Beckoning Souls (A Psychological Thriller)

by J. R. Tate

  He has good questions and ones I’ve thought about. “If I go into a shrink’s office and tell them what’s going on, they’ll have me in a padded room before I can even finish my story. And they can hold me as long as they want. I don’t see how that would help any of us.”

  “Then what, Dad? How are we gonna get back to the way things were?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out, Rusty. I’ve got a little time off from work. I’m gonna get it all sorted out.”

  “So what, we’re just gonna be the Addams family and live with this happening? I believe you. I really think you’re seeing this stuff. I just don’t see how we’re ever gonna be the family that we were again. Not with Mom thinking the way she does.”

  “I’ll get it fixed. Trust me.” I’m trying to convince my son when I can’t even convince myself. He’s right – I could just go talk to someone and be back home, but what happens the next time I see something? Then Rose would want me on medication. Where would we draw the line? The best thing to do is stick to my plan. Something will click, I know it will.

  Rusty doesn’t say anything and stares at me, almost as if he can’t believe the man sitting across from him. I feel so vulnerable, like my own kid thinks his father is going insane, but what else can I do? I have to work fast and I don’t even know where in the hell to begin. I try not to get angry – Rusty is the only one who has showed even a remote chance that he is on my side through all of this. I can’t lose my only supporter.

  “You say you think you hear or see something. Can you remember what some of it is?” Maybe I can open his mind a little. Maybe if he sees the stuff, I can prove I’m not crazy and we can work together to figure it out.

  Rusty rakes his hand through his hair and arches his eyebrow as he thinks. “It’s like a dream. I can’t even put it into words. And like I said, I don’t know if it’s really happening, or if it’s from all the talk happening with you.”

  “That’s how it started for me too. I thought I was just dreaming.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I realized I wasn’t dreaming. And then I got my ass kicked by one of them. Your mom thinks I did this to myself. Do you think I could be capable of doing something like this?” I point to my face.

  Rusty shrugs and sips on his water. “I’m not here to take sides. I don’t want to get between you and mom. But I also want you to know that I’m here for you. I think it’s shitty that she kicked you out when you obviously need us the most.” He chews on some ice. “Where are you staying?”

  “My Dad’s.” I’d refer to him as Rusty’s grandfather, but he never really has gotten close to him. Of course he hasn’t. He’s a miniature Nathan. My father never gave him a chance, all because of my past and not his.

  “Seriously? I thought you guys didn’t get along.”

  “We don’t, but at least it’s a roof over my head and not some alley.”

  “What about the guys at the firehouse? Someone would take you in.”

  I let out a deep breath, attempting to stay patient. He’s concerned about me and I need to keep telling myself that, even though it makes me feel guilty. It’s my job to worry about him, not the other way around. “It might get to that, but right now I gotta separate this stuff from work if I ever wanna get back on the truck. You understand, right? They think I’m crazy and that’s when I hit rock bottom.”

  Rusty nods. “So they don’t know any of it?”

  I leave out the bit with the little girl, hoping that is something that has blown over. “They don’t know much. And I’m taking some time off while I get it cleared up, before I let it all overlap with work. The last thing I need is getting a brother killed over something like this.”

  “I agree. I just wish this would all go away. I wish it really would be a dream.”

  “Me too, Rusty. It’s just a speed bump. I appreciate you understanding me and giving me a chance.”

  “Just don’t let it get any farther out of hand. I don’t want us to end up like you and your Dad.”

  His statement hits me hard and I’m at a loss on what to say back. I don’t want us to end up that way either, which is why it is so pivotal for me to get this mystery solved, before it ruins everything in my life.

  ***

  I walk toward my father’s row house slower than usual. The fall air is chilling, but feels good against my skin. The breeze blows through my hair and I enjoy the surreal beauty of the leaves changing colors. I pass a park and see kids laughing, running, and playing with their parents. I see several lined up along the shore of the pond with fishing poles in the water. What I’d give to just sit back, relax, and do something like that myself.

  I continue down the sidewalk, but am stopped dead in my tracks by a young boy, no older than four who is staring up at me. He doesn’t budge as I try to move, and his cold, dead stare makes the hair on the back of my neck raise.

  “Are you lost?” I ask him, but he doesn’t say anything. His expression doesn’t even change. “Hey kid, where’s your mom?”

  He laughs at the question, but it’s not the cute child like laughter I just heard at the park. Instead, it’s bone chilling and it seems to echo. “Why, mister fireman? Why?”

  “How in the hell did you know I was a firefighter?”

  He shakes his head. “You had the hat. You had the coat. You came to my house.”

  “When?” My pulse is beating fast and I wipe my clammy palms down the side of my jeans. “When was I at your house?”

  “You didn’t save me.” His eyes turn completely black and he says it again, only this time, with more anger in his voice. “You didn’t save me.”

  I want to run. I want to get as far away from this kid as possible, but I hold back. How am I going to put the pieces together if I don’t get more information?

  “Where was your house at? When did it happen?” I reach out to touch him, but he backs away so fast that I don’t even realize it.

  He points his small finger at me. “I want you to answer me first, Mr. Fireman.”

