Darkness Conjured

by Sandy DeLuca

  DARKNESS CONJURED

  Sandy DeLuca

  FIRST EDITION

  Darkness Conjured © 2011 by Sandy DeLuca

  Cover Artwork © 2011 by Zach McCain

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DELIRIUM BOOKS

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  www.deliriumbooks.com

  Acknowledgements: Thanks to Greg F. Gifune for helping me to hone my craft. Rob Dunbar just for being Ron Dunbar. Shane Ryan Staley for all that he does. Matt and Julie for their love and support.

  For Gianna and Sophia...

  and for KR wherever you are

  I wish you could know them...

  “In 1968, they were teenage girls, unwed and pregnant. Shunned by family and society at large, like countless women of their generation, they were forced to give up their babies...”

  People Magazine

  September 18, 2006

  Volume 66, Number 12

  Author Notes:

  This story is based loosely on incidents that occurred decades ago. I’m not sure if the ghost tales are real, but they stirred my imagination. The Amelia Leech Home is a product of my imagination. The unwed mother was branded as a shameful figure in the sixties. Deeds and pregnancies were hidden. This is a story about the sadness regarding that notion. It is also a tale of terror.

  Parts of this novella are loosely based writings of John Dee and his Angelic Magic and Moloch from Milton’s Paradise Lost.

  1

  February 11th, 1968

  The Amelia Leech Home is haunted by those who lived and died here. Decades of terror permeate. Hopeless cries erupt from behind bolted doors.

  I hear whispers when walking up stairs after sundown. I’ve seen figures out of the corner of my eye—passing by a window—or by an open door. The dead in perpetual anguish.

  Living residents are tormented as well. There are bullies and thieves—stealing from my room—destroying things dear to me. My good wool blazer has vanished. Photographs of my family kept on my bureau have been smeared with feces. I’ve learned to hide what’s sacred behind wooden planks in my closet.

  My room is small. I sleep on a shabby bed. There’s a small bureau near a grimy window and an old braided rug in the middle of the scratched wooden floor. My room is one of many in this monstrous structure.

  My father sent me here. He wants my pregnancy hidden. He says the baby has to be adopted once it’s born. He told me, “I don’t want people mocking you. We’ll deal with it as best as we can.”

  My mother cries a lot. She swears a trio of soothsayers have come to claim a satanic debt.

  My sisters are silent most times.

  I’m not like them. I need to do what’s right for me. I don’t care what people think.

  I’m almost twenty—older than most of the girls here. I can work as a waitress and get government assistance. I am prepared for a life of ridicule and poverty.

  I touch my stomach and think about where I came from. I wonder where I’m headed.

  Is that the wind howling—or something crying out from the bowels of this house? I’m terrified of night and I regret things I’ve done.

  I wish I’d never met Ken, that I’d never agreed to go with him on that steamy day in August, but I was lonely, tired of spending nights with my mother while my father wagered bets and shuffled cards in smoky back rooms. I wonder what evil alliances he made over the years and if my flesh and blood has been offered in sacrifice.

  * * *

  I am the youngest of three girls. My first memories are of days spent living in a tenement house on the poor side of town. I remember my sisters Beth and Jen going to school in early morning. My mother worked in the city’s only surviving soap factory. Sometimes she put in ten hour days. Back then my father stayed home, took care of the house and made sure we were fed.

  My toys were handed down from my sisters. My only friend was my father when my sisters were not around.

  Dad and I would sit in our living room after the house had been cleaned and the breakfast dishes done. There were stacks of books piled at his side. He’d read to me, but I didn’t understand the words, or exotic names he pronounced. After lunch he’d climb up to the attic, with me at his heels. Vague memories of burning candles and the smell of dampness still linger. An odd piece of jewelry, with even odder symbols, hung around my dad’s neck. Sometimes he’d remove a ceramic figure from beneath a wrinkled scarf. Terra Cotta. Painted face and long graceful limbs. Creepy, mysterious and beautiful all at once.

  “What are you doing, Daddy?” I’d asked him.

  “Praying to angels. Lailah is your guardian angel. She watched over you when you were born,” he’d tell me and then he’d begin to read from an old book.

  Sometimes orbs of light floated over his head. Most times everything was silent and he’d snuff out the candles only to make his way back downstairs.

  I don’t know if he continued his prayers as I grew older. I only know he began to go out nightly after my mother’s heart attack. He grew quiet, distant and reluctantly did odd jobs during the day.

  Always before midnight I’d hear his footsteps on the attic stairs. I wondered if his vigils turned darker when I heard sounds erupting from the attic and saw dark shapes drifting by my window.

  Years went by. Diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis added to my mother’s already fragile health. My father grew bitter, sometimes downright cruel. By my nineteenth birthday he barely spoke to me, except to criticize or scold. Yet, once in a while, he’d smile at me like he did when I was little.

  There were no smiles when I dropped out of business school. I was tired of struggling with Economics and Accounting—tired of my father reminding me that my sister Beth was getting her Masters and my sister Jen had given birth to her second child, happily married to her high school sweetheart.

