These Unquiet Bones

by Dean Harrison

  What the hell had she been up to?

  He crumpled the empty beer can in his fist and dropped it on the floor. He felt something burn hot in his heaving chest.

  “I called Catherine’s house,” he said, “many times. I was looking to talk to her daddy about that party, but some asshole kid kept answerin’. He sounded high.”

  Hank’s hands clenched and unclenched. His breathing grew heavy as he glared at Amy, who stood very still.

  “He told me her daddy wasn’t there and hung up the phone,” Hank continued. “So I called Clancy’s cell phone. Why you look so surprised? Finally got to talk to him. Figure out the rest?”

  The shocked expression on Amy’s face told him everything he needed to know.

  A tremor of rage swept through his body. He didn’t care to ask her about the running of her makeup or the puffiness around her eyes. He didn’t care to ask if anything was wrong.

  He only cared about the fact that his daughter willfully lied to him. That she went out of her way to fool him into letting her go out and party unsupervised, unprotected.

  Hank’s vision turned red and before he could stop himself he slapped her across the face.

  Amy yelped. The blow made her fall to her knees. She pressed a hand to her cheek and looked up at him with wounded eyes. Her lower lip trembled. A tear ran down her cheek.

  But Hank refused to be moved. “Now get your butt in bed.” He leaned in close, nostrils flaring and billowing steam. “Before I beat the shit out of you.”

  With a whimper, Amy hopped to her feet and brushed past him like a frightened rabbit, disappearing around the corner.

  Her bedroom door slammed and her bedsprings creaked. He heard her cry.

  Let her cry.

  He staggered into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard over the stove, and grabbed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He broke the seal and twisted it open.

  Another promise broken.

  He took a long pull from the bottle. The whiskey seared like fire down his throat.

  He’d promised he’d stop drinking. He’d promised he’d never hit her again. He’d promised he’d work to be a better father.

  Well, I ain’t. So stop buggin’ me!

  But he knew they wouldn’t. The ghosts never did.

  Hank took another pull from the bottle and returned to the living room.

  Amy’s cries grew louder.

  Collapsing into his chair, Hank turned up the TV, hoping to drown her out.

  But he couldn’t drown out the screaming of his conscience. There was no volume button for that.

  There was only whiskey, and the oblivion that followed.

  Chapter 17

  The dark voice of The Father came to him in the dead of night.

  Adam’s eyes fluttered open as it echoed in the shadows, flapping blackly through the dark catacombs of his mind.

  “Kill the temptress.”

  The vision of the succubus came to him in a dream: he was chasing her through a moonlit forest and gaining on her fast.

  She was a beauty to behold, too, just like the others who came before her. And like the others, she wouldn’t get away.

  No matter how fast she ran, he’d catch her. After all, it was their destiny to meet. It was all a part of the plan. Her fate was sealed once The Father spoke.

  “Collect the Serpent’s Whore. Make her suffer for her sin.”

  Laying in darkness, Adam smiled. The moment had come at last.

  “Restore paradise.”

  He closed his eyes. Tomorrow he’ll be back on the road, back on the hunt.

  The smile never left his face.

  Chapter 18

  Amy woke from a restless sleep and climbed out of bed. Feeling groggy, she staggered toward the bureau and looked in the mirror.

  She was a mess. Her makeup was smeared. She pulled away a lock of hair and saw she had a bruise on her cheek.

  Daddy hit me.

  He’d apologize, and then he’d buy her a present. That’s how it went back in the bad old days when got drunk and beat her with his belt, and her mother with his fists.

  He’ll be sorry.

  She’ll have to hide her bruise with flesh-colored makeup as her mother used to do.

  Maybe he’ll buy me flowers.

  She remembered the nice things he had done after her mother was killed. All the gifts he bought her; the kindness he showed. Despite his over-protectiveness, she had begun to like him more.

  He went out of his way to win her trust, show how much he loved her. He even stopped drinking.

  But not for very long.

