The Telling

by Mike Duran

  She had seen this image, or something like it, before but couldn’t place it. Annie looked at the custodial door. From somewhere behind her, in the Back Nine, came the muffled hum of a vacuum cleaner. The tortured voice and the Latin incantations were gone.

  Annie returned her gaze to the strange sketch, then bent over and retrieved the dossier. She thumbed through ragged pages of symbols and mathematical equations, interspersed with memos, clippings, and photocopies. And words—pages of scrawled, illegible words, like the ramblings of some madman. Her insides were as taut as a banjo string.

  Who in Marvale Manor would possess such a thing? Perhaps she should take this to the director. Or even the police.

  That’s when she noticed a droplet of blood on the concrete floor. Annie brushed back her skirt and hunched closer, scrutinizing the single crimson drop.

  The moth beat the light overhead, sending soft shadows pulsating about the room. A low rumble emerged from the boiler room.

  She straightened.

  Something was happening here that she could not deny, a shadow in the atmosphere that she could not ignore. Whether or not Tamra believed her, whether or not Easy Dolan cared to join her investigation, a bizarre chain of events was in motion that she had been made privy to, events that she had long been waiting for.

  She had prayed for confirmation, and this was it.

  As one who believed in providence, her decision was swift and simple. She gathered the loose pages, stuffed them back into the leather journal, and whisked the strange documents to her apartment. Equally as swift was Annie’s conviction that the owner of this book would come looking for it.

  Chapter 11

  Pops had warned him about this, said they were messing with things they ought not. The second sight had consequences—bad consequences. That’s what Pops said. Course, that was after they’d awakened the fetch.

  As Fergus stared at his reflection in the mirror, the blood trickling from each ear, it was not fear of death that gripped him. No. Standing there with his head pounding and the spellbook unaccounted for, Fergus was beginning to wonder if something else was playing out. Something that neither he nor Pops had foreseen.

  Perhaps they were being used.

  He leaned over the sink and splashed water on his face until the bloodstains were gone. Then he jammed a wad of toilet paper in each ear and stared at his reflection. He looked like he’d just stumbled out of a barroom brawl. And barely survived. What was happening to him? His jaw was swollen, his eyes jaundiced. A lattice of blue veins pulsed in his temple. However, he did not have time to fret over his condition.

  Fergus returned the items to the backpack, but as he took the pistol, he paused. He had only used it once. Yet the way things were going, he would need to keep it handy. He slipped the gun under his flannel, into the belt of his jeans. Then he hurried from the restroom into the custodial locker room.

  Just as he feared, a trail of muddy footprints led through the storage room out into the Marvale facility. However, the spellbook was nowhere to be found. Somehow, even in his catatonia, he had staggered back here. Had he dropped the journal along the way? Had someone taken it from him?

  Then he remembered the dark figure in the Rift bending over him.

  “Bad Fergus.” A pitiful sob escaped his lips. “Hurry. Gotta h–hurry!”

  Near the bank of lockers hung an 18×24 print of Jesus Christ in a nicked wooden frame. Miley, one of the day custodians, had placed it there. Fergus approached the picture. He’d scribbled out the image’s eyes with black marker, and a web of cracks sheared the glass where he’d punched it. If he had to endure the holy man’s gaze, he’d do so on his terms. Miley, remarkably, had taken little offense at the vandalism. Too bad.

  Fergus glanced at the door. The day custodians were already gone, and except for the director or Stevie, the groundskeeper, the rest of the staff rarely ventured into the custodial area. Setting his backpack down, he moved the picture sideways to reveal an open section of crumbling drywall. The key to his locker lay inside on one of the braces. He opened the padlock and returned the key to its place, making sure to straighten the picture.

  Rummaging past dirty overalls and aprons, he searched the locker for the journal. Removing a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines and a half-empty bottle of whiskey only confirmed his fear—the spellbook was gone.

  He slumped on his haunches and remained there. Blast it! How could he have been so careless? The constant nickering of those old fools, the stench of dying that lingered there—it was finally getting to him. He kicked the lockers and growled.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  Fergus jammed his belongings back into the locker, along with the backpack, and snapped the padlock shut. He glanced at the digital clock on the shelf near his walkie-talkie. Dinnertime was fast approaching. If he hurried, he could scour the grounds and comb the fire trail while there was still light. They wouldn’t miss him. Although the thought of venturing near the Rift at dark sent his heart racing, there was no time to waste.

