House of Rain

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Katy,” he says, stroking the stone. “I never meant for you to be a part of any of this. The darkness was mine, not yours. You were the light, always the light. I had no right, I—please—forgive me.”

  The damned burn not in hellfire, but the light of truth…

  The church bell ringing in the distance changes to bellowing laughter, hideous and evil, rolling across the sea of graves through the steady rain like the nightmare it is.

  Night is falling.

  Gordon begins to run, slowly and painfully—awkwardly—but as best as his old bones will allow.

  And the Devil, he sleeps, his demonic dreams growing stronger and crawling free to roam the streets, thieves beneath liquid skies, where the lost, the broken and the forgotten wander in darkness—their eyes put out—seeking redemption they will never find, and deliverance they will never know.

  SIX

  The worst memories come at night.

  Gordon locks his apartment up tight, pulls the shades on the windows and uses only a small lamp in the den for illumination. Otherwise, the apartment is cloaked in darkness. Although he took a hot shower and changed into fresh dry clothes, and has even wrapped a heavy blanket around him, he cannot seem to get warm, and the aches and pains in his joints and in his back refuse to lessen.

  For more than an hour, he sits in his chair with an old shoebox on his lap filled with old photographs, notes, cards and knickknacks he and Katy shared over their years together. These things—many of them hers—are items he hasn’t looked at or touched for a very long time. But now he cannot stop. He rifles through them, his arthritic fingers fighting him at every turn. Each birthday, anniversary or Christmas card, each photograph or item has a story, a meaning, and a memory.

  And for the first time in years, Gordon remembers them all.

  If he listens very carefully, and everything is very quiet—the traffic and city sounds outside his windows muted—he swears he can hear the most beautiful and frightening singing he has ever heard. It’s so very far away, but he can hear it. Male and female voices sing together in mesmerizing harmony. They sound like angels—or how he imagines angels might sound—their haunting voices building and building in song to a heartbreaking crescendo that makes him want to collapse to his knees and weep.

  But he does neither.

  With shaking hands, he continues to sift through the photographs until he can no longer take it. He replaces the lid and puts the shoebox aside, but remains in his chair, exhausted.

  Rain spatters the windows. He can no longer see it, but he can hear it out there trying to get in, trying to get at him, to soak him down. Not to cleanse, but to scald, a baptism in acid.

  The voices of angels soften then die amidst the mounting storm sounds.

  Gordon reaches for his pipe, which he has prepared earlier, and lights it, drawing the pungent smoke deep into his already wheezing lungs and holding it there long as he can. He coughs out a cloud, then hits the pipe again, getting mostly a resin hit the second time. Within seconds of exhaling he can feel the pot taking effect, dancing through his system and causing his temples to tingle. But still, he cannot relax.

  He puts the pipe aside, struggles out of the chair and walks through the dark apartment, down a short hallway to his bedroom. He stands in front of his bureau for some time, just staring at it, willing himself to reach out and pull open the bottom drawer. He has not opened that drawer in months. Tonight, he decides, he will. If it takes him all night, he will open that drawer.

  Without turning on a light, he crouches low enough to reach the knobs on the bottom drawer, grips them tight as he can and pulls the drawer open.

  Clothes. Mostly T-shirts and sweatshirts, a couple lightweight sweaters and a hoodie he’s never worn. Some items are wrinkled and stuffed in there haphazardly, while others are folded nicely and look like new.

  Don’t think about it. Just do it. Do it, you pathetic old fuck. Do it.

  Gordon grabs the top layer of clothes, pulls them free of the drawer and tosses them aside to the floor. It is enough to reveal the heavy, clear plastic bag that lies beneath them.

  He slams shut his eyes, but the visions refuse to let go. Nothing can stop them now. Perhaps it’s better this way. It’s time.

  Slowly, he reaches through the shadows and touches the bag. Nausea rises, bubbles at the base of his throat, and he nearly vomits. But the pot has leveled him out enough to keep him from losing it completely, and with a few deep breaths and a little concentration, Gordon manages to pull the bag free, feeling its weight and all that it means as he straightens up and heads back out into the den.

  Once he has returned to the sparse light, he holds the bag out before him, studying the faded white tag with the handwriting on it, and the large blue letters written across it that read: EVIDENCE—DO NOT TAMPER.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  The light shows him now, brings him back.

  A shattered mirror over a sink, sprayed with blood and body fluids, pieces of brain and skull…

  A gun. The gun.

  I can’t make it, Gordon…I can’t make it…

  He remembers the policeman who initially confiscated it, as evidence at the scene, was the same one who returned it to him when the investigation had ended.

  “It’s your property and a legally licensed firearm,” he’d told Gordon, standing there in the doorway and holding the bag out for him. “By law we have to return it to you once the investigation is complete and it is no longer required as evidence.”

  “I don’t…I don’t want this,” he’d stammered.

  “No, sir,” the cop said, “I imagine not. But as I say, the law states that we return it to you, it’s your property.”

  “Christ,” he said, the revolver visible through the clear plastic, “it still—can’t you see it still has blood on it?”

  “We return it directly from evidence, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Gordon has never taken it out of the plastic bag. Now, he does.

