A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4

by Weston Kincade

I shrugged, gazing at the wall-to-wall bookshelves hemming the room. “I haven’t really thought about it. It can’t be much worse than it is now, though.”

  Paige looked into my eyes with the knowledge of someone three times her age, focusing my wondering eyes. “It can always be worse.”

  The thought sent my mind spinning, searching for worst-case scenarios. I came up with quite a few. “I guess I don’t have it as bad as some people.”

  She nodded before continuing. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Go ahead,” I replied.

  “I have it pretty good. I don’t always realize it, but seeing you deal with your family makes me thankful for what I have. I’m sorry for what you go through… I just wish I could give you a piece of what I’ve got.”

  “I had some happiness once,” I mentioned, a slight smile finding my lips at the memory of my father. The image of Vivian and him smiling in each other’s arms emphasized the point. How long had it been since she smiled? How long had it been since I called her Mom? I couldn’t remember. “Then a semi driver ripped that life to shreds.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. I miss him, but what’s done is done. I can’t change it. At least I had those years. That’s a lot more than some people.”

  She looked away and tried to organize the chaos scattered across the floor. “I was thinking about our presentation. If we start off talking about what the soldiers were fighting for, and end with how they changed the country, that should meet the requirements for the assignment. What do you think?”

  The question forced my brain to switch gears. Soon, I was jotting down notes about pictures and diagrams while Paige searched the internet. This went on for more than an hour when my hand started cramping up. I needed a break.

  “Be right back,” I said into the busy silence. Paige questioned me with her eyes. “Nature’s calling.” She blushed at my answer and returned her attention to the monitor.

  Stepping into the tile walled bathroom, I again admired her parents’ choice of decoration, the bathtub in particular. It was white and cast iron with the clawed feet of a man-eating cat. Leaning over, I ran my finger across the detailed toes, relishing in their unique design when the dusty smell drifted by once more. I knew it this time––the odor of timeworn leather, the kind where the polish cracks and the mixture of chemicals persist in a pungent fragrance.

  Panic set in and my muscles tightened.

  * * *

  The quiet of the bathroom disappeared as water rushed into the tub. The sound echoed off the walls. My body and clothes were different, female. The walls shimmered, then settled. The clawed reservoir was almost filled. I reached over to turn off the faucet, but the sound of small footsteps padding across carpet caught my attention. I turned to find a cherub-like baby standing erect in the doorway to a connected bedroom. The room hadn’t been there a moment before, and the walls shimmered again before settling back into the new configuration. Light from beyond the doorway cascaded around the small figure.

  Something was wrong, but what?

  The bedroom separating us was large and spacious, but absent of much luminosity. Dull white light streamed through the sliding-glass door opposite the inhabited doorway. The muted radiance caressed the carpet and the corner of a large bed. I tried to inspect the open bathroom and this new bedroom, but something pulled my attention back to the odd child. I delved deeper into the shadows, attempting to discern the kid’s face, but it remained hidden. I could feel his eyes boring into me. A shiver ran down my spine.

  Did the woman shiver, or me? I couldn’t tell, and the thought fled like an escaped convict. The baby’s gaze devoured every ounce of my confidence. Fear erupted in the pit of my stomach as water streamed around my feet and into the carpeted bedroom.

  The small infant took a step forward, its self-assured strides squishing in the wet carpet. The movement brought the child into the light. I was drawn to the splotched gray skin covering its legs and bare torso. They were the legs of a ghoul, death incarnate sent to find me.

  I held my panic in check for the last few seconds, but it grew as a memory drifted into my thoughts: waiting exposed and cold in the delivery room, my legs in chilly, metal stirrups. The doctor’s eyes peered at me from under gray, bushy eyebrows, and a silence permeated the room. Nurses sat staring at the still child in his arms. The slaps and electrodes hadn’t prompted it to scream… or breathe. Tears streamed down my face under his pitying gaze. The moment felt like an eternity.

  Fear took hold, and a feminine voice tumbled across my lips, pulling my thoughts back to the overflowing bathroom. “No, I tried… I did… I’m sorry.” The child gave no sign of hearing.

  I backed away from the odd figure, inch by inch, until my legs struck the edge of the bathtub. Unable to retreat further, I stood entranced by the morbid child as it moved further into the light. Its minute strides revealed miniscule hands with clawed gray fingers that clutched the air in anticipation. Its mouth stood agape, too small to house the mass of dagger-like teeth hanging over its lips. Finally, the infant’s red-eyed glare passed from the shadows into the dull light. Demonic, bloodshot eyes with sickly yellow irises held me in place. Seeing its prey quiver in fear, the infant sprinted the last few feet over the bathroom floor and closed the gap. It grabbed the hem of my nightgown and clawed its way up with inhuman speed.

  I threw out my hands in a flurry, struggling to dislodge it and move away, but the tub blocked my escape. Hungry eyes and drooping lips drank my fear like a desiccated beggar, and it leapt onto my bosom. The checkered blue and white nightgown stretched in its elongated claws, but before I could unlock the air lodged in my throat, panic forced me over the antique lip and into the confines of the iron tub. The back of my head slammed into the cast-iron side with a loud crack, and I sank into the scalding water.

