The House on Mayberry Road

by Troy McCombs

  As a two-hundred-pound teenage boy tread across it. The person's shoe momentarily brushed against one of his fingers. And just when he thought he had survived the worst...

  There was no way he could pick it up again. That ship had sailed. His strength was no more.

  He looked up into the departing smoke, wheezing, and groaned, "What were you trying to tell me, Mom? There is no way I can get—"

  A huge ax came barreling down toward him, its blade sharp and shiny. John squinted his eyes and puckered his cheeks. He thought he had just been murdered by some maniac...until he felt the weight of the massive beam diminish instantly. It wasn't just an ax; it was a fireman's ax. It split the beam in two. Afterward, he felt a tongue lick his cheek.

  Lucky had went and found a fireman.

  "Come on, buddy, I gotcha," the fireman, a large ogre of a man, pushed aside the two pieces of wood and helped John to his feet. "You're going to be okay. If it weren't for your four-legged friend here, and his frantic actions outside, we could have never found you."

  John didn't remember much of the next few minutes, other being pulled out of the building by a man in a yellow uniform. As soon as he joined the outside world, he could breathe again. The air was sweet for his sore lungs. He knew he had survived—barely—saved by a stray mutt. In his blurred vision he saw people talking to him, laying him on a stretcher, and opening the back door of an ambulance, into which they lifted him.

  But it was the last thing he saw before he passed out that made him uneasy...

  As the paramedics put an oxygen mask over his mouth, John looked up at the burning, crumbling apartment building one last time, and thought he saw twenty-two eyes from twenty-two different positions staring at him.

  ***

  John didn't wake until the following day. He awoke alone in a hospital bed at Lecorrd Medical Center, well rested, with a dull pain in his head and a sharp pain in his lungs. The ultra-strong scent of bleach stinking up the room didn't help, nor did the ultra-bright shaft of sunlight shimmering in through the nearby window. He was comfortable, even though he wasn't sure if he should have been. Last night was too close a call. It was not a fluke or mishap, either. It was all intentional, all connected to him.

  Or was what he was connected to.

  Innocents had perished. A building had been destroyed. He had almost died himself. His lungs were slightly charred, which was why they hurt now when he breathed. The crown of his head ached from where the beam had fallen on it. Still, at the very least, he was alive. That, too, was neither a fluke nor a mishap. Someone had been watching out for him.

  Mom...

  And Lucky, his incarnate guardian angel.

  He wanted to be glad he was not dead, but could not completely bring himself to be. He was cursed by D'kourikai. He could not escape It. It was probably watching him again now, a very competent stalker. It would not leave him be until it got what it wanted from him: his undying soul. John wasn't sure if there was any way to stop it.

  Knock, knock...

  He looked over and up. Jennifer was standing right outside the door, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, without so much as a mark on her.

  "John?"

  His eyes widened. He was surprised to see her unharmed. "Jennifer. Hi. Come in."

  She stepped into the room and walked over to the bed, her hands clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous and strangely calm both at once. John felt that she was hiding something.

  "How did you—" he started.

  "Luck, I guess. I received a call fifteen minutes before the fire broke out that my three-year-old niece tumbled down a flight of steps. She got banged up pretty bad. Concussion. Broken bones. I've been here since last night. The news came on when I was sitting in the waiting room. I couldn't believe it. I strongly believe I would have died in the fire if I hadn't have left. Funny, huh? Someone else gets hurt and it saves my life."

  "I should not be here, either."

  "That fire was meant for me, John. I had put the dream catcher in your room. That despicable thing wanted me to die most of all. Why was I spared?"

  "I don't know. I was spared just as much as you. The fire started in my room."

  "But if it wasn't for me, then all those people wouldn't have—almost everyone in that building died. A few were burnt alive. Do you know that besides you, me, and some teenage boy, all the others are dead or dying? There were over a hundred people in there."

  John's eyes glazed over. Was it true? Was he one of only three people to have left that building practically uninjured?

