Cherry Hill

by James A. Moore

  The door to the hallway was only five feet away and she moved toward it as fast as she could. What was causing the tearing sensation was a mystery, but one she wanted solved before something worse could happen.

  She took two steps before the cutting agony became enough to drop her to her knees. The only thing working to her benefit was that the resulting scream caught the attention of someone in the hallway.

  Dr. Sebastian opened the door with a frown on his face and stared at her mutely for a second before coming into the room.

  “Andrea? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  Jesus! She was practically ready to cough up blood and he was asking her stupid questions. She reached out her hand toward the man, silently asking him to help her stand, and as she did, something moved under her skin, separating flesh from muscles in the process.

  Andrea screamed again, and felt her arm bend in ways that were completely unnatural. Bones should not slide, and that was exactly what they were doing. Heat washed through her body and she half expected to see flames coming from her mouth as she let out another shriek.

  The doctor had been reaching for her and suddenly stopped, his eyes growing preposterously wide in his face. “Dear Lord!” He stepped back and shook his head, growing visibly paler. Andrea tried to speak, but no words would come out. Whatever was happening grew even worse and her blood pressure soared as the bones in her extended arm stopped their unusual motions and simply shattered instead. She was beyond screaming, the nerve endings in her arm were torn into shreds as bone fragments knifed through muscles and tendons on their way to freedom through her skin.

  Andrea fainted dead away before the worst of her symptoms showed themselves. By the time it was over with she’d gathered a crowd of seven co-workers, all of them at a loss to do anything for her as her body continued to shiver and twitch.

  The ambulance came far too late to help Andrea Tartelli. The weight listed on her driver’s license was 110 pounds. The coroner’s reports would show that what was left of her weighed in at 74 pounds, 12 ounces. None of her coworkers, most of whom had watched through the entire strange death dance Andrea performed, could explain the weight loss.

  ***

  Carl managed to drive all the way to Cherry Hill without wrecking the police cruiser. It came close a couple of times, because between the strange deaths he was already trying to figure out and the new death with witnesses, he had a lot on his mind.

  The passenger in his car wasn’t helping at all. Amelia Dunlow wasn’t just attractive; she looked like she’d walked right out of his fantasies about the perfect woman. Her hair fell just so, her skin was flawless with barely any makeup that he could detect, and her eyes were the sort men could drown in. The first thing he thought when he saw her was that she was exactly the sort of woman his mother would love to see him with. She was dressed professionally, in a perfectly fitted blue suit, and her hair was pulled into an efficient bun, but she still exuded a sexual presence that he found embarrassing. He also knew he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Several of the cops at the station had come close to walking into walls as they watched her move across the bullpen to his little hole-in-the-wall office.

  He’d managed not to make a complete ass of himself, but it hadn’t been easy. Before they could even get properly through the awkward introductions, the phone call came in regarding another death, this one with witnesses to give him a lot of details, if he were lucky.

  So off they were, on their way to Cherry Hill, and he’d just finished explaining what he knew of her friend’s situation there.

  “So Jonathan has amnesia?”

  “Near as they can tell. He had surgery yesterday morning to remove a piece of metal from his skull, but that’s all I really know.” He shrugged, doing his best not to stare. “I had a chance to question him about whether or not he believed there were ghosts at the asylum. Not long after that they took him away to surgery. I wish I could tell you more.” He was babbling and he knew it, but he didn’t seem capable of stopping himself. He hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the presence of a woman since he’d been in high school.

  The woman nodded her understanding, her eyes drawn to the structure in front of them instead of to him. Wisely, he chose to pay attention to the road as they finally reached the parking lot.

  There were a lot of cars filling the place, but not as many as he was used to seeing. That probably wasn’t the best sign he could have hoped for regarding how the day would go.

  A few short minutes later, they were signing in at the front desk and being met by Roger Finney, who looked like he’d had better days.

