Messages from the Dead

by Sandy DeLuca

  Ben stayed true to his word, but as time went on, I wondered why he seemingly never left Castell. He told me he worked a lot of doubles. He told me a lot of things, but not much about what he did, or where he went when he wasn’t working. I realized he may not have been who—or what—he seemed. I never found the room where Grace Lawrence got into character again, and didn’t give it a second thought—until later.

  5

  I became familiar with the stairways at Castell Community College, and I’d memorized twists and turns of corridors leading to art class. The bulletin board displayed announcements for concerts, art shows and job listings, but beside those bright invitations were yellowed photocopies of the missing, layers of them, decades of heartache. Who took the time to preserve them, to display each one—even after it had been torn, cast away, or covered up?

  I saw Ben a lot, and I didn’t think twice about the synchronicity of our meetings. He’d be rounding the corner when I entered the school, standing in the lobby when I took a break, meandering about the bookstore when I needed supplies. I enjoyed his company and felt good about our fast friendship.

  About a month into the semester, I made my way downstairs after class. Ben stood on the third-floor landing, hands tucked in his pockets, as though he waited for something…or someone. He turned, nodded, and then smiled slightly when I called to him.

  “Ben, wait up.” I’d been curious about learning more about the building, but feared I’d get lost on my own. I seized the opportunity and rushed to his side. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

  He smiled sadly. “I’m used to it, been doing it a long time.”

  “I thought about what you said. You know—when you were a kid.”

  He stopped, looked me in the eye. “What was that?” For a moment he seemed guarded, uncomfortable, but then smiled wide. “Oh, I told you about my grandpa.”

  “Yeah, my drawing teacher wants a series of sketches, odd stuff, things I can embellish. Do you know where I can find places with cool atmosphere here—at the college? If you don’t want to, I’d under—”

  “Got time now?” He smiled again, seeming pleased I’d asked.

  “Got all the time in the world.”

  “Come on. Walk with me.”

  We made our way downstairs, and then exited to ground level. Ben waited until I’d made my way through the door, and then spoke slowly. “Not much on this floor but my office and stockrooms. Sometimes students get lost down here. I like to check around.” In semidarkness, smells of dampness and age became evident, growing stronger as we walked on marked linoleum floors, and past water-stained walls. We moved by a starkly furnished office with a simple metal desk. A phone sat on a green blotter, with several pens beside it, and someone had propped a chair against a wall. Next we passed several vacant offices.

  “Why all the empty offices?” I asked.

  “Budget cuts have taken their toll. They were supposed to remodel down here a decade ago, but the city ran out of money.”

  “The offices—the corridors—might be things I want to sketch.” I’d left canvas, paints and large paper pads in my class locker, but had tucked a small sketchpad and pencil in my bag.

  “There’s better stuff this way,” he told me, pointing ahead.

  He guided me down a corridor, took a left, stopped in front of a battered metal door, and then lifted a key from a ring hanging on his belt. He slipped the key into a brass latch, and then pushed open the door. Pinprick slices of moonlight streamed in. Ben reached for a string, pulled it, and then a dim bulb bathed the room in yellow light. The scene was bizarre, with several gurneys and a broken table displaying an assortment of scalpels, bandages and gauze. Beds with torn sheets stood beneath boarded windows where tattered drapes hung. Aged wall boards revealed cracked, gaping holes, and fog seeped in, swirling around damaged furnishings like spidery fingers.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Hospital ward. They never cleaned it, leaving it like a shrine to whatever the heck went on. My grandfather told stories about nurses who belonged to weird religious fringe groups. They found creepy charms, sculptures and a closet filled with black robes.”

  “This was a children’s hospital?”

  “Yeah, lots of kids died here.”

  “This place was built in 1910, right? Female mediums were rampant back then, claiming they talked to spirits. I mean, they still exist, but…maybe those nurses…” I thought about the strange books lining Lena’s shelves—now stored in my attic—accounts of sisters claiming spirits rapped on walls, and tales of ghosts appearing in candlelit rooms giving messages to loved ones.

