The Telling

by Mike Duran

  The thought of that crispy bug man in the autopsy room stalked his mind. Until we get a handle on this, Lacroix had said, you’d best keep it under wraps. But how could Zeph possibly keep something that bizarre under wraps? Especially with Mila Rios looking through him.

  “I guess someone on the street called the police about a commotion last night.” He let the statement dangle there in hopes that she might fill in the blanks.

  “Commotion? Like what?” she said. “I know Jamie’s been agitated lately. ’Specially in the evenings. I thought maybe the raccoons were back. But …” Her eyes narrowed. “Is something else going on? Something I should know about?”

  Zeph glanced at Lacroix’s business card and then stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “It’s probably nothing, Mila.”

  She was peering at him, about to blow his cover, when a shrill buzzing sounded. Zeph flinched, still jittery from the Telling.

  “My pies!” Mila said. Conflicted, she stared at her house and scrunched her lips. “Oh, I gotta run.” She scampered to the gate, turned, and summoned Jamie, who came skittering under the hedges. As she looped her arm under the dog and closed the gate, Mila paused.

  “Zeph Walker, if you need anything—anything—you give me a holler.”

  “I will, Mila.” He meant it.

  She smiled and then hurried home, her yellow apron billowing around her like a cloud of glory.

  Chapter 9

  She had lost too much time—maybe a lifetime. If being a senior citizen had any advantage, it was hindsight. However, the only way Annie Lane could envision making up for lost time was to speed things up.

  Which is what she decided to do.

  The pond inside the atrium sparkled, and the cattails drooped lazily. Yet no one was in the surrounding lounge to see. Annie turned the corner into the northern wing. They called it the Back Nine, mainly because of Easy Dolan. The wing consisted of twenty modest apartments, ten on each side, the last one having been gutted in favor of storage. The retired semi-pro golfer lived on the “nine side.” He had been a resident of Marvale long before Annie arrived. Her interest in Easy, however, had nothing to do with his knowledge of fairways, chip shots, or nine irons.

  The halls were empty again, a trend that had not escaped Annie’s notice. Whatever was happening to people, it seemed to keep them indoors. At least, until the middle of the night. Despite the seeming desolation of the retirement home, she looked over her shoulder before tapping on Easy’s door.

  Her granddaughter was not going to like this.

  The familiar thump of Easy’s cane sounded inside. The door opened.

  “Well, if it ain’t Miss Annie!” The black man tipped his plaid cap and beamed a near-neon smile. “Back for more spelunking lessons?”

  “Not this time,” she said, worried about the decibel level of their conversation. “May I come in?”

  “By all means.” Easy pivoted away from the door with a sweeping, regal gesture of his hand.

  A chemical smell struck her, and Annie waved her hand in front of her face. “Pheww! What do you have going on now?”

  Easy’s living room was more like an antiquities warehouse, the centerpiece being a large walnut rolltop desk surrounded by cluttered bookshelves, rolled-up maps, and a hood of chain mail fitted loosely over a half-mannequin. A gooseneck lamp illuminated a model car lying in parts on the surface of the desk, and nearby, an opened candy bar, half-eaten. A poster of a teed golf ball hung over the desk, and an iPod dock glowed, emanating soft strains of jazz music. Jars of liquid, cylinders, and tins of various sizes and shape lined the desk’s shelves. Had one not known it was the twenty-first century, Easy Dolan might have been mistaken for an ancient alchemist.

  “It’s a ’57 Chevy Corvette convertible.” Easy went to the desk and proudly surveyed the parts under the lamp. “Banana yellow—my high school dream car.” He smiled and shook his head in obvious nostalgic glee.

  “It is a beauty.” Annie entered the living room, grimacing at the chemical smell. “You have a regular laboratory going on over there.”

  Easy chuckled. “I suppose you could say that. Solvents. Wax. Glues. Love potions. Speaking of love potions, where’s that raven beauty?” Easy winked at Annie. “She too shy to come?”

  “Eugenia?” Annie’s tone became grim. “I’m afraid she hasn’t been herself.”

