to them. She stepped out wearing a blouse padded at the shoulders and a pencil skirt. Her tresses were knotted in a bun. With her hands clasped, she smiled. “I told you I had the house for you.”

  What a peculiar fashion trend, to beef up one’s shoulders, Mark mused, thinking all she needed was two stripes of black paint under her eyes to complete the football player look.

  Dad’s camera dangled from a strap in one hand, so he shook the agent’s with his other. “Well, it sure is—big.” He turned and massaged his wife’s shoulder, while she gave him the side-eye and palmed her daughter’s back.

  Mark finally slammed the door after taking his sweet ass time emerging from the vehicle.

  Tausha yawned, then finished her lollipop with a double crunch.

  The realtor strutted along the blacktop driveway in her high heels, the family trailing behind.

  “Was built around eighteen-sixty. Dr. Durley was a prominent physician, his research quite the big deal at the university. Students still flock here to study his findings.” She spun around to gauge her clients’ reactions.

  “Interesting. I’ll be joining that department next semester,” Dad said while snapping a photo.

  “Crazy how life falls into place sometimes,” she replied. “Most of this house’s constructed with gorgeous mahogany detailing. Place is so big someone buried a railroad tank car out back to fuel the furnace.”

  “Can’t be cheap to heat.” Dad ran his fingers through his dark hair, not quite as long as Mark’s, but just as wavy.

  “It’s not that bad. Besides, you can rent out the extra bedrooms to college students. The last residents did—before.”

  “Before what?” Mom asked.

  “Before—they moved.” The agent’s eyes shifted.

  His father hadn’t been listening. He was busy scoping out the neighboring plot of land, documenting it on film.

  Weeds and grass coexisted in untamed overgrowth. It reminded Mark of his buddy, pals since kindergarten. He’d frequently played cowboys and Indians in Jack’s backyard. They’d painted a tarp brown and fashioned it into a teepee, using sticks and branches. Once the rest of the neighborhood found out about it, all the kids flocked over, even Tausha. Suddenly everything had been ruined, like a band not cool anymore after going mainstream.

  Out there in the yard, sat a neglected fountain about the size of a large trampoline. At the center of the gloppy water was a statue draped in moss and vines. Tausha balanced herself along the structure’s outer rim, her arms taking flight while she motored her mouth.

  Mark gasped. He’d stood over that fountain in nightmares. Bubbling emerald-green liquid had glowed like a backlit cauldron, something dark stirring below. A pale, slender hand and forearm had broken the surface and grasped the air, the hand slowly closing into a fist. The arm had lurched for Mark’s ankle, seizing him with an iron-grip. He’d tried to kick free, but was no match for its clutches. A second arm on the other side of the fountain had risen from the water. Then he’d woken up sweaty and tangled in sheets, unable to breathe.

  What the hell? He gaped as if the man-made pond glared back.

  And so we meet again, it uttered.

  Mark tried to shake the invasive sensation, taking several giant steps backwards. Although he’d come face to face with it, this sure as hell wasn’t by choice. Like a skeezy older relative who’s known you all your life. His skin got clammy. If only he could put miles of distance between himself and the stone monstrosity. His stomach did somersaults the more he stared at the stagnant water. All he wanted was to get back into the car and rewind to when his comforter wrapped around him, his golden retriever Salem curled up by his side.

  Did this qualify as psychic phenomenon? He’d never experienced anything like this before and had no idea what to do with himself. His stomach got queasy.

  “Get your sister off there before she gets hurt,” Mom said, looking to her son.

  Mark’s goal of keeping his distance from the hunk of stone dashed, he forced himself to comply. Trudging closer, his insides were a towel twisting tighter and tighter. “Come on, Taush. Get down.”

  He tapped his Converse in the dirt as she completed the circle, her arms still riding the air. As a virtual eternity ticked by, Mark glimpsed movement in the distance. Upon turning his head, an older man in a baseball hat fiddled around with his stockpile of firewood, restacking the pieces of a giant Jenga game—the whole time never taking his eyes off the siblings.

