Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  “Racist?”

  “All that stuff about the Indian dude. Oh, but I think you called him dirty and some other shit. What, you think Indians go around cursing everyone? That’s some ignorant bullshit right there.”

  “Hey, I was half outa my mind. I still am.” Then Mark recalled the feathered drum hanging in Hexx’s living room. He’d barely noticed the hand-woven basket and pottery until his subconscious mind pushed it forward. That was the reason Hexx had taken all of his comments so seriously.

  A couple of breaths panted over the line.

  “Sorry, I was a dick.” Although Mark’s word choice had been poorly devised, it still didn’t change the fact that some guy, who happened to look Native American, was threatening himself and Tausha. “Please, I need your help.” He didn’t know if his voice had ever sounded so frantic.

  “I better not regret this.”

  Mark definitely wasn’t able to make any guarantees in that department, so he bit his tongue. “Just get over here, will you?”

  —

  Neither of his parents were much for conversation lately, practically biting Mark’s head off any time he said anything. That was the main reason he didn’t bother telling them what was going on.

  Mark figured it was time to let his friend in on just one of the many things keeping him on edge. After making sure his father was nose deep working in the study and checking the driveway to verify Mom was still at the college, Mark led his guest into the basement.

  Since Hexx’s jaw dropped practically to his knees, Mark dragged him out of there. But not before Mark got what he’d really gone down there for: Dad’s legal pad and the reference book it was crammed inside. There was bound to be a clue for the boys to go on. What they were going to do with that clue was another story. Mark hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “I still can’t believe there’s a skeleton down there,” Hexx said on the way up to Mark’s room.

  “Tell me about it.”

  They sat on the bedroom floor, the bed a barrier between them and the door. Salem had stealthily curled up in the corner.

  Mark handed the open book to his friend. “See what these pages say.”

  Taking the volume, Hexx saluted and perused the highlighted sections.

  Neither spoke for several minutes.

  “Looks like she was somewhere between fifteen to eighteen years old,” Mark said.

  “And Indian, right?”

  Mark raised a brow.

  “Native American. American Indian. Whatever you wanna call it.” Hexx shook his head.

  “That’s what his notes say here. And he drew this.” Putting the pad in between them, Mark pointed to the rendition of the skull. Below it was a guestimate of what she might’ve looked like. Deep set eyes, high cheekbones, and a round face with a soft jawline. Her top and bottom lips were of equal fullness. Long, dark hair framed her features. “Kinda hot, right?”

  Hexx shoved Mark’s shoulder. “You a closet sexist, too?”

  Screwing up his face, Mark picked up the pad. He wondered who this girl was, since she looked nothing like the spirit he’d been interacting with. Why wasn’t the Rubik’s Cube lining up? Did they have to take off the stickers to solve the puzzle?

  “We need to get your grandmother to tell us about Jonathan,” Mark said.

  “I’ve already asked. She won’t talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She won’t spill it. Acts like she doesn’t remember where she got the thing.”

  “What if we show her this? Maybe it’ll mean something to her.”

  “Why would some random girl in your house have anything to do with my gran?”

  “None of this is random.” Was it a good idea to tell Hexx everything? Would he believe Mark? Right now Mark was supposedly a racist, sexist kid with a skeleton in his basement. His credibility wasn’t the greatest at the moment. “Why does she have a portrait that looks just like me? That’s fucking nuts.” Then there was the other reason: Jonathan.

  Hexx bounced his cross-legged knees.

  It hit him hard then. There was no need to admit everything yet. Not when he had proof. Mark heaved the mattress upward, drew out the stack of his father’s photos, and tossed them to his friend. “What about these? They convincing enough?”

  Hexx’s eyes roved the images. “Holy shit, man. Ho-l-y shit.”

  A door in the hallway creaked open. Light footsteps padded the carpet.

  The friends had been so engrossed in their research project that Mark wasn’t sure if anyone had come upstairs.

  The sound of steps wasn’t the weight of his two hundred pound father. It was lighter. His mother? Had she come home?

