The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  Isabel stayed put, not wanting to separate, but not speaking up. It felt foolish to be afraid, to nag at them to be careful. She looked back to the house. This north side was flat and uniform, except for a squat greenhouse constructed of glass too grimy to see through. All the upper story windows of the house were barred. The only doors, it seemed, were the front door and the cellar door leading to the basement. That had to be a fire code violation.

  Grip, in the middle of the yard, found the largest gravestone. It had been consumed by a mass of vines.

  Isabel raised her voice. “I want a house that feels like ours, not part of someone else's tragic family lineage.”

  “She has a point,” Grip said.

  Howard walked toward the toolshed on the far side of the garden. The shed looked older than the house, likely built at the start of the 1800s by fur traders to cure and dry meats. It was also padlocked.

  Isabel stayed on the outskirts of the garden, her back to the house. She felt eyes on her, from behind her, from the upper story windows, but told herself it was paranoia again.

  Grip ripped away the vines and wiped dirt from an engraving. “Look at this. It's Howard.”

  Apprehensive but curious, Isabel walked over.

  Grip read, “‘HOWARD JACOBI 1816-1854 Bastard son of a Catholic whore, doomed by original sin, has found salvation on the opposite shore.’ How sweet.”

  Howard thought over the history of this place. “They must have been here for almost two hundred years.”

  “Who?” Grip said.

  “The Cross of the Lamb. Ophelia was right. This is where it all began.”

  Grip’s understanding of the Cross was shaky. “Are they a big deal?” Howard talked about a lot of different cults.

  “I've told you about them before.”

  “And I listened very carefully.”

  “Oh, come on, Grip,” Isabel said. “They’re the ones that believe the crucifixion failed, and to cleanse the world—”

  Howard interjected, “To save us from the sins of Adam—”

  “—there need to be more sacrifices.”

  “The sins of Adam?” Grip said.

  “You know, the Garden of Eden . . .” Isabel said.

  Grip stared dumbly.

  Howard shook his head. “Did they teach you anything in prison?”

  “Besides anal sex?” Howard and Isabel didn’t find it funny. “Pretend I’m an idiot and explain it to me again.”

  Isabel obliged. “In Genesis, Eve gave the forbidden fruit of knowledge to Adam, and because Adam ate the fruit, we're all cursed to hell for his original sin. So throughout the Old Testament, God’s people held sacrifices. They used the blood of animals to wash away original sin. The innocent died in the place of the sinner.”

  “Christians believe Jesus ended all that with his sacrifice on the cross,” Grip said, catching on.

  “Right.”

  “So what does that have to do with the Cross of the Lamb?”

  Howard suppressed his frustration. He'd explained this many times before. “The founder of the Cross, probably this Howard Jacobi, was supposedly a descendant of Mary. He believed his offspring were the only ones who could save the world from original sin. And so generation after generation, that's what the Cross did; they held sacrifices.”

  “Howard was obsessed.”

  “Maybe a little. You have to admit it’s fascinating.”

  “Back in the day, I thought he was trying to convert me.” Isabel laughed. “Seriously, it was that bad. I can’t believe you don’t know all this.”

  “I’ve told him. He just doesn’t listen.”

  “What kind of sacrifices?”

  Howard shrugged. “The reports vary. Most likely baby goats.”

  “Sick.”

  Howard bent over another grave.

  Isabel realized she'd forgotten some of the details too. It had been years since Howard had focused all his research on the Cross of the Lamb. While she was glad that obsessive phase had ended, she still wanted to remember. “Remind me again—why wasn't Jesus enough?”

  Howard wiped away leaves and revealed an engraving of the three crosses of Calvary. “For a long time, I wondered the same thing. The cult centered on Gnostic writings lost around the turn of the century, so without the original texts, there were disagreements on the logic.”

  “What logic?” Grip said. “It’s a cult.”

  “As firmly rooted as any other religion. Remember when I went to central Oregon? The book I tracked down related to those same Gnostic texts.”

