Death Do Us Part

by JG Faherty

  Which was why the previous night he’d resorted to taking two Advil PMs, which never failed to put him out, in order to get a full night’s sleep. And it had worked. In the morning, he’d felt reasonably refreshed and human again.

  Now, lying in bed and watching a half-drunk alien conspiracy expert mumbling about reptilians living among humans, he gave in and shook out two of the sleep aids from the bottle next to the bed. Better to be a little groggy in the morning than exhausted all day.

  Unaware he’d passed from dozing to full sleep, Art found himself walking a dark, ominous road, where the only light came from a full moon half-hidden by a forest of tall, dead trees. Skeletal branches reached into the sky, seeming to plead for life to return. No cars disturbed the empty night, and the cracked and pitted surface served as definitive evidence of a road rarely traveled.

  The sensation of danger lurking in the dark grew stronger with each step. Art glanced frequently from side to side, alert for anything that might be waiting to prey on a lone traveler. The deathly silence unnerved him; the only sounds were his own breathing and the crunch of his shoes on dirt and stone.

  He walked and walked, with no sensation of time. The moon never changed position, the sky never lightened. So he had no way of telling how far he’d gone, or how long he’d been on the road, when a new sound broke the hush.

  A slow, steady thumping.

  Art stopped and tried to determine where it came from. He turned in a slow circle, but the acoustics of the road and woods fought him, refusing to give any clues.

  He tried to identify the noise. Thump… Thump… Thump. The deliberate, reverberating beat created an unwanted picture in his head, a giant alien heart pumping sluggishly inside a sleeping beast, a beast that might awaken at any moment.

  The sound gained strength, as if somehow the hidden creature was drawing closer. Or growing larger. His imagination turned it from a heart inside a sleeping giant to an enormous heart all on its own, a colossal mutant organ sliding through the forest, leaving a trail of blood and acid in its wake.

  With no idea where the monster was, Art took off at a run in the same direction he’d been walking. Still the malevolent thumping grew louder, until it seemed to come from all sides at once.

  Thump… Thump… THUMP!

  Art came awake, sitting up in bed and gasping for air. Under the influence of the pills, it took him several seconds to realize he’d escaped his dream.

  And yet he could still hear the thumping.

  His first thought was Catherine’s back! But why was she outside?

  Thump… thump… thump

  There was something knocking at the door.

  His brain still muddy from sleep, he tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Thumping. First it was not as loud, now it’s louder.

  Front door, back door?

  Someone knocking at the back door always made more noise; the back door was hollow metal instead of solid wood, and the kitchen tended to act like an echo chamber, with noises bouncing off the tiles and doubling in volume.

  He swung his feet out of bed, his fear turning to anger. Was that all this was, some asshole knocking at the door and then going around to the kitchen when no one answered? He glanced at his clock. A little before midnight. No wonder he felt so loopy. He’d only been asleep a couple of hours; the pills he’d taken were still in his system.

  Thump… thump… thump

  “Shit.” Probably some stupid drunk at the wrong house. Anyone he knew would either call on the phone or ring the bell if they were trying to reach him in an emergency. He grabbed his robe and cursed again. A drunk or a teenage prank. Well, it didn’t matter. Somebody was going to get an earful of shit for waking him up.

  He was halfway to the kitchen when the noise stopped. He paused, waiting for it to start up again, or return to the front door. When the house remained silent, he flicked on the kitchen light and peered out through the window in the door.

  No one stood on the porch.

  Whoever it was realized they were at the wrong house. Most likely it was true, but Art still went to each of the kitchen windows to check the rest of the back yard, in case the late night visitor had passed out. Or there were kids waiting to toss eggs or rocks at the house.

  Another thought came to him. What if it was someone he’d arrested, someone who’d found out where he lived? He purposely had an unlisted number, something all cops did as part of keeping their families safe, but it wouldn’t be that hard to find out an address, not with all the information available on the web these days.

  More cautious now, he turned the lights off and went around the house checking the rest of the windows and doors to make sure everything was locked. As he did, he noticed a hint of something foul in the air, a smell like rotten meat.

  Gotta remember to take out the garbage in the morning.

  By the time he finished locking down the house, he was wide awake, all the effects from the pills long gone.

  With a sigh, he got a beer from the fridge and plopped himself on the couch, flicking through the channels until he found a Married with Children rerun.

  Might as well wait for Missy to come home.

  * * * * *

  Missy Sawyer watched the sign for Eldorado Road go by as she slowly cruised down Fourth Street and almost gave in to the temptation to turn and follow Eldorado down to River Road, and then to her house. Not that she’d actually stop and go inside. Art would be sleeping, and God knew he needed his rest. It was just that despite how calm things had been for the past week, she still harbored a fear Catherine might return. That the psychic’s spell would only be a temporary solution.

  Catherine was a stubborn, vindictive bitch in life. If any ghost could figure out a way to break a spell, Catherine Stanhope would be the one.