  Amy frowned, too drained to feel the black hole of depression sucking her down. She just needed to put the night behind her. She needed coffee. She left her room.

  In the living room, her father— reclined in his chair— sipped coffee and watched ESPN. Looking at the empty whiskey bottle on the end table, she figured he had one hell off a hangover.

  Good, I’m glad.

  Stepping into the kitchen, she popped an anti-depressant and poured a cup of coffee. In the living room, she eased onto the couch and sipped her steamy brew.

  After a minute passed, Hank grunted and said, “You and me got a lot to talk about, girl. But that’ll have to wait. Gotta be at work in a few. Don’t want you goin’ nowhere, hear? After last night, your butt’s stayin’ home.”

  Amy gave her father a sideways glance and waited.

  She watched him sip his coffee and lick his wet mustache. She watched him wince and scratch his crotch. She watched him stroke his beard and stare at the TV with bloodshot eyes that refused to roll her way.

  She waited for his apology but it never came.

  Guilty, but too stubborn to admit it. Better than nothing.

  She dropped her eyes. The black hole in her chest widened. Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, she stood and left the room. Her father didn’t say another word.

  Back in her bedroom she set her coffee aside and sat in front of her keyboard. She began playing Für Elise.

  Sad times called for sad music.

  After a few minutes passed, her father peered into the room to say that he was leaving. Amy nodded but kept playing, never taking her eyes off the keyboard.

  When she heard the backdoor slam over the music, she knew she was alone. Her father never used to work the weekends, but ever since the economy went south he put in more hours and for that she was glad.

  She enjoyed having the house to herself. Today more than ever she needed solitude.

  She only wished her father had apologized for hitting her before walking out the door. It hurt that he didn’t.

  She hit the keys harder in exasperation, furious that he didn’t.

  She needed to know why he was going back to his old ways. The over-protectiveness she could handle, perhaps even understand given what’s been on the news lately. But the drinking? The abuse?

  After the last note of Für Elise, she prepared her fingers for another sad tune.

  “Amy. Oh, Amy.”

  But they froze over the keys when she heard that faint, feminine voice calling.

  “Amy. Oh, Amy.”

  A sharp spear of ice plunged from the nape of her neck down to her stomach. Fear shot through her veins, turning her blood to frozen sludge.

  Scratch, scratch.

  The hairs rose on the back of her neck. She turned her head toward the bedroom door. It was open. A chill drifted in from the dark hallway.

  “Come here, Amy.”

  Her heart fluttered. On rubbery legs, she stood. She approached her closet, and grabbed the neck of a metal Louisville Slugger.

  She stepped hesitantly into the hall.

  “In here, Amy.”

  She turned toward her grandmother’s old bedroom. As always, the door was closed.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her grip on the baseball bat tightened as she raised it protectively in front of her

  What’s going on?
Who… what’s in there?

  She wondered if she were going crazy.

  Only one way to find out.

  Bat trembling her hands, she slowly approached the door. Her nerves frazzled, she reached for the knob.

  The brass was cold to the touch. It rattled in her shaky grasp.

  Oh, God.

  Stomach wound tight, she pushed the door open.

  The hinges squeaked, sending a shiver down her back.

  She almost expected a skeleton draped in cobwebs to jump out at her, but all that came for her from the dusty room was the musty odor of mothballs and faint traces of rose-powder.

  She lowered the bat and frowned. Every tensed muscle in her body eased. She stepped in, glanced around, and listened.

  She heard nothing but birds chirping outside. Dust motes danced lazily in the sunlight streaming in through the sheer white curtains covering the windows. All else was still.

  There was nothing to be afraid of in the room. No ghostly voices, no talking rats. Nothing.

  Feeling ridiculous— and fearing that she really was losing her mind— she turned to leave the room.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Amy jumped, lifted the bat, and swung it. The tip tapped the mirror over her grandmother’s antique bureau, cracking it.

  “SHIT!” She dropped the bat, and then her jaw. Her father was going to kill her for that.

  Scratch, scratch.

