by Lucian Bane
“Turn slow so I can sees this fool and tell your dog to settle down.”
The wolf had begun to bark non-stop as Solomon did exactly as instructed. “Settle down boy,” he ordered, wishing he’d named him or knew his name.
“Yep, city as can be.”
The only thing Solomon saw was bright green eyes and patches of white around his head along with a couple of teeth. Was he painted black? “You Jimmy Ray Smith?”
“Who’s askin?”
“Me, sir. Solomon Gorge Hensley.”
The teeth slowly disappeared. “What you say boy?”
The sudden low tenor in his tone sent Solomon’s heart hammering. “Solomon Gorge Hensley, sir.”
“Where you from?”
“From Wheeling. My mother was Deidra Hensley. My father was from Morgantown. But I was raised in Edmond, Oklahoma.”
“Where’d you get a name like that?” he said, annoyed.
Solomon gave a dry chuckle, still holding his hands up. “My mom. She liked the name.”
“Who’d you say your momma was, boy?”
“Deidra Hensley.”
“Her maiden name son,” he snapped.
“Uh, Deidra… Thames. Get in the truck,” he ordered the incessantly growling wolf.
The man lowered the gun finally but those green eyes didn’t leave him. “What you wantin from me,” he muttered, sounding unhappier than ever.
“Miss Mary Bartley said you could help me.”
A few seconds later, he slapped his leg, laughing. “Miss Mary? How’s she doin, Lort I ain’t seen her in ages.”
“She’s doing fine,” Solomon said, happy for the connection. “I’m her caretaker.”
“Where Arthur at?” he asked softly.
“He died about a year ago.”
“What you got on your mind boy,” he demanded, back to suspicious.
“Well…”
“Don’t be pissin round ya words now. Go on.”
“I met a girl, her name is Chaos.”
“Chaos,” he said, sounding disgusted.
“I know this might sound crazy—“
“Don’t’ be usin that word in these woods,” he barked.
Solomon started again, carefully. “I had a dream of a woman. She was calling me. Solomon Gorge. Solomon Gorge. That same night, I found a woman half dead, hanging in the trees by my house. I took her home and she made me swear not to tell. But after a few days of digging, I learned she’s into some strange things.”
“Like?”
“She says she was adopted. She calls her father Master. And she mentioned something Miss Mary said I’m not supposed to say.”
“That a fack.” He propped a foot on Solomon’s bumper. “I’ll be the determination of that.” The light of the moon cast just enough illumination to give his outline. It finally hit Solomon why the man was black. Because he was black!
“Desecration,” Solomon said quietly, just in case it was bad to say.
The man spit on his right, eying him the whole time. “What the hell you doin, tryin to raise the dead round heeya?”
“No sir,” Solomon said. “But I think she’s in trouble.”
“Who?”
“The woman.”
“With the crazy name?” Solomon eyed him and the man shot out, “Yeah, I can say it, but you can’t.”
“Yes, Chaos. She left my house and I think she’s going back to the place where she came from.”
“Which is where?”
“I don’t know, that’s what I’m here to ask about.”
“How’s I’m supposed to know where she at?”
Solomon finally shook his head, looking around. “I don’t know.” He looked back at him. “What is desecration?”
He spit again, eying him and Solomon realized he had tobacco in his lower lip. “You like playin with the dead, son?”
“No sir,” Solomon said. “Not at all.”
“Well you is.” He seemed to need to spit after every exchange now. “You see that place behind you?”
“The asylum?”
“Yes, the asylum,” he stressed perfectly, the whites showing around his eyes briefly.
Solomon nodded. “I saw it.”
“Then you sawed yuh ansuh.” He seemed to shift from heavy accent to proper dialect every other word.
“The asylum has the answers?”
The whites of his eyes slowly became more visible as did his few teeth. “You gots it city boy.”
He wasn’t going to just divulge. Solomon thought about Chaos and what might be happening to her and leveled his own glare on the old man. “How about you share a story that would lead me where I need to go?”
