Deamhan

by Isaiyan Morrison

  Just then, a black door manifested to her right. It opened, revealing a dark gloominess. From the darkness, a faint image of her mother appeared.

  Veronica tried to call out, but she couldn’t speak. The air around her turned frigid and, though she could faintly hear the wind, the room was eerily silent.

  The image of her mother moved away from Veronica, slowly floating down the dark hall.

  Veronica moved as if through water, her feet slowly sliding along the floor until she reached the doorway. A cold breeze swept across her face, carrying her mother’s voice to her ears. “Veronica.”

  The voice was soft, and Veronica strained to listen.

  Her mother’s image floated farther away and grew fainter until it disappeared like smoke in the wind.

  Her call went unanswered and she took another step through the dark doorway. She’d lost her mother before and there’d been nothing she could do. Now older and more aware, Veronica felt she had control—something she hadn’t felt since she’d left San Diego. I won’t lose you again!

  Feeling braver, she took another step. Suddenly, the hard floor gave way beneath her feet. She frantically reached for the doorframe, her nails snapping against its wood. The floor fell away and her body tumbled forward. She flailed her arms then plummeted, finding nothing but dark emptiness surrounding her.

  Veronica screamed and this time found her voice, loud and clear. She opened her eyes wide in terror to find a commercial on TV, and the sound of sirens in the distance emanating from her living room window.

  Sitting still for a moment, she reoriented herself as her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace. From outside her front door, she heard men laughing, a door open and close, and footsteps running up and down the stairs.

  Veronica turned off the TV and groggily lifted herself from the couch. Curious about the raucous noise in the hallway, she peered through the front door peephole. Three men stood in the hallway outside Murphy’s open door, sipping from red plastic cups. They appeared to be typical college students dressed in jeans and Ts, and ready to party.

  Veronica sighed and leaned heavily against her door, feeling envious of their college experience which she’d been denied. She’d wanted to study archeology like her mother. She’d dreamed of exploring ancient lands that had shaped the future of the world. She still remained curious about Egypt, was anxious to see the Coliseum in Rome, and Stonehenge mesmerized her. The history of the Deamhan and their past intertwined in these ancient sites, captivated her.

  Her father had scoffed at the idea. To him, it was a waste of time. He’d told her there was nothing to be gained by higher education, except the incurrence of student loans. Still, the thought of college crossed her mind now and then, and it flared brightly now as she spied again on Murphy’s friends. Their college life, though intimidating, intrigued her.

  Murphy appeared in the doorway, jokingly pushing his friends back into his apartment. “Get inside! You’ll scare the neighbors.”

  Veronica jerked her eye from the peephole as he stared at her door. When she peeked again, he’d disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  Deflated, Veronica returned to the couch, her mind drifting from Murphy to her dream. She’d often dreamed of her mother, but never like this. This dream frightened her. Her mother had tried to warn her. It wallowed in her gut.

  She punched a throw pillow and stared at the now-dark TV screen. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. Come back, Mom. Let me dream of you again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning brought cool winds to the city of Minneapolis. Veronica zipped up her yellow hooded jacket before stepping out from her apartment.

  Students jogged and pet lovers walked their dogs on Mississippi Drive—a two-way road, resurfaced from its aged red bricks to asphalt pavement located behind Palm Oaks. Puffy clouds littered the skies and small streaks of sunlight occasionally peeked through them. The apartment building resided in a college-oriented community complete with bike racks, coffee shops, and used clothing stores. A man no older than Veronica stood on the street corner, playing his guitar to an audience of a few passersby.

  This is the Minneapolis I remember.

  Compared to the abandoned buildings of the warehouse district, the surroundings seemed serene enough to give Veronica a sense of belonging. She stopped a local jogger and questioned him about the district, learning that the area grew rampant over time with city police when the fires first started.

  The jogger frowned in distaste. “You wouldn’t catch me there.”

  Unfortunately, I have to go there. Veronica thanked the jogger and they parted ways.

  Veronica signaled a passing taxi to take her to the house fire. Upon entering the taxi, the smell of old cigarettes and wet upholstery snaked up her nostrils. She gripped the back of the driver’s seat when the taxi sped off. In the rearview mirror, she watched the driver meticulously twist the ends of his handlebar moustache with his right hand and tap on the steering wheel with his left. He whistled along to the music on the radio. The taxi sped through multiple intersections and only at Washington Avenue and Tenth Street did he decrease his speed.

  “Are we there yet?” Her body reeled from the driver’s inability to drive in a straight line.