  “Do tell.”

  Annie had no reason to distrust Easy. At least, not yet. He seemed to be his gregarious, high-spirited self. Eugenia’s change, on the other hand, had been abrupt, although it still required a keen eye to notice. Yet at some point, if she was going to find out what was going on, she would have to trust somebody. So Annie dove right in.

  “How would a whole group of people change all at once?”

  Easy squinted at her before a sly grin blossomed on his face. “You’re talkin’ about those rumors, aren’t ya?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Mama Mae used to say that rumors were the only thing that got thicker when you spread ’em.”

  “Rumors or not, I’ve seen it firsthand. So you don’t put any credence in them?”

  Easy settled into the banker’s chair and leaned his cane against the desk. “Pull up a chair, Miss Annie.”

  The only other chair in the room was the cloth wingback that Annie dreaded. Nevertheless, whenever he had visitors, Easy insisted they sit in that chair. Supposedly it had been passed down by his mother from the Civil War era. Easy’s cat, Jezebel, usually occupied the chair. Now, the only evidence of the cat was a dusting of black fur.

  “Where’s Jezzy?” Annie asked, perching on the chair’s edge.

  Easy jabbed his thumb toward the patio. “She’s been on hiatus for a while—two days, to be exact.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Pshh!” He waved his hand dismissively. “So, then—what’s all this talk about people changin’, hmm?” He leveled a cool smile.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I can tell you ’bout a lot—balsa wood aircraft, salt caves, possibly even the mating habits of North American fruit bats—but as far as why a whole bunch a people in a retirement home might be changin’, well, that’s a little bit outta my league.”

  “I know. It sounds so strange,” Annie admitted.

  “Ya think?”

  “I first noticed it in Eugenia. We were bingo partners for the better part of a year, and all of a sudden she just lost interest. Stopped showing up. In fact, she pretty much stopped going out altogether.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I checked on her to make sure she was all right. But it was obvious—at least to me—she wasn’t. I’m not sure how to put this, but I started to notice changes about her—the way she watched others, how she dressed. She started having trouble operating simple devices like can openers and the TV changer.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “That’s just the beginning. One day, at her apartment, I noticed the pantry was full of cereal. Eight, maybe ten boxes. And I don’t mean granola, but the frosted, sugary kind of cereal. And showers—she took a lot of baths and showers. It wasn’t long before she just stopped coming out at all. And at night … I can hear her late at night moving around.”

  Easy sat for a moment, squinting in thought. “You sure it ain’t somethin’ else? Maybe she had a minor stroke, or some sort a memory loss. Ya know, those things happen when you reach our age.” He chuckled.

  “Well, I suppose it could be. But what kind of stroke would make you obsessed with codes and strings of letters?”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s right. More than once I caught her scribbling out odd sequences of letters, like a puzzle or cryptogram. Look.” She unsnapped one of her Velcro pockets and produced an empty book of matches, which she handed to Easy. “Did I mention she burns a lot of candles?”

  “Lotsa folks burn candles.” Easy took the matchbook, looking slightly annoyed. “Ain’t nothin’ strange ’bout that.’”
/>   “I suppose not. But look inside.”

  He opened the matchbook and squinted at the words scrawled there.

  She asked, “Is that any language you’re familiar with?”

  “Tau. Caph. Lamed. Ain.” Easy shook his head. “Eugenia wrote this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ya got me. Somethin’ Eastern maybe. Foreign. Hard ta say.”

  “I found that in her apartment one day.” She pointed to the matchbook. “Took the liberty to borrow it.”

  Easy handed it back to her. “Like I said, Miss Annie, one of these days that sleuthin’ of yours is gonna land you in hot water.”

  “I’m more afraid of not knowing the truth than landing in hot water.”

  Easy shook his head, looking more perturbed than humored by her stubbornness.

  “Anyway,” Annie said, stuffing the matchbook back in her cargo pocket, “she’s been scribbling those kind of words, and others, everywhere. On tablets, inside books. She even carved something on the backside of her front door. I’ve never heard of a stroke causing someone to do something like that, have you?”