Thick silence spanned the seconds before his cackling echoed in the woods. “Shaaaaaare a storeee, you say.” His smile disappeared and he angled slit green eyes on him. “The story is tellin itself, boy. Has been for years. Just ain’t nobody listenen!” he squealed like it annoyed him. "The town be tellin the story ova and ova but they too smart to see it.” He gave another cackled laugh that raised the hairs on Solomon's arms. “The dead looooove to talk Mr. Solomon Gorge, they loooooove to sing and dance, oh how they looooove to wrong those rights.”
“Wrong rights?” Solomon wondered.
The man winked at him. “Now you hearin me!” he exclaimed as though Solomon weren’t confused.
“Check out page twenty-five, Mr. Solomon Gorge. You might find it quite entertaining. As well as page three. And four and five and six. Hell, all the pages is just exploding with fun!” he strained in excitement.
“What pages?”
“Of the story! The one the town be tellin ova and ova and ova!”
“Where is this written?”
“I just tole you, it’s eveeee where, boy you hard a hearin? Use that bright mind of yours or did you forget how?”
Solomon eyed him. “Do… we know each other somehow?”
“Whooooowee!” he yelled. “Now your cookin. I tell you what. You go check out the cemetary right up the road. Then come back and see me, I might just have a lil sumpin sumpin fuh ya.”
“When should I come?” he asked.
“Gimme bout… three days I spect.”
“You got it,” Solomon said, stretching his hand out to the man. “Thank you sir.”
The man looked at his hand then back at Solomon. “You ain’t ready fuh that yet boy. Not yet.”
He looked down at his hand then drew it back and nodded.
“Now get on outta here fore the ground drinks yah blood. It be gettin real thirsty dis time of the century.”
Jesus. Solomon looked around and nodded. “Thank you again.” He turned to glance up the road. “Guess I’ll just back on out like I came.”
But the old man was already gone. Wind suddenly moves through the trees above, creating angry whispers with the dried leaves. Solomon retreated for the door of his truck while looking all around, his eyes picking up shadows that darted in the woods.
Hopping in, he slammed the door to his truck and locked it. Starting it up, Solomon threw it in reverse. That wasn’t creepy as all fuck, he thought as he carefully navigated his way out.
When he got to the gate it was pitch black. He turned to put the truck in park and yelled at seeing the old man standing ten feet in the headlights, waving at him. “Jesus Christ,” Solomon whispered, opening his door and waving back as he headed to open the gate.
Chapter Fifteen
Once he was out of the creepy ass asylum woods with the creepy black man, he shut the gate back and used his flashlight to find a spot to turn the truck around. Driving backwards another step wasn’t happening. He needed to be able to haul ass should he want to.
He poked along the road now, searching for the graveyard. He finally spotted what might be it, creepily close to the asylum. Solomon parked and stared at the open field under the nearly full moon. Lopsided tombstones looking for all the world like the dead had done climbed out of them glowed under the starless sky. The fuc
k kind of creepy mess was this?
Solomon fetched his flashlight and got out. “Come on now, boy,” he eyed the wolf unmoving in the back of the truck, “…don’t quit on me now.”
Starting mid-way, Solomon weaved in and out of the headstones, trying to be careful not to step on anything that would be considered offensive to the living or the dead. But something told him being there at all was a real pisser-offer.
I think you need a name,” he said to the dog at his heels as he flashed his light at the stones. “How about Champ? You like that name?” he muttered, moving the beam over one cracked slab of stone after another. “I don’t see anything, Champ,” he whispered. “You?”
Ready to turn back, he paused. “Nothing on these. I don’t get it.” He turned around, thinking that odd. Hurrying along the next row, he found more of the same. “What is this, I don’t get it,” he muttered, going faster now. “Whoa.” He paused at one. “Erica… Mason. Died June 4, 1951.” He quickly shined the light on the next and the next and the next. “Who are the rest of these dead people?”