  “No, no, I tell you when.” The driver’s broken English confirmed Veronica’s uneasiness. The taxi came to a screeching halt at a stoplight. Veronica’s eyes shifted to the left at the cemetery. She recognized the area from her childhood. Wilkes Cemetery was protected by the Minnesota Historical Society, making it just one of the oldest and rarest locations in the city. She recalled her mother’s admiration for its weathered, sunken headstones and unkempt plots. Veronica still remembered the path of perfectly positioned bricks leading to the gravesite of one of Minneapolis’s founders.

  She also recalled the gravesite of a little girl located near the back, surrounded by a rusted fence. Veronica’s mother used to pluck the weeds and remove dirt from the weathered tombstone, which read:

  Sarah Anderson.

  Born 1852

  Died 1860.

  8 years.

  Sleep little Angel.

  The taxi continued down the street. The scenery turned from storefronts to Victorian homes and towering brick buildings. Again, the taxi screeched to a halt at a stoplight.

  “Drop me off right here.”

  “House is down there. I drop you closer.”

  “No, it’s fine. Right here.”

  The driver parked the taxi and laid the back of his hand on the top of the passenger seat. “Fifteen dollars and twenty cents.”

  Veronica handed him a twenty-dollar bill and exited. The taxi sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust, which engulfed her. She looked up at a green street sign that read “29th Avenue.” She was only one block east from her desired location.

  Cold wind stung the tips of her ears. Veronica trembled and her thoughts switched to her cozy apartment. Dried and dead leaves raced along the sidewalk in miniature tornadoes. The area was uncanny and a little quiet for what she expected. She wrapped her arms around her body, taking baby steps while reading bright yellow and orange graffiti covering the walls of the building next to her. They were unique and some of it was unreadable. From what she could decipher, the bubbly images read “Ramanga.”

  She was in Ramanga territory.

  Veronica headed east until she reached the intersection. Across the street, charred remains of the house were clearly visible and sectioned off with yellow police tape. A group of people stood across the street gawking at the destruction. The only part of the house standing was a burned back wall. Black and gray smoke floated from the middle of the home while firefighters combed through the remains.

  Sean was right.

  This was just the first of many destroyed sanctuaries Veronica would witness and she had to prepare herself for it. The Deamhan were burning each other out of house and home!

  Veronica joined the group of onlookers.

  An older w
oman with brown and gray intermixed hair turned to speak. “Isn’t it just horrible?” The woman folded her arms across her chest. The corners of her mouth dropped in discontent. Flaccid wrinkles stifled her face. “The police has to do something about this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I saw it on the news last night,” Veronica replied. “How many homes have burned now?”

  “A dozen or so.” The old woman’s focus remained centered on the burned ruins. “Thank God no one was hurt.” She exalted. “It was a lovely home. I just can’t imagine what the couple and their children are going to do.”

  “A family lived there?”

  “Yeah. And those poor kids.” The old woman turned to Veronica again. “It was a home for at-risk youths.”

  “At-risk youths?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.” The woman lifted her head and smacked her lips. “Those kids had medical issues. I spoke to their adoptive parents, God-fearing people.” She paused then continued. “They stayed up into the wee hours of the morning sometimes, helpin’ those children.” She pointed to the opposite street corner. “See that lot over there?”

  Veronica followed the woman’s gaze.

  “Another house went up just last week.” The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s them juvenile delinquents. They have nothing better to do.” She then pointed at a gray windowless van parked halfway down the street. “And that van drives up and down this street daily. I’ve called the cops about it, but they don’t do anything.”

  Veronica realized that nothing fit the stereotypical sanctuary Sean warned her about. The old woman mixed gossip with reality. There was no way Deamhan would sire children. It was against their own rules to do so.

  “Hoodlums are turning this neighborhood into a war zone,” the old woman stressed.“Was there anyone home at the time of the fire?” Veronica asked.

  “God, I hope not.” The woman grasped her chest. “The poor, poor children.”

  Veronica doubted the woman was that hurt or even cared as much as she let on. Veronica scanned the crowd of housewives and older women. She overheard their conversations; mainly gossip and accusations, which didn’t help her investigation. They had no idea about the real horrors happening in the city. And didn’t want to fathom what could happen if they did know.

  Her eyes caught sight of a short, thin woman standing alone near the edge of the crowd. She appeared unconcerned at the gossip, instead staring at the ruins. The young woman looked up and her eyes met Veronica’s.

  “This city needs more cops,” the old woman continued on her rant.

  Veronica turned back to her, nodded, and then returned her gaze to the mysterious young woman. Her smooth blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her clear blue eyes remained fixed on Veronica. She wore a brown leather jacket, a white shirt, and blue jeans—definitely too young to blend in with the “housewives” in the crowd. She didn’t belong.

