SILAS
BY ROBERT J. DUPERRE
T.R.O. Publishing
Publisher’s Note:
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, events, persons, and
locations are used in a fictitious and imaginative manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, circumstances,
or locales are purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Melissa Rico
Copyright © 2010 by Robert J. Duperre
Cover Art © 2010 by Jesse David Young
ISBN # 1461111587
EAN-13 # 978-1461111580
ALSO BY ROBERT J. DUPERRE
NOVELS:
The Fall: The Rift Book I
Dead of Winter: The Rift Book II
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS:
The Gate: 13 Dark and Odd Tales
For Leo, my best friend and companion for life…
BLOOD RED MORNING
Written and performed by Art Lonnigan
The numbers of my stranded soul
Rattle through the cages of time
Nine, six, eight, two, four
In my head without a rhyme
Five, seven, two, one, in a land once said
And through fields of green I can see the dead
In the shade of a blood-red morning
Which faulty math can’t repent
In the shade of a blood-red morning
With angels swimming ‘round my head
The symbols at the demon’s door
Three and nine once we pass the gate
Then one and one and one sublime
With a final two to seal my fate
Five, seven, two, one, in a land once said
And through fields of green I can see the dead
In the shade of a blood-red morning
Which faulty math can’t repent
In the shade of a blood-red morning
With an angel swimming ‘round my head
With an angel swimming ‘round my head
1
Ken Lowery is dying. Cancer. It started in his pancreas, but now he is riddled with it to the point where he lays in his hospital bed for hours on end, doped with Morphine to ease the pain, unconscious for much of the time. His foggy mind is a mishmash of current and past events. In one moment he is young again, playing in cornfields with Tommy Barnett, his best friend from childhood; the next he’s at his sixtieth birthday party, holding his four-week-old granddaughter for the first time. These images and memories keep him in a constant state of restlessness despite the drugs running through his body. Dreaming, though restive and unreal, is a better option than awareness.
The machine he is attached to pings and he opens his eyes. His three daughters are in the room. Becky, his youngest, sits beside him, holding his hand. He can’t feel her touch, his nerve endings deadened by the drugs. Carol, his middle child, paces around, cell phone pressed against her ear. He can’t make out exactly what she is saying, because all sound is a cluttered mess of booms and whispers, but he assumes it is something important, something to do with her job.
That’s Carol, always on the move, always searching for that next better thing.
The one that strikes him the most, however, is Deb. She’s his oldest, and she leans against the wall across from his bed. She has assumed that pose during her every visit since the day the ambulance rushed him in three weeks ago. Her light brown hair is a mess, her jaw quivers, her eyes dart back and forth. Surely she is thinking of her family, of Doug her husband, of Katy and Philip her children. And yet she stays, and her sadness hangs in the air like mist. It pains Ken to see her this way. He loves her – loves them all – so much. He wishes he could tell them that.
Ken watches his trio of angels in silence, and for the first time in days his thoughts are lucid. No more dreams invade them, no more syrupy memories. He is in the here and now, and he notices how much like their mother his girls have become. Dignity shines through in their eyes, a quiet strength that permeates their every movement. They are getting older, all three of them. Their hair is graying and the skin around their elbows is growing wrinkled. Yet when they look at him the way they do, afraid, sad, and somehow accepting, they appear to him as they did when they were little, when they played together in the sand dunes behind their house. Young. Innocent. Connected.
In those days Ken would run with them, Wendy by his side, determined to drink up every last ounce of experience he could, knowing that one day all his happiness and joy could be ripped from him. And speaking of Wendy…the woman was more than his wife. She was his stabilizing force of goodness. She gave everything to him, coddled him, often at the expense of her own needs. She’s been gone for more than ten years now, ten long, lonely years. Thoughts of her cause tears to form in his eyes, but the sadness is fading. He understands he will be with her soon and his loneliness will end.
With this realization comes fear.
He fears for his daughters, for his grandchildren, for his legacy. But mostly he fears for his own soul, for though he has come to grips with his mortality he is still not content, and this lack of gratification fills him with guilt. If only I could see him again, he thinks, then all would be well with the world. Then I could die in peace.
He sees the face of the one he longs for, those sparkling hazel eyes, that constantly dripping nose, the smooth black hairs he’d sweep off the floor on a daily basis. He yearns to have him close once more, to have his head pressed into his chest, to have his large body resting at his feet, to feel his devotion and enduring love. He’s been gone for almost thirty years, and in that time the empty chasm in his heart has only expanded.
Am I wrong to feel this way? he thinks. Is it wrong that having my family around me is not enough? He tilts his head to the side and groans. He knows that all he has, his family, his career, his happiness, would not have happened if not for his long-lost companion.
His name was Silas and he was Ken Lowery’s best friend.