Frustrated with his lack of answers, he made a hard mental note of the only name he saw so far. Surely there had to be a less creepy way to find out who was at the asylum, less suspicious looking too.
He hurried back to his truck, praying that maybe Chaos had gone back to the house. Maybe she’d just gone off into the woods to think like she’d said.
****
Chaos’s head lolled side to side. The screech of the gurney wheels she’d heard in her dream came as a slow motion echo. Even the walls, the colors and the voices did. Grandmother had blessed her with a little getaway vehicle before bringing her to the Fourth Floor. She wasn’t supposed to give her anything for pain, but she did. Judging by how high Chaos was, she’d given her a lot. Chaos hoped she didn’t get beaten too badly for it. She’d tried to stop her but really she hadn’t tried as hard as she could or should have.
There were two kinds of Desecrations. The ones that happened on the seventh day of every week and those that happened on the seventh day of the seventh year. Chaos had only been to three of those.
And then there was this one. The only one like it. Ever. Chaos focused on its importance rather than the Fourth Floor. That chamber was her weakness. And Silence’s and Chosen’s. She was sure there would never be a time when it wouldn’t be. Some horrors you couldn’t overcome. Some you could only hope to survive every time you endured them.
“She is to be coherent!” Master’s fury could be heard even through the drug's effect. “Now I will have to raise the volts, thanks to your compassion!”
Grandmother’s cries dragged out deep, sounding like slow laughter in a tunnel.
“And to atone, you too will endure the fate you save her from. Do I not have enough to think of without worrying over your fretful silliness! I am the Order’s Master, I have a charge, a responsibility, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for complete restoration!”
All of his words boomed and banged like rolling thunder in a tank, while Grandmother’s deep sobs sounded like scary roars of a metal beast. Everything spun in Chaos’s mind, ears, and body until she didn’t know where she was, when, or what was happening.
She was jerked around, shoved, pushed, and restrained. But this time when the metal teeth of the brutal Desecration bit into her mind and body, the jolt made everything crystal clear. It was too late. She was gone from there, beyond the pain and agony. She sat on the edge of that pond with Solomon. The sun was glorious and he was swimming, beckoning her in, reaching with his hand to her. “Come here, Beautiful.”
She went to him and wasn’t afraid. The water was warm and she knew she was safe as he held her in his arms, staring deeply into her eyes. He spun round and round with her in the water, his face more beautiful and bright than ever. It took her breath away. Because it shone there in his forever blue eyes. That look of heaven was because of her. All because of her.
Because he loved her.
****
Solomon drove only kind of slowly as he went back home, just in case she’d got lost. He made it to his driveway, dread gripping the pit of his stomach at where she could be. He had one last hope that maybe she was inside and so hurried up the steps with Champ right behind him.
The cabin was empty. He hurried to the bathroom to find that empty too. “Fuck,” he muttered, raking his hands through his hair and locking the front door. He looked around the room trying to think of where she might be that he’d not looked. His eyes fell on the baby possum, scratching at the cage walls.
The traps. He grabbed his gun again and headed down the trail he’d taken her that day. Despair set as he went from one to another to find it deserted. All his options gone, he yelled as loud as he could for her as he made his way back to the cabin.
Champ whined and went ahead of Solomon then, making him pick up his steps in hope. “You smell something boy?” he asked, jogging to keep up with the wolf’s eager gait. “That’s it boy, what you got?” he gasped, dodging branches to keep up.
The sound of a motor in the distance made Solomon’s heart race harder. Champ was full out barking and growling as he ran now, straight for the cabin. At clearing the forest near the back porch, the dog stopped at the front of the house and barked rabidly.
Finally catching up, Solomon rounded the front porch and looked around for signs of a vehicle then his heart jerked at seeing a note on the front door. Running over, he yanked it off and read.
Let the dead bury the dead.
Solomon looked all around as Champ still barked at whoever had just happened by. He finally went inside and called the wolf in. He needed to get somebody to take his place with Miss Mary for a couple of days while he searched for her. She couldn’t be far. He had to find out who she was to the people in town. But how?