  He grips the revolver, pulls it free of the bag and holds it up in front of his face, studying it as if he’s never before seen such a thing. There is still blood along the end of the barrel and on the grip. Though long-dried, he touches it with his finger anyway. It is crusty and rough, but it is all he has.

  Before the emotion becomes too great, he tosses the bag aside and goes to the kitchen. He finds a box of ammunition in a drawer next to the refrigerator, and dumps some rounds out on the counter. He loads the revolver with six bullets, then takes it and those that remain in the box and stuff them into the pocket of his raincoat, which he has left hanging on a coatrack just inside the front door.

  He ignores the blinking light on his old answering machine, which is telling him he has four messages. Harry, no doubt, checking up on him, making sure he’s all right. Well, no, Harry, I’m not all right. I’m not all right at all. His old friend means well, and Gordon knows this, but he also knows that he’s headed somewhere he can only go alone.

  Gordon scoops up the shoebox, feeling empty inside now, and carries it over to the kitchen. He places it in the sink, then gets a small can of lighter fluid, a book of matches and a roll of duct tape from a nearby drawer. He places the tape on the counter, soaks the box down with lighter fluid, and then stands there awhile, staring at the old shoebox and everything it means.

  “I can’t make it, Gordon…I can’t make it…”

  He strikes the match and it flares to life.

  “Neither can I, love,” he says softly.

  Wind sprays rain against the windows as the storm furiously lashes the apartment building, fighting to claw its way in. But it’s too late. Gordon drops the match, watches as it twists and tumbles and falls through the air—he’d swear in slow motion—until it lands atop the shoebox.

  A burst of flame ignites and rises from the sink in a single feverish wave.

  Gordon watches it, mesmerized by the dancing flames and the smoke billowing about. Slowly, he clenches h
is fist and brings it closer to the fire. Oddly, his hands have finally stopped shaking.

  Tightening his fist, he pushes it into the flames, gritting his teeth as it burns his hand and wrist. The pain is nearly unbearable. Nearly. He holds his hand still as possible, allowing the fire to do its best. He can smell his flesh burning, and the pain becomes agonizing. Still, he does not move his hand. His entire body quakes, but he holds it in the fire, watching it burn and feeling every moment of it.

  It reminds him of death, of the jungles. It reminds him of killing, of how it feels to kill. How it feels to die as you kill, and how one cannot ever be free of the other.

  Yanking his fist back from the fire, he lunges forward, and with his other hand, turns on the faucet. The box sizzles and is quickly extinguished, as a small cloud of black smoke rolls from the sink across the kitchen and into the den.

  Gordon grabs a hand towel from the counter, soaks it under the tap, then wraps his damaged hand with it. With his teeth, he starts the duct tape. Using his good hand, he begins wrapping it around the towel to hold it in place. He wraps it again and again, making it tight as he can stand. It makes the pain even worse, but he continues until it looks like some sort of mitt or cast; then he lumbers into the other room to open a window before the smoke detectors go off.

  The pain is blinding now, turning to a different kind of agony, a searing and rolling pain that pulses from the burned area up into his elbow and upper arm. It is so horrific he’s sure he’ll lose consciousness. But he doesn’t.

  He goes to the double windows facing the street, releases the shade on one and forces the window open. Slumping against the sill, his vision blurs as rain invades his apartment, spraying him in the face and across his neck. Despite the cold, he is sweating profusely, and his heart races with such ferocity he can only hope he’s well on his way to a heart attack or a stroke.

  But then voices down on the street draw his attention.

  Three of the teenagers that assaulted the homeless man earlier are standing beneath the awning of the convenience store on the corner, laughing and smoking cigarettes. They talk loudly to each other in an attempt to be heard over the wind and rain.

  The phone begins to ring. He ignores it, closes the window and pulls on his raincoat and hat. He looks back at the phone, then decides to answer it after all. He already knows who it is.

  “Hello.”

  “Gordo, Christ on the cross, I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”

  “What do you want, Harry?”

  “What do I want?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Momentarily distracted by the pain, Gordon doesn’t answer.

  “Gordo? Are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I have to go, Harry.”

  “Go? Where? It’s after dark and storming out there. Are you stoned again, you damn fool?”

  “Everything’s all mixed up, Harry. It’s all running together and I…I can’t remember them separately, one without the other, I…I’ve lost track of where one memory ends and another begins.”

  “Okay, look you—you stay there and you put some coffee on, you hear me? I’ll get a cab and I’ll be there in—”

  “I won’t be here, Harry.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gordon says.

  “Don’t be sorry, just stay put.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “You ornery, stubborn sonofabitch, will you just listen a minute?”

  “Good-bye, Harry. Thank you for being my friend.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I know I wasn’t always the best friend to you, but—”

  “Nonsense. You’re my best friend, always have been.”

  “I can’t run anymore, Harry.”

  “It’s okay,” Harry insists. “We’ll sit and talk, have some coffee—hell a few drinks if you want—and we’ll decide what to do, all right? Just let me help you, Gordo. It’ll be all right if you just let me help you.”

  He has heard these exact words before. Even as Gordon hangs up, he can hear Harry yelling for him to stay where he is.

