SHADOWS IN THE HOUSE WITH TWELVE ROOMS
By J. Price Higgins
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Copyright 2013 J. Price Higgins
Cover design by: David Dodd
Cover image courtesy of:
http://e-dina.deviantart.com/
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
J. Price Higgins was a Depression-era baby raised in Great Bend, Kansas, on a farm surrounded by dust. A veteran, divorce’, and one hell of a mother, she married a couple of good men with bad habits and lived the last thirty years of her life as a single woman, and the last twelve writing three novels. “Who needs a man, when you have a good book?” At eighty-one she had earned the right to say anything she wanted, and it was common for total strangers to start up a conversation “just because.” J. Price Higgins had that impact on people.
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Prologue
Five-year-old Ellery Dakota Forester wished she had never asked about heaven. She wouldn’t have, she thought, if Mr. Lindon hadn’t said that Betty Sue didn’t die, she went to live in heaven. That made no sense at all. Betty Sue was for sure dead; she drowned while playing at the beach. Besides, dead people didn’t live in the sky; they lived in the cemetery. Everybody knew that, even Mr. Lindon. So why did he say otherwise?
The question had pestered and nagged at her until she could stand it no longer. She had to ask.
"Gramma, how come Mr. Lindon said Betty Sue was going to live in the sky?"
Gramma glanced up from the book she was reading. "I don’t believe that’s what he said, Ellery."
"Uh-huh. He said she went to live in heaven. That’s the sky. Right?"
"Well, yes, generally speaking heaven means the sky, but in this case, Mr. Lindon was referring to God’s house. Betty Sue went to live in that Heaven," Gramma Sely had explained.
"Bilge."
Ellery pretended not to hear the choked response that echoed from the study. Gramma frowned, but continued with, "If you’re a good person—and Betty Sue was—you get to live in God’s house when you die. That’s what Mr. Lindon meant."
Papa had a coughing fit when Gramma said that. "That’s enough, Sely," he growled as he came into the kitchen. Ignoring Gramma’s glare, he turned to Ellery and using his best authority voice said, "If you don’t comprehend something, you can’t explain it. It’s like this. The ancients didn’t understand the life-death cycle so they concocted stories to make both palatable. This Heaven stuff your grandmother is so fond of spouting is one of those stories. It stands right alongside fire-breathing dragons and flying unicorns. You don’t need sophistic stories to decipher that cycle, Ellery. Every time you peer into my microscope or examine the contents of a petri dish what you see is either alive or it’s dead. There’s no in-between. If it’s alive, you can make it something beautiful. If it’s dead, it’s dead. It doesn’t go flying up to some mythological house in the sky. That rule applies to everything. Your friend died and that’s that."
Gramma Sely tapped the book on her lap. "That’s not so! The Holy Book says—"
"Pay attention, Ellery. I want you to hear this." He focused on his wife. "Now, did I, or did I not, create living matter in my lab?"
"You did, but—"
"No buts, Sely. Truth. Did I or did I not speed up the evolutionary process of that matter? Not once, but several times as I recall, until my crowning glory finally bore fruit. Did I not do that?"
"Oh, yes. You did that all right. You did that very well."
Wide-eyed, Ellery watched the blood drain from Gramma’s face. She wished they wouldn’t talk like this. It frightened her.
"Yes I did, and if you choose to deny such empirical proof, that’s your prerogative, but don’t pack our granddaughter’s head with your fairy tale foolishness! She’s too intelligent. One day, that sharp mind of hers will figure out how nature works and she’ll know you lied to her." He jammed his hands into trouser pockets as if daring his wife to disagree.
Gramma’s face glowed red. "Yours is the lie, Victor, not mine. Make something beautiful? No in-between? My God! What do you call—" Eyes wild, she stopped and took two deep breaths. Visibly regaining control she said, "There is more to life—and death—than your infallible science, Victor. You may have brought together chemical components, but who provided the final ingredient? Who supplied the life force? What you do, have done, in that laboratory of yours is unconscionable manipulation, not creation." Her voice was as hard as obsidian.
Ellery had never before heard Gramma use that tone. Something had changed here. She scooted back in her chair, her gaze fixed on Papa. His mouth drew tight. A flood of emotions, too fast for her to decipher, surged across his face, into his shoulders, and down his body. Fascinated, Ellery watched the glisten of perspiration spreading across his nose, the subtle stiffening of muscles. Just as mine tightened when I tested Mama’s light socket, she thought. She wondered if it felt the same.
"No, Victor. If there are lies to discover here, they are yours, not mine."
"Let it be, Sely. It’s over and done with."
"It’s not over—and I’m not done with it. I’ll never be done with it!"
Ellery shrunk back into her chair. She wished she had waited a trillion years to ask about heaven. She wanted to run from the room, away from the grown-up words that left her more confused than ever. She eyed the open doorway then quickly focused on the tips of her Mary Janes. It was impolite to leave without permission.