  “The one about Mary?” Isabel said.

  “The one with all the gory pictures? That book was fucking creepy.”

  Howard nodded. “The Book of Three. It says the crucifixion failed because Mary wasn't willing to sacrifice Jesus, and because her sacrifice was involuntary, Jesus's blood failed to cleanse the world of original sin. But that’s just the start. It goes on to talk about Mary’s bloodline. It argues that because the Cross of the Lamb’s sacrifices never took into account female energies, they created an ouroboros, a never-ending cycle, and that if female energy was finally taken into account, the debt would be resolved forever and the ouroboros would be severed at the head.”

  “No more dead goats,” Grip said.

  “Exactly. The book even gave instructions. It’s fascinating.”

  Grip remembered looking at the book. It had given him nightmares for weeks. Over time he'd forgotten about it, and it felt strange to remember it now, like finding out a nightmare had been real. He remembered snakes. He remembered nudity and a gutted man. That was why he'd reacted so strongly to the snakes in the spiritualist shop, he realized.

  “That’s so strange,” Isabel said aloud to herself, lost in her own thoughts.

  Alex held out his drawing and she took it.

  Why do children die? he said.

  Well, Alex, all things die eventually. She tried to give the picture back, but he refused.

  It’s for you.

  A yellow snake eating its own tail.

  She recoiled.

  “What?” Howard asked her.

  It was a disconcerting jolt to return to reality. She wasn’t in the classroom. The memory had been so transporting! She was in a dead garden now. Planted bodies. Graves. “Nothing. Sorry. It’s just, today a kid in my class drew an ouroboros.”

  “Weird,” Grip said.

  “I know, right? I mean, how many kids even know what an ouroboros is? I had to look it up. And now, a few hours later, we’re talking about one. Oh my god! He lives next door! I think he might’ve been talking about this house!”

  Howard stood up and looked back at Jacobi House. “I research cults. You teach the kid next door. This can’t all be a coincidence.”

  “You think Ophelia still sacrifices goats?” Grip was only half serious. “She’s still part of the Cross, right? Maybe she could use your book. Goat killing: not a great hobby.”

  “Wait,” Howard said. “Did you see that?”

  “Poor baby goats,” Grip continued. “What did they ever do to her?”

  “Look.” Howard pointed.

  Isabel didn't see anything. Grip didn’t see anything either.

  “Someone’s up there,” Howard said.

  On the upper floor, on the left side of the back of the house, was a window barred like all the others. In the window, behind a sheer curtain, stood a shadow in the shape of a person.

  Grip leaned forward. “Where?”

  “Through the curtain.”

  Isabel held on to Howard’s arm. They watched.

  “That could be anything,” Grip said.

  “It moved,” Howard said.

  Isabel wasn’t sure. “Well, it's not moving now.”

  Howard shook his head. “I must be seeing things.”

  “This is serious,” Isabel said. “It could be a transient or something.”

  “How would they get inside?” Grip looked to the massive wall that ran around the house. “Th
e razor wire.”

  “The key is hanging out front,” she reminded him.

  “Good point.”

  The shadow moved behind the curtain. Then it was still again. They all saw it.

  Grip looked to Howard. “Now what?”

  Howard shrugged. “Don't ask me.”

  The window shattered, and glass rained down. A withered hand reached out through the bars and dropped a crumpled piece of paper that fell to the ground beside the greenhouse, among the glittering shards of glass. Both Grip and Isabel, petrified, held on to Howard. Howard moved forward, and his two lovers reluctantly let him go.

  “Fuck.” Grip clutched his talisman against evil.

  Howard crouched and picked up the paper. He uncrumpled it.

  “Well?” Grip said.

  Howard held it up. Scrawled in dark red letters, it read: “HELP ME”. It had to be fresh blood.

  “Guys?” Grip said.

  “Come back here.” Isabel pleaded.

  Howard looked up at the window as he backed away, the figure still behind the curtain. “Hello!” he called out. “Talk to us! Say something!”

