Sarah
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Will said, his face pale as he watched Brook bandage Sarah from across the room.
Archie lay curled in Sarah’s lap, licking her hands as if he sensed something tragic had nearly befallen his owner.
“You saved us,” Sarah reminded him. “That doctor would be digging our graves right now otherwise.” She winced as Brook patted the wound with a peroxide-soaked cotton ball. The bullet had grazed her upper arm, tore away a bit of skin, but otherwise done little damage.
“He could have shot you in the head,” Will muttered.
“He didn’t.”
Brook put a bandage over Sarah’s shoulder and wrapped it with medical tape.
“I think you’ll live,” she told her, kissing her bare shoulder.
“Thanks, Brook.”
Brook nodded and sat down in the chair beside Sarah. “So, where’s the book?”
BY THE TIME Sarah’s head hit the pillow, her eyes ached, and her mind swam with a blur of words and images so disturbing she left the light on. The three had stayed awake until nearly two in the morning, reading the stories of experiments committed on patients by asylum doctors for a century. Even after the asylum shuttered its doors in 1989, the Umbra Brotherhood continued to meet in the chamber several times a year, bringing people from all over the country to strap down to the lonely chamber bed and perform all variety of horrors.
“They were like paranormal investigators,” Brook had said at one point, which elicited a snort from Will.
“More like paranormal torturers.”
But it was true. The doctors devoted their studies to patients exhibiting certain abilities, ranging from communication with spirits to the ability to levitate objects. They often used drugs to enhance the subject’s abilities during a presentation in the chamber. Sometimes the patients died. Several patients had additional appendices that spoke of experiences after their treatment at the asylum.
Ethel’s story sat near the start of the huge text. A tiny footnote detailing how she’d burned her family alive was barely perceptible in the cramped writing.
What was clear from the story was that Ethel had gone into the chamber as a little girl, and come out possessed by evil.
CORRIE
* * *
I TOOK the chalk and drew a huge pentagram on the dark wood floor. The smell of the chalk reminded me of Isis. In our old home, Isis had a little chalkboard she and Sammy played with for hours. He would draw elaborate monsters, and Isis would promptly scribble over them with her chubby, untrained hands, frustrated when the image in her mind didn’t appear on the dark surface.
In the circle’s center I lay Sammy’s clothes: a pair of jeans worn out at the knees; his Overlook Hotel t-shirt, based on the creepy Stephen King book The Shining; and of course, his fuzzy Bigfoot slippers at the bottom. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine his body filling out the clothes, his shaggy hair sliding through the neckline, his grin emerging from the fabric.
Holding a box of tall white candles, I walked around the pentagram, arranging one at each point, lighting the first and then using the candle before to light each thereafter. I suffered a strange sense of hope and hilarity. This was the kind of thing Sammy and I might have staged for a Halloween party, laughing all the while. As I arranged the items, I imagined Fletcher’s face in the car. His eyes had looked haunted and also defeated. Here was the man who supposedly had done it, and yet…
It didn’t matter. Fletcher’s experience would not be mine. Sammy was right there, on the fringes of every moment. If anyone could come back, it was Sammy.
I took the pot I’d filled with the mixture from Sammy’s grave and I dropped it in handfuls within the circle.
Sitting on my knees in the center of the circle, I held a handful of the mixture against my chest and read the final incantation three times. Closing my eyes, I shoved the dirt and blood and herbs into my mouth, choking them down, gagging but refusing to spit out even a drop.
Lifting a candle, I waited, watching the flame.
After several minutes, a shape flickered near the window.
“Sammy?” I whispered his name and then said it again, louder. “Sammy?” I had heard him, and then I saw him, there in the corner for only an instant.
I ran to the drapes and ripped them open with such force, they crashed to the wood floor. I dropped to my knees and raked my hands through the fabric.
“Sammy?” I heard the hysteria in my voice, but within seconds had lost all control. I stood and searched the room, raced to the furniture and peeked behind and underneath it. As if what? I believed Sammy were playing one of his little games of hide-n-seek with Isis, and he would be curled into a ball beneath a blanket, standing stock-still behind a coat rack?
