“Spirits are vengeful. There’ll be a reckonin’,” the shaman said. “Open door, Durley.”
Papa gleamed with a sickening pride in his son’s actions and crossed his arms. The barrel poking his backside had lost its effect.
Emma sniffled. This horrific episode had to be the axe Jonathan had been grinding. How did he endure living with such a nightmarish recollection? Did Riley actually commit this deed? That was inconceivable in itself. Had it been the reason Jonathan had stayed on in the house? Was her connection with him a lie?
“Ha! Wolverine? You defile my house, while playing possum, waiting to pounce? Meanwhile fucking my kin—this Jezebel? How dare you pass judgement on me?” Riley tongued his upper lip while pressing the steel into his sister’s flesh.
Emma’s sobs wiped the wrath from Jonathan’s face. His glassy eyes, full of the kind of endearment only born from the truest and rarest of loves, signaled to her he’d have done anything to swap places. Even with her life at the mercy of her brother’s knife, Emma’s heart wallowed in momentary peace. Where Jonathan’s emotion and hers began or ended, she couldn’t distinguish.
“This hussy’s the curse of this family. Her treachery ends here—now.” Riley swiped the blade across Emma’s throat, blood spraying like red rain. Her pistol plummeted. She gurgled, throwing her hands on the laceration. Her knees buckled, and she lowered to the ground.
The scout raised the pistol to Papa’s temple.
Jonathan bellowed, dashing to Emma’s side, and removed his shirt, pressing it to her neck. With an urgent wish Durley might step in to preserve his daughter’s life, Jonathan shot him an imploring glance. It was not only unanswered, but Emma’s father smirked like the devil having just seduced another soul for the flames of hell.
“I love you,” Jonathan muttered, regarding his lover’s face.
Emma appeared to want nothing more than to say those three words, but merely replied in heaves and gags before going limp and exhaling a prolonged breath.
As Jonathan sniveled and wept, Riley dove for the weapon on the floor. A scout fired at Riley, but the bullet missed the rapidly moving target. In flight to the stairway, Riley discharged a round that pierced the medicine man who groaned upon impact.
Papa chortled loudly, the sound waves bouncing off the walls.
Riley clambered up the steps, the Indian scouts at his back.
Summer 1988
Mark was suspended. At first the sensation of drifting in the peaceful silence of outer space. It also briefly felt like he’d regressed, cradled by the tepid embryonic fluid of the womb. He was safe. He might stay here forever. The aqua blue and seaweed-colored water refracted orbs of light.
But then the shadows came. They invaded in waves of mysterious shapes. An eclipse of darkness covered the surface, the moss and algae reaching forward like tentacles. They swayed and mocked him, their slimy fingers fondling his skin. He squirmed to shake them. The slippery tendrils tickled and then lashed with unusual force. His welts stung like a jellyfish’s venom.
Above, the dimming covering imprisoned him. The air spent in his lungs, he suffocated. He struggled to keep his mouth closed, battling the need to gasp for breath. He tasted a mouthful of stagnant water, reminding him of one-hundred-year-old soggy bread. Wriggling and writhing, struggling against the clutches of the tendrils still seeking to consume him, he managed to squirm to the top.
He reached.
He pushed.
He kicked.
The painful compression in his chest made him think that at any moment he might black out and become part of this watery grave. He flailed and tried to swim, to rise.
Then the murky wall parted. An explosion of prismatic light, the promise of salvation. He stretched his hand up, wanting at least part of him to touch the air immediately. Someone clutched him at the wrist. Yanked, finally rescued, he met her marble-like black eyes. He gasped in terror, his heart bursting.
He sat up in the grass, drenched in sweat. Or was it water from the fountain only a few feet away? Had he almost drowned?
His eyelid twitched.
A floral perfume evaporated.
At the edge of his vision, a feminine shape slithered into the night.
It was an effort to quiet his mind’s questions. How did he get here? Why would he take a plunge into that slimy gunk? Why did it seem so deep? Why rescue him?