  Mark and Hexx looked at each other. The pictures dropped from Hexx’s hands.

  The dog’s ears twitched.

  Slowly, as if the walls absorbed liquid, a shadow spread in the hall. That liquid bled along the corners and angles. No cars had passed the house to alter the lighting.

  “Do you see that?” Mark asked.

  Eyes bulging, Hexx nodded.

  Mark was still adjusting to the bigger layout of the house where comings and goings were not so obvious. Had someone come over? If his parents had invited anyone, they’d be using the downstairs bathroom, not going up here.

  Something didn’t feel right. Time eked by. Seconds dragged into eternal minutes. The patter of those slow steps made Mark jittery. He gnawed at a hangnail.

  Hexx froze.

  The dog nose-dived under the bed.

  A dark mass shaded the frame of the doorway. Gradually, a raven-haired woman dressed in a thin cotton nightgown, came into view.

  “Is that your mom?” Hexx whispered, making the okay sign and licking his lips.

  Mark shook his head. “Perv,” he mouthed, thinking Hexx had met his mother. Is he blind?

  Even if his mother was home, she’d never emerged from the bedroom without a robe.

  “Isn’t your sister little?”

  “Yeah, you met her, dumbass,” Mark said, terror registering on his face.

  “Then who’s that?”

  “I don’t know!” Did someone break in? Was it the neighbor’s wife or daughter? His mind searched for any rational explanation.

  However, there was an unhealthy pallor to the woman’s arms in the afternoon light. Her posture slumped, arms dangling at her sides.

  Mark hoisted the legal pad and frantically pointed to the drawing. His eyes widened.

  Hexx either didn’t agree with the likeness or he wasn’t capable of making the connection yet. Springing to his feet, the boy searched the room. “We’ve gotta do something. You have a weapon? A baseball bat? Anything?”

  “Shut up. What’re you gonna do?” Even if Mark had any of those things, hurting a woman was out of the question. It’s not like she was directly threatening them. He had a feeling Hexx also knew she wasn’t a living person.

  Slinking off the bed, Mark hugged the edge of the doorframe, peeking his head out. Her back was to him now as she took the first step down the staircase.

  Hexx sat like a statue on the bed, a hand over his mouth.

  The shadows in the stairwell came together in the shape of a large humanoid standing upright. Claws loomed on the wall.

  The woman’s posture straightened with the support of dark creature skulking after her. She took one step at a time down the spiral staircase without reaching for the railing. The tail of her nightgown swooshed behind.

  Mark’s heartbeat tripled. It might’ve been a false sense of security, but he couldn’t free himself from the protection of his room. The cocoon of personal space dissipated as she suddenly came to a standstill. Her head rotated around, milky eyes cast up in his direction.

  By now, Hexx was at his back, peering around his shoulder.

  She curled a finger to her, beckoning him downstairs.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Pushing Hexx out of sight, Mark retreated into his room. He held his breath, squeezing his eyes s
hut.

  Please go away. Please go away.

  He tapped his foot on the floor and wiggled his fingers along his thighs. The quiet of the stairwell unnerved him. Mark craned his head into the doorway.

  “She’s gone,” Mark whispered. There was no way she exited the front door, as there had been no creak or closing of it. When he double-checked, the study and music room doors were both closed. Maybe she wandered to through the rest of the house? Could they stay up here and make like nothing happened? Denial. Avoidance. Mark could work it all out with a therapist later in life.

  Hexx pounced onto the bed. “Thank God.”

  Even though they seemed to be in the clear, Mark’s nerves hadn’t yet leveled out. He waited for the next wave of unearthly activity.

  Only seconds later there was a splashing outside.

  Mark rushed to the window. “You’ve gotta see this.” Finally, someone else was here to witness something unexplainable.

  Once he’d dashed to Mark’s side, Hexx leaned a hand on the sill. His expression went from blank, to taut with shock.