  Ben grinned. “Interesting. Maybe it’s connected. Maybe they thought they were helping kids. I found the key to this room sitting on the top of the door frame. Put it with the rest of them. Cats get in. I like to make sure everything is cool.”

  “Can I have five minutes?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  I grabbed a pad and pencil from my purse, and then did some quick sketches.

  After a few minutes, Ben seemed to grow impatient. He reached for the string and extinguished the yellow light, leaving the odd fixtures in chiaroscuro blends of light and dark. “Gotta lock up.”

  “Sure.” I shoved pad and pencil back in my purse, and then turned to catch another look. Dark shapes moved over curtains, darker things crept from beneath beds and gurneys.

  “Come on. Can’t stay,” Ben said, placing his hand on my back.

  He ushered me out of the room, quickly shut the door and locked it.

  We walked a few feet, and then a tiny cry erupted. Ben sighed, “Moonlight plays tricks on your eyes, and cats get in. Found a whole litter last spring. Hung signs on bulletin boards. Kittens all got adopted.”

  “That’s so cool,” I told him.

  “Have to run. I’ll show you more another time.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He me led through the back entrance, and then walked me to my car, waiting until I got inside and my engine purred. “Hey, Donna, don’t tell anybody about tonight. If your teacher asks, just say the drawings are from your imagination.”

  “No problem.”

  He nodded, smiled, and then took a few steps back.

  I put my car in drive, and then looked in my rearview mirror, noting Ben had seemingly disappeared. It struck me as odd, but it was dark, maybe shadows and other cars obstructed my view. I didn’t think about it for a long time, not realizing I’d begun to converse with the dead.

  6

  I encountered Alex Souleau for the first time on a warm September evening in 1980. My friend Andrea had been her student for a semester, and no longer did she paint flowers and pretty women wearing hats. Andrea’s canvases became darker, filled with bizarre imagery.

  Alex had been late on the first night of class.

  Andrea giggled. “She’ll waltz in like she owns the world.”

  And upon sauntering into class, Alex removed her leather jacket, and I noted tight sweater and jeans, hugging a slender body; and she wore offbeat silver jewelry. Skulls, bones and strange faces dangled from chains around her neck, and from charm bracelets and earrings. She’d looked to be around thirty, but seemed older and wiser.

  I realized Alex’s arrogance when she began to speak. “For those of you who haven’t met me—I’m Alexandra Soleau. You can call me Alex.” She paused a moment, making eye contact with several students, and began to speak again when her gaze rested on me.

  “My vision is intense, and I’ll push you all, because you should express darkness inside you…things you’re afraid of…ashamed to talk about…your pain…”

  Two weeks into the semester, I began to paint women I’d met in bars; their faces deathlike. Sometimes figures lay in ornate caskets—or on beds in the room Ben showed me. I painted my guilt for never returning to my lovers, and my fear of the unknown. And Alex hung those painful expressions on studio walls.

  “These women you paint—do you know them?”
Andrea asked.

  “I don’t know them at all.”

  Despite Andrea’s dark images, and her imaginative canvases, Alex took an interest in me. “You have raw talent,” she told me one evening. “But your art is more sophisticated than you. You need to grow, and believe.”

  I had a difficult time believing in myself. I’d been comfortable rendering normal and safe scenes. Sometimes Alex’s ideas seemed beyond my comprehension, but she worked hard to change me—to change the way I saw the world. Later, I wondered if everything had been tied together—Andrea’s eventual disappearance—Ben Gable’s tales—the aura of mystery haunting me—and Lena’s secret phone calls.

  I told myself to find another teacher, another school, but something chained me to Castell Community College—to Alex. So I went on.

  Andrea began to change. Something vile and terrifying had begun to take hold of her, and soon I’d learn its name.