Tilting his head, he dislodged some of the liquid in his ears. He dug his index fingers into the canals in an effort to unplug them. When he glanced at his white T-shirt, it’d been tie-dyed green. His veins throbbed with the confirmation of his immersion. He had been within seconds of demise.
He got up and wrung the moisture from his shirt and shorts. A gust of hot air warmed his neck, bringing the faint odor of smoldering cloves. He twirled in a circle as he stepped along towards the house. Seeing nothing and no one, he picked up the pace.
Was someone messing with him? That psycho neighbor? Who was the medicine man she told him about?
As Mark approached the front door, it was ajar. He must’ve let himself out. He’d never sleepwalked before. Not ever. His temples ached.
He wiped his feet on the mat before climbing the staircase. As he ascended each step, he pondered how he didn’t ever really feel alone in the house. At the moment he wasn’t sure if that was what bothered him. He was too shaken up to analyze any of it. The house had officially attacked him. He didn’t have to wait for undeniable proof of hostility anymore. The proof was forthright.
Regardless of the current and imminent danger, gratitude and comfort filled him.
—
That next morning Salem hurdled onto Mark’s bed.
While turning away from her slobbering, his first thoughts were about the previous night. Mark considered nudging his dog off the mattress and throwing the sheet over his head, but Salem had already licked him awake.
Slinging a baggy Bon Jovi T-shirt over his head, he descended the stairs to the kitchen. Mom pretended to read the newspaper. The faint stench of alcohol seeped from her pores and her eyes were glassy and stringed with red.
Mark yanked the refrigerator door open. Sometimes he expected to see something else inside, like the ancient dimension of Zuul from Ghostbusters. It was funny to think how ridiculous that had seemed, but his life had one-upped that movie scene, and then some.
“Did you see Dr. Durley last night?” Mom’s tone was defiant, demented.
Mark chugged milk from the carton. “Um, no.” He decided to play along to see what she’d say. “Did you?”
Mom sipped the steaming coffee.
Finding they were out of cereal, Mark grabbed some lunchmeat and unwrapped some cheese, trying to get the cellophane to unstick from his fingers and drop into the garbage can. It finally crinkled and then disappeared under the swinging lid.
—
There was a knock at the front door.
Following a glimpse out the window, Mark spotted a police cruiser parked on the swale.
Fantastic. Just what I need right now.
Sticking his head outside, Mark said, “Can I help you?”
“Is your mom home?” the officer asked.
A drunken interrogation wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. “Um, no.”
“But the car’s in the driveway.”
He’d forgotten that no detail escapes small town folks, so surely everyone was aware the Pacer was the family’s only car. “Yeah, well she’s pretty shaken up. Took a long walk, I think.”
“Can you come out here? I’d like to ask you a few questions about the other night.”
Slamming the door in the officer’s face, although tempting, would likely make things worse. Mark stepped bare-footed onto the porch, the door ajar behind him.
A pad and pencil in her hand, the officer peered directly into Mark’s eyes. “First off, I’m sorry you’re going through so much right now,” she said, “but I just need to follow-up with a few things the neighbor’s reported.”
&n
bsp; Mark sighed. “What do you wanna know?”
“Your parents had a domestic squabble, that right?”
“Domestic squabble?” Mark had understood, but didn’t really know how to answer this appropriately.
“You know, they had a fight out back. Tell me about that.”
“My mom must’ve slept walked. My dad was just trying to get her back to bed.”
“The neighbor said she’d said something about killing herself.” She checked her notes. “Wanting to die. Why would she have said something like that?”
“My mom’s not suicidal or anything. She’s just been all stressed out about the move here, that’s all.” Great, so much for rumor prevention. Mom would be the new professor who had a nervous breakdown. “And then my sister being in the hospital hasn’t helped any.”
“I get it. And now your dad’s there, too.” She rubbed Mark’s forearm and handed him a business card. “It can’t be easy on any of you.”