Solomon decided to take his phone and head to a Wi-Fi spot. He needed to get some answers without asking people until it was absolutely necessary. “You stay,” he told Champ just before closing the door and locking it. “Guard!”
An hour later, he sat in the parking lot of the Burger Buddy, surfing the internet. He started with the town he was in. Wait, she might not even be from that town. He searched all the towns surrounding his, particularly the consensus for each. Right, just as he’d assumed. All the towns around there were small with little population.
He searched the asylum next and the dread began to seep into his pores right through the cyber portal, starting with the name—The Luna Hills Trans Asylum. There was something extra creepy about giving a fucked up place a sane, serene name to play down the reality. Why not just call it Sanitarium For The Bat Shit Crazy, or Forgotten Hope Mental Ward? Because they didn’t name these places to impress the insane, that’s why. They named them to make those who admitted loved ones feel better. And with all the psychotic drugs circulating those places, The Whispering Oaks and the Waverly Dreams Institute was a happy medium. He was sure all of reality was a waverly dream and more than the oaks whispered, in both the halls of the institutes and the minds of those living in them.
Solomon read the intro to this place. Shut down in 1994? That wasn’t that long ago. Bought again in 2007 by James Cutter, an entrepreneur who couldn’t afford to restore it as planned. James Cutter… The name didn’t ring a bell.
Solomon dug more, looking for the history of the place. Particularly something that would give him a lead to Jimmy’s graveyard clue. And now this Let the dead bury the dead note. The two seemed very related. And just who would give him that kind of note? Somebody that knew him. Master supposedly knew him. According to Chaos, Master said he was special? Just who the fuck was this creep?
The more he went, the more it felt like Chaos was planted in his life. He just needed to figure out why. And those nameless dead people were his clue along with that note about letting the dead bury the dead. Wasn’t that scriptural? He quickly searched it and got chills at finding it was. Luke 9:60.
Jesus, this might be some mass delusion
al Jim Jones outfit he was getting sucked into. To think Chaos might be a part of something like that, a pawn in some sick ploy to get him to drink the Kool-Aid made him ill. And it left him with only more questions.
His search on the head count at the asylum ended at on online bookstore. Pulling out his bank card, he set up an account and bought the book then downloaded a reading app for his phone. For the next two hours, he skimmed for details about the patient count and the graveyard while occasionally looking up to search the parking lot for red hair. Every now and then he’d get sucked into the dreadful details of the place and had to pull himself out. The part about the asylum becoming extremely over-crowded and understaffed invoked visions of the insane, drooling and moaning, staggering about as they pissed and defecated in every corner and hall.
He finally found something. Holy shit, twenty thousand people died during the institutions operation? He opened his calculator on the phone and did quick math. The place opened in 1893, closed in 1994… oh holy shit… an average of fifteen patients died a month? He repeated the calculations and came up with the same thing again.
He stared absently through the windshield, trying to connect that with the clues. With that many people dying, they’d have no time to bury them at all seemed like. He recalled the amount of graves he’d seen and it hit him. That wasn’t twenty-thousand graves. Hardly.
So where were all these people? And why so many unnamed graves showing? A horn blasted next to him. “Jesus,” he gasped, watching an angry driver speed through the parking lot. Solomon looked around and realized it was starting to rain. Great.
He needed to talk to Jimmy. Three days was too long to wait. He’d go see him in the morning. No, tomorrow afternoon. Give him time to do something if he was even doing anything. Jimmy knew things, why make him jump through hoops, why not just tell him? He’d just have to convince him to tell. Wait. Miss Mary. What if he brought her along?
Solomon started his truck and backed out. That damn well might work. If he could get Miss Mary to cooperate. But it was too late to bother Mary now, he’d go tomorrow.
Driving slowly down the road to his cabin, he searched the woods carefully for anything red, or white. By the time he drove up to the house, it was pouring down. Looking all around before getting out, he made a run for the porch and let himself in the house, greeting an excited Champ.
