The Presence

by Shady Grim

  Also by Shady Grim

  Playing With Fire

  The Presence

  Watch for more at Shady Grim’s site.

  The Presence

  By

  Shady Grim

  The Presence

  Copyright © 2015 by Shady Grim

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning: This book is intended for adults and contains language and references that may be offensive to some readers.

  Disclaimer: All characters, places, and events depicted in this book are fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places or events is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to Edward Zimmerman, D.O.; all those who aren’t here to see this in print, and everyone who believed in me.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Immediately after my medical training was completed, I moved to the tiny rural town of Twilight Falls. I spent many holiday and summer vacations there with my family when I was a child. My parents owned an old Victorian mansion that sat in the middle of thirty-five acres of woodland. Even as a child, I thought that place was as close to Heaven on Earth as anyone could possibly get. The last summer I spent there with my family is as fresh in my mind as the smell of this morning’s breakfast.

  I was ten years old and my parents had agreed to bring along two of my cousins as company for me. They felt that I spent too much time alone in the greenhouse or tromping through the woods, and that I needed playmates to keep my mind focused on childish pursuits rather than the overly mature mental wanderings to which I was so prone. Perhaps being the only child of two professional people gave me the time and propensity to think too much. My parents had made sure that, that particular summer would be different. I had two companions who needed constant attention; one who always needed to be watched, and one whose company was always a great pleasure to me.

  Rachel, at nine, was the youngest of the three of us and the most difficult to get along with. She’d been kicked out of so many schools that her mother was forced to send her to the worst school in the county. It was a much larger school than any she’d previously attended and was stocked full of children who had no real parents to speak of and teachers who didn’t care much for them either. These were the abused, neglected, overly indulged, or emotionally unstable children of parents who either couldn’t cope, or couldn’t be bothered providing for their children’s needs. They would be the future dregs of society; adults who would be despised and punished for displaying the behaviors that had been taught to them from birth. Needless to say, Rachel blended in perfectly with the rest of the student body.

  Rachel had a supernatural gift for being difficult. She always wanted to play a different game, or see a different movie, and generally be as uncongenial as possible. She always wanted what she didn’t have and when she had it, she didn’t want it anymore. If someone else had a toy first, Rachel would steal it or break it and then claim that she was also missing something valuable. She would insist that she didn’t like something that everyone knew she loved and would later swear that she said no such thing. She’d make a point of “accidentally” destroying anything that someone else cherished. She could cry piteously on command, swore like a trooper, and reveled in the misery of others. Even in her absolute best mood, Rachel was difficult. Ethan and I tolerated her because we pitied her. Even after all her cruel pranks and lies, we still pitied her. She didn’t have a good home life and was often teased about her coarse wild hair. She was very pretty, although she refused to believe it. She was tall and slim and had long untamable black hair, olive skin, and light-brown eyes. She hated the fact that her eyes weren’t blue like Ethan’s and mine.

  Ethan and I were both ten. He had a zest for life that my practical mind could never fully comprehend. He lived for excitement and had the imagination to create it. His fanciful mind could soar to heights that even gods couldn’t reach. It was my task to make sure that he didn’t fly too far, and his mission was to keep me from being too mundane. His physical vigor easily matched his active imagination. He had hyperactive energy, whereas I had controlled but steady stamina. His hyperactivity hindered his studies and, consequently, he proved to be a barely mediocre student. His father, although financially well-off, refused to pay for private schooling, so Ethan and his sisters and brothers went to a public school that was little better than the one Rachel attended. I, on the other hand, attended an excellent private school but since Ethan and I lived in the same neighborhood, we shared many of the same friends.

  Ethan was the smallest of the three of us. He and Rachel were about the same height, but he was so skinny that the super-slim pants he wore still needed a belt. He could eat as much as Rachel and me put together and never gained any weight. It annoyed him that he didn’t grow as fast as he wanted. His only goal in life was to be taller than me; a goal he later reached in excess. He was fair-skinned with strawberry-blonde hair and his eyes and mine were the same shade of deep blue, a trait we inherited from our sibling mothers. Ethan and I were perfectly compatible, which made Rachel seethe with envy. It was our easy way of fitting together that later proved to be our saving grace.

  Although I shared Ethan’s exuberance for life, my outlet took a much different form. My feet were firmly rooted in the earth from the moment I was born. My god was reason: my passion was nature. I could never share Ethan’s haphazard bursts of impulsive enthusiasm. I loved the quiet beauty of nature. I loved the greenery; the sweet clean air and the freedom of wild things. I was the tallest of our trio. A title I would later lose as Ethan reached an adult height of six feet six inches. My adult height, reached by the age of fifteen, was a mere five feet six inches. Ethan and I shared the same coloring, and people often mistook us for siblings.