Mark shook his head.
The cop waited a beat, and then another. “You give me a call if you need anything. We take care of each other around here, as much as we can.” A false kindness rang in her voice, causing Mark to guess what she really meant was that she was looking out for the rest of the town. Mark’s family were outsiders, a threat to the quiet status quo the population served and protected. “Any idea when I can come back to talk to your mom?”
“If you could give her a few days. She’s really not been herself.”
The officer turned to walk to her vehicle. “You take care, you hear?” She waved.
Mark considered uttering a thank you but decided there was no point. Even if the law gave a crap about his family, they’d be useless in combatting the energies in this house.
Once he’d locked the door behind him, Mark ripped up the business card and tossed the shreds onto the table in the entryway.
February 1862
The pain had subsided. Emma felt weightless, but rested where she lay on the floor.
Jonathan crouched beside her and observed the medicine man as he produced a bone dagger from inside his coat. With a swift motion, he stuck Durley in the heart.
The doctor zigzagged, his eyes wide, his facial features contorting into a monstrous mask. As he hollered, he pawed at the shelves, which toppled, sending the contents to shatter along the ground. The cacophony overshadowed the initial shrieks as Durley followed the sharp bone slitting him to the navel before his eyes began glazing over. Like a crumbling tower, the doctor tumbled. The shaman reached into the chest cavity and dug out the innards, hacking the intestines and puncturing the crimson and purple organs. Blood spurted, dousing the Indian’s head and coat. His hands glistened with fluid.
Jonathan rose and bent over the slaughter. “What are you doin’?” An exhausted defeat infiltrated his voice.
Having gathered strength, Emma sat up, hands tight to her throat. The display of her disemboweled father hadn’t registered. Words failed to develop in her mind, so she witnessed the scene in silence. Her sense of detachment unnerved her.
“See this?” The shaman lifted the dagger, the leather fringe swaying, dripping with blood.
Jonathan nodded, noticing the Indian’s other hand pressing on his gunshot wound.
“Banishes his spirit from the earth plane. He can never return here—his spirit may not reincarnate or travel. But the son will be back.” His wet hands grabbed Jonathan’s shoulders. “The family must suffer. Look what they’ve done to your people—” He gestured to Emma. “To your woman.”
Jonathan’s eyes watered.
“You must avenge us—end the carnage.”
“What ‘bout Zyanya?” Jonathan pointed to the iron door.
“She will join you.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s not much time.” The medicine man doubled over, no longer bothering to staunch his injury. He tugged at the string of beads peeking from Jonathan’s shirt, examining the pendant. “We’ll need this.”
Jonathan pushed his hair back, his brow crinkling.
“You will have to do exactly as I say. You understand? Extract their blood.” The daggered hand feebly gestured to Dr. Durley and Emma before the elder passed the ritual blade to Jonathan. “And put it in this.” He produced a black stone pipe. Was that Jonathan’s? Or one just like it? Incredible.
Jonathan gnashed his teeth.
Too enervated to rush to him, to tell him not to pierce her veins and go through with the ceremony, Emma stayed glued to the floor. No sound emitted from her throat. She was a baby bird that hadn’t found her voice.
Jonathan looked through her with the saddest, most hopeless expression. Did he see her? Why wasn’t he meeting her eyes?
He bent over Papa, slicing his wrist and collecting crimson droplets.
When Jonathan hovered over Emma, he bit his lip, his entire face taut. A single tear trickled down his cheek as he grabbed her arm. Why hadn’t she felt the razor sharp bone against her skin? She waited to sense the runnel of blood dripping into the end of the pipe. Instead of feeling physically numb, she felt nothing.
Although Emma longed to detect his touch, she could only watch Jonathan gently let go of her. She’d been separated from herself, from him. The agony scorched her soul. What was the reason for such torment? Was this hell?
Jonathan stood and supported the shaman, leading him to the stairs.