  7

  Time went by swiftly, and something dark hovered in the air, even though lighthearted students and brightly colored artwork decked Castell’s lobby. The building had been repainted recently, but it seemed nothing could cover up the shadows lurking there.

  I lingered by the entrance, knowing Andrea would arrive shortly, looking forward to coffee and donuts at Luke’s Diner. I checked my watch, realizing Andrea’s class ended ten minutes before, and I hoped she’d taken the elevator, rather than using dark stairs.

  Five minutes later, she rounded the corner, out of breath, looking like she was about to burst out crying.

  “What’s wrong? Math class got the best of you?” I asked as she grabbed my arm, and then guided me through glass doors.

  “Henry Creeley is one of the toughest teachers, and the fifth floor is damn spooky.”

  “Something happen?” I asked.

  “I promised myself to keep it secret, but since you already think I’m insane…” She clutched my arm, and then looked over her shoulder.

  “Just tell me already.”

  “Creeley dismissed class early, but I stayed behind to finish a problem.” She hung her head, seemingly reluctant to continue.

  We walked down a ramp leading to the parking lot. The temperature had dropped considerably within a few hours. Light rain fell, and the sky had turned black, but for a few stars, and a moon obscured by inky clouds. I pulled up my collar, and then urged her on. “So, what happened?”

  “I was concentrating on my assignment, and then heard a noise. Saw a little girl standing by the window. Never heard her come in. She turned, and it looked like she floated. And she said, ‘Stay out.’ Her voice didn’t sound normal.”

  “Just some kid busting your balls.”

  “She scared me.”

  I tried to comfort her. “Kids wander in here all the time, and some are brats. And stare at Creeley’s math problems for too long, no telling what it’ll do to you.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal. “I saw somebody—or something. Did you know the fifth floor used to be a nurses’ station? A nurse jumped from a window up there.”

  I heard Ben’s familiar whistle in the distance; probably in the middle of making rounds. “Everybody knows that story. Ben’s around somewhere, and probably knows things we haven’t even heard.”

  “I don’t know who Ben is.”

  “You must have seen him. Young guy. One of the regular security guards. He’s always around.”

  “I probably walked by him a million times.”

  “I’m sure you have. He’s worked here a while.”

  “Has he seen ghosts?” Her lips quivered.

  I touched her shoulder. “I think he might know ghost stories, but I’m not sure he’s seen one. Look, don’t worry. You just overreacted.”

  “Maybe, but it’s still creepy. Besides, you just don’t know what’s going on.”

  “What else is going on?”

  “Nothing you’d understand.”

  I wanted her to snap out of it. “I’m starving. Joe’s working, and—”

  “You go on.” She looked over her shoulder.

  We walked to our cars in silence. I figured Andrea had been angry at me for dismissing her ghostly account, but she’d get over it.

  When we reached my car, I asked, “Where are you parked?”

  “Down by the trees.”

  “I can drive you there.”

  “I’ll be okay now.” She turned and looked toward Castell once more.

  I followed her gaze; saw Ben, flashlight in hand, head down. He looked like he was searching for something.

  “There’s Ben.” I pointed as he rounded the corner.

  Andrea didn’t answer. She shoved her hands in her pockets, and then shivered when cold wind and rain whipped through the lot.

  “Come on, kiddo. Just a cup of coffee?”

  She shook her head, and then moved away from me, panic etched across her face. “Ask Alex about the fifth floor. I bet she knows things.” I watched her trek toward trees, breaking out into a run when she passed a light pole, disappearing in between an old Chevy and a beat-up truck.

  I drove home, radio blasting, with Pat Benatar’s voice loud and strong. Maybe I should have followed Andrea home, and been more sympathetic, but before long she’d be talking about a shopping trip, or a hot new guy; and she’d forget about ghosts…both real and imagined.

  Andrea seemed undaunted when I saw her again, and we’d planned a trip to an art supply store in the city. Ben gave me directions, telling me it had been there for years, and prices and selection were better than the college bookstore.