  For the second time in the past half hour, I’m left speechless. “I’m sorry I didn’t save you. Are you a ghost?”

  Just as he goes to answer, I hear a familiar voice close by. “Nathan?”

  Turning, I see my dad out at his mailbox. I didn’t even realize I was that close to his house and now here he stands, eyeing me just like Rose does. I turn back, but the kid has disappeared and the chance of getting any answers is gone.

  “Who in the hell were you talking to?”

  I cross the street toward him, avoiding eye contact. I can only imagine how that must look to people. It didn’t even occur to me that I was in public and that others are not seeing what I am.

  He grabs my arm as I pass by and stops me. “Nathan? What is the matter?”

  I jerk it away, wincing at the sudden pain from my injuries. “Suddenly you’re so concerned about me?”

  “When I see someone standing out on the sidewalk, talking down to something that’s not there, I have to wonder.”

  I open the door to go in. As if he didn’t already dislike me enough, now he sees me the way Rose has. “It’s none of your damned business. Like you said when I first got here – treat me as if I’m not even here. That includes what you see outside this door.” I slam it and trek up the stairs. Usually I hope to never see the images again, but I want the boy to come back. I was on the verge of something. The woman I’ve been seeing has asked me the same thing. Why? If only I knew.

  ***

  Rose

  When I get home from work, Rusty is on the couch watching TV. It is strange to not see Nathan here and I realize I miss him. I can’t understand why he is being so stubborn about it all and I don’t want to believe that he can actually hurt himself, but there really is no other explanation.

  Rusty doesn’t acknowledge me as I put my purse and keys down. I’m exhausted from a long shift at the hospital and the last thing I want to do is deal with my temperamental teenager
.

  “How was your day?” I ask as I go into the kitchen. I don’t even want to cook supper.

  “I saw Dad today.”

  A part of me is relieved and a part of me instantly worries about how that could’ve possibly played out. “How’d that go?” I sit down on the far end of the couch and he doesn’t look away from the TV.

  “Good.”

  “That’s all? Good? How does he seem?” My son has never been a person of many words, but I want him to emphasize.

  “He seems sad. And he looks exhausted.”

  I grab the remote and turn the TV off, expecting an outburst from him, but he looks at me for the first time since I’ve been home. “What are your thoughts on all of this, Rusty? I know it’s hard with him not here.”

  “I think you shouldn’t have kicked him out. It’s obvious he needs us. I think as his wife, you should be his biggest support.”

  I’m glad he’s being honest, but his words sting. “You saw what he did to himself, right? What if he ends up trying that with one of us?”

  “How are you so sure he did it to himself?”

  “I sure as hell didn’t do it, so unless you did, who else could it have been?”

  Rusty sits up on the edge of the couch and balls his fists. Here’s where the anger would come out. “You ever stop to think that he’s telling the truth? Maybe something is going on, Mom! When has Dad ever done something so out of the blue? Why would he lie?”

  “He could be mentally ill, Rusty. The things he’s claiming might all be in his head and he needs help. He needs medication. He needs to talk to someone professionally.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he goes up the stairs to his room. I’m on the verge of crying when the doorbell rings. Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I take a few deep breaths before I answer. I’m shocked to see Nathan’s father on the porch. In the time I’ve been married to Nathan, I think I’ve probably spoken to him about six times.

  “Mr. Gallagher, what are you doing here?”

  He takes his hat off, his brow furrowed with worry. “Can I come in, Rose?”

  I let him in and we sit at the kitchen table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “You got any scotch?”

  I pull out a bottle that Nathan recently had opened and pour him a tumbler full. “Here you go.”

  He gave a short laugh and sloshed the liquid around before taking a swing. “One thing I know Nathan and I have in common. We love our scotch.”

  I can’t help but laugh with him. “And don’t forget whiskey and cigars. It’s a battle I’ll never win with him.”

  His face grows serious. “Why’d you kick him out, if you don’t mind me asking? And before you answer, I’m not sure you’re aware that he’s staying with me. It’s gotta be pretty extreme for him to come ask me for help.”

  I hesitate at first. I don’t know him that well to discuss things, but since it is regarding Nathan, and he is his father, maybe it will be more of a chance to get him some help. “We can start with the fact that he’s stubborn. Why do you ask?”

  “Did he recently get beat up by someone?”

  I’m hoping he’ll give me more details that will corroborate with what has been going on here before I give him more information than what is needed. “I guess you could say that.”

  He finishes off his scotch. “He looks like shit. At first I was chalking it all up to marital problems. It’s not hard to believe, considering the role model he had as a kid.” He points to himself. “But today I witnessed something that’s a little hard to swallow. I went out to check the mail and he was across the street, talking to nothing. He was carrying on a full conversation and even reached out like he was touching them. I confronted him about it and he got very angry. Do you know anything about that?”

  I almost fall out of my chair. So it’s not just here. Nathan is acting this way at his dad’s house too, and I don’t want to believe it. I nod and pour myself a shot of the scotch to dull the emotion. “He’s been doing that here too.”

  “And the wounds? He do that to himself?”