  He stepped from the custodial room into a dingy hallway. Muddy footprints smattered the concrete, and he traced them as they climbed the steps toward the Yard. He’d come this way, that much was clear. But it wasn’t safe to go back. Not yet.

  Fergus drew a deep breath, plastered his wet hair back with the palm of his hand, and hurried through the Back Nine toward Laurel House.

  Marvale was situated on a large, stony terrace. Below it, separated by a dried creek bed named Servile Gulch and a wall of bristlecone pines, sat Laurel House. Warm. Glowing. And full of death. The convalescent home had been built after Marvale. It made sense, he thought, to put the facilities nearby. Retirement only lasted so long. After that it was wheelchairs, oxygen tubes, and diapers. How he hated Laurel House! If it wasn’t for Pops, he wouldn’t mind seeing the place burn.

  A single walkway joined the properties, connected in the middle by a stairwell and a wheelchair ramp. At the back entrance a female attendant stood smoking a cigarette, probably between breaks. He kept his head down and hurried past.

  As soon as he opened the doors, the stench hit him. Bedpans and disinfectants melded with the smell of cafeteria food. He bit back the revulsion and strode through the bright halls, a man on a mission.

  Languid eyes stared from dreary rooms as he passed. A frail, balding woman looked away from her TV and followed him with her lonely gaze. A man lay murmuring, his right hand tapping aimlessly at the guardrail of his bed. Fergus grit his teeth. If there was a hell, Laurel House was it.

  Room 708 was just ahead. He stopped abruptly at the doorway, his tennis shoes chirping on the vinyl flooring. Then he peeked in at Robert “Pops” Coyne. His father lay on his back, eyes closed, pale skin stretched taut over gaunt cheekbones, hands folded at his chest like a cadaver awaiting burial.

  Fergus stepped into the room, trying not to disturb Pops. In the other bed Weltz lay curled in a fetal position with his back to them, the blankets pulled up to his ears. Perhaps Weltz had died and mummified. If so, no one would care. And Fergus wasn’t about to find out.

  He crept toward Pops, glanced at the doorway to ensure no one was watching, and cupped his hand over his father’s mouth. Pops’s eyes sprung open, and he recoiled from Fergus’s overshadowing presence.

  “Shhh!” Fergus hissed.

  When the old man’s eyes adjusted, Fergus slowly removed his hand.

  “There we go, Pops. It’s me, Fergie.” Then he leaned in, his hand spread upon his father’s bony chest. “Somethin’ happened. Somethin’ you should know about.”

  Pops’s eyes grew wide, and he opened his mouth, struggling to speak. Only spittle and guttural grunts emerged. Then he summoned a burst of energy, seized the guardrails, and rattled them madly.

  “Settle down!” Fergus gripped his father’s shoulders. “It ain’t Mum! Relax, ’fore you pee yourself.”

  Resistance dissipated from his father’s body as quickly as it had come. Pops sunk back
into the bed, panting and lethargic.

  “I’m done tryin’,” Fergus growled. “It’s over. Just like you said. The fetch—”

  The old man turned toward Fergus with wide eyes.

  “Yeah,” Fergus said. “They’re tricksters. They’re out to hurt ol’ Fergie. Just look.” He plucked the bloody tissues out of his ears and held them up. “They’re in my head. They won’t lemme go, Pops. They’re eatin’ old Fergie alive!”

  He flung the earplugs to the floor and stood choking back emotion. He had to steady himself, or he’d start bleeding again. Finally Fergus said, “We gotta leave, Pops. It’s gettin’ worse. And the Rift … it’s changin’.”

  Pops lay gaping. Then he lunged up and seized Fergus’s wrist with such force the custodian yelped.

  “I know!” Fergus wrenched his arm away and stumbled back. “I know ya warned me!”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Weltz, who remained undisturbed under his cocoon of sheets. Then Fergus went to the end of the bed and began pacing. “It’s the spellbook—I–I lost it. At the Rift or … or someone took it, I dunno. But it’s gone. I’m sorry. I–I been careless. After this, it’s no more. I promise. No more!”

