I raised a hand, tried to speak to her; a wispy "wait" fell from my lips. Her eyes glowed gold, lighting up the corner of the room as she slipped away into the waiting room.
I forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled precariously then gave out, and I crashed down to the floor. "Wait!" I called out again, this time louder and with a bit of newfound strength; apparently the woman's spell had left along with her. I scrambled to my knees and staggered out of the office into the waiting room. As I passed between rooms, I caught a rather unusual scent, something spicy, earthy. Like sodden leaves on a forest floor.
All that was left of her.
Old Lady Zellis.
Part Two
A Matter Of When
23
Summer segued into fall. The trees shamelessly shed their leaves after boasting a month's worth of bold colors. Jessica had started kindergarten and was in the full swing of modern education, dressing up as a bumblebee for an in-class Halloween celebration of cupcakes and candy corn, compliments of Ashborough's proud and gleaming parents. The fridge was adorned with harvest decorations, including a cock-eyed turkey with four movable tail feathers that Jessica made in school (little did Mr. Tom Turkey know, apparently, that we humans would eagerly carve up his kind after basting his sorry little ass for five hours at a blistering four hundred and fifty degrees). Jessica was proud of her artistic creation and boasted a newfound knowledge of the peace-and-friendship Thanksgiving dinner that took place between the pilgrims and the Indians four hundred years ago. Little did she know that the white man would pretty much pluck and torch those poor Indians after the celebration was over. They didn't teach land-pillaging in kindergarten.
My patients slowly but surely came back to me, and I planted myself into a comfortable routine of appointments in the morning and clerical work during the afternoon, necessitating chores like filling out insurance reimbursement forms and restocking medicinal supplies. Place-order applications were sent out daily along with pharmaceutical sample requests. And then, when that work was done, I'd spend the rest of the day returning phone calls and making certain that all patient records were accurately recorded.
Afterwards I'd spend some quality time with Jessica, talk to her about her day and find out what other worldly wisdoms had been conveyed to her by the now famous and well-regarded Mrs. Ehlers. We'd spend dinner together as a family, eating mostly in silence, and then at eight o'clock when Jessica went to bed I'd quietly retire into my office, pour a shot of brandy, and stare out the window into the darkness of the woods.
And wait.
Eventually I'd turn in around midnight—long after Christine went to sleep. We still slept in the same bed together, but never held each other anymore.
We also didn't speak much anymore. This was mostly my doing. I've gone virtually mute on her.
At first my silence angered her, then it concerned her. Then it downright frustrated her. She'd grown distant from me after getting pregnant, and I'd assumed that my silence would be mostly accepted. But soon she discovered that living with someone who refused to engage in conversation wasn't exactly what she'd wanted, and she began an ineffective struggle to get to the root of the problem—my repression, she assumed—by trying to talk to me, or yell at me, or cry out loud and babble endlessly. Sometimes things would get really bad and she'd insist on a reason for my silence by grabbing my collar and getting right in my face like a drill Sergeant, releasing tears of indignation and sometimes a sidelong fist or two. I'd squeeze my eyes shut and scream and push away from her, then flee the house and walk on down the road to Phillip Deighton's place where we'd drink bourbon and talk about how hopelessly damned we were. I'd talk about Christine and how she'd changed and how it nearly killed me to have cut off almost all forms of communication with her; about how our marriage was tackling a very rocky surface. I'd explain that I'd gone silent on her because I was extremely concerned I might slip up or say the wrong thing and inadvertently allude to the existence of the Isolates (she ignored me the first time I tried to convince her of their presence, this being prior to the Old Lady's warning), who were still waiting in the wings for me, watching me, listening to every word I'd said. And I knew that if I did say something wrong, they would punish me by hurting Christine or Jessica or even the unborn baby, just like they did to Rosy and Phillip's daughter. Just like they'd probably done to so many others too. Silence...it was the only protector in this instance, and I pleaded my case to Phillip time and time again and he would nod an agreement and tell me that I was doing the right thing. He'd asked if I'd done any talking to her at all, and I revealed that unless it was over something completely necessary, like her pregnancy (Christine is showing quite a bit for someone only four months pregnant—they say that this always happens the second time around) or when Jessica isn't feeling well, I'd pretty much clam up and keep to myself.
And then when this conversation was over we'd begin to talk about how the time hadn't yet come for me to assume my role in the grand scheme of things. Here Phillip would turn the page and go mostly silent on me, leading me to believe that he retained some knowledge as to what the Isolates had planned for me; it only stands to reason that Neil Farris may have once been the player in this role before I came along, and now that I'm in his place...well, Phillip's been around long enough to know the comings and goings in these parts.
Phillip would offer up replies such as, When the time comes, you'll know or Honestly, Michael, I've no clue as to what they might have in store for you. I've never pressed the issue. He's been through a lot more pain and suffering than me, and it wasn't my place to dig. After all, I was doing the same thing to Christine: withholding information. And I was doing it to protect her. Perhaps Phillip was trying to protect me as well. Maybe. Then again, he might still be protecting himself; after all, both his family members were now gone. I've still never forgiven the man for setting me up, but he's the only damn soul I can talk to about it. Somehow I feel that there's a safety net around him, as if he's the only exception to the whole damned unprincipled rule. That with him, I can say anything I want. Apparently, it appears this might very well be the case, as there hasn't been a single incident at 17 Harlan Road since the night I sacrificed Page upon the center stone. And for that, I am very thankful. Without Philip to talk to, I would have gone crazy a long time ago.