Gramma jumped up from her chair. "Whether you accept it or not, Victor, there is a Heaven and I intend to make certain that my granddaughter understands it’s not in some laboratory!" She stormed out of the room.
Papa shook his head as if baffled by Gramma’s anger. He took off his glasses and wiped them with the white handkerchief he always carried in his pocket. With a deep-chested harrumph, he slid them back onto his nose. "I simply do not fathom your Grandmother, Ellery. Surely a truth one can see and touch makes more sense than the myths of man. Yet she refuses to turn loose of the old legends." He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter. At least you know what heaven is all about."
And she did. She thought. Until Mama said heaven was a place among the stars where souls lived—and baby souls at that! Ellery sat openmouthed, hardly believing what she was hearing. Gramma Sely said heaven was a mansion in the sky where dead people went to live, Papa Victor said it was on glass slides in his laboratory, and here was Mama talking babies! She pressed her fingertips tight against her pounding temples. These answers were irrational. They made her head hurt. She looked up.
"What’s a soul?" The question popped out before she could stop it. The look on Mama’s face boded more confusion, Ellery was sure of it.
"It all depends on who you ask. There are some people who, like your grandfather, don’t believe—" She paused. The look faded and Ellery breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever Mama was going to say, she’d obviously changed her mind. Maybe the answer wouldn’t be so
troublesome after all.
"I think the soul is what makes us who we are, Ellery. It brings us life when we are born and goes to live with God when we die."
"In the sky?"
"Uh-huh."
"With the babies?"
"Well—yes."
Mama ought to know. Mama knew everything. Still . . .
"Babies can't live in the sky." Her voice matched the frown on her face.
"Oh?" Her mother washed cookie dough from her fingers and carefully dried her hands. "Why not?"
"They don't have a house to live in. Not a real house."
"How do you know?"
"'Cause I can't see it. Papa says—"
"I know what your grandfather says." Her mother's cheeks puffed and her voice boomed out. "If what you're looking for is there, you'll see it. If it isn’t, you won’t."
Ellery giggled. Mama looked just like Papa when she spoke his words.
"Sometimes, Ellery, you have to look beyond what you think is real if you want to see the truth. Come, I’ll show you what I mean—it’s something your grandmother showed to me when I was just about your age."
Together, they walked into the summer night and her mother pointed to the sky.
"Tell me what you see."
"Lots of stars. And a big moon."
"Yes. Now, concentrate on the stars and pretend you’re looking through Papa’s microscope. Look for patterns. Do you see how they come together?"
Ellery stared at the sky. Shaking her head, she said, "All I see are the stars."
"That’s because your eyes were fixed on the obvious in spite of me saying that there could be more. Your mind interprets the reality of that upon which it focuses, nothing more. That’s what I was trying to explain to you earlier. Do you understand?"
Ellery sighed. Usually she could figure out the answer when Mama played the riddle game, but not this time. "No," she said, shaking her head side-to-side.
"What I suggested, but you didn’t see, are those." Her mother pointed out four sparkling groups. "Those are constellations, part of an ancient pattern so huge it takes an entire year to see it all. This brings us back to your question. I like to think those are rooms in God's house where babies live while they're waiting to be born."
"So, who takes care of them? The dead people?"
"Dead people?"
"Gramma Sely said—"
"Oh. Those dead people. No. Each room has its own Angel guardian." With great animation, she named each constellation and the Angel who resided there—Gabri-el, Anu-el, Razi-el, and more.
Ellery’s mind whirled with the strange sounding names. She gazed into her mother's eyes, looked back at the sky. "Did I live there once?"
"Uh-huh. In the eleventh room."
"That’s the room of knowledge."
"Yes, it is. And you know what? I think that’s why you ask so many questions."
Staring at the stars, Ellery tried to see the rooms, tried to see the Angels, tried to see the babies. Mama seemed so sure, yet Papa's words wouldn't go away.
"Why can't I see them?"
"Because God made them invisible to humans."
Ellery scrunched up her face and chewed on her lip as she followed her mother back into the house. Sitting at the table, a glass of milk and two cookies in front of her, she kept frowning.
Her mother glanced up. "Now what? I thought you liked chocolate cookies, and look—you haven't taken one bite."
"I was thinking. Do they have shadows to play with like I do?"
"Shadows! Lord, child, for a five-year-old, you surely ask some strange questions."
"Well, do they?"
Ellery saw the slight flare of her mother's nostrils. Mama's nose always did that when she was thinking out how not to answer. She stared into blue eyes and waited.
"I doubt it, dear," her mother said at last. "They wouldn’t need shadows to play with, they have each other. Now drink your milk and no more questions. It's nearly bath time."
Disappointed, Ellery sipped at her glass of milk while she turned over these foreign concepts. What was true and what wasn’t? As best as she could tell, the grownups in her world didn’t actually know. Even though the idea of sky people held a certain fascination, Papa was right. Dead people and babies living in an invisible house that floated around in the sky was far-fetched, a fairy tale like Hansel and Gretel and the enticing witch.