  As our car traveled along the unpaved dirt driveway, I looked up at the old house looming in the distance like some fond English Lady over her loyal servants. Ethan thought it looked haunted and creepy, but I saw a majestic beauty that only Father Time could bestow upon his favorite children. To me, every room of the old house told stories of past days and past lives; stories of children growing up and growing old, and their children doing the same. Until, one day, the children stopped coming. I could hear the echoes of the many heartbeats that have long since departed, and left the house to face her old age alone. Every time I crossed her creaky porch, I felt as if I were greeting a grandparent who had been waiting in silent patience for her family to come home again. I saw the beauty that had been there in youth, and all the flaws that had come from years of care and worry. I could feel her breathe a happy sigh of contentment when we were all settled in our beds and dreaming of how we would spend our summer days. It pained me to see her all closed up at the end of every summer, forced to wait out another year in lonely despair. There’s no greater sadness to a grand old house than to not have the sounds of the living within her walls. Like it is with people, it’s the memories that keep old homes alive; memories of love
d ones, of laughter and of tears, and of all the things that make living worthwhile. She shared with me the stories of her life, and I saw the specters of her past in every creeping shadow. To me, they were comforting angels; and to Ethan, they were terrifying spirits of doom waiting for their chance to pounce.

  When the car finally stopped at the top of the driveway, my parents sent us off to play while they brought all the bags into the house and settled everything. We children thought that we’d been set free from the dull chores of restricting adults, and they were happy to be rid of three rambunctious children who’d been confined in a car for too many hours. We immediately ran to the lake, paying no attention to my mother’s fading instructions, “Don’t get too close to the water, kids.”

  “Let’s take the canoe out,” said Ethan as he turned the ancient canoe over and checked it for holes.

  “I have to ask first,” I replied.

  “Okay, go ask while we get ready.” Ethan stamped his foot along the bottom of the canoe before he and Rachel slid it into the water. I ran back to the house and found my mother taking the bags of groceries from the trunk of the car and setting them on the ground while muttering to herself.

  “We’ll need to go shopping for a few more things first thing tomorrow.”

  “Mom, can we take the canoe out?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, honey. You should have your father look at it first.” She answered me with a customary shake of her head and expression of motherly concern. My father practically sprinted from the porch to the car, eager to get everything put away so he could start tinkering. He loved working with his hands. For him, the best part of any vacation was repairing things. As he picked up the bags that my mother had taken out of the car, he spoke in an almost weary tone.

  “Oh, let them go, Claire. If it sinks they can swim back.”

  “Harry!” she shot back with that tone of shocked confusion that mothers get when fathers refuse to be coddling. With that cursory confirmation, I was off and running before Dad’s reasoning was replaced by Mom’s.

  “They said okay.”

  “Great, let’s go!” shouted Ethan as he jumped into the waiting canoe. It was designed for only two people so I sat on the floor in the middle. Rachel was in the front and Ethan chose the back. He insisted that we hug the edge of the lake and keep to the shallows until we were comfortable with paddling the canoe. As was expected, that suggestion immediately started an argument with Rachel. How dare Ethan make a decision without first consulting her! They argued over how to paddle, and in which direction to go, and who would paddle on which side first. I sat quietly in the middle looking at the minnows and watching the pair of dragonflies that had perched themselves on the gunnel of the canoe. They were beautiful. The sun glistened off of their bodies making them appear to glow. The glint from their bodies reminded me of the metal-chip paint that is sometimes seen on freshly painted sports cars.

  “Fine, Rae, yeh can paddle it yerself then!” Ethan laid the paddle across his lap and made a face at Rachel.

  “Okay, I will!” she replied with her usual defiant tone. But instead of paddling, she merely stabbed at the water with her paddle. I frowned as I observed her. She appeared to be enjoying herself a little too much. Her angry scowl slowly gave way to an intent smile as she stabbed the water with steadily increasing ferocity. I looked back at Ethan and inclined my head slightly toward Rachel. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue as he poked at his temple. I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh, but Rachel was too busy stabbing her imaginary victim to hear me. Ethan gazed into the water and saw a dead eel lying on the bottom and asked me to pick it up. Anything scary or repellant was always my responsibility. That was the only thing upon which both Ethan and Rachel always agreed. I moved onto my knees and leaned over the side to pick up the eel, but it kept slipping out of my fingers.

  “That’s why they call ‘em slippery eels,” said Ethan with a devilish grin.

  “Thank you, Ethan.” I didn’t want to look the fool, so I dug my fingernails into the dead animal and brought it up out of the water.

  “Eeeeww! Don’t bring that thing near me!” shouted Rachel as she pinched her nose and tried to lean farther away from me and the reeking eel. “God, what a stink!”

  “Here you go.” I dropped the dead eel at Ethan’s feet.

  He moved his feet out of the way with a start. “I didn’t mean for yeh to give it to me. Put it back, it smells.” He shook his head and laughed. “Yer so gross!”