  Pops’s eyes softened, and he seemed to drift in thought.

  Fergus started pacing again. “I gotta go back. I can’t leave it. Gotta go back to the Rift. But after that, we’re leavin’. Back to Virginia, maybe. Or the old country. How’s that sound, Pops? The old country.” He nodded to himself with a hopeful smile. “But fer now, I gotta go back to that hellhole. Then it’s over. I promise. It’s over for us.”

  He cast a weak smile at his father. “And if I don’t come back, have the Injun blow it up. The whole flippin’ thing.”

  “That would not be advisable.”

  Fergus jolted at the words and turned to see who had spoken them.

  Walther Roth stood in the doorway wearing his Burberry trench-coat, greasy black hair slicked back and shimmering in the lights. “Explosives rarely solve anything, Fergus. And if they do, it’s always temporary.”

  A smarmy grin creased Roth’s face.

  Fergus spoke through gritted teeth. “Can’t you people leave him alone?”

  “People? Leave him alone? Good Lord! After all your father’s done for us, and we’re supposed to just leave him alone?” Roth stepped into the room and brushed his long, spidery fingers through the air. Then he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and stared directly at Fergus. “Why, you and Robert are still some of our most valuable commodities.”

  Roth approached and stood on the opposite side of the bed, his smug gaze traveling the length of Pops’s body before meeting Fergus’s glare. This government weasel was a reminder of everything Fergus despised. NOVEM had used Pops and then tossed him aside like a dirty rag. Fergus had his suspicions about Roth, the least being whether or not he was still human.

  “Say your good-byes, Roth. ’Cuz we’re leavin’.”

  “Is that so?” Roth’s demeanor was one of indifference. He absently straightened Pops’s gown. “I’m not sure we can allow that.”

  Fergus reached into his pants and exposed the butt of the pistol.

  Roth’s eye sparkled upon seeing the gun, a cool grin curling the edges of his lips.

  Fergus returned the weapon to its place. “I’d just as soon take out the three of us than get dragged back into yer fun-n-games. Whatever’s goin’ on out there—” Fergus pointed in the direction of the mountains. “—it’s turnin’ ugly. Real ugly. I–I don’t know what you guys are after, but it’s c–comin’ with a vengeance. And trust me, I will not stick around and let it come f–fer me.” He was trembling again, and, if he stayed here, he was sure his head would start gushing blood.

  Fergus strode to the doorway. He turned around and said, “I might be a monster, Roth, but at least I’m still the human kind.”

  Walther Roth only chuckled.

  Fergus gnashed his teeth. As he prepared to leave, he saw that his father was watching him. A single tear tumbled down the old man’s sunken cheek.

  Chapter 12

  She happened upon the picture by accident. It was buried behind her jewelry box, a framed snapshot of her father before he had gone AWOL. Tamra studied the photo. Thick sandy hair, tanned, firm shoulders. He looked so healthy back then. Which strummed chords of sorrow deep inside her.

  A cold nose nuzzled under her pant leg, and she jumped.

  “Shady!” She bent to pat the golden retriever. “You scared me, gal.”

  The dog fanned her tail, oblivious to the exclamation issued by its master. Tamra had rescued Shady Lady just hours before the dog was scheduled to be put to sleep. Being blind in one eye and having bad hips shouldn’t be a cause for execution. If that were the case, a good chunk of humanity would be on the chopping block.

  “Tam!” Dieter yelled excitedly from the other room. “Tam! Bunny’s here!”

  “Coming!” Tamra started to return the picture to its spot behind the jewelry box, then stopped. Why not? She stood the picture at the front of her dresser, stepped back, and admired it. What a handsome young man. If only Nams could remember her son this way. Tamra shrugged. Everyone needed a second chance. And if seconds were available, maybe thirds and fourths too.

  “Ta-a-m!” Dieter was stomping in the other room.

  “Okay!” Her jewelry case had a thin layer of dust on it. How long had it been since she wore earrings or a necklace? As much as she tried, Tamra Lane couldn’t muster enthusiasm for the accoutrements of modern fashion. Give her a pair of jeans, some sneakers, a bandana, and an iPod, and she was set.