What if it wasn’t? The thought squirmed along the edges of her mind. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. If they were up there, they had shadows. She didn't care what Mama said. Everything had a shadow—rocks, clouds, the sun, the moon. Everything. All she had to do was learn how to see beyond the obvious; that sounded easy enough. Her face cleared. If shadows were there, she would see them—if not, she wouldn’t. Either way, she could put an end to all these nagging questions. Pleased with her decision, Ellery chugged down the rest of her milk, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slid off the stool. One thing for sure, she thought as she headed for the bathroom—she wasn’t asking any more questions about heaven, or about souls either for that matter! From now on, anything she wanted to know about those subjects she’d figure out for herself. It would be less complicated that way.
Chapter 1
Ellery Dakota Jensen
Ngnck. Ngnck. Ngnck.
The sound, the rising rhythm of bare knuckles slamming into leather, worked itself into Ellery Dakota Jensen's dream. With each splat of a fist, a harsh, guttural cry vibrated through the house.
Her eyelids jerked open. Body rigid and heart pounding, she listened.
Ngnckngnckngnckngnck. The cry condensed into one throbbing pulse of distress.
Oh dear God. Matthew or John?
She peered at the soft glow of the calendar clock on her bedside table: 4:32 a.m., April 8, 2125. Matthew. John's attacks occurred just before midnight.
She stumbled out of bed and over to her dresser. A quick twist of a drawer knob and a center panel swung open, revealing a short-barreled weapon and three fragile darts filled with liquid. Ellery grabbed up the gun. Hands trembling, she carefully removed each dart, positioned the deadly projectiles in the firing chamber.
Wide-awake now, she yanked open her bedroom door. Her daughter stood in the hallway, eyes wide and luminous with tears. Vickie's head jerked side to side as she saw the weapon in Ellery's hand.
"Please, Mama. Let me talk to him. Maybe . . . maybe he'll recognize my voice. Maybe—"
"You know there's nothing you can do, Victoria. Go back to your room, bolt your door, and leave it bolted until this is over."
Once she heard the door to her daughter's room close and the lock click, Ellery ran downstairs, dimly aware that she had forgotten to grab her robe. In the game room, her eldest child—his hands a blur, his eyes glazed with pain, his mouth frothing with saliva—smashed bare fists into a massive leather bag with desperate, savage precision. His sweat-soaked hair clung to the ovoid growth at the base of his skull.
Ellery stared at the wildly vibrating tissue. Only once before had she seen Matthew's mark so enlarged and so angry looking. That was during the development process; he had just turned fourteen.
"Dear God in Heaven, if you are really there—help him," she whispered. "Help my son to win."
She didn't dare enter the room, not while he pounded the bag. The sounds and images crashing into his mind were too intense. He would strike at anything that moved, seeing only his inner demons; strike and keep on striking until he forced the specters back into that dark place where nightmares hide.
If he could.
It had not always been this way. In the beginning, only sibilant whispers interrupted his thoughts. Like gusts of wind in the mind, Matthew had explained, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always there. Always pestering. John's rendition was more . . . well . . . John. Like time collapsing, he had said. Like Minotaur dreams in a protean maze.
The morning chill caused her to tremble and her teeth to chatter, but she did not take h
er gaze off her son, not even when John crept to her side. She watched, and waited, and prayed that Matthew could fight his way back to sanity one more time. If not . . .
Ellery refused to allow the thought to continue. He would fight his way back. He would!
If not? The question forced itself through her mental barrier. She tightened her grip on the weapon. She had faced the question before. If Matthew became the nightmare, then she would do what she had to do. He would never be locked inside a mental institution, forever screaming out his fear and pain. Neither he nor John would.
She had promised.
The rhythm slowed. The blows softened.
At last, the harsh cries dwindled to a soft snorting. The attack was over; the voices were receding. Matthew would sleep now. When he awakened, there would be nothing more than the memory—and the gusts of wind-like whispers—to burden him with fear.
Until the next time.
She turned to her younger son. Gently touching his face, she read the haunting knowledge in his eyes: it could have been his fists pummeling the bag for he, too, was a BH inheritor.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"It's not your fault, Mom. You didn't know." John removed the gun from her hand. As carefully as she had loaded it, he unloaded it, tucking the darts inside the padded container he'd brought with him. He shoved the weapon into the pocket of his robe. "I'll put Matthew to bed."
Ellery nodded assent. He strode to where his brother leaned against the wall and slid his arm around the young man's waist. Together, they climbed the stairs. Watching them disappear down the hall, Ellery shook her fist at empty air. "Damn you, Papa Victor, you and your BH gene. Damn you to everlasting hell!"
A deep ringing sound shoved its way into her seething thoughts. As the last bong faded away, the time automatically registered. Five-thirty. Frowning, Ellery glanced up the stairs. Not only had Matthew's fight been more ferocious than ever before, it had lasted much longer. He would need a strong relaxant. As if reading her mind, John leaned over the balustrade.
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