“Make haste. Now you must carry out the rite, just as I say—before I die. You must sacrifice me before my last breath. Do you hear?”
Summer 1988
“You coming over then?” Hexx asked.
Mark had just explained what had happened the night before and that his dad was doped up on pain pills while the doctors assessed his head injuries. Tausha’s lungs were still filling with water. Mom was having vodka for breakfast. Things were copacetic. Not.
“There’s something I’ve gotta do first,” Mark said. “Gimme a couple of hours.”
After they hung up, Mark dug through his mother’s wallet. Stealing was wrong, but he didn’t think anyone would mind in this case.
He palmed the keys and exited the house. On his ride to the nearest hardware store, he reflected on how the car weaved within the lane. His arms wobbled as he looked around for cops. His pulse quick the whole way.
Inside the store, the clerk wasn’t much more useful than the dude manning the record shop, even though Mark was probably making the biggest purchase for the day. A sale was a sale.
Back at the house, Mark backed the car all the way up the driveway that stretched the entire side of the house. Next to the fountain, he unpacked the supplies.
Sweat soaked his shirt, despite not having gotten started yet.
Mark just stood there.
In the daylight, the fountain appeared less ominous. For the first time, he took a closer look at the stone figure on the pedestal. Was she a mermaid? A goddess? There was no way to tell. Next, he examined the mossy layer on the water. There was the illusion you could walk right across, or even lie down on its cushiony softness. How did that form in just a few hours?
Enough dilly-dallying. He rigged several connecting extension cords to power the shiny new bilge pump. It sputtered and moaned as it slurped up all the sludgy liquid and vomited it out onto the surrounding grass. Soon he slopped around in the marsh. The scene could go for some metal—G-N-R, Anthrax, Metallica. He’d have his own personal mosh pit.
Violently jerking the machine around to get at another section of soured gook, Mark ignored the rotten smell. All that was about to be eradicated.
“Shit!” he cried as the contraption stammered into silence.
Two more disconnects from the electricity later and a few good bouts of heavy pumping, the fountain’s basin was bone dry. There was still some mossy residue, but the inside was as empty as it was going to get.
On their way back from the hospital, he’d asked his mom when they’d be moving. “Whenever we can trick someone into buying this pl
ace,” she’d mumbled. Mark sighed. Hope that’s soon as fuck. However, he was well aware of the fact that no one wanted this orphan house. They might have to resort to black magic for real. Wouldn’t that be a kicker? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?
He wound up the miles of extension cord into a lasso-like ring and threw it next to the house. Physically spent, he realized he’d have to finish part two later. Guys on TV made everything look so damned easy, but with the sun beating on him and the jimmying of the pump, he had nothing left in the reservoir. He patted the sledgehammer leaning on the siding and stormed inside to change into something dry.
It’d all be done soon. The fountain had to be destroyed.
Mark mentally typed his name to claim his high score. BAM (a.k.a. Bad Ass Motherfucker): 3,333,360 points.
Pac Man’s perfect score.
—
Mark, a backpack over his shoulder, knocked at Hexx’s house.
The door creaked open, and Mark stepped inside.
“I couldn’t get her out of bed,” Hexx said.
“We’ll go to her, then.” Mark waved to the hallway. “After you.”
Hexx sighed.
“Come on, man. Literally half my family almost died. I’m next. You don’t want that on your head, do you?”
The kid chomped on his lip and turned.
A charred smell of something Mark didn’t recognize filled the room.
Grandma was up to her neck in bedding, her eyes closed. A mug, the rim speckled with green flecks, sat on the nightstand.
“She’s smoking pot this early?” Mark whispered, throwing up his hands.
“No, idiot. That’s sage,” Hexx replied as he approached the bed, nudging the woman’s arm. “Gran.” He shoved her with more vigor.
She groaned.
“Gran, we really need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Her eyes slit open, but when she noticed Mark, they widened. “Why you keep bringing this boy here? He’s the one from that…house.” She hissed the final word.
Fountain Dead Page 19