  Jennifer bowed her head. "And by trying to help you, I ended up taking the lives of all my neighbors. Life's so ironic."

  John knew exactly how she felt. He had been too cowardly to save that old woman. He was just as responsible as she thought she was, if not more.

  I was the first one to take on this investigation.

  Too many people had died thus far, period. Not just those in the United Apartments, but others at the Mayberry House. He was in a war he could not win.

  "It is not your fault, Jennifer," he said, more to himself, and more doubtful than truthful. "You have no control over life, over death."

  "My action caused death."

  "You didn't know that would happen. And you're right about something. It is connected to me. Otherwise it would have killed you after you'd left the apartment. It surely could have zoned in on you if it had remote viewing.

  "I see the twinkle of guilt in your eye," John nodded to her. "Let it go before it becomes your ghost. Guilt will haunt you forever, believe me. It is worse than anything in the Mayberry House or in Hell. It is an earthly prison. It will never help you. It is worse than hate, because hate can fade away or be changed by love. Guilt is with you even when you're relaxed. Asleep."

  Tears welled in her eyes. She forced them away. John changed the subject to try to make her feel better: "Is Lucky okay?"

  She finally smiled. "Yeah, he's fine. We took him to my cousin's house. He's just like a person." She paused for a second to catch her breath, then said something that caught John off guard: "Can you take me to the Mayberry House?"

  His eyes lit up. He almost gasped, trying to summon a response. His mind was blank. "When, Jennifer?"

  "Soon. When you get out of here. I have to see it for myself. It's been an obsession."

  "That's exactly why you shouldn't go near it!"

  She interrupted: "I must have the—"

  He interrupted her before she could finish: "Yes, you will. Soon. But promise me that when you do enter, you're under my instruction the entire time. No arguments, no being curious or brave."

  "You have my word."

  John smiled with his eyes. She smiled with her mouth. "Have you heard about the lunar eclipse tonight?"

  John shook his head, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

  "Nobody knew about it 'till just days ago. Astronomers said something about this particular event has not happened in centuries. Meteor showers, visible lights in the sky over many parts of the world, like the Aurora Borealis. One person said they thought they discovered a new planet within our solar system. I have a feeling that the thing in the Mayberry House has something to do with it, whether it’s causing it or waiting for it."

  "How do you know that?"

  "My gut."

  John's eyes moved. He looked over Jennifer's shoulder. A young man her age and of the same nationality (Native American) was standing outside the room, in the dimly-lit hallway.

  "Jen?"

  She turned. A big smile appeared on her face, as if she hadn't seen the man in years. "Patrick! Hey!"

  She turned back to John. "Hey, I'm sorry, but I gotta run. I will see you tomorrow for sure. Be well, my new friend." Jennifer left the room, hugged the man—who was wearing a blue plaid shirt—and pecked him on the lips. John watched as she and he—her fiancée, he figured—got reacquainted and walked away, leaving him alone. He couldn't help but smile, knowing his visions were
still coming, fresh, and very accurate.

  I definitely still got it

  Chapter 13

  John laid there for a while, staring out the window and up at the beautiful, cloudless sky. The sun was huge, low, its rays warming his legs. A flock of geese flew over the Ohio River, toward the rolling hills. He heard almost no sound, except for the occasion car horn from outside or the hospital intercom calling for a missing doctor. For once, the psychic was in a peaceful state of mind. He knew moments like this were rare—natural spiritual meditation—when he didn't have to consciously meditate to block or filter impeding thoughts. They simply went away on their own without any explanation at all.

  "Mr. Rollings?" The voice distracted him. A woman entered the room, food tray in hand.

  His taste of nirvana was gone. He broke from his hypnotic trance and joined the world. Thanks, lady.

  The woman, an overweight black woman with weaves in her hair and a big gap between her front teeth, walked over to the patient and set the food tray down on his lap. He looked at the goods: a turkey sandwich, a cup of applesauce, a pint of low-fat milk.

  This should be very nutritious, he joked inside himself. He dug in, anyway.