  Easy lifted his cap and scratched at his thinning afro.

  “It wasn’t long before I started hearing similar stories,” Annie continued. “Edie Lang said her husband was up all hours of the night, acting strange. And then Cecil Farmer called the police on his own wife.”

  “Now, I heard about that. Said she bit him!” Easy slapped his knee and guffawed. Then he folded his arms and looked at her. “Okay. I’ll grant ya there’s some strange things goin’ on. But people are strange, Miss Annie. You know that. Heck, between our tastes in food, music, clothes—ya know, tics and whatnot—not a one of us is really normal. Besides, what exactly can you attribute it all to? Sounds to me like just a whole bunch a coincidences.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t know what it could be. Something psychological. Maybe something …” She hesitated. “Something spiritual.”

  “Spiritual?” Easy snorted. “Like some mass possession?”

  Annie shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  Easy pursed his lips and shook his head. Then he spread his hands in surrender. “I’m afraid I can’t proffer an answer for ya, Miss Annie. In all my years I ain’t encountered a phenomenon like that. ’Specially no mass possession.” The derision in his tone was obvious.

  They sat for a moment as the soft sounds of a saxophone from the iPod filled the in-between. The doors seemed to be closing on her, one after the other. Should she proceed any further? If finding the truth involved taking risks, perhaps this was another risk she should take.

  Finally, Annie cleared her throat. “I do have a theory …”

  “By all means.”

  “The Madness of Endurance.”

  Easy’s eyes grew wide. “Now that’s a theory! Don’t think I’d ever o’ come up with that one.” He laughed again, his dentures gleaming pristine against his aged black skin.

  “Silverton turned into a ghost town overnight.” Annie’s tone was weighted with inference. “Something happened quick to those people and sent them all off the deep end. At least, if the stories are true.”

  “You ain’t suggesting …”

  “I don’t know.” Annie stood, brushing the cat hair off the seat of her canvas cargo skirt. Then she started pacing. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting.” Easy watched her treading across his carpet, his brow furrowed. Finally he admitted, “That is where the legend started. Course, legends spring up everywhere, with or without factual basis. That ol’ ghost story’s no different. Findin’ out the truth about the Madness is ’bout as hard as locatin’ water in Dry Lake.”

  “Silverton is fact enough that something happened.”

  “But not enough to prove they’d opened a gateway to hell. Besides, how would that affect a bunch a seniors in a retirement spread, hmm?” Easy brushed at his slacks. “Listen, if you want my opinion, Miss Annie—and I’m assumin’ that’s why you’re here—I’d be very careful. Very careful. You’ll end up gettin’ yourself in trouble, accusin’ people of things that can’t be proved. And if you place yourself anywhere near that old mine, I fear to think what kind a wrath you might incur. Nothin’ good’s come outta that place, and the folks that frequent it are a might unsavory. If somethin’s really goin’ on, if people’s really changin’, it’ll come out in the wash. With or without your assistance.”

  Annie pondered his words. Suddenly she felt even more alone.

  “I can’t give up now, Easy. Not when I’m getting so close.” Though she spoke the words with resolve, Annie’s confidence was thinning. “God will protect me.”

  “Well, go on believin’ that if you want. But if you land yourself in a mess, don’t expect God to go bailin’ ya out.”

  Any momentum Annie had hoped to generate was quashed by the finality of his assessment.

  She thanked Easy and then escorted herself to the door.

  “And next time ya come,” Easy called from the living room, “make sure to bring that little sweet tart, Eugenia, with ya.” He cackled and slapped his thigh.

  Annie smiled, shook her head, and left the apartment, no more sure of herself than when she arrived. She had wanted Easy to side with her, to jump on her bandwagon and lend some credence to her claim. However, his response was probably a precursor to what she could expect from others.

  Which meant that Annie Lane was on her own. Once again.