I still held the candle in my hands, the one whose flame had flickered as if in signal, or maybe in warning. I squeezed so hard the wax collapsed. Hot wax poured over my hands and dripped on the floor. I threw the candle, the wick already devoured by wax, and raced to the stairway, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Sammy!” I shrieked, running from room to room, slamming open doors, tearing clothes from the wardrobes and comforters from the beds. I flung pillows at the walls. When I reached our room, the room we had shared, I stared at the bed and tried to will his shape to emerge.
“He has to be here,” I mumbled, pulling off blankets and sheets and finally the mattress itself. I shoved it onto the floor and stared at the box springs. My hands shook, and I put them to my mouth, feeling the raw spots where the wax had burned. I wanted to chew them or slam them against the windows and break the glass. I wanted to die. Was there any better explanation than that? I wanted to be done with the charade. How could I live the next year, the next ten years, without Sammy?
I gazed around the room searching for a weapon, something sharp to slash myself with, but instead my eyes flitted over my nightstand and the little pink cup streaked with rainbow clouds that Isis had brought to bed on some earlier night.
I released a horrible gasp, a sound that seemed to come not from me, but from an ancient place - a damp, dark place that understood how love could not only bring life, but also take it away. I sank to my knees and crawled toward the bare mattress. With the last of my energy, I pushed myself onto the bed, pressed my face down in the white softness and cried.
Sarah
* * *
SARAH PUSHED open her mom’s door with her hip, holding a paper sack of groceries and wondering if she should have brought olive oil. Her mother usually had it, but bread and oil didn’t exactly work without the olive oil, and she hadn’t checked ahead of time. Her stomach turned at the thought, and she directed an irritated glare at the sensation. Nerves rarely plagued her, especially when introducing her mother to a new girlfriend, but today they seemed to gnaw a hole in her stomach.
The meeting was barely the half of it. She replayed the scene in that dark, terrifying chamber again and again, her shoulder pulsing each time. Will was at her house, poring over the Enchiridion like a man obsessed, and she had reluctantly agreed to a night of normalcy so that her mother could meet Brook.
“Mom?” Sarah called. “Please tell me you have olive oil.”
“Sassy,” Isis squealed, running into the foyer. She wore a pair of pink bib overalls over a gray t-shirt smeared in something blue and sticky.
“Hey there, Icicle,” Sarah grinned, setting her bag on the floor and scooping up her niece. She walked into the kitchen, where her mother stood at the counter vigorously chopping vegetables. “You’re watching Isis?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, yes, and sorry I haven’t gotten a thing done. Isis needs a lot of attention right now,” her mother explained. Her hair was sloppily pinned up, and she wore jogging pants with a sweater.
Sarah had expected her to be overdressed, candles wafting from every surface with a spotless kitchen. The opposite appeared to be true. Isis scrambled from her arms and ran to the table spread with crayons and coloring bo
oks.
“Nana and me made cookies,” Isis announced, picking one up from a plate and taking a bite.
“Why’s she here, Mom?” Sarah asked, growing uneasy.
She loved Isis to bits but had spoken with Corrie that morning, who insisted they were spending the night at Amy’s house in Cadillac. She had called Sarah to let her know she didn’t need to check on them. If Isis was with her mom, Corrie was alone at Kerry Manor.
“Corrie’s sister dropped her off a few hours ago. Isis stayed with Amy last night because Corrie had errands to run. Corrie called this morning and asked if I’d keep her tonight, said she had a migraine coming on. Poor lamb.” Her mother shook her head, and Sarah saw her eyes glistening.
“Corrie doesn’t get migraines,” Sarah murmured.
Helen looked up.
“What’s wrong, honey? You’re as white as a ghost.”
“I have to go, Mom.” She gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “The groceries are in the hallway.”
“Wait, what do you mean go? Isn’t your friend coming? Did you break up?” her mother frowned, and Sarah smiled, shaking her head.
