by Sandy DeLuca
I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen, telling myself what I’d seen the night before was a dream.
Something dark and horrifying hung in the air. Once again I tried to dismiss it as childhood imaginings, but my mother’s red-rimmed eyes and my father’s haunted gaze told me that something terrifying had been set in motion the night before.
I grew up, life went on, but the terror came to pass...just as I knew it would.
* * *
Flora and I go back to my room.
“Do you think everything will be alright?” She asks. Her eyes are wide. Filled with terror. Her lips are trembling. “I hate Maureen and Irene.”
I remember the spare change I’d hidden. I look to my closet. It’ll be alright. “We can call somebody from the payphone.”
We cringe when we hear keys jiggling and then a click.
“We’re locked in.” Flora’s face reddens.
We both rush to the door.
“Let us out. You can’t do this.” I pound on cracked wood. Flora leans against the wall.
I continue to pound and call out. My fists are sore. My throat is dry, yet I do not stop.
After what seems like ten minutes or more, the locks unhinge.
Irene stands there. Syringe in hand.
“Meg, I didn’t want to do this, but it’s best. Flora stand back.” Irene’s eyes seem to hypnotize my friend. The girl backs away and slowly climbs onto the bed.
Now Irene grabs my arm. “You’re a tough one to break, aren’t you?” She smiles. “It was traumatic seeing Linda bleeding and in pain.”
She pushes me. Her strength is amazing.
I look to Flora. She’s merely staring into space.
“What did you do to Flora?” I struggle with Irene. “I don’t want any medication. The baby.”
“This is just something to relax you. No harm to the baby.”
“No.” I struggle and then lean over and bite her cheek.
Growls erupt from her throat. Her eyes seem to glow red and then she slaps me. For a moment I’m stunned. Before long I begin to struggle and kick with ferocity. Irene shakes her head. “Give me a hand, will you?”
The room turns icier and becomes darker. Now someone is beside Irene. A man. His face obscured by shadow. I know him, or least I think I do. It’s not Patrick Lamont or Mr. Greely. I try to make out his features, but darkness denies me.
The man holds my arms. His hands are rough, cold and his fingers are wet. I try to pull away, but he’s too strong. I feel his breath on my face as Irene plunges the needle into my flesh.
The room spins as I’m lifted and carried to the bed. Someone strokes my hair. I hear Flora sigh. Footsteps sound. The door closes. The lock clicks and I’m in another place and another time.
I’m serving coffee to Ken. He winks at me and then points to my father hanging from a rope in the attic. Now Lizzy’s car spins off a snowy highway and into a churning river. I see Moloch sitting on his throne. He’s cradling a small bundle in his arms. He laughs as drummers beat primitive instruments. Linda kneels before him and cries, “Please give my baby back.”
Moloch laughs. The drums beat louder and then fire envelops the scene.
I awaken when I hear voices in the hall. Footsteps sound on the stairs and someone screams.
Flora lays beside me and rests her head on my shoulder. Sleet and rain begin to fall. In smoky night I hear a vehicle’s engine outside. I peer out the window. A truck idles. Light from a car’s headlights spills onto its side.
The Flight of Moloch.
“Ken.” I try to push up the window. It won’t budge. The truck’s engine roars. Wipers slice rain. Smoke swirls. Now I see three figures moving slowly towards the truck.
Marsha carries a bundle. Irene and Maureen are behind her. They stop when they reach the driver’s door. They wait until it opens. The driver reaches for the bundle and then drives away leaving them standing in the storm.
I pound on glass. I scream, but no one hears. Not even Flora who is lost in unnatural slumber.
I can’t lose hope. I can’t give in to this insanity, so I nestle close to Flora and I pray.
* * *
I don’t think the three old women came back to our house after that terrifying night, but I swear I saw them every now and then. Walking side by side down Westminster Mall on a sunless Saturday afternoon and then disappearing into the old arcade. Or seated in the back of a taxi as its driver cruised down our street.
Once I heard the oldest women’s voice above the choir at Sunday Mass. My mother reached for my hand when the words became clear. When candles burning near St. Anthony went out.
“I wait for him in this house. In the dark. In the cold.”
* * *
“Meg, you ok?” Flora nudges me. I wonder how long she’s been awake.
“Linda. They took her baby,” I tell her.
She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “How do you know that?”
“And they always know what we’re doing and saying.”
Footsteps shuffle down the hall as though on cue. Locks unhinge. Maureen is standing there.
Marsha is by her side. She speaks in a low voice. “Did you get some sleep, Meg? Flora you look scared, honey. Sorry about what happened, but we had a lot to handle already.”
“Linda,” I whisper.
Maureen shakes her head. “She lost the baby. Stillborn. Rescue took her to the hospital. She’ll live.”
“You gave it up to Moloch.”
Maureen’s eyes narrow and then Marsha shakes her head. “Meg, the sedative will be wearing off. You need to get your head straight. Sometimes meds fills your mind with crazy stuff. Nobody took Linda’s baby.”
Flora doesn’t speak. She rubs her swollen belly and then takes my hand.
“This house. It’s evil. You’re all evil,” I scream at them.