  She stood in the hallway of the Back Nine, letting the reality of her plight settle in. All her talk about the Madness of Endurance and the ninth gate of hell—it must sound like lunacy. Had she told Easy too much? Anyone could be in on this. Even him. Then again, maybe she had not pressed the issue enough. Sending Tamra after the book would start a chain of events from which there was no going back. Had she moved prematurely? Perhaps her granddaughter was right and Annie was just overreacting.

  Annie heaved a sigh of exasperation. Was this what senility felt like?

  As she stood there, pondering her own sanity and the immensity of her theory, a sound drifted her way that caused Annie’s skin to bristle. She angled her head, straining to discern what she was hearing.

  It rose from the end of the hallway: soft laughter followed by a brief but frenzied gibbering in another tongue.

  The voice did not sound human.

  Chapter 10

  As far as Annie Lane knew, no one spoke Latin in Marvale Manor. She stepped away from Easy Dolan’s apartment, trying to distinguish the location of the obscure voice. If she was losing her mind, maybe she was also losing her hearing. Then again, perhaps her hearing was so good that she could detect television sets through the walls. If so, those sets were tuned to reruns of The Exorcist—for the voice she had caught wind of had all the garbled, frenetic anger of a demonized soul.

  As Annie deliberated over the exact sound she’d heard, footsteps shuffled and a door slammed. She nearly jumped out of her walking shoes.

  Now she was sure where the sound had come from.

  The end of the hallway formed a T. One corridor led to the northern courtyard, the least-trafficked area of the Marvale facility. The opposite corridor led to the custodial area and boiler room, a dank block antechamber with an iron stairwell. She stared in this direction. What could be going on down there? Perhaps Fergus Coyne was talking to himself again. The skittish custodian was known for his schizophrenic rants. And lately he had drifted into a brooding, unpredictable melancholy. Fergus scared her. However, with everything going on, Annie wondered if she should brave an investigation.

  Her answer was immediate.

  A dull thud echoed up the corridor, followed by more rabid, incoherent words. Her heart was in her throat now. She turned and stared at Easy’s door. Should she ask him for help? No. Easy had dissuaded her from further investigation. He was not supportive of her assumptions. But this was too much to ignore.

  Lifting a silent prayer, Annie padded toward the custodial area.

  She
passed a bench seat littered with popcorn crumbs and crumpled gum wrappers. Were the folks back here turning into pigs, or what? She reached the end of the hallway. Annie looked to her right, where the set of double doors led to the courtyard. Then Annie looked the opposite direction, toward the boiler area.

  A large Plexiglas sign cautioned Staff Only. A smell of mold lingered. Two sets of iron stairs—one ascending, one descending—flanked the mineral-leeched block wall. One stairwell led to a boiler room in the basement. A confusion of pipes and ducts showed the way. She had heard the boiler room connected to a series of tunnels that ran the length of the facility. From there legends sprung into the fanciful. Having never ventured into this cellar, Annie could not substantiate those legends. Perhaps it was time she tried.

  A large moth pattered against a single bare bulb overhead, sending shadows dancing about the cool enclosure. This looked like a scene straight out of an Edgar Allen Poe tale. On the landing above, a set of double doors led to the Yard, a fenced area where grounds equipment was stored. The custodial lockers were located directly across from these stairwells.

  As Annie studied the poorly lit corridor, she noticed two things: muddy footprints descending from the Yard and a dossier of loose papers lying open at the base of the steps.

  She stared, trying to fit the pieces together. Had someone dropped this, or had it been placed here? Annie leaned forward, squinting. Whatever this was about—the babbling voice, the muddy footprints, the scattered papers—she wouldn’t find the truth just standing there. Annie drew a deep breath and entered the corridor.

  The floor was sticky. Odd etchings marred the block in spots, incoherent words and mathematical equations, not unlike the ones Eugenia had scrawled. What was going on back here? She approached the dossier, fixated upon several loose pages. On one of them was a sketch that captivated her attention. It was an anatomical rendering of a man—arms, legs, torso. In place of a head, however, was a four-faced menagerie: the face of a raven, a serpent, a feral cat, and a man. And behind the torso spread two black wings.

  What in the world?