“No, we’re fine. Great, actually. But Corrie’s not. I’m going to check on her.”
“Maybe she needs a little time, Sarah.”
“That’s exactly what she doesn’t need, Mom.” Sarah didn’t wait to hear more. She jogged out to her car, sending Brook a text as she drove.
CORRIE
* * *
“CORRIE.” I heard my name not as a whisper, a sound snaking away - but solid, firm, as real as the walls surrounding me. I sat up and stared into the dark room.
“Sam?” My voice trembled. I placed a hand over my thudding heart. I had not expected to feel fear when he arrived, and yet blood roared through my ears and I found I could not swallow. I thought if I screamed, only a whimper would emerge.
“It’s time, love.” He spoke again, and this time I saw him, or the shape of him there by the door wearing the clothes I’d laid out.
He slipped from the bedroom door and I followed, my bare feet sticking to the floor. My body was coated in sweat. I had slept hard, and I found the dark hallway and the shape of my husband surreal and hard to focus on.
“Sammy, wait,” I said, hurrying to catch him. I reached out, but he moved away down the stairs, drifting into the hallway.
I lost sight of him for a moment and my pulse quickened. What if he disappeared around the corner and I never found him? What if he was not there at all?
“Sammy, please,” I called, desperate now and running. I spotted him at the door to the study. He walked inside. I saw him for an instant, illuminated by the glow of a fire in the hearth I had not built. His unkempt auburn hair glowed near red in the light. He smiled his irresistible grin, and I rushed down the hallway, skidding to a stop when another form stepped from shadows within the study. A small girl stood silhouetted in the doorway. Her eyes were black holes in her face, and her blonde hair looked sooty and stained. She smiled, a strange, unhappy smile, and slammed the door.
CHAPTER 37
Now
Corrie
I ran to the study door and turned the knob. It turned, but the door didn’t move. Somehow it was sealed shut. I pounded my fists on the door.
“Sammy, Sammy,” I screamed, knowing the girl inside intended to hurt him. I had only just gotten him back and feared she would send him away again.
As I pounded, the surrounding air seemed to grow hot, stifling, Sweat poured down my face. Something sharp and hot bit the back of my leg and I wheeled around. I was no longer in the hallway. I stood in the study, pounding on the door as if I wanted out. Blinking, I tried to make sense of the vision before me.
The room was on fire. Fire climbed the opposite wall, catching the drapes, melting wallpaper in bubbling waterfalls. As the curtains burned, I saw the blaze reflected in the tall windows.
“Sammy?” I tried to call but choked as smoke reached into my mouth and singed my lungs. I coughed and pulled my shirt up, stuffing it over my face.
Every tip I’d ever learned for dealing with fire popped into my mind: stop drop and roll, throw flour on it, put a wet blanket over your head. Instead I stared, transfixed. I was trapped, and Sammy was trapped too, but where had he gone?
“Sammy?” My voice dropped to a whisper. He had vanished, and the girl too.
I ran to the window and tried to unlatch the locks, antique but new. They worked. I had opened them myself during our first week at Kerry Manor, but now they stuck as if someone had glued them shut. I grabbed a chair and slammed it against the window. The glass did not break. I stared at my reflection, my face red and slick, my glassy eyes filled with terror. Smoke filled the room. Soon my reflection in the glass would be obscured by smoke and the flames would move to my pants and shirt, my hair.
I returned to the door and shook the handle, yanking with all my strength. I grabbed another chair and slammed it into the door, but the effort was feeble. My eyes watered, and breath came in ragged gasps despite the shirt covering my face. I cried and wiped at my face and turned to face the burning room. I could not escape. I would burn alive in this house.
Sarah
* * *
“I HATE THIS FUCKING HOUSE,” Sarah grumbled as she pulled into the drive, no longer dense with foliage but surrounded instead by brown, crinkling bushes and trees. Wet leaves blanketed the driveway and rain fell in a steady stream, blurring the house. The windows were dark, but Corrie’s car stood in the driveway.