Time has passed slowly since the sacrifice, and the images of Lauren Hunter and Page (oddly, Jessica has completely forgotten about her dog; she hasn't mentioned him since the days following his 'disappearance'; I consider this dismissal as yet another tiny gear in the great scheming machine) have faded from my memory. Often times I wonder if Lauren Hunter had had a family, and whether or not they grieved her disappearance. The Ashborough Observer has never made a mention about her, or Rosy, for that matter. The only obits were for those who'd lived long and prosperous lives only to have succumbed to the God-given gift of old age. As one can well imagine, I'm very thankful that the upsetting episode with Lauren has pretty much dimmed from existence: I would have had a difficult time explaining it to her family, the jury, and the judge. Now, after three months, I am able to set it aside and concentrate on the more personally pressing issues at hand, even though the images of her death still haunt me at night. Like many of my patients back in New York, she endures like a distant dream, a television show, or a resonating echo in a distant chamber.
Isolates...
They want you...they're coming for you...
They have Christine...
On Thanksgiving, Christine had informed me that she and Jessica would be having dinner with the Cleggs, a family whose son was in Jessica's kindergarten class. I've met Mrs. Clegg only once. She came by the house one time to bring Christine and Jessica food shopping when our car was in the shop. Seemed like a nice enough woman, but as you can probably guess, I don't trust anyone a lick these days.
Oh...the car. Another mystery in the whole Ashborough scheme. It remained in Ellenville for about a month, and during that ti
me I stayed holed up and unspeaking in my office, catering to the few patients who slowly filtered back into my life. Christine got around by catching rides with some folks she met through Jessica's school until the car was eventually delivered back to us in pristine shape. I haven't been able to go near it at all for fear they might come after me...like they did the day Christine hit the jogger (another event that has simply gone away; we never heard another single thing about that). It's my immediate assumption that the animal she'd run over had not been a dog, but a brave, conniving little Isolate. Who knows.
Since then she's been driving Jessica to school daily—they leave before I get out of bed. Then she runs around the town, shops for groceries, performs numerous errands until school lets out. Eventually she returns home and makes dinner (all she drinks is that green herbal tea, Rosy's famous recipe; I've longed to question as to whether this was healthy for the baby, but have suppressed this concern as well) at which time I finish up my day and sit down in silence so that I may see my family for the very first time. Very few words are exchanged between us during these tense minutes, and when all is eaten I shuffle Jessica off into her room to talk about her day. I feel no threat speaking to my daughter. I'm not sure why I feel this way. Perhaps her age and naivety has something to do with it. Maybe it's because I know the subject won't ever come up.
Are you sure about that, Michael? She did mention something about ghosts one time...
And then come my nights. As mentioned, I spend these hours in solitude, in my office, seated at my desk. I stare out the windows into the darkness, waiting for my beckon from the Isolates so that I may discover my role in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes I wonder as to whether they'll ever come, but then I remind myself that it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when.
One can only imagine how my mind races during the hours of eight to twelve—four total hours of pure unadulterated hell on the brain. I think of the past. I think of the future. I second guess every move I've made and every one I plan to make. I always think back to that night three months ago when I came in close contact with Old Lady Zellis. I'd been seated right here at the desk and she must've cast some kind of spell on me (it became so apparent afterwards that my sudden paralysis had been caused by a sort of bewitchment; one can only assume that the woman with the glowing golden eyes retained some sort of kinship with the Isolates, who themselves possessed an eerie supernatural might). I'd tried to turn around but it was no use and then she cast her dire warning and told me to expect a calling in the future. Although she warned me to maintain a silence with respect to the Isolates and my inherent role in their machination, I've still entrusted Phillip with these secrets despite the fact that I may very well have put my family at potential risk; apparently, as assumed earlier, Phillip could be considered 'neutral territory' in this game. It only stands to reason that this be the case since no adversity has crossed my path in the three months since the sacrifice of Page. Thank God.
I know I can't live like this forever. I guess I'm simply waiting for them to call on me so that I may discover exactly what it is they want from me and then I can pay my dues, so to speak, and move on with my life, and my family. I still haven't written off the possibility of getting out of here...I've no definitive plans as of yet, but the boilers are roiling in the back of my mind. I'll be prepared to flee at any given instance if the opportunity presents itself.
