Halcyon

by Rio Youers

  * * *

  The light had faded by the time Valerie heard the chimes on the landing. They plinked sweetly, disturbed not by the movement of air currents, but by someone brushing against them.

  She was still on her knees, her back to the door. Her instinct was to move but she could not; her lower body was numb and her spine had stiffened. The chimes’ hollow song dwindled. She heard footsteps. A pause. Then the sound of the door opening.

  A waft of cologne. Something extravagant. Valerie whimpered and stared dead ahead. She heard the floorboards creak as he approached from behind, along with his breathing, muffled through the mask. She shuddered when a bony hand came down on her shoulder. His voice was muffled, too.

  “Valerie. You’ve been a very bad girl.”

  The rooster came first.

  7

  Edith had a mild episode ten days after the night vision camera was installed in her room. Video footage showed her waking at 11:03 p.m. She didn’t merely wake, though; she sat up suddenly—as if spring-loaded—with her head tossed back and her shoulders trembling. She remained in this position for fifty-six seconds, then lifted her right hand and started to “draw” in the air (the symbols were too vague to discern, even when Philip slowed down and enlarged the video). This continued for eighteen seconds, then Edith lowered her hand and spoke two words:

  “Concord … Black.”

  She raised her hand again, as if to continue drawing, then slumped to the pillows and resumed a normal sleep pattern. As always, she had no memory of the episode come morning.

  “What does ‘black concord’ mean?” Martin asked the following day, after Philip had run through the footage with them.

  “Concord. Black,” Paris corrected him, separating the words. “It could mean anything. It’s too general to nail down.”

  “Right. Concord could refer to a business name, a street name. It could be a horse or a boat.” Philip gave his beard an affectionate twist. “There are multiple towns and cities called Concord across America. I stopped counting at twenty. And who’s to say Edith’s premonition—if that’s what it was—is confined to the States?”

  “And ‘Black’ is even more generic,” Paris said. “We’ll follow it up, but we’re bound to get hits.”

  They did. Entering CONCORD and BLACK into the search parameters on various news alerts, they hooked a total of twenty-three stories over the next four days, including: Officer Brian Black being fatally shot while responding to a domestic dispute in the town of Concord, California; a fire at Black Electronics on Concord Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts; a private jet—named Fortune’s Concord—crashing into the Black Mountains of North Carolina, killing twelve.

  * * *

  “So there’s good news and better news,” Paris said hopefully. The four of them were sitting around the kitchen table. Two of them—Martin and Laura—were drinking wine. “The good news is that, her night terrors notwithstanding, Edith appears to be a normal, healthy girl. We’ve found no conclusive evidence of supernatural ability. I should qualify that by saying that we rarely find evidence of supernatural ability. There’s a scientific, or logical, explanation for just about everything.”

  “True mediums, like myself,” Philip added, “are the exception rather than the rule, and even we operate on a scientific psychic spectrum. It’s more about isolating energy signatures than it is about the kind of otherworldly hoodoo you see in movies.”

  “Okay,” Martin said. “I can dig it.”

  “Which isn’t to suggest she doesn’t have some psychic sensitivity,” Paris said. “There are definite gray areas here. This leads us to the better news…”

  “Go on.” Martin and Laura said this in unison, then sipped their wine.

  “By being inconclusive, Edith’s case has a broader level of intrigue, which in turn translates to interest … opportunity.”

  “What kind of opportunity?” Laura asked.

  Paris nodded at Philip, who opened his man bag and took out a file folder, and from this he took six letter pages clasped with a paperclip. “For your consideration,” he said, sliding the document across to Martin and Laura. They read the title: PARASOMNIA. Beneath this: A LOVE PARANORMAL PRODUCTION. Laura frowned. Martin read the first line—Night terrors or premonitions? Edith Lovegrove is like any other ten-year-old girl, except—then he sat back in his seat and took a messy glug of wine.