  Finney and Lionel Copper, the front desk guard, both had the same reaction to Amelia Dunlow and Carl began to wonder if it was her perfume, because no woman he’d ever met turned every single head the way this one did.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Detective.” Finney shook his hand. “I have seven people who are sitting in separate rooms. I’m not allowing them to speak to each other or to leave until they’ve spoken to you.”

  He nodded his thanks, already hating the way this was going. It was just after two in the afternoon and at a guess, he’d be here for several more hours.

  “This is Amelia Dunlow. She came at my request. She’s the person whose number matches the one Jonathan Crowley gave me.”

  Finney nodded and smiled, doing his best to look professional instead of leering. “I’m so glad you could come, Miss Dunlow.”

  “It’s Amelia, please. Can you tell me what’s been happening with Jonathan?”

  “Well, of course I have certain constraints, but I’ll try to get you up to date.” Finney led the woman of Branaugh’s dreams away, carefully putting an arm around her waist as he directed her down the hallway. Carl already knew where he had to go and headed in that direction, dreading the coming interviews and the paperwork they would generate.

  ***

  Amelia let the man move her down a long corridor, fully aware of the impact she was having on him. She did nothing to increase or decrease his discomfort. For the moment the only thing she cared about was getting to Jonathan Crowley and finding out what had happened to him since the last time they’d seen each other, almost seven years earlier.

  It hadn’t bothered the man she was walking with that she would have been, at best, in her mid teens the last time she’d seen Crowley, and she didn’t feel any need to point out that flaw. That was, along with her looks, one of her special gifts.

  Crowley had been teaching her how to shut down her charms, how to live and act as if she were fully human, when he disappeared. She still couldn’t quite stop the reactions of most men around her, but at least she didn’t have to worry about things getting ugly.

  Finney explained to her about the plane crash, about the six years of being effectively lost, and finally about the surgery the day before to remove the scrap metal he’d managed to live with since the crash.

  “The thing is, we’re not sure how well he’s doing, here. He’s stable, but he hasn’t recovered enough from the surgery to wake up yet. He’s also got a slight fever that seems to be fighting off our attempts to get it under control.”

  She looked at the man and nodded. “I know it’s unorthodox to ask, but is there any chance that I can see him?”

  “Well, we don’t normally like to let people in to see recovering patients, there’s really a high risk of infection, and his condition really isn’t very stable…” He hemmed a bit, looking down at his feet as if disapproval from her would cause him physical injury.

  Under most circumstances she would have let it go, but she needed to see Jonathan. Feeling only a slight pang of guilt, she carefully placed her hand on his shoulder. He started at the contact and then looked into her eyes. “Please, Doctor? It would mean so very much to me.”

  “Well,” he stammered nervously as he answered, “I suppose as long as it’s a short visit. I’d be worried about him being unrestrained in a lot of cases, but right now, I suppose it
s safe enough.”

  “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  His head bobbed up and down enthusiastically and he walked with her into the medical ward, waving aside the nurse who came toward him and leading her directly to the small room where Jonathan Crowley lay waiting in a fevered daze.

  “Oh, Jonathan, just look at you.” Her heart broke a little. Jonathan Crowley had done things for her that went against his personal beliefs, including letting her live when he would have been perfectly justified in killing her.

  Amelia placed a hand on his forehead, feeling the rough skin under her palm, and saw the fretting expression fade from his sleeping face. The man looked so very frail, so different from the last time she’d seen him.

  “I’ll leave you alone for a moment, if you’d like.” Finney spoke softly, his voice still reflecting his nervousness.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The doctor left and Amelia leaned over, almost as if she meant to give Crowley a kiss, and whispered into his ear.

  ***

  “Jonathan?” The voice held a thousand promises of pleasure and he knew it from somewhere, but could not quite grasp its origin.

  “What?” He was irritated; the sleep he’d been experiencing had been as close to genuine rest as he could remember.

  “Jonathan, do you remember me? Amelia?”

  “No. Go away.”