  My dad told me, “Took hard earned money to further your education. If you can’t make it in school then it’s best you find a husband. You’ll never survive on a woman’s paycheck. Lots of guys in town ask about you.” I thought about the guys my father knew. I’d take my chances in life without them.

  My mother would hug me and say, “There’s somebody out there for you, Meg.”

  I wondered where and how I’d meet this somebody. I had visions of being thirty, still unmarried and living with my parents. I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen, but I let down my guard and got into this mess.

  I was bored with staying home on weekends while others were out dancing. The drinking age is twenty-one, but fake IDs and sweet talking bouncers cure that problem for girls my age.

  My father forbade me to go to nightclubs. He said I’d only meet bums, guys who liked to drink and party. He said girls who went to bars were tramps. He’d heard stories about casual sex in back seats of cars. I figured I’d get a taste for what Dad forbade once I saved up and was far away from him.

  Most of the guys who frequent clubs are in college, or their birth dates haven’t been selected by the draft. However, turmoil over the war in ’Nam made rebels out of others. In 1967 burning draft cards became vogue and hippies made Haight Ashbury in San Francisco their Mecca. It seemed every time I turned on the radio Aretha Franklin was singing, Respect.

  I wish I’d had more respect for myself.

  * * *

  I didn’t eat much for dinner, just a bowl of soup and some toast. Now I’m starving.

  I rise from my bed, put on my robe and open my door a crack. The hall is dark. The house is quie
t, but for the furnace kicking in and soft whispers behind closed doors.

  I gingerly climb down the stairs, passing creepy photographs hanging on walls. I don’t dare look at them. Sometimes, even in day, eyes seem to move and lips curl with demonic smiles. Sometimes I hear the floor creak behind me. Other times an eerie sigh erupts.

  I hear that sigh now. I stop and slowly turn. No one is there and I wonder if an unseen entity hovers at the top of the stairs.

  With a pounding heart I look from right to left. I see nothing but dark and flickering shadows.

  I convince myself it’s Marcy Long trying to spook me. She scared the heck out of Linda Sinelli the other morning. Snuck in the bathroom while Linda was showering, pulled open the curtains and taunted her with a kitchen knife.

  Marcy nicked Linda’s arm and legs before her screams brought Maureen Dugan, the home’s social worker, to the rescue. I wonder what would have happened if no one heard.

  They took the knife away, but rumor has it Marcy’s got others hidden. I’m not sure why they don’t just send her back to Juvie.

  I imagine Marcy creeping behind me, hiding in shadow and caressing the blade of a knife. I hear soft laughter and walk faster. I don’t dare turn around for fear of what I’ll see.

  Once at the bottom of the stairs I feel relief. I move past tables where potted snake plants are displayed in antique vases. I hear a soft snore. It’s Mr. Greely, the home’s handyman. He’s asleep in a chair propped against the door to the library. I’m reminded of my old Grandpa George, resting after he tended his garden.

  I look closer at Mr. Greely. He holds a mop in one hand. A bucket is at his feet. A soft knock erupts from behind the door. Something I may have imagined, or a noise manifested by an aged structure. Mr. Greely opens his eyes, looks at me and then smiles. He closes his eyes and soon he’s snoring again.

  I leave him and I pad to the kitchen.

  Davika, the cook, is busily stirring something in a pot on the stove. She’s a large woman, but her movements are light and swift. Her black hair is woven in shimmering braids and adorned with red and blue beads. She’s wearing a bright orange shift. A black shawl covers her broad shoulders. Her feet are bare and she’s singing. I’ve heard other girls say she has mental problems and used to live at the state institution. She got the job here when she was released. Most of the girls think she’s crazy as a loon.

  I don’t sense craziness, just something mystical, something most others don’t understand.

  I watch her pouring herbs from glass containers into the pot and then I slowly back away, sensing that Davika is doing something secret.

  She suddenly giggles and then turns. Her dark eyes sparkle. Fabric swooshes and beads click. “Come here, girl. You’re hungry?” She pats her stomach. “You’re having the baby and Davika’s belly is twice as big as yours.” She lets out a hearty laugh.

  “There’s leftover roast in the fridge. Help yourself.” She turns and begins to stir and sing.

  Devika pours liquid from a red clay bowl into the large pot. Whatever she’s cooking smells rich and flowery.

  I open the fridge. Thick slices of pot roast lay on a dish. I grab a fork and knife from the drawer by the dishwasher and devour food, not even bothering to sit. I feel better now, but instead of returning to my room I watch Davika. She reaches for a large container of salt.

  “I have to pour lots of salt into my brew.”

  “Isn’t that bad?”

  “Why would it be bad? Salt purifies.”

  “My father told me the same thing.” An image of my father sprinkling salt on a makeshift altar drifts through my mind. A sliver of light appears beside him and then another; bowed heads, feathery wings and hands clasped in prayer.

  “Did he now?” Davika turns and smiles at me. Silver flashes as she spins on her heels and begins to stir rapidly.

  She asks me. “Did he abandon the light?”

  “It was a long time ago.” I need to get back to my room. If Maureen finds me here she’ll freak out. “I’m tired, but will clean up before I go.”