The yard was atmospheric, the house sitting in a gray bubble of rain and wind that did not seem to move past the lines of trees that shielded it from the road.
The wind wrenched Sarah’s car door from her hand and she struggled to force it closed. A twig grazed her cheek, and she fought leaves away as they blew up and swirled around her as she ran to the front door.
The door was locked. Sarah knocked and shouted for Corrie, but the driving wind muffled her call
“Corrie,” she yelled a second time, slamming her fists into the door. The windows were dark except for a flickering glow. She peeked in the porch windows, but heavy drapes blocked the interior.
The smell of smoke permeated the damp air, and as the rain slowed to a drizzle, Sarah realized it was more than a fire in the hearth. Panic rising, she raced around the house toward billowing black smoke. Fire engulfed the back of the house. Plumes of black smoke billowed out, combining with the damp fog sweeping across Lake Michigan. It was an unnatural image, biblical, and for an instant Sarah could do no more than stare in petrified awe at the odd spectacle of orange flame, black smoke, and white mist colliding at the edge of the dark lake.
As the realization that Corrie was inside washed over her, Sarah willed her legs to move. She ran toward the back porch obscured by dark smoke. She glimpsed her sister-in-law peering from one of the study windows, terror etched in her face, but then she vanished.
Sarah raced back to her car and fumbled her phone from her bag.
She dialed 911, but no sound came across the line. She pulled the phone away, saw the ‘no signal’ in the corner of her phone.
“Fuck, no, not now. This can’t be happening right now.”
Running across the lawn, straining to hear Corrie within the house, she stared at her phone until she found a spot with a single blinking bar. She dialed again. At first nothing, and then finally a voice on the line.
The operator’s voice cut in and out. Sarah yelled the address for Kerry Manor and screamed that a fire was consuming the house. She didn’t hear the woman respond, and after a frustrating minute of silence, she threw the phone on the ground and raced back to the house.
She ran around the side of Kerry Manor, searching for another way in. As her eyes raked over the house, her breath stopped. Sammy stared down at her from a second-story veranda. The door before him swung out, caught in the wind, and slammed against the side of the house.
“Sammy?” she asked, dazed. He had been there, a
nd yet now the doorway stood empty, a black yawning hole into the house. She climbed onto the porch rail, shimmied up the eavestrough and swung her leg up, clinging to the damp roof and knowing she might need the ambulance too, if this failed.
When she reached the little porch, she gasped for breath, clinging to the black iron rail, pausing for only a second before rushing through the doorway. The darkness consumed her, but as she fled down the hallway, she searched for her brother. He couldn’t be there. He was dead. She had touched his waxen skin as he lay in the coffin, his body emptied of its humanness, replaced with chemicals to preserve him a bit longer - no longer a man, but a science project.
She slipped on the stairs and smacked her elbow on a step, wincing as pain shot up her arm and lodged in her temple. Sliding down two more stairs on her butt and cradling her arm, Sarah forced herself back up and ran toward the study. A sliver of bright orange ran beneath the door and rivulets of smoke poured out. She threw her coat over the doorknob and turned it, but the door stayed firmly closed. She yanked it a second time and then pounded.
“Corrie!” she screamed, but only silence returned her call.
She twisted the knob again, and then she spotted the nails poking along the doorframe. Someone had nailed the door closed. No, not someone - the evil that had invaded Ethel in that dark chamber a century before.
Sarah grabbed a nail, but she couldn’t pull it loose. Sprinting back to the kitchen, she ripped out drawers, sending one of them sprawling across the kitchen floor, forks and spoons scattering. She found a junk drawer with a hammer and whipped it out, running back to the study.
“Hold on, Corrie. Hold on.”
Prying the nails, recoiling from the heat pulsing beyond the door, Sarah tried not to imagine what lay on the other side. Would she find Corrie crumpled, burned black, only the bones of her beautiful sister-in-law left?
Calling Back the Dead: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 21