  I scooped up the eel and dropped it back into the water. As I leaned over the side of the canoe and washed my hands I asked, “Does anybody know how to wash slime from under your fingernails?” After a chorus of laughter and comments like “That is so foul!” and “Gross!” we were on our way. It was so peaceful to float lazily on the water and just breathe in the scenery. It was the very start of summer and the honeysuckle was blooming and covering the entire area with its sweet fragrance. Everyone always loved the smell of honeysuckle, but my favorite has always been mimosa blossoms. Lightning bugs and mimosa blossoms, they are the epitome of summertime for me. I love the fluffy deep pink and white blossoms. The look and smell of them always reminded me of cotton candy. Whenever I see the lightning bugs flashing their tiny yellow and green lights and smell that fruity fragrance in the air, I travel back in time to when my senses were keener and the world was a fresh new place. For all my days on this Earth, I will become a child again when I smell that fragrance on the summer breeze. I think the lake was more beautiful that day than ever before. I don’t know if it was because it was the last time I saw it with the eyes of a child, or if it was the companionship of my two most cherished friends that made it so special. The leaves on the trees seemed to be a little greener, the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, and the water seemed to be just a little bit more peaceful than it ever had before or since.

  “It’s startin’ to get dark. Maybe we should be gettin’ back.” Ethan was always afraid to be out in the country at nightfall. It’s a fear he never managed to outgrow. He always saw hordes of ghosts and goblins and assorted unholy beasts ready to pounce on us at any instant. Demons would come out of the shadows, and evil backwoodsmen would lurk behind every tree and bush. Of course, the exploitation of that fear was a ceaseless source of amusement for Rachel. She and Ethan both could spin some amazingly creative yarns, with one always trying to outdo the other. I always enjoyed their tales and wished that I had their ability to embellish and transform everyday events and people into a world of fantasy, but I could only see things in their true state. It was a gift I wouldn’t learn to appreciate until I was much older. From earliest memory, I could always see straight through any veneer presented before me to the true nature of any person or creature that I met. To other children, it made me seem dull and flavorless. To adults, I was bizarre and intimidating; a wise old seer embodied in a child. I’ve been told many times that my “cold blue eyes could look straight through people,” and see the essence of their souls.

  Aside from Ethan, there was one other person who appreciated the workings of my mind and that was Dr. Sherman Zee. He was the general practicing physician for Twilight Falls and the idol of my life. He seemed to me to be the wisest person in the world, and he had the character and integrity to match. I never once saw him turn a sick person away from his door even if that person didn’t have the money to pay him for his services. I’ve seen him give handfuls of medication away to needy patients. To me, he embodied all the dedication and compassion that a true healer should possess, and I desperately wanted to be that same kind of individual. Out of all the physicians that I met as I grew older, I never met a single one that could measure up to my perception of Dr. Zee. Even as I became an adult and saw the flaws of age and of simply being human, I never lost my admiration for him or my desire to be like him. I never felt the need or desire to lower the unreachable pedestal that I had placed him on when I was a child, as is sometimes the case when we see our childhood heroes throug
h adult eyes. It was his influence that sent me to medical school, and his awesome shoes that I try to fill.

  As my companions paddled back to the crumbling dock, I could hear my mother calling for us, and I could see the white disk of her flashlight scanning the murky water.

  “We’re coming, Aunt Claire!” shouted Rachel.

  My mother walked along the dock, complaining all the way, as Ethan and Rachel paddled next to it and up onto the bank. “Oh, thank God! Where have you kids been? I thought something happened to you. Go get washed up, dinner’s ready. It’s probably cold by now.”

  It always amazed me how my mother could touch on so many subjects in such a short amount of time. She could complain about never being able to sit and enjoy a meal, repeat the events of the day, and protest about how my father never listens to her, all at the same time. She could chew, swallow, and breathe while talking, and she never choked or lost her train of thought. Rachel was the first one out of the canoe, followed by me. Ethan waited in the back of the canoe for me to turn around and pull it safely onto the sandy bank before he stepped out of it. We tromped over the high grass of the sprawling front lawn toward the front entrance of the house with my mother patting and shooing us the entire way. When we crossed the front porch and entered the foyer, my mother repeated her earlier instructions with a small amendment.

  “Go upstairs and get washed up, and make it quick. We’re eating in the kitchen.” Her instructions given, she walked past us through the foyer to the main hall, and proceeded to walk down the wood-paneled hallway to the kitchen. We three turned to our left and climbed the antique mahogany staircase to the bathroom on the second floor.

  “Boy, yer mom’s a pain,” complained Rachel, as we washed our hands and faces in the antiquated and barely functional bathroom sink. Rachel’s mother, the youngest of the three sisters who were our mothers, was a single parent who had never been able to get over her husband’s untimely death. He’d slipped on a patch of ice while walking home from the store one evening and was knocked unconscious. A passerby called an ambulance, and he was rushed to the hospital where he lapsed into a coma and died. Rachel was born three months later, so she never had a chance to meet her father let alone develop a memory of him. Her mother never spoke of him, and she kept all of his pictures locked away so Rachel never had any idea what he looked like, although one could make guesses as Rachel’s coloring was dark and her mother’s very fair. Her mother buried herself and her grief into her work and was rarely home. When she was home, she was in no mood to be bothered with the concerns of children, so Rachel went where she pleased and did as she pleased. We thought she was lucky to have so much freedom.