I miss him so much…
* * *
He awakens in the middle of the night. He’s been dreaming of that place again, of monsters and wild children, of giant evergreens and the Crystal Mountain. He rolls over and takes a deep breath, gazing at the monitors beside him. For the first time in a long while there is no pain. His elbow flexes easily, his knees pop when he stretches them. His mind, though still caught in the trappings of sleep, seems clear. Faint light fills his eyes.
There is someone in the room with him. He hears the rumbling of wheels rolling across the floor. Cocking his head, he gazes across the expanse.
There he sees a young black man wearing hospital scrubs. His hair is cropped and his eyes twinkle in the sparse light. He is checking instruments and cleaning the empty containers of food Ken’s daughters had left off the table. Ken hits the button on the remote control beside him, bringing his bed to an upright position. The young man turns at the sound of the softly whirring motor.
“Oh, hello,” he says with a smile. “Sorry, Mr. Lowery, I didn’t know you were awake.”
“It’s okay,” replies Ken. “I’ve been sleeping too much lately, anyhow.”
It takes Ken a moment to realize what he’s just said, and his shock comes not from the words spoken but that he spoke words at all. He’s been in a state of anguish for so long that he doesn’t remember the last time he muttered more than a simple yes or no. He flexes his arthritis-riddled hand, feeling the tendons stretch and the longed-for twinge of pain that follows, and then cracks his neck. His body feels renewed – or relatively so, anyway.
“What time is it?” he asks the young man.
“Just before midnight.”
“What
time did my daughters leave?”
The young man smiles and it is beautiful, all sparkling teeth and deep dimples. “I’m not sure, Mr. Lowery. My shift just started an hour ago. I can go check the sign-in sheet if you like.”
“No, that’s okay,” replies Ken with a shake of his head. He chortles. “I feel so strange.”
“In what way?”
“In a way I haven’t felt in a long while.”
The young man nods at this and continues with his duties. Ken watches him, all the while relishing his newfound strength and vitality, but it isn’t only his body that feels refreshed. His mind, as well, seems to have grown sharper, more aware. Thoughts and contemplations he hasn’t experienced in a decade spiral through his brain. A shiver runs through him. More than anything, in this moment, he wants to think, to ponder, to experience.
When the young man finishes his tasks he nods to Ken and starts to leave the room. Ken stops him with a wave of his hand.
“Please, don’t go,” he says.
The young man considers him with a cockeyed glance and steps away from the door. “What is it?” he asks. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Ken slides his legs over and pats the empty spot on the bed. “Can you sit with me for a minute? I’d appreciate some company.”
The young man complies, strolling over and sitting down. His stare is intense and yet sympathetic, and Ken notices the man’s eyes are odd. They are bright blue, like the Caribbean Sea. It is such a strange and wonderful appearance, contrasting against his dark skin like a pair of sapphires in the middle of a jet block.
“What would you like to talk about?” he asks.
“First off, you know my name, but what’s yours?”
He laughs. “John. But most folks around here call me JT.”
Ken reaches over and slaps the man’s knee, still amazed he can do so with little difficulty. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, JT.”
“And you as well, Mr. Lowery.”
“Please, call me Ken.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence for a moment after that. Ken can’t stop staring at JT’s eyes. They seem to draw him in, to mesmerize him. There is sadness in them, a world-weariness a man his age shouldn’t have.
“How much time do you have?” Ken asks finally.
“This was my last room to check. I guess I have a while, unless someone buzzes me.”
“Do you want to hear a story?”
JT grins. “What kind of story?”
Ken points across the room. “Could you do me a favor? There’s a suitcase in the closet over there. Inside the suitcase is a box. Would you bring it to me?”
“Sure.”
JT does as he’s been asked, returning with a large, heavy carton. He puts it down on the bed and Ken places his hand on top of it. The cardboard sucks the moisture from his fingers, making them dry. Tears drip down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” the kind young man asks.
“See this box?” says Ken. “This is my life…at least the part of my life that allowed me to be right here, right now. Inside is a manuscript, the likes of which none have read before. It describes the most fantastic thing that ever happened to me. I started writing it years ago. Thought it’d make a good memoir one of these days…if anyone believed a word of it, that is. I’ve never spoken to anyone about the events it portrays, not even my wife. It’s been burning a hole in me for years.”
“Do you want me to read some of it to you?” JT asks.
Ken shakes his head. “No, son. It needs to be me who tells it.”
“Okay. But why me? Why now?”
“Don’t know,” Ken says with a shrug. “I feel well, I feel strong. For the first time in months I feel like me. But I don’t know how long this will last. Aren’t there a lot of cases where dying people have a moment of lucidity before passing on?”
JT nods.
“I thought so. If this really is my last shot at coming to peace with my past, it’s better late than never.” He looks at JT with pleading eyes. “Please say you’ll listen, at least for a little while.”
JT rests his hand over Ken’s and says quietly, “I’ll give you as much time as I can.”