  ◆◆◆

  On the second floor of Jacobi House, an old woman watched through the discolored lace curtain and the unyielding bars. In the backyard, two handsome men and an attractive young lady looked back up at her. They appeared small down there in the yard of graves and garden rot.

  So tiny like little bugs, the old woman thought. So powerless, despite their youth and beauty.

  Nothing could stop Jacobi House now, but maybe, just maybe, she could escape while the house was distracted by these three doomed souls.

  Isabel said from below, “Maybe they can't hear us.”

  The woman in the house could hear them, could hear them just fine. She trembles, the old woman thought of Isabel. Look at her, like a frightened foal! How exciting it was to see such fright.

  Isabel clutched Howard’s arm. “Hello!” she called up to the window.

  “Or they’re trying to lure us into the house!” Grip moved from foot to foot, ready to fight the unknown. His arms were tattooed, bright and sinful.

  Adrenaline fills that boy! Yes. Smart to be afraid. Sadly, it won’t do you no good! The old woman laughed, though not out loud—never out loud.

  “Out here isn’t any safer,” Howard said. “We're locked in and it's getting dark.”

  That man, the older one with the beard, tall and oh so handsome, reminded her of the man she had once loved so long ago in this very house. There had been a time when she had been fashionable and beautiful. A time when she had been competition. But she was outmoded now, like a gramophone with its needle worn down. Archaic and ugly.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t usually one for nostalgia. The man she had once loved was dead and in the ground. This new man down in the yard was a goner too. There was consolation in that, at least.

  She wheeled her I.V. away from the broken window, away from the light, and thought, The House of Skulls will have its due. I’ll see Howard dead with the rise of the moon.

  Patience.

  Patience like the spider.

  9

  Over the Wall

  Wind swept the backyard and gusted down the east corridor, howling between the outer wall and the Gothic Revival side of Jacobi House. Isabel, Howard, and Grip stood with their backs to the curtained windows of the chapel and the padlocked cellar door, and—though the massive outer wall obstructed their view—yelled toward the Stonecipher House, hoping Zelda or her family would hear.

  Grip: “Call the police! We’re locked in.”

  Howard: “We need help!”

  Isabel: “Help! Anyone home?”

  After a few fruitless minutes of this, they gave up.

  “Damn it!” Grip said. “We’re fucked! They can’t hear us.”

  “Or they’re ignoring us.” Howard held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  Isabel's phone was still in her purse. Grip handed his over, even though he knew it was dead.

  “This is ridiculous,” Grip said.

  Howard turned it on. The introduction chimed. “It’s working!” It beeped and turned off. “It’s not working. Damn it!” He took a quiet moment.

  Isabel saw the gears working and thought, He’s going to get us out of this. He's going to think of something, and we'll be okay. Howard was the most capable man she knew.

  He looked up at the razor wire. “I’m going to climb the wall.”

  “How?” Grip said.

  “I’ll stand on your shoulders. I should be able to grab the ledge and pull myself up.” Howard motioned to Grip. “Over here. Up against the wall.”

  Trusting Howard, Grip stepped up near the bush where Isabel had found the doll.

  Isabel shook her head. “What about the razor wire?”

  “If I can get up to the ledge, maybe I can get someone’s attention.”

  ◆◆◆

  White sheets, strung on a clothesline between Stonecipher House and a hook screwed into the dividing wall, billowed in the wind like flags of surrender. Mrs. Stonecipher folded them and the sundries and stacked them in a wicker basket. The night would come quick, and the whites needed to be inside.

  The top sheets folded so nicely, but the fitted sheets were always a nightmare.

  From the other side of the wall came calls for help.

  Amazing how the wall protects us, she thought. “Thank you, God,” she said aloud and crossed herself. Jacobi House harbored the sins of the world, and though priests of the Lamb had blessed the wall, it was a miracle that the evil didn’t just pass through the stone and corrupt her family. She would sleep soundly tonight, knowing God protected her children.