  “I don’t need to tell you how hot reality TV is right now,” Paris said. Her enthusiasm seemed more practiced than genuine—a note of falseness that had been absent from her character until now. “From Cops to Big Brother, viewers are reliably captivated by real people, real emotions. This is especially true for the paranormal. Shows like Ghost Hunters and True Mystic consistently draw solid numbers for their networks.”

  “Nielson ratings show My Psychic Mom at close to a million viewers per week,” Philip said. “It’s the number three show on Jingle TV.”

  “This is a pitch.” Paris tapped the pages in front of Martin and Laura. “A proposal, if you will, that outlines our plans for season one. We’ll get to know your family, with a focus on Edith, of course. We’ll see how you live, where you work, where you do your shopping. It sounds mundane, but viewers relate to this. It’s what draws them in. Then we’ll document night terrors. We’ll talk to experts and psychoanalysts. We’ll obviously show several of Edith’s episodes. Then … the investigation. The hook: Are Edith’s night terrors coming true? Are they, in fact, premonitions?”

  “TV gold,” Philip said.

  “With your permission, we’d like to submit this pitch across multiple networks.” Paris drummed her finger on the pages once again. “We think it’s intriguing enough to earn some serious looks.”

  “I have a contact at Syfy,” Philip said. “Marianne Perry. She’s good people.”

  “We may not need her,” Paris said. Her eyes danced. “I personally think this will go to auction. We’re talking big money. Big production values. A celebrity host.”

  “Celebrity,” Laura echoed. This was all she could pull from the tight chute of her throat, but it was still more than Martin. He drank his wine. A muscle in his jaw jumped rhythmically.

  “Obviously, we’ll oversee the whole project,” Paris said. “We won’t do anything you’re not one hundred percent comfortable with. Likewise, we won’t air a single scene without your approval.”

  Laura nodded. She managed a polite half-smile. “And there’ll be…” She made a vague circling gesture with her finger. “… cameras. All over. In the house. Right?”

  “A production unit,” Paris said. “So yes, cameras, sound equipment and engineers, the director, the host—”

  “I’m not going to lie,” Philip cut in. “It’ll seem invasive to begin with. But you will adjust to it, and quickly. Just like you adjusted to the camera in Edith’s room.”

  The muscle in Martin’s jaw jumped a little quicker.

  “The show will air over twelve weeks,” Paris said. “Depending on how everything shakes out, the production unit will likely only be here for three or four.”

  “Right,” Laura said. She recalled Anna, her spiritual advisor, telling her how some cultures believe cameras can steal from the soul—a notion that suddenly didn’t seem so ludicrous. “And what happened to discretion? That’s what you promise on your website: compassion and discretion. How is airing our family crisis to millions of strangers in any way discreet?”

  “We also promise open-mindedness,” Philip said, giving his beard an anxious tug. “A willingness to adapt to any situation. That’s what we’re asking of you now: to come at this from a different perspective.”

  “Cards on the table,” Paris said. “We’ve hit a roadblock with Edith. It may take a while to get around. Our best bet: we adapt. Parasomnia will reach a worldwide audience, including fellow sufferers and renowned experts in the field. There’s every chance someone will come forward who truly understands what Edith is going through, and give her the tools she needs t
o live a normal life. What’s more, the money you make should adequately cover any specialist treatments.”

  “We promised to help,” Philip said, his voice splashed with a generous dollop of gravitas. “That’s what we’re trying to do.”

  “It’ll be a freak show,” Laura said. Martin took her hand and clutched tightly. The muscle in his jaw thrummed like the fat string on a double bass. “You may not intend for it to be that way, but that’s how the network will sell it.”

  “Absolutely not,” Paris insisted. “We won’t let that happen. It’ll be a tasteful and sympathetic account. There’ll always be cynics, we can’t do much about that, but we’re confident the overall response will be encouraging and heartwarming.”

  Laura nodded, looking from Paris to Philip, then down at the six-page pitch. The bones in her hand throbbed where Martin gripped so tightly. He said nothing—hadn’t for some time. There were drips of wine on his chin. For a moment the only sound was the refrigerator humming and the purposeful tick of the clock in the hallway. Eventually, Paris exhaled from deep in her chest and Philip drummed his fingers on the table—a nervous response more than an impatient one.