  The woman stepped into the water. Then she lowered herself and leaned back, extending her arms on the curved ledge, as if relaxing in a hot tub. Her limbs draped over the side. She swiveled her head, her face covered with a sheet of wet hair. Then her body slid under the surface of the water. A cluster of bubbles popped before the fountain went still.

  Mark’s breath was stuck in his throat.

  Hexx gripped his arm. “What the fuck, man?”

  “Yeah, what the fuck is right.” His voice was deadpan.

  The Pacer pulled into the driveway. Mom got out of the car.

  Salem scampered downstairs, whimpering at the front door.

  Moss and algae covered the surface of the fountain, except for one shining spot where the figure had been.

  Who was she? What did she want? Although Mark had no answers, at least he’d confirmation that this wasn’t all in his mind. The house might’ve been targeting him, for whatever reason, but now there was an outsider caught in its clutches.

  “This is why you need to help me,” Mark said. “We need to talk to your grandmother.”

  Hexx grimaced. “No fucking way.”

  “Sorry, man, there’s no turning back now.”

  February 1862

  A clanking mimicked a splash of cold water to Emma’s face.

  The door squealed open, and the incoming light momentarily blinded her. A lamp in her father’s hand illuminated his mildly stooped shape. His disheveled hair created the illusion of tiny snakes.

  He advanced forward, fixated on the table in his path.

  “Papa!” Emma exclaimed, gathering the strength to rise from the floor.

  With a lifting of the lamp, his face ran a gamut of emotions, from shock to rage and everything in between. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Riley—”

  The lamp clattered when it struck the ground.

  A slap smarted Emma’s cheek. Meaty hands circled her neck, and climbed like African elongation rings. Her back slammed against the wall, the stone contact chilling her bones.

  In her effort to choke out words, only croaks escaped her pinned vocal cords.

  “You won’t speak of this to anyone—anyone.” Spittle sprinkled her face. His fingers cinched, the nails drawing blood, until Emma coughed for air. “You comprehend?”

  Even though it increased the level of radiating pain, she strained to nod.

  Her father loosened his grip and her body slackened.

  She held her throat.

  “This research will revolutionize medicine as we know it. I will not have you destroy my findings.”

  Consenting words refused to form. Her exodus from this room and Papa’s presence took precedence over even remembering to breathe.

  “Get you gone, then.”

  The gruff order scraped her like a splintery board.

  “Her father’s coming.” She didn’t think the shaman would be too keen on this so-called methodology.

  Emma marched past him slowly, daring him to harm one inch of her flesh. All of the stickpins from the table weighed in her pocket, just itching to stab his jugular, heart, and brain. In that order. Her hand reached in and fondled them. A fingertip pushed against the sharp ends.

  “You do realize she was dying anyway, don’t you?” he asked.

  She continued out the door.

  Everyone was dying as the days passed. Some have shorter life expectancies than others. The question in Emma’s head was if she’d be able to bide her time until the rest of the card game played out. She still counted on that windfall.

  Summer 1988

  That night, Mark’s ghostly girlfriend lay on her side next to him. Her cotton nightgown formed a sheer second skin. The roundness of her hip and breasts pushed through the fabric. Her inhalation was slow and steady.

  She didn’t smell sweet. Where was that floral perfume?

  He didn’t move, but noticed his breath sync with hers.

  She smiled lovingly.

  Her grip was tight, desperate, and Mark grimaced.

  Pulling back from her vice-like hold wouldn’t do any good. At her mercy, he pleaded with her through his expression.

  Please don’t hurt me.

  A soft look in her eyes turned ominous, flickering red like hot coals.

  He repeated the mantra. Please don’t hurt me.

  Instead of allowing the fear in, he roused the purity and the sensuality, the love he felt for her. After doing that for several minutes, she’d gone.

  Saddened by the shift, Mark wondered why her eyes had changed again. Was it truly her, or his brain finding a way to distance himself? Would his attraction to her eventually lead to his demise?

  Mark snatched up his pillow and sheet and wandered to Tausha’s bed. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It was time to change location, for just one night. His eyelids closed long enough for him to experience the fresh paint of nightmares—preoccupying him until the house woke him with its own terror.