Neither woman answers me. They just turn their backs, move to the door as though in a trance and then it slams behind them.
“I didn’t want to spook you, but you see it for yourself,” I tell Flora.
She nods. “I tried to leave once. Then Marcy Long told me not even hammers and screwdrivers can break the locks. Not even somebody who’s got experience with that kind of stuff. Did you know that?”
“I know.”I think back to lies Marsha told me when I arrived here, making me believe I could take walks, visit the cathedral.
“I’m so tired,” Flora says yawning.
“Me, too.”
Flora closes her eyes and I feel her shiver as sleet pelts the window. I’m afraid, but I’ve got to be strong. I’ve got to get away from here one way or another.
8
I ask myself if this is a dream. It feels so real, but how can it be that Beth rocks me in her arms. She’s away at school, isn’t she?
“It’ll be alright,” She tells me as the sound of drum beats echo in the hall.
“Beth, you’ve got to get me the hell out of here. They take the babies. Kill them. Burn them.”
“I know.” My sister smiles sadly. There’s a lily in her lap.
“What?”
“They took my baby. That’s really what happened.” She picks up the lily and tosses it on the floor.
“Oh, my God.”
“Mom paid the price. Remember her last pregnancy? They said the baby died. Cord wrapped around its neck. Choked it. It was a lie.”
“What makes you think that?”
She lets go of me. Her face is ashen.
“Daddy makes deals. People he owed money to would have got to him if he didn’t. I remember creepy old women coming to the house late at night. I think they conjured demons or something. I know you saw them, too. Remember how Daddy kept the attic locked? In the beginning he did his angel rituals...or whatever the heck he was into. Years later nobody was allowed up there. Not even Mom. He was so drunk one night he forgot to lock the door behind him. I snuck up the stairs. He was fucking naked, standing in front of a statue. Moloch. He was pray
ing to that thing. Promising it his own flesh and blood so he could keep his house—his nights out...and his life.”
“He prayed to angels. Just like you said, Beth. Not anything bad.”
She interrupts me. “He was sloppy. Evil things came through—not angels.”
“You believe in that stuff?”
“Not until I saw what happened and then I did some research on magic, conjuring spirits and angels. People have done it for ages.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” I want to wake up. This is insane.
Beth pats my hand. “It was after Mommy lost the baby. He was holding something wrapped in a pink flannel blanket. He opened it. It looked like a doll, but its eyes. Its eyes were human. Daddy didn’t see me standing there. He rushed down the stairs, outside to meet him.”
“To meet who?”
“He was sitting behind the wheel of his truck.” Beth bites her bottom lip. “It was dark. It was snowing like hell. What I saw was terrible.”
“What did you see?”
“He had no face. Just a skull...a fucking skull. Daddy gave the bundle to him. Then the guy drove off, leaving Dad staggering around in the snow.”
“Beth, it was a dream. This is a dream.”
Beth smiles sadly, “I know, but doesn’t it feel real? Makes you wonder how much of it is true.”
“Your baby’s father...” I stop in mid-sentence fearing what the answer might be.
“A kid from school.” Beth shrugs.
“And Dad was the father of Mom’s?”
“Oh, shit, yeah.” Beth giggles.
“It was different with me. Ken. He’s...”
“You were the special one, Meg. The one who wouldn’t just settle.” Beth kisses my cheek. Her lips are cold.
“Help me then.”
She rises. “I can’t help you. Bye, Meg.”
“Bye?”
“You’re the one he wants. All for himself.”
I awake.
Flora is gone.
The sheets are wet. There’s a spot of blood on the blanket.
Someone is screaming.
I fear the worse. I know that the sacrifices are not yet over and that darkness conjured years ago will come to claim its price.
9
May 10th, 1968
I’m alone now. I miss Flora. I wanted to call for help, but they took the payphone away. Hung a watercolor painting in its place.
There are new girls here now. I don’t know their names. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get close to anyone. I don’t want to feel pain when they go away, or wonder if they’re dead or alive.
Time has gone by slowly. The horror has continued.
It won’t end. No one can stop it, not angels or women who brew white magic. I realized that the night they unlocked Marcy Long’s door.
* * *
The house was cold even at the end of March. From my window I saw people strolling on the walk below. Cars breezed by with open windows and men in leather jackets raced down the street on motorcycles. The first signs of Spring were beyond my reach, in another reality where I was not allowed.
Sleepless nights continued to plague me. Nightly strolls through this dark and wicked house became a habit.
I’d been pacing the hall, listening to whispers behind closed doors. Shadowy things loomed before me, but there was more to fear than wispy ghosts and voices calling from beyond.
I approached the landing. I heard sobbing and smelled something coppery. A few more steps and I realized a girl sat on the stairs. Her hands were raised slightly. Palms open. Her head was bent.
“They took her.” Marcy Long’s voice echoed on the stairwell. Odd. She’d been imprisoned in her room for a long time. She ate her meals behind locks and bolts. They even stopped taking her to the clinic. She used a urinal rather than the hall bathroom and every other day Irene Kendall escorted her to the shower.
“My baby is in the fire,” Marcy sobbed.