  Tamra picked past a pewter crucifix and a Black Hills gold pendant until she found the library card. One of the highlights of her brother’s week was going with Bunny and her foster kids to the Endurance library. Which was one of the things Tamra so loved about her brother—he was easily pleased.

  A horn beeped out front, and the other dogs answered with a round of barks. Shady hobbled out to see the source of the commotion. Tamra took the library card and closed the jewelry box. It sounded as if a wrestling match had broken out in the next room. She followed the noise to find Dieter in the living room struggling to get a sweater on.

  “You’re gonna be too hot in that,” she said.

  “Uh-uh!” He tugged the wool sweater over his mop of red hair. “It’s always f–f–freezing in there.”

  Tamra went to him and fluffed out his hair. “You said that last time, and Bunny had to take your sweater off.”

  “I know,” Dieter said sheepishly.

  She handed him the library card. “And be careful with it. You got your other books?”

  He turned and snatched up three thin picture books and one encyclopedic volume on the animal kingdom. Although Dieter was twenty-one and could be mistaken for the little brother of Grizzly Adams, his reading level had never risen above third grade. And his social skills were little better. Which made him all the more precious in Tamra’s eyes. Being entrusted to care for her little brother may be the highest calling of her entire life. And if that was the case, Tamra Lane would die a happy camper.

  Dieter shoved the card in his back pocket, eagerly adjusted the books under his arms, and thumped to the front door. The screen door slapped the house as Dieter ran to the van with Shady Lady limping behind. “Bunny B! Bunny B!” he shouted, even though Bunny’s last name was nowhere near the letter B.

  Tamra stepped onto the porch, smiling, and waved at the plump, jovial woman in the driver’s seat. Bunny cared for two foster kids and simply adored Dieter. Living next door, she had become a second mother to the handicapped boy. And with Tamra’s work schedule, she often wondered if Bunny wasn’t an angel in disguise.

  Tamra walked to the fence. “I told him he was gonna be hot.”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine.” Bunny brushed her hand through the air.

  The three dogs scuffled at the fence, all hoping for a bit of Bunny’s attention.

  “I’m working tonight,” Tamra
said. “Can you check on him?”

  “Course.” Bunny turned as Dieter opened the side door and clambered into the van with the other kids. The door slammed, she waved, and they drove off. The dogs wandered over and surrounded Tamra as she watched, smiling as the kids broke out in ruckus celebration from deep inside the massive cargo van.

  Across town the sun was drawing down on the mountain range. Tamra stared in the direction of Marvale Manor. She could not see the facility from her house, but the blue misty mountains stretched like a vast curtain before a playhouse stage. And suddenly she was an actor in some weird drama. The joy she felt hearing Dieter leave evaporated inside her. Tamra gazed at the snowy crags and the blue ravines. Could it really be? Could something malevolent be lurking in the hills?

  She pulled the sticky note from this morning out of her back pocket. It was doubled over, and she had to flip it to read the whole title. Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes. Annie was constantly sending her in search of obscure books about Bible prophecies and urban legends. It had become more than just a hobby or a diversion for her grandmother. Tamra was beginning to fear Annie’s quest was becoming an obsession. She shook her head and put the note back in her pocket.

  Tamra would look for the little book swap during her lunch break, just like she’d promised her grandmother. But this time Tamra could not deny the nagging sense of worry that had begun webbing its way into her thoughts. There was only one way to remedy this.

  She went into the house, sat down at her desk, pushed aside some paperwork, and opened her laptop. She paused briefly, as if typing the words were a concession to something loony, before entering “The Madness of Endurance” into the search engine.

  A Wikipedia article was the first in line.

  Tamra hunched forward, staring at a grainy photo of an old mine captioned “Otta’s Rift.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and began reading:

  The Madness of Endurance is believed to be the mass suicide of an entire town in the American old west. Scant records are available for the incident. What is known of the event is attributable to two primary sources: the ghost town of Silverton and the journal of a traveling miner by the name of Joseph Blessington. The journal was acquired by an area pioneer, one C. J. Hooper, who founded Gold Coast Prospectors’ Museum, where Blessington’s journal is displayed. Despite numerous urban legends having origins in the bizarre event, these two sources remain the only verifiable record of what occurred in Endurance, California, circa 1873.