  “I can’t do that, Jonathan. You know that. I can’t leave you like this.”

  “I’m fine where I am, thank you.” He spoke with bitterness, but knew that the words were only in his head. Since awakening from his last stretch of nightmares, he hadn’t been able to open his eyes, or move so much as a single finger. That damned fool doctor had screwed him up enough to leave him trapped in a dying body.

  “Jonathan, I need you. So do the people in this hospital.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Jonathan, do you really want to die?” Was that sorrow in her voice? He had trouble accepting that. He was slowly beginning to remember the source of the voice annoying him to no end, and he knew her well enough to accept that Amelia had no conscience.

  “I have no desire to get out of this bed and help anyone. I’m too old and I’m too goddamned tired.” He was whining. He hated whining, but it was the last resort he had to work with. He couldn’t very well get out of the bed and make her go away, now could he?

  Oh, but you could. That voice was different, the same angry voice that had spoken in his dreams and made him remember all of the things he’d worked so hard to forget.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Jonathan, please come back.”

  Listen to her. She knows what’s best. She knows what you refuse to know.

  “I don’t want this! I’m tired and I’ve earned the right to rest!” And did he sound like he was on the verge of crying? Probably, but he didn’t care anymore. He wanted nothing else from the world but the peace he’d been trying to find since he decided to step away from his duties and let the world fend for itself.

  He wanted his Elizabeth, his children and his miserable little pension, the one he’d been working for ever since he took the job as a teacher in the first place. He wanted to see his kids grow up and get married and have children of their own. He wanted to watch the years gently caress the youth away from his wife, his life, and his existence.

  He wanted to be what he had been before everything changed forever.

  Amelia whispered again, and he felt her lips brush his ear. “Wake up, Jonathan. You’ve rested long enough. They’ve asked for your help and they need you.”

  In the end, he knew what he had to do. Whether it was Amelia’s influence or his own decision he would probably never know, and for that he would always, always hate her.

  “Fine, damn you to hell. Fine. I’ll wake up now.”

  Those were the last words he spoke before letting the pain back in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Some lessons were easier learned than others. Experience alone wasn’t enough to interpret everything that it encountered, but the stolen memories of its meals took its evolution forward in leaps and bounds.

  It had always known Alex Granger, but it had never truly been able to understand the subtler aspects of the spirits and flesh it consumed until encountering Andrea Tartelli.

  It understood her pain, the suffering she endured as it studied her and absorbed parts of her, but for the first time it also understood the consequences of its actions. Somewhere, beyond the walls of the only home it had ever known, there were offspring who had lost their only parent. Offspring. Children. The concept was overwhelming! It had seen and even felt the act of procreation, but there had been no understanding of the deed beyond the apparent pleasure produced. That living beings could create more living beings was an epiphany. It spent hours fascinated by the concept, sorting through the experiences it still retained from the living people it had encountered and partaken of, reveling in the pain of childbirth, the wonder of watching smaller life forms grow.

  More importantly, it began to fully understand the complexity of organic life. What had been, before Andrea Tartelli, a simple curiosity, blossomed into infatuation. The seemingly simple concept of life was far more a mystery than it had ever suspected. The mechanics of life were still too complex to fully comprehend, but that would change now. Instead of merely examining the whole, it would examine the sum of the parts that made the whole.

  Though it had no body, it shivered with anticipation. What a grand and incredible goal! It would learn to understand the concept of life as soon as possible; it would study and restudy every aspect until it fully understood every possible connection of meat and spirit!

  There was so much to learn and so much it wanted to experience! Enthusiasm washed through it and instead of the notion diminishing, it grew brighter and more demanding.

  Still there were so many things to consider and it knew better than to let a desire to learn make it careless. It had only to look at Alex Granger to understand the dangers of being foolhardy.

  Through its wanderings it had sensed, and more than once, a different force within the building. The spirits it had encountered carried memories of a life lived, but mostly the memories were faint echoes in comparison to the memories and emotions of the living. There were, however, some among the dead that felt different; more vital in their way.