  She stops. “You sense dark things here. It’s stronger with some of us.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s alright, girl. I’ll shut my mouth. Moon is full tonight. My brew is strong now.” She stops stirring, sprinkles more salt into the pot and then makes her way to the refrigerator. “The dark things are restless. I do my best to bind them. Poor Mr. Greely has got to deal with it as long as this house stands.”

  “I don’t understand. Tell me more about this house. What’s going on?”

  “It’s different for everyone who comes here. You got to figure it out. Goodnight, Meg. I’ll wash the dish and silverware. Go on to bed.”

  She turns her back on me again. She’s humming. I sense she’s not about to tell me anything else. I respect her wishes despite my gnawing curiosity.

  I leave her and move quickly to my room. I pass Mr. Greely again. He’s still lost in slumber. Clutching the splintered mop handle. I move by Marsha Walker’s office.

  She’s the head counselor. I’ve never felt comfortable with her. There’s a harsh and disturbing aura about her; from the stiff black clothing she wears, to her heavily made up face.

  Her door is ajar. I hear heavy breathing. The door creaks and opens wider. Marsha is seated at the edge of her desk. She’s unbuttoning her blouse with one hand and moving the other over her breasts. I sense someone else is there. Watching her. Standing in inky darkness.

  I hold my breath as I tiptoe down the corridor. I break into a run once safely past Marsha’s office. I don’t want to think about who is there with her, or what they are about to do.

  Maybe she saw me. Maybe she and her fiendish companion are watching me. I look over my shoulder. No one is there, but the unsettling feeling in my gut intensifies. I rush past ghostly photographs and through the eerie silence of this house.

  I wonder if Davika feels the same dread that I do. I wonder what’ll she’ll do with the brew she’s concocting. Is she just a crazy woman after all?

  2

  I gaze out my window. Davika stands in the yard below. She’s holding her pot with mitted hands. Wind whips around her. Tattered skirt ripples. Scarves billow. She sniffs the air. Looks to the sky, lifts the pot’s lid and drops it on the ground. Steam swirls round her head. Slowly she tips the container and pours a few drops of liquid onto winter earth, melting snow and ice. She moves round and round beneath the moon. Skeletal trees sway above her. Shapes form on thick limbs. Dark things with massive wings. They take flight. They howl and Davika pours steaming fluid around the perimeters of the house.

  I hear Marsha cry out from downstairs and then a door slams. Footsteps pound. The moon slips behind a cloud.

  I cannot see Davika now, but I hear her singing. I know she’s outside, moving around the house. Ignoring the horror within. Spinning white magic. Touching the cracked foundation, ancient brick and splintered wood. She’ll keep moving until her pot is empty, praying the dark things go away. Praying for us all.

  * * *

  At nineteen the only job I could find was serving breakfast at a truck stop off the highway. I worked the night shift, going in before midnight and getting off around eight in the morning. Sometimes I worked double shifts on weekends. It eased the boredom. And, though my father took most of my pay, I managed to put some cash aside each week.

  I’d get away from his dominance one day.

  Until then I’d work hard and put up with my less than perfect home life and my less than rewarding job.

  Luke’s Diner had the best eggs and hash browns in the state. Despite its austere appearance—plain chrome tables and chairs bought in the fifties, a small counter with swivel stools and walls painted creamy white—it always smelled great. It was cozy even on harsh winter days.

  The pay was bad. The boss was tough, charging waitresses for broken plates. The tips were good when guys hauling loads across the country stopped after driving all night.
r />   Ken Aster was one of them.

  Each Friday morning around five he’d slide into the same booth and pluck quarters in the small juke on the wall. Jim Morrison’s voice would fill Luke’s and Ken would smile when I approached him. His gaze always took in my figure. I would have been embarrassed before working at Luke’s, but months of serving truckers cured me.

  He drew me in as though he had mystical powers—as though he’d woven a spell on the lonely roads he traveled—places with no boundaries—with only an endless universe of dark and starless labyrinths. My attraction to him got stronger each time I saw him.

  No doubt Ken cheered me up. Yet there was something unsettling about the massive red trailer truck he parked in Luke’s lot. It displayed a logo reading Aster Hauling. A phone number was etched in gold on the trailer doors and New Orleans, Louisiana was painted in white beneath the number. Each side of the trailer was flanked by an odd image.

  A crowned figure sat on a throne. Women danced beside the figure; seemingly beating drums and sounding trumpets. Two somber females knelt before the crowned being. They seemed on the verge of tossing a baby into a fire burning in the background.

  The other waitresses said the figure was a witch symbol and Ken hauled freight for the Devil. Most were gossips, making up stories about the men who frequented the diner.

  Lizzy Frost, who’d been at Luke’s for years, said, “I caught a peek inside Ken’s trailer. It was a dreary night. I was out in the lot smoking when he opened the door. Looked like bodies piled on top of each other. He must have sensed me there—even though I was quiet as hell. He turned and gave me one of his charming smiles. That’s when the wind picked up and blew the doors open wide. They were just store mannequins and I laughed at myself for being so stupid.”