  Why the hell would anyone be messing around with wood in the summer?

  The man paused and made the sign of the cross.

  Mark held his gut and turned to his sister. “Dude, can you move it? Any day now.”

  “Don’t you mean, dudette?” She rolled her eyes.

  “Nope. Dude.” His tongue stuck out at her.

  Finally, his sister hopped down and took his hand. By the time they stepped back onto the driveway, all the molecules in his body cheered like crazed concert fans. Taking in a deep breath, he decided he hated this property. But his opinion didn’t matter. Of that much, he was aware.

  Dad snapped out of a stupor. “What’s with that?” he asked, thumbing in the direction the kids had come from.

  “A developer has been dying to buy that lot. And the owner of the guesthouse over there is convinced he got cheated out of it, along with this house, if you can believe that,” the agent said. “Came snooping around a few years ago, suddenly claiming to be the rightful heir. Had no way of proving it, so here we are.” She began walking again.

  Mom and Dad exchanged troubled looks.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. The bank went out of its way to cross all the T’s and dot all the I’s. Come on, I’ll show you the interior.”

  Mark’s father shrugged and gripped his wife’s hand.

  “Look, honey. Must be a good sign,” Mark’s mother cooed, sniffing the jasmine bush.

  Usually Dad’s keen nose detected the scent he loved—though only in nature. Perfumes and candles of it made him retch. He grinned at his wife and kissed her neck, making her titter.

  The entire troupe ascended the rickety porch steps to the front door where the entryway opened to a spiral staircase with a carved bannister. Descending those steps to greet a guest would be quite the impression. Something like that was in an old m
ovie he’d watched with his mother, one where the married couple slept in separate twin beds.

  The hallway was carpeted in sea-green, but much of the downstairs flooring was meticulously laid wood—not newly finished, but not in need of repair.

  It was easy to imagine a man in a suit playing a baby grand piano in the music room, their first stop. Mark’s fantasy was for his parents to buy a piano for him to practice for his big debut in front of a packed auditorium.

  After noting the marble fireplace and enormous gilded mirror tarnished with age, everyone’s attention went to the box in the corner. A set of cables connected it to the upper level.

  “Is that a—?” Mom was tongue-tied.

  The camera’s shutter clicked a few times.

  “Yep, an elevator. One of the previous owners was wheelchair bound, so he had it installed,” the agent said.

  Dad was a kid discovering a toy train underneath a Christmas tree. “Does it work?”

  “Sure does.” The realtor smiled and waved be-my-guest in its direction.

  The family of four piled into the space. Mom closed the gate before Dad hit the up button with his effeminate touch. Mark’s hands were like his father’s, yet that was little consolation to a teenager who still gave two shits about what other people thought of him. He stuffed both hands into his pockets.

  A click sounded before the cables churned, lifting the passengers to the second floor.

  “You want to press it?” the father asked his daughter after they’d reached the top.

  Mark remembered being his sister’s age and having that very first burst of empowerment at the controls. Tausha took the bait, her fingers poking at the downward arrow.

  The agent waited patiently for them to disembark after the cables immobilized. “Imagine what all your friends will think of that,” she said to Tausha before winking at Mark. “Right, handsome?”

  Mark ignored the woman’s flirtation, as the elevator made him again think of Jack. Undoubtedly, his best pal would’ve gotten a kick out of it. In fact, it didn’t take much to amuse the two of them. Just watching He-Man, Skeletor’s voice whining “you royal boob” to some peon, had launched them into a giggling fit that led to wrestling and rolling about the floor. The sensation of their skin touching sent Mark’s stomach fluttering. It was then his mom would click off the television, saying something about demons and demand they quit wrestling, her tone worried and cold, rather than angry. Had she read his mind? Had his budding feelings been lettered on a marquee sign above his head?