  "So, how are you doing? You banged your head pretty hard, huh? Luckily you didn't get burned. Somebody was looking out for you up there."

  John snickered and ate. "I wish that was always so. Can't win them all."

  "Let's get your blood pressure here." She grabbed the blood pressure cuff off the wall and wrapped it around his left arm. John swallowed some applesauce.

  Ting-ting. The woman knocked something to the floor.

  "Whoops," she said, reaching down for...a scalpel. Suddenly, her voice changed, and turned so horrible that John choked on his food.

  "You can't win them all, Rocka'by'Rollings!" It came from her mouth, but it wasn't her voice. It was D'kourikai's.

  John jerked his head aside. The woman jolted upright and put the scalpel against his throat, right by his Jugular vein. Her face had changed, had transformed into a bloody, red, lumpy, disease-stricken monster that smelled like rotting human flesh. John had seen photos of people stricken with smallpox and photos of victims who had hemorrhaged from Ebola, Africa's most feared outbreak. This looked like both of those combined into one grotesque manifestation unbearable to look at. Yet, the psychic couldn't help but stare.

  "Last night was a taste of what I can do. I can pluck your soul from your body like feathers off a chicken. You defend against another of my dreams and I will slice every artery in your neck."

  John thought suddenly about Jennifer. He wanted to see if this thing was all-powerful. "Jennifer? You tried to kill her, didn't you?"

  The possessed woman looked confused. Blood popped from her boils like puss. Thinner blood leaked down from her eyes.

  "Yes, I did. She needed to die in flames!"

  John knew it was a fib. He could spot liars, no matter how much more advanced this thing was than him.

  "You keep visiting me, John. You know where my house is. We can learn from each other, you and I. We're not so different. We live on the same sphere. You can explain to me why you feel this emotion called love. You can also explain to me how you block the messages I send you. Are you that afraid of them? Aww, your poor mind hurts when they do come through! You tell me that and I can explain to you where cancer REALLY comes from, and how childishly simple it is to cure. See you later, you degenerate!"

  The evil behind those bleeding eyes suddenly vanished and D'kourikai was gone, leaving behind a pained woman with two very deadly diseases in her body. Blood oozed and spurted from every orifice on her face. Some beaded from her pores. A clump of her hair popped out of her scalp. Her eyes locked in on John's the same exact way the old woman's had the night before. But this was worse, because this woman didn't know what the hell was wrong with her. And when she parted her lips to speak, three of her teeth came out and fell to the floor. One of her eyes bulged from its socket, its surface covered with small, wart-like bumps. The blood continued to come, then began to literally pour down from her face with the consistency of water. She whimpered and reached for John, who only backed away, frightened. The skin on her extended hand cracked, bled, and peeled. Every fingernail fell off. Projectile vomit, filled with bits of internal organs, shot from her mouth, just missing hitting Rollings in the face. At last, she stumbled, fell onto her back, and began trembling violently. John watched, repulsed. The woman soon tensed up, then went limp. Rollings didn't know what the hell to do, especially when the doctor entered the room, stunned and horrified.

  "Jesus-H-Christ! What happened here?"

  John could not speak, at first. When he did, the most bizarre combination of words exited his mouth: "Can I leave yet? I need to get a haircut."

  ***

  He got to leave—later—after answering a bunch of questions he didn't really have answers to. He said nothing about D'kourikai or the Mayberry house to the police. He didn't say much of anything. Steera mentioned to them that Rollings was working a vitally important case and needed to leave on his own cognizance. So, at 3:04, he dressed and left the hospital to go get a trim at his usual barber: Mary Ann's.

  As he drove through town, down the empty streets, he wondered if he was crazy to be going to where he was headed. He had been knocked out, almost torched, and seen an old woman suffer to death. Two, actually. Now he was on his way … to get a haircut? What was the significance of that? What was his mom really trying to tell him? Was it even her that was sending him the message? Or was she a decoy? Was whom he saw actually D'kourikai in her guise?