  The swirling abyss obscured my sight. I tried to scream, but only a cloud of bubbles escaped. I cast out for a handhold, some way of freeing myself from this water-filled tomb, but dozens of small hands grasped my arms and legs. A few grabbed my shoulders and pulled me deeper. Their tiny claws dug through the nightgown and into my skin, holding tight with the strength of demons. My mouth filled with water. It was as though my lungs were on fire. Slowly, the pain filling my head subsided, and numbness engulfed my mind. I couldn’t move or think and surrendered to the darkness swirling through the turbid waters.

  * * *

  I returned with a start, my hand still perched atop the clawed foot of the iron tub. Straightening up, I pulled away from it and looked around. My eyes adjusted as I assessed my surroundings. The small bathroom with seashells and pictures of sailing ships returned, with the attached hallway that led to the office. The spacious bedroom was gone and sunlight streamed through the small, frosted window at the edge of the bathroom.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded of the room. I stared at the antique bathtub for a few silent minutes. Thinking back on the dream made me shudder, and my bruised reflection was the only thing in the mirror. But even it seemed hesitant to meet my gaze. My father’s button-up still hung over my shoulders, somewhat drier than earlier. My jeans and t-shirt were untouched by the waters in the dream. My mind sifted through the possible causes for the vision. Most of them were disturbing. Pushing the possibilities aside, I left the bathroom and returned to find Paige still searching the web. She did a double-take when she saw me.

  “What happened to you? You’re white as a sheet.”

  “Nothing,” I muttered, my thoughts still whirling. “I think I got a stomach bug is all.” A moment later, I asked, “Where did you get that bathtub?”

  The odd question should have prompted more inquiry, but instead Paige’s eyes became distant. After a pause, she regained her focus and answered, “It was my Aunt’s. We got it after she died.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just very…” I hesitated a moment before finding the right word, “unique.”

  A visible shudder ran throug
h Paige. “It haunts me every night.”

  “What do you mean?” Her answer made me less certain about the truth of the dreams.

  “Aunt Sarah hit her head and drowned in that tub. Why my parents kept it, I don’t know. They said it belonged to my great grandmother and they couldn’t bear to part with it… but each time I step out of it, I still feel dirty.”

  I nodded, knowing the feeling. “What caused it?”

  “The police said she probably slipped on the tiles, but I always wondered if it might have been something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, after losing her baby in childbirth she started acting really weird. She became paranoid and always looked over her shoulder. Why do you ask?”

  I tried to swallow the lump that had lodged itself in my throat at the mention of her lost child. “Just had a feeling there was more to the story,” I replied, attempting to smother the tremor in my voice. “That’s all.”

  She accepted the answer and thought for a moment. Her eyes filled with doubt. Turning back to the computer, she continued the search while I sat down to finish the introduction to our presentation. I tried to push the dream aside, but my thoughts wandered. Everything fit into place like a puzzle. It seemed more and more likely that the dreams were true accounts of how people died. The only way to know for sure, though, was to investigate the first vision.

  A LIFE OF DEATH: 2

  BY

  WESTON KINCADE

  - BOOKS of the DEAD -

  History - 6

  “Paige, why don’t we go to the Historical Society? They should have more information on local history.”

  Paige glanced up from the monitor. “Good idea. I can’t find much about specific battles here. The internet is mostly clogged with researchers and professors spouting off their personal theories about the war. It’s all from people with their noses crammed in books, not real life accounts.”

  We gathered a few tablets of notepaper and pens before walking the few blocks to the Tranquil Heights Historical Society. Paige dove into the resources, searching for military reports and firsthand accounts. I began perusing the list of newspaper articles they kept on microfiche and came upon multiple advertisements for independence parties during the few years following the war. I pulled the microfiche, searching the days following each party for mention of an attack, or a murder outside the Brogand manor. Hours later, I found what I was looking for. It was a front-page article about the slaying of Margaret Brogand, the wife of Theodore Brogand, and it occurred the night after the party. Even then, murders in Tranquil Heights were big news. Small town life hadn’t changed much, nor had the families within the town.

  A neighbor had found her in front of the house, strangled and beaten to death.

  Searching the next few days for additional articles, I came upon a follow-up by the same journalist. Margaret Brogand’s unsuspecting and heartbroken lover, Mr. Quigley, was convicted of the heinous crime, but the story itself did not mention their actual love affair. Looks like Mr. Popular, Grant Brogand, has a few skeletons in his closet, whether he knows it or not. Looking up, I noticed Paige’s critical eyes searching through a pile of books. With my suspicions confirmed, it might be time to enlist someone else’s help.

  “Paige,” I hissed across the room.

  She looked up and I waved her over. Abandoning her current search, she joined me in front of the microfiche machine. I spun the dial back to the first article.

  After reading it, her brows furrowed and she peered down at me. “What’s it about?”

  “The murder of Grant Brogand’s great-grandmother, or maybe her mother. I can’t be sure which.”

  “So, what’s so big about Grant’s family history? Does it have to do with the war?” she asked, perturbed that I had disturbed her for such an egotist.