  Gordon returns to the window, sees that the boys are still out there.

  They will finish what the pain has begun. They will set him free.

  This night, and all of its demons, will set him free.

  SEVEN

  In the movie running through his head, Gordon’s body is young and powerful. He jogs along the deserted beach, giving Katy a piggyback. It is late and the moon is bright and full in the clear night sky. Having split a bottle of wine earlier at their bungalow, they ventured out to the sands to be silly and romantic as young couples are often wont to do. Gordon runs until he can run no more, finally sinking down onto his knees in the wet sand along the water’s edge. As he topples over onto his side, he gently dumps Katy into drier nearby sand. They don’t realize it then, so early in their marriage, but this will be the only major vacation they will ever take. His line job at the furniture factory, and hers as a receptionist at a dentist’s office, will not allow for extravagant trips to the Bahamas. But they will remember this trip and cherish it forever. It is a time before the bills become so great, a time before they have any worries to speak of, a time when they are both young and healthy and wildly in love with each other. Alive. They are alive. And they will never be this alive again.

  Gordon rolls closer to her, and kisses her. “One day,” he tells her, “we’re going to grow old together, and I’m going to bring you back here, to this island, on this beach, and we’re going to do this all over again.”

  “I hope so, love,” she whispers.

  He cups her face in his hands, but she slowly begins to disintegrate, crumbling to pieces right before his eyes. Running through his fingers, so many handfuls of sand he can no longer grasp, a castle he can never rebuild, she is gone and he is alone, the water lapping at his feet as it rolls in off the ocean…

  The sand turns to rain, and as Gordon steps out onto the street and into the storm, he sees the teenagers still huddled under the corner convenience store’s awning. Hands in his raincoat pockets, he fades back into the shadows next to his building, and watches the street awhile.

  “Yo, G., what you doin’ out here in the rain?”

  Gordon turns to his right. The young man he buys his marijuana from is standing at the mouth of an alley a few feet away. Dressed in a New York Knicks jacket and jeans low on his hips, a baseball cap turned sideways on his head, he protects himself from the rain best he can in a doorway just inside the alley.

  “You need some smoke?”

  “No,” Gordon tells him.

  “Then where you goin’? Ain’t safe after dark, you know dat.”

  Gordon looks back at the kids on the corner.

  “You don’t want nothin’ to do with them neither,” his dealer says. “You stay away from them, you hear? Them fools beat that poor old homeless motherfucker into the hospital today. Was gone by the time Five showed up, but it was them. I heard all about it. Ain’t right, beating on a sad old man like that. Lowlife fuckers give criminals a bad name, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Where are the police?” Gordon asks. “Aren’t they investigating?”

  “Be serious now. Don’t nobody care about no bum.”

  Rain sprays Gordon’s face, drips from the brim of his hat. “Did he die?”

  “I heard he on life support or some shit.”

  “My wife was on life support,” Gordon tells him. “Then one night…she died.”

  The young man’s face shows genuine concern. “That’s rough, man. But you should go inside, though, all right? Ain’t safe on these streets. Go blunt up some of dat fire you got. It take you off to someplace better than all this, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  A car appears rather suddenly and rolls to a stop at the mouth of t
he alley. The dealer hurries over to it, opens the door and looks back at Gordon. He opens his mouth as if he plans to say something else, but apparently thinks better of it, gives a quick wave, then jumps into the car. It speeds off, tires hissing on the wet pavement.

  Gordon watches until it disappears into the stormy night. His burned hand throbs painfully, but he focuses instead on the heavy downpour and how it reminds him of the jungle and the way it rained there. Such angry and violent rain, yet it still couldn’t wash away all that blood. Blood and death are always stronger.

  He looks to the corner. The teenagers are on the move.

  Gordon follows them.

  It has been a very long time since he’s hunted, but it all comes back to him with startling clarity. Though there is a chill in the wind and rain, a different kind of cold takes hold of him; one Gordon has kept locked away deep inside and not allowed himself to feel for longer than he can remember. But it is loose now, and moving through him rapidly, transforming him as only it can. Pitiful, weak and frightened old man no more, he is calm and collected, a trained killer moving through the darkness, stalking his prey efficiently and without remorse. He is a ghost, a reaper from the land of the dead, hidden in the rain.

  The teens rush down the street, cross at the next corner, then slip into the ruins of a building that was once low-income housing but was largely destroyed and gutted by a fire a few years ago. One of the outer brick walls has collapsed into an enormous pile of rubble, but the other three remain standing and relatively intact, and although the building is condemned, since it still has a roof and can provide at least a certain level of shelter and privacy, it has become an occasional stopover for the neighborhood crack addicts and prostitutes. Gordon has never been inside, but he’s walked by many times, and has seen these same teenagers hanging around the building before.

  Staying back a fair distance, Gordon tails them. The pain still ravages the small of his back, his shoulders, knees and nearly every joint in his body, and the pain in his injured hand is excruciating, but he no longer cares about any of that. It is no longer relevant, and therefore he cannot allow it to distract, hinder or prevent him from his mission. Just like in the jungle, there is only the mission.