  She spun toward the noise. Her skin prickled as she stared wide-eyed at the old, wooden chest at the foot of the four-poster bed. Her grandmother had always kept it locked.

  What could’ve gotten in there?

  She heard the lock on the chest click open.

  It unlocked itself?

  Amy shook her head, mystified.

  I’m going insane. That’s the only explanation.

  She wondered it that meant she should start seeing Dr. Massie again. She knew she wouldn’t mind it.

  Taking a deep breath, she bent down to retrieve the bat with one hand. With the other, she reached for the chest.

  Can’t believe I’m doing this.

  A cold knot of fear twisted in her gut as she touched the smooth, walnut lid and threw it open.

  She jumped back, bat raised and ready to strike.

  But nothing leapt out to attack her. Harmless silk and cotton gowns were folded inside the chest.

  The bat slipped from her hands and thudded on the carpet. Heart racing, she dropped to her knees, laughing nervously.

  Who’s doing this to me? A ghost? Why? Is this some kind of joke?

  She peered at the junk inside the chest.

  When alive, her grandmother had been adamant about not wanting her to look at these things. She never explained why.

  Someone sure wants me to look at them now.

  She thought again about ghosts. Her mother said they were everywhere, and sometimes they made their presence known.

  So who was the ghost? Her grandmother? And why was she trying to contact Amy? Did she have some kind of warning?

  This is nuts.

  Looking at the chest, a smile cracked along her face.

  Might as well see what the big secret is.

  Amy reached into the chest, dug around the garments, and uncovered a small shoebox.

  Ah, what have we here?

  She extracted the shoebox from the chest, her curiosity piqued by its considerable weight. She opened the lid eager to discover what her grandmother had been hiding.

  But to her dismay she found nothing but a bunch of yellowed photographs.

  She furrowed her brow, perplexed.

  That’s it? That’s what Grandma never wanted me to see? Old family pictures.

  Now that she thought about it neither her grandmother nor her dad had ever talked to her about their side of the family, even when she asked about it. For all Amy knew it had always been just the two of them, mother and son.

  She knew nothing about her paternal grandfather except that he died long before she was born. She didn’t even know what he looked like. There were no pictures of him around the house.

  Frowning, Amy pushed herself up, shoebox in hand, and sat down on the bed. She began leafing through the photographs.

  She skimmed over images of her father as a child. He was a big guy even then, but she’s seen similar pictures before.

  The ones of her grandmother she found more interesting. She had never seen photos of Grandma Snow without her shock of white hair or network of wrinkles. She had been a handsome woman once, almost pretty, but not quite.

  She then came across pictures of a heavy-set man with ape-like hands, big toothy smile, and small beady eyes that held a wild glimmer like that of a religious fanatic. Those she really studied.

  Is that him? Is that Dad’s dad? Is that the man no one ever talks about? Amy didn’t even know his name.

  As she continued to leaf through the photographs, cold phantom fingers plucked at her nerves. Startled, she glanced around the room. She was alone, yet she felt eyes watching her. It gave her the chills.

  Letting a shudder pass, she returned her attention to the stack of photos in her hand.

  The next picture was of her father in his teens. He sat at a picnic table at what looked to be some camp in the woods. A skinny blond girl sat across from him. Neither looked happy.

  Amy tilted her head to the side, studying the picture. The girl almost looked liked her mother. Some facial features were similar, yet there was enough difference to say for certain it that wasn’t her. Besides, her parents didn’t meet each other until their twenties. So who was she?

  Amy dropped the photo back in the shoebox and glanced at the next one.

  She felt her heart skip a beat.

  No… No, impossible!

  Her lips parted in astonishment as she met the icy blue eyes of a husky pimple-faced skinhead who had his arm linked with the mystery girl. She wore a white wedding dress and a miserable expression.

  But it was the skinhead whose face Amy looked at closely. It appeared an awful lot like—

  “It can’t be!”

  A white bolt of terror shot through her nervous system as the bedsprings suddenly shuffled and the mattress sunk with an invisible weight. A chilly breeze rustled Amy’s hair.