  “Have a seat,” I said with somber conviction. “We need to talk.”

  Seeing the serious look in my eye, she pulled up a chair.

  “Paige, recently some things happened that I can’t explain. And until now, I didn’t even know what to make of them.”

  “To make of what?” she asked, still lost.

  “I had a few daydreams over the last couple days. They were weird. I couldn’t explain them to you before. I didn’t know what they were until you told me the truth about your aunt this afternoon. And then I found this…” I pointed at the screen. “They’re true. The dreams are real. They really happened!” The last statement bounded from my mouth with newfound energy.

  “Wait, slow down. What do you mean the story about my aunt?”

  “You remember how I looked when I first came into the room?”

  She nodded and waited for me to continue.

  “When I touched the tub, I had a dream. I was a woman wearing a blue and white patterned nightgown. I fell over the tub in a panic and hit my head. Then I wasn’t able to get up and I drowned. It scared the crap out of me, and I thought I was losing my mind. But when you told me what happened to your aunt, it all clicked.”

  Paige peered at me like I had grown another head. Her curls bounced back and forth as she tried to deny what I’d said. “No… no, no it can’t be. That’s not possible.”

  “Did your aunt have a nightgown like that?” I asked, struggling to prove my theory.

  After a moment’s thought, her head stilled. “Yes,” she whispered. Her confirmation seemed to echo through the room.

  “The other day, when I was late for school, before the situation with the drunk, I had another dream in front of the Brogand mansion. That’s why I looked for this.” I stabbed the monitor with my finger. “It really happened, and I know who killed her.” I scrolled to the next slide about the murder. “They convicted the wrong man. Quigley was having an affair with her, but her husband killed her, Theodore Brogand.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Paige asked, her curiosity piqued. The tone of her voice was tinged with skepticism, but at least she was listening. She leaned over and read the article.

  “Because I dreamt I was her. Theodore strangled her for having the affair. Then he framed Quigley.”

  Paige finished reading and sat back down. “But how do you know she had an affair? It doesn’t say anything about that here.”

  “Because I saw it. She remembered him and what they did before she died.”

  The corners of her eyes tightened with disbelief. “You saw what she was thinking?”

  “Yes, I don’t know how, but I did. In the dreams I’m the person, in every way. I know it sounds crazy. Even though I’m just an observer, I do everything they did, say everything they said, and think everything they thought. Basically, I relive their deaths.”

  “But how?”

  “I’m not really sure. I touch something they touched when they were dying and it happens.”

  “Okay,” said Paige, still trying to wrap her mind around the concept. “Let’s say I believe you, no matter how crazy it sounds. Did my aunt really slip and fall, or was there more to her death?”

  I stiffened. Should I tell her? It would mean a great deal to know the truth, but can she handle it? After pondering it for a moment, I said, “Yes, she slipped and fell.”

  “And nothing else happened?” she asked, probing for more.

  As I looked into the depths of her eyes, I knew with certainty that I couldn’t lie. She was strong, stronger than me, and she knew there was more to it. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  She nodded, folded her hands between her thighs, and began chewing the edge of her lip. “Tell me.”

  Her nervousness was clear and it made me hesitant, but once I began the words spilled out of me as though the story sought an audience. Her eyes twitched when I mentioned the ghoulish baby, but she didn’t interrupt. Afterwards, we sat in the Historical Society’s research room, eyes locked, until a dark-haired woman announced that the building would be closing in fifteen minutes. The interruption pulled us from our thoughts. We gathered our notes and printed copies of the
Brogand murder articles. After paying, we left the building and headed for her house.

  “Okay,” she muttered once we were out of earshot. “I believe you.”

  A tear quivered in her eye, and she refused to look at me directly.

  Sunday - 7

  October 2, 1995

  On Sundays I was always thankful for the absence of religion in my stepfather’s household. I dressed and walked alone to the Orthodox Church that Sunday. My family had attended it until my father’s death. Now, Vivian was working at the convenience store and had stopped coming. It was a day without school, a day of reflection. Father Gilbert always looked out for me, since that awful day, and I attended his services in silence. Today in particular, it felt as though Father Gilbert had me at the forefront of his mind. His sermon was about dealing with the loss of a loved one. Although it didn’t alleviate the old pain, it was reassuring. Maybe there was a better life waiting. I just had to find it. Afterwards, I lingered in an empty pew, waiting for the congregation to leave. When he saw me sitting in the back he took the spot next to me.

  “How are you today, Alex?” His tone was caring and somehow aware of my inner turmoil.

  “Hello, Father. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I always have time for you,” he replied, as he usually did when I had a lot on my mind.

  “Father, something’s been happening to me lately, and I’m not sure I understand it.”

  “Well, puberty comes late to a lot of people, Alex. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. Nothing like that.”

  “Then what’s got you troubled?”

  I peered down at the shadowed floor below, but through the corner of my eye I watched his gaze pause on my discolored face. The swelling had diminished, but it remained a dark shade of brown. I chose my words with care before answering. “This week’s been really weird. I’ve had dreams of things from the past. They were dreams about things I didn’t know. At first, I thought I might be going crazy, but after some research I discovered that the visions were real.”