She miscarried her child two nights before. At least that’s what they said.
Now her sobs grew louder.
I moved closer. The coppery smell grew stronger. Only a ten watt bulb glowed above the stairwell.
“Marcy?” I was closer now.
“I can’t do it again.” Her voice was strained.
Still closer and darkness gave way to a chiaroscuro scene. A face dappled by streaks of light and inky shadows. Ashen arms and legs. Dark liquid dribbled down her chin and onto stairs. She held up her arms, revealing ruined wrists and then the color red blended with shades of blacks and white.
We both screamed, but no one came. I left her. I promised to find help. Marsha and the others had taken their sacrifice; set events of Marcy’s life in motion. I had to find Davika, Mr. Greely or one of my friends.
I called and searched the house for what seemed like hours. Corridors stretched out before me. Rooms filled with carnage and decay lined those wicked halls. Mournful shapes hovered above; young girls crying before a twisted God. Blood stains spattered walls and the dead beat hell-made drums. Sweat drenched me and my stomach churned, but I forged ahead in vain. It was as though the house shifted, creating an endless maze were only specters resided.
When a clock chimed midnight, I turned a darkened corner and stepped into the hall. I heard a creaking noise. The house settled, turned inside out, hiding what it had revealed. The surface of this Hellish place visible again; diabolical deeds buried in an alternate world. Fowl smells filled my nostrils and mocking laughter sounded from shadowy corners, foretelling disappointment and defeat.
Marcy was dead when I returned to her. So I held her cold body, watching black night slowly turn to gray. I mourned for her and others who died inside these walls. I cried until my eyes were dry and sore. Marcy’s blood stained my skin and clothes. I pressed my hand against marble flesh. I looked into lifeless orbs fixed on phantoms floating above. I stayed there until Mr. Greely came.
“I couldn’t find anyone. Where were you?” My legs and arms were sore. I watched as Mr. Greely cradled Marcy like a child in his arms.
“You should be asking why,” he told me and then he carried her away.
I knew the answer.
For every good thing there’s something evil. One child is born from light. Another goes into darkness.
* * *
I can’t remember the last time I saw Lacey Wright. I snuck into her room. Her things were packed in cardboard boxes. There was a blood stain on her bedspread and spatters on her window. I went back late last night. It’s bolted now. Just like Flora’s. Just like Marcy’s. Sounds are coming from those rooms. Soft cries and mournful wails.
I miss them all—even Marcy.
Nobody talks about them. It’s as though they were never here.
I tell myself I’m stronger than the others and I’ll find a way out of here before the baby comes.
Despite Irene’s warnings I’ve been coming to the library, finding things I don’t think were meant for the residents of the Amelia Leech Home. Books piled in the corner of that closet. Most are esoteric, old grimoires supposedly written by King Solomon. Studies about binding demons to do magic, about calling angels. I think about what Beth said in my dream.
“...I did some research on magic, conjuring spirits and angels.”
There are other books containing manuscripts by an English man named John Dee. There are pages filled with geometric symbols. They are formulas he devised to conjure angels. A caption beneath an elaborate grid says Dee once conjured an angel named Lailah. She watches over all souls from conception to birth. I wonder where she goes once a child is born and why she allows some to be taken into the dark.
I shrug and pick up a book called Angelology. It’s simpler than most of the others. The cover is lovely, a choir of angels stand beneath an archway of roses, their eyes look to heaven. I think of the beautiful paintings in art museums, works by Renaissance artists in books my sister Jen brought home from school.
I turn
a page and gaze at a painting. An angel dressed in white robes. His eyes are kind. There are children at his side. He holds a baby in his arms. The image makes me feel safe. At least for now. I gaze at the closet where once I saw ghost girls taunting me. Where bones of the dead were piled high. There are old coats, books and hangers there now and I refuse to allow fear to overpower me.
I close my eyes and drift to sleep, my hands pressed against the angel painting. I feel my baby moving, drifting inside water. My blood pumping into its veins.
Now I float upward, past a pot-bellied Buddha and into a star-studded sky where an ever expanding universe explodes with vibrant blue, violet and gold. Without warning a voice erupts.
“Coming to get you...”
I awake. I’m so frightened.
I don’t want to end up like Marcy. I just want to live my life and be away from here. I remember a star I wished on when I was a child, envision it in my mind and I ask to be set free.
* * *
It’s midnight. I’m restless. Images of a strange dream flash before my eyes. It was Ken’s voice in that dream. I feel him like I used to each Friday before he arrived at Luke’s. I wonder if he’s here in this house. I wonder if he’s come back for me and I ask myself if I really want to confront him.
I rise from my bed, throw on a bathrobe and pray that my door is unlocked. I turn the doorknob and the door creaks open. I sigh relief.
I move in darkness down the stairs. Hear a soft whimper. It’s coming from the photographs on the wall. I don’t dare look at them. I just keep moving.
Mr. Greely is asleep in a chair by the door to the library. He sleeps there each night, never knowing the comfort of a warm bed. His eyes flicker open for a moment. A weak smile appears on his face. He speaks with a dreamy voice. “I’m an eternal sentinel.” His eyes close and then he snores lightly.