  No, he thought. His vision of Jennifer and the man in the blue plaid shirt had come true...but then again, this was a miss or hit power. Some visions came true and some did not. Some happened differently later than implied psychically at first. There was no certainty with this ability, just as there was no certainty with anything anywhere in the world.

  God or no God, spirit guide or no spirit guide, all was really up left up to chance until the end—death—and even then there was no certainty. John didn't like it. He wanted to be sure, but that was an impossible asset no human had hold of. He had to wait and see what happened. That was all he could do.

  The day was looking exquisite through his windshield. Any hint of a storm seemed a thousand miles away. The sunshine blinded him even with his visor down and his sunglasses on. Trees were almost in full bloom, their limbs covered with new signs of life. Everything looked peaceful. Perfect. However, John saw nobody taking advantage of it. No children were riding their bikes, no young men were mowing their lawns, and no elderly folks were sitting on their porch, watching the cars go by. The town looked dead. Empty. Gone.

  Soon he turned onto 15th Marianna Street and proceeded toward the scene of the wreckage—his burned down stay: The United Apartment Building. But it was not a building anymore. There was nothing left, not even a piece of rubble. It had been picked clean already. The ground was flat. Dirt. John stared at the large patch of land as he coasted toward it. Little did he know that the fire, itself, had literally melted everything in or around the building to ash. Nobody knew or would ever know of the important radioactive chemical hiding right below the surface of the ground. It was a new, undiscovered element that could have powered New York City for one whole year.

  His right foot came down harder on the gas. He drove down Terrace Avenue, a brief part of town lined by small, unique, elegant homes enveloped by yards more beautiful than the greens at Chester Hills Golf Course. John loved the old-fashioned red-brick structure with the picture window and wraparound porch. By the polished walkway stood an elderly oak tree, a roped tire hanging from its most twisted branch. The setting was picture perfect in his eyes.

  When John came to the dented STOP sign at the beginning of Passot Street, he flicked his left turn signal and looked both ways. No traffic. Not one car anywhere in sight. He turned the wheel and pulled into the parking lot of his intended destination: Mary Ann's. Befo
re he even put his gear in park, he noticed a car-less lot. The owners light green Pontiac was not there. The lights inside were not on. A large WE'RE CLOSED sign hung from the door. Something else was written on it in finer letters with a magic marker. John strained his eyes to read it.

  CLOSED DUE TO REPAIRS

  Screw it. I'll get my hair cut another time. I still need to find a new place to stay—

  "You need to go to a barber today, John!" The voice shouted from his backseat.

  He swung around to see who it was, but nobody was there. The voice was unfamiliar, and he could not tell whether it was female or male.

  Ok, I'll try somewhere else.

  As soon as he thought this, a slight peace of mind flushed over him. He put his car in reverse, backed up, and joined the road again. There was one other barber in Bellsville. Its location: Emmer's Square, right downtown.

  ***

  He pulled up to the curb beside Larry's Bar and Grill moments later. After putting the car in park, he got out, catching a big enticing whiff of Smoking Hot-Hot Wings coming from the newly-renovated restaurant to his left. They made some of the best and cheapest food in town, but they also had a knack for attracting serious trouble from the local drunks with their seventy-five cent beers during happy hour on weekends.

  John thought about getting lunch to go afterward as he walked around the corner and up the narrow cobblestone pavement that stretched the long path of Emmer's Square. On either side were businesses, much like a miniature outdoor shopping plaza, whose old, ugly buildings looked like they wanted to be put out of their misery. Behind all the glass partitions loomed older, more desperate laborers who wanted to keep the history of the dying town alive. These days, most people drove an hour away to shop at big named stores in the city, not here, like in the old days. Each building had once been something other than it was now. Today's Telecom Telemarketing Agency had once been a dime store; Pedro's Pizza had once been Lokhorn's Video Rental; Coscorm Photo had once been Childland, a children's clothing store. The only business that had never changed was Cutter's, the barber shop. John hurried to it.