  “He’s coming for you.”

  Flinging the pictures into the air, Amy screamed. Leaping to her feet. She dashed from the room and sprinted down the hallway to the kitchen.

  Breathing fast, she swung the back door open and barreled down the steps. Heart racing, she ran down the driveway.

  A cloud of dust rose around her feet. She didn’t stop until she hit the dirt road. Hunched over with her hands on her knees, she struggled to catch her breath.

  Petrified, she glanced at the Halloween decorations in the yard, and at the sheeted ghosts swinging in the passing breeze. She felt a sickness churn in her stomach.

  Am I crazy? Vomit rose up her throat. She swallowed it down.

  Or did that actually happen?

  Chapter 19

  Inside Eddie’s Bar & Grill it was happy hour. Pool balls clacked as southern rock blasted from the jukebox by the entrance.

  Hank sat at a barstool with a shrinking cigarette in one hand and a small, perspiring glass of Southern Comfort in the other. He was brooding over the mess he had made of his life when he felt a hand drop on his shoulder and squeeze blood-red nails into the threadbare fabric of his shirt.

  His stomach churned in revulsion as Ruth Jackson dropped a clunky, green purse on the glossy surface of the bar a sat her chunky, denim ass down on the stool by his side.

  “Hiya, big guy,” Ruth said. “Ain’t seen you ‘round here in a while.” She shifted her weight around. “Eddie! Vodka tonic!”

  Eddie, the droopy-faced barman, slapped his issue of Hustler down on the counter and glowered at Ruth.

  Hank raised his drink to his lips. “You touch me again with those plastic claws of yours, Ruth, and I’ll stick Eddie’s .45 up your twat and pull
the trigger. Understand?”

  “Now that ain’t nice.” Ruth lit a cigarette. “Having a bad day, are we?”

  “We are.” Hank sipped his drink. “Now fuck off.”

  Ruth— a ratty-haired junkie with a goblin’s devilish face— accepted her drink from Eddie. “That ain’t no way to talk to a lady.”

  “Deaf slut,” Eddie grumbled, retrieving his magazine. “Man said leave him be. Now stop pokin’ the bear. Get!”

  With a puff of smoke, Ruth grabbed her purse and slid off the stool. “All right, all right. I know when I ain’t wanted.”

  “And how many times I gots to tell you, stop turnin’ tricks in my bar. This ain’t no whorehouse, woman!”

  Clicking away on six-inch heels, Ruth gave Eddie the middle finger.

  “Dumb bitch.” Eddie leaned against the counter with his pink, bulbous nose stuck back in his magazine.

  With melting ice cubes clinking in his glass, Hank sipped his whiskey and returned to his troublesome thoughts To his daughter, and what he had done to her life.

  Placing his drink down on a damp napkin, he took another drag from his cigarette and savored the nicotine filling his lungs. Exhaling a ghostly plume of smoke, he peered into the somnolent eyes of the burly man staring back at him from the yellow-spotted mirror bolted to the wall across the counter.

  If eyes were indeed windows to the soul, then those belonging to the man in the mirror were as haunted as a battlefield long after the last shot was fired.

  So many dead. Wish they’d leave me the hell alone.

  But they wouldn’t. If they hadn’t let up in the last four years, they sure as shit weren’t going to start now.

  And then there was Amy. What the hell was he going to do about his daughter? Keep her chained to her bed? He was truly tempted.

  Should’ve been honest with them all from the beginning. None of this shit would be happening now.

  The barstool next to him was dragged back. Hank recognized the tall, gray-haired man instantly.

  “Eddie,” Joe MacCallum called, “Club soda, please. And give us a little privacy, if you’d be so kind.”

  Meeting MacCallum’s eyes in the mirror, Hank nodded his head as smoke clouded his reflection. “Been on the green?”

  “Yeah, I managed to get out there this mornin’,” MacCallum said. He accepted his drink from Eddie, who scurried back into the kitchen, making himself scarce. “How’s Amy?”