  Missy had no idea how much of her worries were based on guilt or just plain fear, and in the end it didn’t matter. She had a feeling she’d always be looking over her shoulder for her older sister, always be thinking that tiny noise in the night was Catherine’s angry spirit come back to torment them again. That was why she felt tempted to check the house each night she had patrol duty. Just to make sure everything was all right. That Art wasn’t dead or injured so badly he couldn’t call for help, that Connor wasn’t being force-fed his own Game Boy by a demented specter.

  As crazy as live Catherine had been, dead Catherine was even worse. How else to explain why she’d tried to hurt Connor? She’d had plenty of reasons to be angry with her husband, hate her sister. More than anyone knew. But her own son? An innocent child? Why?

  Missy turned right, putting Eldorado in her rear view mirror.

  A question we’ll never have an answer for.

  The radio squawked to life and she turned the volume up, happy for the distraction.

  “…units. Ten-twelve reported on two-sixteen High Street, north from Eldorado. Nearest unit please respond.”

  Missy hit the brakes. High and Eldorado was only a few blocks from her current position.

  And only a couple of miles from my house.

  She pushed the thought away. A ten-twelve was code for a possible intruder. Nothing at all to do with the supernatural events they’d been through. While putting the car into a U-turn, she thumbed her shoulder mike. “This is Charlie one-four responding to Code ten-twelve. I’m on Fourth, turning onto Eldorado. ETA two minutes.”

  “Roger that, one-four. One-one should be near you if you need them.”

  “Charlie one-one here. Ten blocks away on Lincoln.”

  “Hang tight, fellas. I’ll let you know if I need assistance.”

  Car one-one was Eddie Tompkins and Derrick McGrath, two officers who’d been on patrol at least ten years. Despite an ever-present need to prove herself as one of only three women on the force, Missy felt glad there’d be dependable backup if something we
nt down. Small town or not, enough bad shit happened on a regular basis that you couldn’t be too careful. Not in an age when any kid who wanted a gun could get one and deadly drugs like crack and meth were as common as pot.

  With no traffic ahead of her on Eldorado, Missy hit the gas but refrained from using the siren or lights. If there was really an intruder, the last thing she wanted to do was spook him. He might run away, or he could just as easily decide to take a hostage.

  Her palms grew sweaty where she gripped the wheel, and she cursed the adrenaline coursing through her. Even after six years on the job, she still got that tingling feeling in her gut every time she responded to a call, that mix of fear and excitement that heightened her senses and fueled her reflexes, but also made it tough to grip a gun.

  When she turned the corner from Eldorado, she caught a glimpse of the first mailbox. Two-twenty-two. Since she was going north, the numbers would be decreasing. Two-sixteen would be—

  “Holy shit.” Missy skidded to a stop. Two-sixteen was a small brick two-story. All the lights were on. And there was a figure standing on the lawn. A figure Missy instantly recognized.

  Catherine.

  “It can’t be.” She opened the door, one hand already unlatching the strap over her service pistol. The figure turned around, caught square by Missy’s headlights.

  Missy’s stomach contracted and her heart rate doubled as she stared at her sister’s dead body.

  Pieces of Catherine’s face had sloughed off, revealing the muscle and bone beneath. Half her nose was gone, leaving a gaping black hole on that side. In the bright light, her eyes were two bluish-white circles devoid of any pupil or iris. Dirt stains covered her navy burial dress, the very same dress Missy had handed to the funeral director while Art and Connor wept in the other room.

  “You’re supposed to be gone,” Missy said. She spoke to herself, but Catherine responded even though there was no way she could have heard her sister from a distance of several yards.

  “You tried to kill me again, Sissy. Tried to send my soul to Hell. But it didn’t work. Now I’m going to have my revenge.”

  Corpse Catherine pointed at Missy, who saw the tips of her fingers were missing, just pieces of bone sticking out from ragged flesh.

  Jesus Christ, she dug her way out of her grave.

  Missy’s hands acted of their own accord, bringing her pistol up in a two-handed shooting grip. She pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. All three shots hit their target, sending Catherine spinning to one side and then down to the ground.

  In the house, curtains moved and someone screamed.

  Catherine stood up. Thick, black fluids dripped from the holes in her dress. She smiled, exposing gums rotted away to almost nothing.

  Missy fired twice more. Catherine’s body jerked and staggered, but didn’t fall.

  In the distance, a siren howled to life.

  “Charlie one-four! Sawyer! Reports of shots fired. Are you on the scene?”

  The siren drew rapidly closer. Missy kept both hands on her gun and backed up until she hit the car door.

  Bullets won’t kill her. Her hands began to shake, and the trembling grew so bad she couldn’t keep the gun straight. She gripped it tighter, and even then she knew she’d drop it if she tried to pull the trigger.

  “Sawyer! Respond! Are you okay? One-one, move it! Sawyer’s not responding.”

  Catherine turned her head towards the siren and Missy took a chance, turning her back on the dead thing that used to be her sister and ducking around the door to regain the safety of the car. She put it drive, intending to run Catherine over. Maybe it wouldn’t kill her, but she wouldn’t be much danger with a car parked on top of her.