  “It’s a big decision,” Paris said. “Perhaps life-changing. We don’t expect you to make it right now. Heck, we don’t want you to. Sleep on it. Take as long as you need.”

  “Okay,” Laura managed another half-smile, then extracted her hand from her husband’s and massaged her knuckles. “Martin?”

  He said something. More a grunt than a word.

  “What are you thinking?” Laura asked him.

  At last the muscle in his jaw stopped pulsing. He took a breath that expanded his entire upper body and his eyes flashed their high-beams—wide and bright. More wine spilled as he took another sloppy glug. He grinned through maroon-stained teeth and appeared, in that moment, quite frightening, quite mad.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, switching his gaze from Paris to Philip, “that you should collect your shit and get the fuck out of my house. Do it now—like, right now—or I’m going to drag you out by your silly fucking beard, and this”—he scrunched the TV pitch into one steady fist and showed it to Paris—“this’ll go directly up your fucking ass.”

  They stared at him, jaws detached.

  “You’ve got five minutes,” Martin added.

  They did it in four.

  * * *

  Laura poured more wine but Martin took the glass from her hand and drew her into his arms. He did this as much for his comfort as hers. They held each other while the refrigerator hummed and the clock in the hallway ticked. A long, satisfying moment, but peppered with frustration. Laura didn’t cry but she could have. Martin touched her hair, trailing his fingers down her spine to a precise spot in the small of her back that, whenever he kissed her there, she groaned and part-melted.

  “So what now?” he asked.

  She reached for her wine, took a sip, then looked into his eyes—her famous flashlight expression.

  “You want to try something wacky?” she said.

  * * *

  Laura took the photograph of Calm Dumas out of its protective envelope and placed it on the kitchen table. Martin found a handful of candles in the junk drawer and set them burning. “For added atmosphere,” he insisted. Already Ms. Dumas looked more vital—the candlelight, probably, reflecting off the photo’s shiny surface, or perhaps because it had been removed from its plastic sleeve.

  “Kids asleep?” Laura asked.

  “Yup. Out like lights.”

  “Then let’s do this thing.”

  They sat beside each other, Laura’s right hand curled into Martin’s left, the photo on the table in front of them and a tall candle flickering just beyond this. Laura took a deep breath. She looked from Martin to Calm Dumas’s insect-like double irises.

  “So we just say her name over and over?” Martin asked.

  “Right. We channel her. Like a Ouija board.”

  “And she’ll appear?”

  “Yeah.” Laura said. “Apparently.”

  They steadied their breathing, then Laura began, “Calm Dumas,” pronouncing the name slowly and clearly—Kaammm-Dooo-Maaassss—while concentrating on the lady’s out-of-focus face. Martin joined in a moment later, using an affected voice, like an actor in a horror movie trying to summon the dead.

  “Use your own voice, Martin.”

  “Okay.”

  “Calm Dumas…”

  “Calm Dooooomassss…”

  “Calm Dumas…”

  Laura blinked and the photograph wavered. For a second the lines came together and Ms. Dumas stared back with sharp, penetrative eyes. Laura’s breath snagged in her throat. She blinked again and the illusion passed.

  “For the record,” Martin said. His voice started out at some distance, then became clearer. “If the doorbell rings while we’re doing this, I’m shitting my pants.”

  “Martin—”

  “It could be an insurance salesman or the neighbor looking for his dog. Doesn’t matter. It’s pants-shitting time.”

  “Just concentrate. It won’t work if you keep cracking wise.” She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “Asshole.”

  “Assssss-hoooooooole.”

  “Martin!”