The very first day we moved in, I remembered having an intense and rather dismaying feeling of wanting out. It was just after Jessica had thrown up and I stepped on the nail. A feeling that I'd wanted to flee, on my own, back to Manhattan to start my life anew. Without my family. It'd scared me to death. Looking back now, it perhaps had been an omen of sorts, because two months ago I'd had the same exact feeling once again, and I'd considered it for real, going as far as getting dressed in the middle of the night, fishing out Christine's keys and walking outside to the car. I'd wondered if I was essentially murdering my family by doing this...if I'd left would the Isolates fulfill Old Lady Zellis's warning to me? The proof of that lay a quarter mile down the road at Phillip Deighton's house. His family had been taken away because he didn't play by the rules. But then again, Neil Farris's family had been spared (although he had not). It was a gamble...me or my family? The risk seemed too great. But there I was, ignoring the warning signs, standing outside at three in the morning jingling the keys to the minivan and struggling with the most insane decision I'd ever have to make. As I stood there thinking, I peered into the woods at the side of the house, and saw, as bright as beacons in the ocean, two glowing golden lights. Eyes. They were watching me. I stared at them for as long as it took me to decide that leaving might not be a good idea after all, and when I turned to go back into the house, they disappeared. I went back inside, shed my clothes, and slid back in bed. I spent the entire night gripping the sheets in my fists, dreading the fact that I'd have to start the whole damned routine all over again in the morning.
And wondering whether those eyes would ever shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my office, beckoning me to fulfill their demands.
My days of wondering came to an end on Thanksgiving day.
24
"We're leaving."
It was the first thing she'd said to me all day. Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose. I looked at Christine. She'd gained quite a bit of weight, her stomach nearly twice the size it should've been at this stage of pregnancy. She wore a light blue sheeting maternity blouse, something leftover from her pregnancy with Jessica, and a pair of jeans with a knit stretch pouch in the front. She looked like a kangaroo, I thought crazily. Her dark puffy eyes told a miserable story, one of depression, anxiety, and sleeplessness; her mussed up hair indicated that she hadn't the strength nor desire to disguise her unhappiness. I'd seen similar looks on some patients' faces in the past, and had treated them with heavy doses of Alprazolam or Valium. I considered offering her some medication, then realized she would've asked me if she'd wanted any, or would have had just taken it herself.
I nodded an understanding. Her disgusted eyes pinned me with all the vigor they could muster, then pulled away to the floor. Jessica, also drawing back into a reclusive shell and looking a bit depressed, sidled up next to Christine and frisked out her mother's hand. Although Jessica and I still talked, the tone and length of our conversations has dropped rapidly. Pretty soon I'd imagine we'd end up strangers, just as Christine and I have become. God...as much as I hate living like this, I'm not sure there's anything I could do about it unless I choose to put their lives at risk. God forbid I utter one single word, one wrong word.
Shouldering her bag, Christine marched to the front door, then stopped and about-faced and looked back at me. I didn't move from the safe distance of the kitchen. Tears sprouted from my eyes and in this moment I realized for the very first time that the holidays this year were going to be intensely depressing. I've always considered myself one of the fortunate ones, a man with a wife and daughter who cared and loved me to no ends—the proud patriarch of a family with whom I could love in return. Now I possessed firsthand experience as to why some people threw themselves under moving trains this time of year.
Tears came from her eyes like rain. "Michael..." I could tell she wanted to run forward, toss her arms around me and cry it all away. But she didn't. She held her ground, steadfast. She tried to say something but all that came was a miserable choke. Soon, she was sobbing into her hands.
This was a very definitive moment. The lines of tension had been intersected, tightened, twisted, knotted into undoable forms. I wanted to walk over and comfort my wife, tell her that everything would be all right. But doing so would make me a despicable liar. I tried to convince myself that it'd be no different than the time I'd explained to Jessica that those ghosts Page had barked at outside were fireflies. I wondered for a moment if lying in this situation might actually be the right thing to do—if covering up the ultimate truth would actually hurt for the time being. It woul
d certainly ease the burden of the moment. But then it would make the eventual outcome seem all the more terrifying.
This moment between us seemed to last an eternity, and for the entire duration I felt extremely confused. I nearly took a step forward but the old lady's words came back to me in a terrible reminder: separate yourself from your family...
That stopped me from taking any action. Jesus, I couldn't step forward. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I again told myself that by maintaining my silence I was in turn protecting my family from the greatest menace to ever threaten them. I laughed crazily, uncontrollably. From the outside looking in, the situation had no rhyme or reason. But neither had anything else that'd taken place here since we moved in.
I felt ashamed, for both my laughter and my inaction. I had no choice in the matter. I bowed my head and walked away.
There'd been no cries in reply. No hurled insults. No words at all. Only the slam of the screen door as Christine left to have Thanksgiving dinner with people whom were complete strangers not two months ago.
25
I spent Thanksgiving alone this year for the first time in my life, slouched gracelessly at the kitchen table with a bowl of bran cereal and my racing thoughts. Christine had left around five. Since then I wondered if she would ever consider bringing home a plate of food to me. God knows I could use it; I've lost at least fifteen pounds since moving here. But I also didn't deserve such a bestowment and wouldn't hold one ounce of resentment toward her if she decided against doing it.
I looked at my fingers. The way they trembled on their own accord made me break up again. I couldn't help it, I could only sit at the kitchen table staring at my hands, laughing and crying and crying and laughing for as long as it took the clock to chime eight.
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