  Those poor souls, she thought of the people calling for help. They sound so distraught. So lost. They'll be found by God soon enough. Soon Mrs. Stonecipher would rest the first real rest since God had taken her husband. In an hour or so, all of it—the long line of sacrifices, the Cross of the Lamb, Original Sin—all of it would be over. Darkness would fall, and the full moon would rise and cleanse the earth with its piercing light.

  She had expected exhilaration, but no; she just felt tired. That made sense. She had toiled against evil, and now she would finally be able to lay down her head.

  Alex had been peering around the edge of the house, watching her.

  “What are you doing out?” Mrs. Stonecipher said.

  Caught—no use in hiding any longer—Alex stepped forward.

  Mrs. Stonecipher had known her son had been hiding there the whole time. She didn’t mind the company, not tonight. “Well, be of some use and go fetch me my gun.”

  Alex, relieved he wasn’t in trouble, nodded and ran inside the house.

  Mrs. Stonecipher resumed her task. Fold. Fold. Fold. Into the basket. Fold. Fold. Fold. Into the basket. Laundry always calmed her. You clean what's dirty, she thought. If only it was as easy with people’s sin.

  He returned with the hunting rifle. She took it and pulled back the bolt to make sure it was loaded.

  “Good boy. Now cover your ears.”

  She scanned the top of the wall. There! Howard’s head popped up behind the razor wire. Alex saw him too and, leaving one ear exposed, pointed.

  Mrs. Stonecipher shouted, “Don’t you dare come over onto my property!” She put the butt of the rifle up to her shoulder, the way her husband had taught her so many years ago.

  “Ma’am!” Howard shouted, seeing her Puritan outfit. “We need help!”

  “I’ll shoot. It's within my right. Now get down! Get!”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “Devil! You unholy thing! You can’t trespass here!”

  She raised the barrel and aimed at Howard’s face.

  Alex shut his eyes so tight they hurt, not wanting to see his mother shoot a man who only wanted their help.

  ◆◆◆

  “Oh shit!”

  Howard hung from the top of the wall by his fingertips, blindly fe
eling with his feet until he found Grip’s solid shoulders. He then lowered, walking his hands down the wall, and slid down Grip’s back.

  “What happened?” Isabel said.

  “She’s crazy is what happened. She has a gun.”

  “Zelda?”

  “Her mother. She thought I was trying to trespass or something. She won’t let us leave.”

  Grip laughed. “Okay, we won’t trespass then. She doesn’t own the street. We’ll scale the front gate.”

  As they ran to the front of the house, the windstorm picked up again, the gusts now warmer and humid.

  Grip tried to climb the bars of the massive front gate, but they were lubricated with something. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “What is this stuff?” It felt like mucus more than oil.

  “We’re not safe out here,” Howard said. “You didn’t see her.”

  Grip shook the bars in frustration, rattling the heavy chain. “The key is right there. Boost me up.”

  Howard clutched Grip’s shoulder. “Come back to the house, before it gets dark. We need the flashlight from upstairs. The power might go out again and—”

  Out on the sidewalk, Mrs. Stonecipher stepped in front of the gate.

  Isabel let out a yelp and stepped back. The streetlamp turned on.

  Mrs. Stonecipher had her rifle in both hands with the butt tucked into her shoulder. “Now you get back, Devil. Before you regret it.”

  The threesome raised their hands to show they were harmless.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Grip said.

  “Shut up! I won’t hear any more lies. You heathen!”

  “In the house, there’s—” Isabel wasn't sure how to explain. “We think someone might be hurt.”

  “You are the house!”

  “You don’t have to believe us,” Isabel said, “just call the police. I’m a teacher. I’m your son’s teacher. I know Alex. You’re Mrs. Stonecipher. You wrote me a letter about your husband. I’m so sorry he—”

  “The police won’t do you no good. You’re in God’s hands now. I’ll give you one minute to get out of my sight, or I’ll shoot you down where you stand.”

  “You have to be joking,” Isabel said.

  “Fifty-five,” the woman said.