Ken leans back. He doesn’t open the box’s lid. He doesn’t have to. He remembers every event as if it were yesterday, as if it’s been burnt into his brain. He closes his eyes and speaks.
“This is the greatest story I have to tell, and it all began with three distinct sounds, the first of which was a song…”
2
It was a tune by a forgotten, one-hit-wonder from the sixties that suddenly got hot again because one of those pop-metal bands that were all the rage at the start of the twenty-first century decided to cover one of his songs and ride it to stardom. I was thirty-two at the time, old enough to have been immersed in that earlier era by my parents and young enough to stay up-to-date and appreciative of modern music.
This particular song was called Blood Red Morning. A guy named Art Lonnigan had performed it originally, and it was his version that played on the radio as I drove home from work that day in early April. Five, seven, two, one, in a land once said, he sang in his Jim Croce-esque voice. And through fields of green, I see the dead. I quickly turned down the volume. I remembered my father listening to that song on the eight-track player in our old station wagon when I was a kid. Its irritating syrupiness and oddly dark lyrics had stuck with me all through my early years. The last thing I wanted was a repeat performance.
The second sound was that of a newscaster’s voice. I happened upon it when I changed the station, searching for traffic updates due to the highway being more congested than usual. The voice went from talking about the start of the new baseball season to a report of a missing girl in nearby Stafford. Her name was Tina Andrews, he told all who listened, a seven-year-old with long black hair and a stunning smile. She was last seen playing in her front yard, a mile from the local racetrack. She’d been missing for three days. If anyone has any clues as to her whereabouts, he said, please contact the Connecticut State Police, who are performing the search.
Instead of changing the channel I lit a cigarette and opted to pop in a CD. The last thing I needed was a reminder of how horrible and unfair the world could be, traffic updates be damned. I had enough problems with my place in life – from my choice of career to the fact I’d stayed in Connecticut rather than move to California like I’d always thought I would. I figured listening to some old Iron Maiden would be better than taking a chance on anything the squawk box had to offer. At least I’d know what I was getting. At least then I could head-bang my troubles away.
By the time I entered Mercy Hills, my hometown, I had virtually forgotten about long-lost sixties tunes, missing girls, and the bitter disappointment of my life. The sun was setting and an early spring gust of cold air blew in through my open window. I tossed out my cigarette, rolled up the window, and pulled into my driveway just as Two Minutes to Midnight ended. I felt downright nostalgic, despite the fact the crowded highway made my ride home take fifteen minutes longer than usual. All I wanted to do was walk in the house, eat some dinner, try my best to ignore the look of disgust my wife was sure to give me for getting home so late, and sit down in front of the tube to watch the first pitch of the Red Sox game.
That’s when the third, and most important, sound of that day caught my ears.
It was a strange noise, a high-pitched, needy whine that rang out the minute I opened the front door. I took off my shoes and hung up my jacket, thinking it was all in my head. Then it happened again.
“Wendy?” I called out. “What’s going on?”
“We’re in the living room,” she replied. I could swear she giggled, which was not like her.
We?
My feet thumped over the carpet as I stormed down the hall and rounded the corner. There was Wendy, sitting in front of the couch with her legs crossed. Her auburn hair bobbed just above her shoulders and her hands were in constant motion
, fiddling with some small, dark object that squirmed in her lap. She laughed and yelled, “Ouch!” in a surprisingly cheerful tone of voice.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
Wendy turned to me, beaming. “Hey, Honey,” she said. “I’d like you to meet our new addition.”
She grabbed the thing in her lap, lifted it, and turned. The source of the whining had short black hair all over its body, paws that were proportionately much too large, and a pair of huge green eyes that bulged from either side of a thick muzzle. The thing poked out its tongue and panted, even as it hung from my wife’s hands.
“This is Silas,” Wendy said with a grin.
I rolled my eyes, turned around, and walked into the kitchen. A puppy. “Great,” I muttered.
My distain for pets had been ingrained in me since childhood. My parents weren’t animal lovers. My mother was allergic to cats, my father to the effort involved in caring for anything other than his house and kids. But that was only part of it – my dad, loyal as he was, feared attachment. During many of our Sunday afternoon drives through the surrounding suburbs he’d see folks walking their dogs and scoff at them. “Lynn,” he said to my sister once, when she asked if we could get one, “take a look at those folks. That’s a whole lot of effort wasted on nothing. They pour so much love into those beasts only to get their hearts broken. Dogs only live about ten years. To care for them would be masochistic. I refuse to let one into my house…or my heart.”
I never questioned him, and neither did Lynn. To us, Dad’s word was gospel.
I took a glass from the cabinet above the sink and a bottle of Budweiser from the fridge. The stupid dog in the other room cried out again. It was going to ruin everything, and all because Wendy was an impulse shopper. In that moment I hated her.
Silas: A Supernatural Thriller Page 1