  It let itself drift, moving through the floors of the asylum until it came to Alex Granger’s cell and his resting body. Then it sank through him and through the floor below him, into an area where light almost never touched.

  Infants. Children. It wanted to know more about them and how they dealt with the world. There were no living children within the walls of Cherry Hill, but there were children just the same.

  It moved among the spirits locked away forever in their hidden graveyard and touched the skeletal remains buried in the ground. The spirits that came to investigate its presence did not flinch away as the older ghosts always seemed to do. They were curious, as filled with wonder at the concept of something new as it was.

  For a time it simply reacted to them, touched them and felt them touch back.

  The children were curious. It was curious. It was also hungry for knowledge and sustenance. There were few emotions to be found within the spirits it consumed and fewer memories of life, but what it tasted was purer, undiluted.

  It feasted, and unlike what it had done with the older, worn spirits it had encountered above, it fed on all that it could find, leaving nothing behind, nothing to go to waste.

  It fed, devouring essences and memories alike. It learned and hungered for more than just sustenance. A ravenous aching void grew larger within its being, demanding comprehension. One way or another, it would be sated.

  ***

  Sensory overload didn’t begin to cover it.

  His mind, which had well and truly been damaged beyond the normal ability to recover, healed itself completely. Synaptic p
athways that had been severed for half a decade mended themselves and brain cells that had long since died regenerated spontaneously. Every lost memory that should have by all rights stayed lost for eternity came back to Jonathan Crowley at the same time, and each and every one of them screamed for attention. The blind was made to see again, and exposed to the full fury of the sun’s brightest glare.

  Jonathan Crowley sat bolt upright in the hospital bed and screamed, drowning in the past he’d lost, tossed around by memories he’d forgotten existed and the sudden, powerful realization that his body’s appearance didn’t begin to cover his actual age.

  He tried to stand and felt his body jerk in response. His left leg hit the ground as the pressure on his knee became a hard-edged knife cutting through his nerve endings. Physical and mental agony fought for his attention as he hit the floor next to the bed, pulling the IV from his arm, the catheter from his urinary tract and half the sensors adhered to his body. The noise was nothing in comparison to the cacophony roaring inside his head. That damned fool girl Amelia had done something to him and he recalled her in vivid detail as he struggled to stand up, tried to force his body to listen to his commands.

  His body didn’t seem to care; his arms pushed and his legs kicked and every muscle in his body trembled in a seizure the likes of which he’d never have imagined possible. Through it all the memories howled, blocking out the sensory input from the present and overwhelming him with a lifetime’s recollections. He knew he was in a small hospital room, but he saw lakes, caverns, long dusty roads, buildings burning, people dying, his father’s face—nearly forgotten for longer than most people lived—Elizabeth’s smile as she disrobed in front of him for the first time, shy, sweet and so amazingly seductive. A street in London covered in blood; a mountain of withered, starving bodies stacked like cordwood; some of them still alive. He heard the sound of his children laughing and screaming, interposed into one unholy sound, the wild cawing of a murder of crows on a battlefield in France, the sounds of mortar shells exploding, the whispers of a thousand hushed conversations and the maniacal screams of a young man possessed by one of the most powerful demons in existence. He tasted blood, flesh, garbage, fine wine, the lips of his first love, the smoke of a funeral pyre, salt, ashes, mud from the River Nile and countless meals. He felt the warm sweet wind of summer, the bitter bite of arctic blizzards, the water that washed a plague from his flesh, the sting of a swarm of insects, the hands of his lovers, the caress of his wife, the weight of a child held in his arms, the quivering spasms of a dozen death throes, the cold of the grave and the impact that sent a crescent of white hot metal carving through his skull. Enough wounds to kill an army were revisited upon his remembered flesh and every pleasure a man could imagine came along for the ride. Years, decades, and centuries crashed through him as he tried to absorb the memories and dispel the overwhelming weight of them.