  I don’t want to seem like I’m bashing my husband, but his father needs to know. “He claims he didn’t, but it has to be. I’ve suggested getting help and he straight up refuses. I figured kicking him out would make him do it for the marriage, but you can see how that worked out.”

  He pours more scotch and drinks it like it is water. I still can’t believe he is sitting in my kitchen after everything he and Nathan have been through, so it’s obvious he is very concerned. “I’d say I could suggest it to him, but offering advice to him now would be counter-productive.”

  “Mr. Gallagher, is there any mental illness in your family? I’ve been doing tons of reading, and sometimes this stuff is hereditary.”

  His eyes widen and at first I’m scared I have offended him with my question. “His mother went through major depression after Nathan’s brother died. But what could he have? Schizophrenia? We’ve never had that with anyone, at least, not that I know of.”

  “I’m not sure. I just wish he’d talk to someone.”

  “And why won’t he, Rose? Does he give a reason?”

  “He’s scared they’ll throw him in one of those insane asylums. He still has this notion that they are like the hospitals on Shutter Island or something. And I think he’s also worried about the stigma because he’s a firefighter.”

  “All the more reason for him to get help,” he says. “I feel bad because I’ve never told him how proud I am of becoming a firefighter. It’s a job I know I’d never be able to do. Seeing all of that death and destruction. It’s no wonder he could be sick.”

  I wish Nathan could hear his father talk like that. I know for a fact he’s never heard him say I love you. “Maybe you should tell him what you just told me, Mr. Gallagher.”

  He nods and stands up. “Maybe I should. I’ll keep an eye on him. He’s been pretty quiet in his room, but I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I’m really worried.”

  “You got it, Rose.” He lets himself out and I’m still shocked at what just happened. If Nathan’s illness can bring him and his father closer together, maybe something positive can come out of this entire mess. Just maybe, but I won’t hold my breath.

  Chapter Eight

  Nathan

  I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for something to happen. Of course, when I actually want them to, they don’t show up. I’m certain I’m alone in the house. My father left shortly after he caught me across the street and hasn’t been back, and though it’s scary to be alone, I’m glad I am. Taking a deep breath, I walk into the bathroom and stare into the mirror. That’s where the woman hurt me the first time. Maybe she’ll come back if I go through the same routine.

  It seems like every time I look in the mirror, I have strayed even farther from the Nathan that I was before. I don’t like the man looking back at me. When did I get so hard? When did I start looking like a homeless man?

  “You gonna come out and hurt me again?” I try to taunt her, but I can only hear the slow drip of the faucet. “Come out and play.”

  I laugh at myself. It’s no wonder Rose kicked me out. I can’t blame her or my dad for looking at me like I should be in a padded room with a straight jacket on. After a few more minutes, I can’t stand to look at myself anymore, and go back to the bed. It’s just like everything in life – when you want it to happen, it doesn’t.

  Leaning over the edge of the bed, I look through my duffel bag and feel the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile. There’s a half empty bottle of whiskey in the side pocket. I can’t remember when or where I got it, or even if I packed it myself, but I know Rose didn’t do it. Unscrewing the lid, I take a long pull. The burn is so good and I continue to chug it until there is nothing left within the bottle. I look at it as if more will magically appear at my request, but there’s not even a drop left for my tongue. I peel at the label and think about how b
ecoming an alcoholic on top of everything would be like lighting a match in a pool of gasoline, but I can’t help it. It numbs the pain. It also helps me sleep. You know, the usual reasons people pick up drinking.

  I toss the bottle on top of the duffel bag and lay back against the pillows. It’s starting to get dark out and what is left of the sun peeks through the blinds. The tree limbs make shadows on the far wall and begin to move with the wind picking up outside. One limb hits the window, scraping against the side of the house. I stare at the tangled shadows on the wall and with each second, it seems it grows wilder, looking like a Halloween painting or decoration.

  “Why?” A voice hisses, and for a second, I tell myself it’s just the wind. “Why, Lieutenant Gallagher? Why Mr. Fireman?” The voices change, but all still have a very eerie feel to them. Multiple whispers start to overtake my senses, and I can’t decipher the different voices within the mixture. I roll over on my side, close my eyes and pull a pillow over my head to try to get them to stop, but instead, it grows louder, the creepy shadows become three dimensional, and I feel something tug at my leg.

  I try to fight through the fear and come to my senses. Right now is a good time to get down to the bottom of it, but I can’t control my heartbeat. The hand wraps around my ankle a second time and I try to kick it away to no avail. The grip is tight through my pants and whoever or whatever it is tugs so hard that I slide across the bed and onto the floor, hitting with a loud thud. My head collides with the hard wood and for a second, the edges of my vision grow dark and fuzzy.

  The voices don’t stop. They continue to ask why over and over. They yell out my name. I feel nails clamp down into my leg again but this time I’m not going to let them get a good grasp. The room is completely dark now and I’m fumbling around on the floor with God knows what. The fingernails clench on so hard that it feels like I’m being stabbed with five knives. I feel liquid drip down. I’m bleeding. Damn it, Rose will accuse me of self-mutilation again.