  “I know the owner. His name is Charlie. Tell him I sent you,” Ben told me when he handed me directions scribbled on a torn envelope.

  I drove off the highway, through Providence, and then exited into an old manufacturing area. Once jewelry and textile manufacturers were abundant there, but businesses moved to other locations, consumer needs changed, and buildings were deserted. Lena once told me she had friends who’d worked in old textile factories. Some suffered from arthritis, because structures had been damp, and without heat. Others died young of cancer, because asbestos filled those old plants. As I journeyed by those forsaken places, I wondered what else lurked within faded and cracked brick.

  We found the art store, after I turned around several times, driving under an aged bridge’s arch, and then past a parking lot littered with beer cans and newspapers. The crumbling brick building stood nestled between several empty textile mills. It smelled of old machinery; floors were covered with sawdust, and spiderwebs stretched across a cracked ceiling. Windows were spattered with mud, some covered with cardboard. Faded curtains hung against shattered and filthy glass. Walls had been marked with crudely painted symbols, but shelves were loaded with unique papers, sturdy canvases and bargain-priced paints. We filled our arms with supplies, moving within crammed rows.

  The proprietor, a handsome man with thick black hair and dark eyes, followed us. He wore an old suit jacket over a pair of tattered jeans. He smiled at us. “Any questions?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Andrea told him.

  “Is your name Charlie?” I asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Ben Gable sent us,” I told him.

  “Haven’t heard from him for a while.” He studied my face, and then sized me up. “You remind me of somebody. Lady I used to know.”

  His voice was chilling, and his gaze made me uncomfortable.

  Door chimes rang, and the door opened slightly, but no one entered. “Ghosts,” said Charlie. “People say this building is haunted.”

  “Just the wind,” I told him. I wished people would stop blaming ghosts for every unexplained incident.

  “Probably.” He folded his arms, and then leaned against a shelf. “So, Ben is still at Castell?”

  “Yeah,” I told him.

  This time he chuckled. “Still in purgatory. Poor soul.”

  “He’s lucky. My day job is more like hell,” Andrea giggled.

  Charlie nod
ded. “We’ve all got to do our penance.” He looked to the door. This time it slammed shut. “I’m closing up in a few minutes. You girls almost done?”

  We looked at each other, and Andrea shrugged. “We’ll come back.”

  We brought our purchases to the register. Charlie rang up my materials first, studying each tube of paint, pad and canvas, before placing the items in a large plastic bag. “This will do just fine. Paints came from Europe. Best ingredients.”

  He handed me my purchases, his eyes caught mine for a moment, and then he looked to several small sculptures on a window ledge behind him—a fairy, an angel and a wizard. “Sculpted a piece a long time ago…of a woman who looked like you.”

  I thought about Lena’s small sculpture, but Charlie looked to be about forty, too young to have known Lena in her youth.

  I felt awkward. All I could say was, “Hope she was nice.”

  “She was beautiful.” He smiled sadly.

  My face flushed. Andrea nudged me with her elbow.

  “She’s far away now,” Charlie said, as he tended to Andrea’s supplies, smiling wide when he rang up a large tube of crimson paint.

  “I’m having a sale middle of the month; canvas and oils. Come on back.” Charlie looked through a window. Several children stood there, two boys and a girl. Mist rose from the earth, covering their feet, swirling around their heads. “See you, girls. Be careful. Storm is coming.”

  Charlie ushered us outside, eyeing the children suspiciously as fog thickened, and then he bolted the door.

  “What the hell was that about?” I said, looking back. Charlie dimmed the lights, and was in the process of drawing curtains.

  Andrea looked amused when she gazed at the shop’s windows. “Seems like something spooked him.”

  “Maybe we did,” I said, laughing.

  The children had gone, and vapor rolled over terrain where they’d stood, spiraling like tentacles. And laughter sounded, as though voices came from behind Charlie’s bolted door. The sky turned darker, and then rain began to fall. We ran to my car, slid into our seats, and then I started the engine.