  Except when Missy looked out the windshield, Catherine no longer stood there.

  “Hell!” She threw the car in park and twisted around in her seat, checking all the windows for any sign of movement.

  The lawn was empty.

  “…—er! I repeat, Sawyer, do you copy?”

  Still checking the area around the car, Missy reached up and thumbed her mike.

  “Sawyer here. I’m okay. Shots were fired by me at suspect who…escaped.”

  “Roger. Stay on scene, one-four. One-one is on its way.” There was relief in the duty officer’s voice; with assurance of her safety, it was back-to-business, for the air at least.

  Missy leaned back in her seat, her pulse slowing a bit with the immediate danger gone.

  How could Catherine be alive? And where could she have…?

  “No.” There was only one place Catherine would go.

  Art.

  * * * * *

  The ring of the phone brought Art instantly awake. He sat straight up on the couch, heart pounding, unaware for a moment of where he was or how he’d gotten there. The second ring brought him back to his senses.

  Living room. Couldn’t sleep. Must’ve dozed off watching TV.

  He glanced at the cable box while the phone rang for a third time. Not even one-thirty yet. The icy hand of fear gripped him. No one ever called in the middle of the night unless it was bad news.

  Missy. He recognized the number on the caller ID as he picked up the phone, and felt his unease grow worse.

  “Hello?”

  “She’s back! Get out of the house! Catherine’s back!”

  “What?” He stood up, remembering the knocking at the doors earlier. No, that couldn’t have been her. She’d have just been inside, like before. “Slow down. What happened?”

  “I saw her. On the street. She spoke to me. Art, she’s dead but she was right there.” Missy’s voice was approaching hysterical.

  “You saw her? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m goddamned sure! I fired five shots into her goddamned chest! Then the next second, she was gone. You and Connor have to get out. She’s coming for you.”

  “We’re leaving now. I’ll meet you at the station.” Art clicked off the phone and then cursed.

  Connor was at his friend’s house. What if Catherine went there first?

  Art shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his keys. Connor first, then the station. He’d call Missy once he had Connor safe in the car.

  The Reutermanns lived across town, on Oakwood and Carlisle. No way Catherine could get there before him.

  Ten minutes ago you’d have said there’s no way she could be walking in someone’s yard.

  “Shit.”

  He had the siren going and his grill lights flashing before he even left the driveway.

  * * * * *

  Fifteen minutes after receiving Missy’s frantic call, Art pulled away from the Reutermann’s house, leaving a very confused Kelli and Jason Reutermann standing on their porch. He’d phoned them on his way over, apologizing for waking them and saying there’d been a minor family emergency and he had to leave town for a couple of days with Connor and Missy to be with a sick relative. It bothered him to lie, especially when Kelli offered to watch Connor until he and Missy got back. He felt like a jerk turning her down, but better that than putting an innocent family in harm’s way just because his insane wife had apparently decided to come back from the dead and didn’t care who she hurt.

  Yeah, try explaining that to Kelli and Jason. They’d never let their kids play with Connor again.

  He arrived at the station and stuck a half-awake Connor in the training room, where he could watch TV and hopefully fall back to sleep. Thanks to increasingly unreliable babysitters, it wasn’t the first time a cop had parked a kid in there for a couple of hours. Captain Ruiz tended to turn a blind eye, especially after she’d had to do it herself.

  Missy came in a few minutes later, her face ashen and her eyes wild. Just seeing her like that made Art wish Catherine would show up right then, so he could choke the undead life out of her for what she’d done to Missy and Co
nnor.

  “I’ll be right there,” Missy said as she went past. He nodded, knowing exactly where she was headed. She’d fired her weapon; there’d be a statement to give and a report to fill out. “Be right there” was cop speak for “See you in an hour or two.”

  Which was fine. They were all safe. Undead or not, Catherine wouldn’t be attacking them in a police station. She’d be blown to bits if she tried. Which might not be such a bad thing. Except how would he explain her being there in the first place?

  With a confused but sleepy Connor settled in, and a cup of hot, bitter coffee in his hand, Art took a few minutes to sit and think.

  Where had Catherine’s body come from and how had it come back to life? Madam Prioleau had assured them she was gone for good, that…

  Madam Prioleau. For Christ’s sake, he had an expert on the supernatural right in his contacts list, and he hadn’t thought to call her yet. After shutting the door so no one would hear his conversation, he pulled up her number and hit Send.

  The phone rang several times before a groggy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Art Stanhope. She’s back. Only this time, she’s not a ghost. What the hell happened?”

  A sharp intake of breath answered his question. When there were no further sounds, Art worried that maybe the old woman had passed out. Or hung up on him. He was getting ready to say something when Madam Prioleau spoke.

  “Did you say your wife is not a ghost?” This time the voice held no hints of sleep. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I didn’t see her. But Missy did. Only a few blocks from my house. She says she shot Catherine several times, and nothing happened. Then Catherine disappeared. That’s all know. The police are still questioning Missy so I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”

  “This is not good.”

  “Not good? Thanks for stating the obvious. You said she was gone forever.”