  He smiled, but then focused his attention more seriously. Before long they were in sync; they inhaled through their noses, spoke her name on the exhale—“Calm Dumassss”—and waited a beat before repeating the process. The candlelight flickered, and again Laura noticed the image sharpen. Ms. Dumas’s four irises blended into two, centered with ink-drop pupils that stared intently. Laura kept going—“Calm Dumassss … Calm Dumassss”—in perfect rhythm with Martin. And maybe her own eyes were swimming out of focus, but she soon picked out details that were not there before: the pouches beneath Calm Dumas’s eyes, the texture of her lips, a mole on her left cheek. Even her glasses changed shape. Dimly, Laura remembered Anna saying, That photo was taken twenty-some years ago, but it still works, and it occurred to her—crazy but unshakable—that she was seeing Calm Dumas now. They were looking through a window between here and Virginia, and the psychic—twenty-some years older, with a mole on her left cheek and different glasses—was looking back.

  “Calm Dumassss … Calm Du—”

  “Hello,” Laura said.

  The window—if that’s what it was—closed suddenly. The photograph lost its depth and clarity. A blurred, unremarkable image once again.

  “What the—” Martin looked at her, frowning. “You broke the spell.”

  “That was trippy shit.” Laura showed Martin the rigid skin on her forearms. “Serious goosies.” She stood up, backed away from the table—from the photograph. “Did you notice anything weird?”

  “Honey, it’s all weird.”

  “I mean with the photograph. Did it … change?”

  “Maybe,” Martin replied after a moment. “It’s hard to tell. My eyes were in and out of focus. It reminded me of one of those Magic Eye images that were all the rage in the nineties. You remember them?”

  “Yeah,” Laura said. “But it was nothing like that. It was like she got older … like she was looking at us.”

  “I didn’t get that,” Martin said, and then, “I thought what we were saying changed. Her name, I mean. We kind of lost it.”

  Laura gave him a questioning expression.

  “We weren’t saying Calm Dumas,” Martin explained. “Okay, we were to begin with, but after a while it changed to come to us … come to us. Again and again. We just couldn’t quite get her name right.”

  “It sounded okay to me.”

  “I guess we had different experiences.” Martin stood up and walked over to the stove, raking his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if that—” He stopped, frowned, looked at Laura. “What time did we begin this?”

  “Somewhere around ten o’clock.”

  “Right, and how long were we doing it?”

  “Ten minutes,” Laura said. “Maybe fiftee
n.”

  “Try three hours.” Martin stepped away from the stove, showing her the glowing green digits of the clock. As Laura watched, 01:07 ticked over to 01:08.

  “Impossible,” she said. “There must be—” Now it was her turn to stop and frown. She’d noticed the candle on the kitchen table, brand new and seven inches long when they’d started, but now burned down to a waxy knuckle. She looked at the other candles set out around the kitchen. Most had melted to smoldering nubs. Some had burned out completely.

  Laura puffed out her cheeks. She showed Martin her forearms again.

  Serious goosies.

  * * *

  It was freaky enough that, despite the lateness of the hour, Martin peered persistently between the living room blinds. “I keep expecting to see her standing under the streetlight,” he remarked. “Like Max von Sydow in The Exorcist.” Laura told him that Ms. Dumas wouldn’t just drop everything and appear, and besides, she had to travel from Virginia. “Assuming it worked at all,” she added. “Which it probably didn’t.” Although, from the way Ms. Dumas had stared at her from the photograph, she was sure something had worked.

  This was the pattern for the next couple of days. Every time a car pulled up outside, Martin dashed to the window and nosed through the blinds. Whenever the phone rang or the doorbell chimed, he or Laura answered sheepishly, their hearts thumping a little quicker than normal. It was usually one of the girls’ friends or somebody selling something. On one occasion it was a delicate old lady wearing wireframe spectacles and an uncomfortable-looking wig. “Ms. Dumas?” Martin gasped, taking her hand and leading her into the hallway. “I can’t believe you’re here.” But no, it was Mrs. Crumble collecting for the River of Life Church, and it cost Martin twenty dollars to get rid of her.

  The weirdness of the telepathic “call” faded, as did their expectation of Calm Dumas showing up at the front door. Martin told his therapist about the incident. She called it “understandably desperate.” Laura told Anna, who assured her that Ms. Dumas wouldn’t come if she didn’t think they needed help, so maybe the exercise had been valuable, and that they should take encouragement from it.