  —

  Someone belted a high-pitched scream outside.

  Mark glimpsed the clock on his nightstand. It blinked to midnight.

  He slunk from Tausha’s bed and hurried to his window, Salem in his shadow.

  His mother was immersed in the fountain. She face-planted into the water, her silk nightgown billowy and ethereal around her.

  Tears filled Mark’s eyes as he watched his father pull her up. Liquid spewed from her mouth. The minute she opened her eyes, they locked on Dad with anger. Her lips tightened over her teeth.

  “Let me go!” she exclaimed. “Let me die!”

  Dad tried to grab her by the arms, but she was too quick. Scratching at him, she leapt up, thrusting her legs around his waist.

  He staggered, losing his footing.

  It all felt like watching a movie. It couldn’t be real. But it was.

  Mark pounced to the phone, dialing 911.

  As the operator asked for the nature of the emergency, he drifted away, watching. His father’s head had fallen back on the edge of the fountain, blood turning the green water inky.

  “Are you there, sir?”

  Mark blurted out his address and bulleted down the staircase and outside, the clinking of Salem’s collar right behind him.

  After he pulled Mom off Dad, Mark shook her by the arms. “Get ahold of yourself.” Was she drunk? Were there pills in the house? Why was she so out of her mind?

  It was like her soul rattled back into her body. Her eyes came into focus and she gazed at Mark, her head cocked to one side.

  A siren cried in the distance.

  Over at the neighbor’s house, an upstairs window lit up.

  “Mom,” Mark said, “come on.”

  Her hands clamped onto Dad’s cheeks as she searched his stare for a sign of life. “Justin—baby, it’s going to be okay.” Sobbing, she nestled her head into his chest.

  M
ark’s heart broke as he recognized those as his father’s words to Mom on that flight when they first met. He prayed with all his might that everything would be okay, that they’d all come out of this ordeal alive. He didn’t know if he’d be able to muster enough faith because he’d been running on fumes as of late.

  “What happened?” Mom asked.

  “Please—” Mark was at his father’s back, trying to pull him from the fountain. “Mom, give me a hand?”

  Snapping into the present moment, she reached into the water and lifted her husband’s legs.

  Mother and son lowered Dad onto the soggy grass.

  Heart pounding in his chest, Mark scoured his memory for what he was supposed to do next. He couldn’t just leave his father lying there in on the lawn and not do anything.

  Mom sniveled, her hands over her mouth.

  Salem yipped, spinning in circles as the emergency vehicle squealed into the driveway.

  Eyes stinging with choked back tears, Mark witnessed the paramedics scamper over to them with a stretcher. One wrapped a blanket around his mother.

  The EMTs fired a few inquiries. Mom’s mouth pressed shut while Mark kept saying, “I don’t know.” The less he said, the less likely the scene would look suspicious.

  They wheeled Dad away over the lawn.

  “Why don’t you get into something dry and meet us at the hospital,” a paramedic said.

  Mark nodded, taking his mother’s hand to lead her inside the house.

  In the bathroom, he turned on the shower, prodding her into the tub. Then he dashed to the master bedroom and mined some dry clothes, which he set on the toilet lid.

  He was nearly tripping over Salem, who’d tracked muddy paw prints everywhere, anxious to be near family.

  Mom was paralyzed, water blasting her face.

  After turning off the faucet, Mark toweled off his mother. He helped her out of the damp nightgown and dressed her.

  “Listen to me. We need to check on Dad,” he said, assessing she was too shaken up to drive.

  She nodded slowly, but Mark wasn’t sure she’d heard him.

  Fetching her shoes from the next room, he strategized. Calling a cab would take too long this time of night in such a small town. Plus, the guy would be all up in their business, asking questions and scrutinizing Mom’s catatonic state. Before walking into the seminar room for the first day of class, there’d be rumors of drug addiction or alcoholism. She’d never regain her reputation, eventually get the axe, and they’d all be homeless.