  “Are you new to the neighborhood, sweetie?” Again, the older woman swayed Veronica’s attention. “I hope this doesn’t influence your opinion about the neighborhood.” She placed her hand on Veronica’s shoulder. “Most of our families have lived in this area for generations.”

  “That’s cool.” Veronica neglected the woman’s stare. Her eyes remained glued on the mysterious woman, watching her pivot slowly. The woman walked down the street, glancing over her shoulder a few times at Veronica.

  The sound of a cop car’s sirens broke the air.

  “Is your family from Minneapolis?”

  Veronica ignored the question. Following her hunch, she took off after the mysterious woman.

  The woman disappeared around the corner. Veronica picked up her pace and turned the corner. She stopped. The woman was gone.

  “Hello,” Veronica called out. Baffled, she turned back to the crowd. Her thoughts raced. For once she felt calm, thinking that the woman was a researcher, but what could be relaxing about that? The thought crossed her mind of coming back later that night to investigate the burned house. It was closely followed by the nightmarish fact of being out alone at night. Waiting wasn’t a bad option either, yet the longer she waited, the more impatient she became.

  The fires would have to wait . . . for now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Despite the charcoal sky, the polished oak casket gleamed under the funeral tent. Raindrops sparkling on the silver cross adorning the casket caught Sean’s eye. He cursed under his breath.

  “Of all the days it could’ve rained.”

  Sean tilted his head at the bloated gray clouds. He’d never seen a southern California downpour like this and it came on a day that deserved the sun’s warmth more than any other.

  His friend Rick wasn’t a high-ranking member of The Brotherhood. Yet the casket he laid in told otherwise. Thousands of dollars from Sean’s own pocket—plus donations—paid for it. Not a dime came from Presidents of the Western, Midwest, and Eastern Divisions or the Head of The Brotherhood. Sean dropped his head, pretending to be in prayer. He covertly scanned the mourners from behind his dark glasses. As best he could tell, all of them were researchers from the local Chapter.

  A fresh onslaught of uninvited tears coursed from behind his dark glasses. He felt so angry and so helpless. This funeral shouldn’t be happening.

  The priest closed his Bible. Sean joined the line of mourners, each carrying a bright red rose to place atop the casket. He stared at the rose in his hand and huffed. Rick hated red roses.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he said as he placed the rose in the pile. “I’d have preferred a lily, too.” He stepped aside and watched Kenneth Dearhorn place a rose on the casket, mumble a prayer, and step away. The President of the Western Division, Kurt Luzier, followed Kenneth. Sporting a dark suit and tie and dark glasses, he approached the casket and placed his own red rose on top of it. Behind him and the last one in line, stood Veronica’s father. Gripping the handle of his black cane, Mr. Austin hobbled forward. He placed the largest and darkest rose atop the mound of flowers.

  One by one, the mourners dispersed, but Sean lagged behind in covert surveillance of Kenneth’s conversation with Mr. Austin and Mr. Luzier. He’d give anything just now for one of those high-tech eavesdropping devices he’d seen on the Internet. He wondered what lies Kenneth spoke in their ears. He didn’t doubt that Kenneth would do anything to secure his position as the next President of any Division. He loved power, just like his dead father.

  Disappointed and downhearted, Sean ambled back to his car and waited until Mr. Austin was ready to call on him. Images of Rick’s well-dressed, motionless form pierced his mind. The mortician’s expertise made it possible for the funeral to be an open casket. It was hard to believe that just days ago, Rick’s face was unrecognizable.

  He glanced down the hill at the flower-strewn casket, and observed the intimate way Kenneth held Mr. Austin’s elbow as he guided him back to his limousine. Kenneth’s hands tightened into fists. It still incensed Sean that Mr. Luzier chose Kenneth to give Rick’s eulogy. The way Kenneth pretended to mourn . . . hell, Kenneth didn’t know Rick at all. Not like he did. The tribute had been so generic, so common, and so impersonal; Kenneth could have pulled it from a handbook.

  Rick deserved better.

  The Brotherhood took responsibility for the grand funerals and interments of its members, insisting that employees were actually family. That’s what the name “Brotherhood” meant. They were brothers and sisters, by oath and loyalty. Well, that’s what they were led to believe.

  Of all the coffins Sean saw emblazoned with The Brotherhood’s cross, his own great-grandfather’s had borne an extraordinary gold cross, not like Rick’s silver-embedded casket. When Sean’s great-grandfather died at the age of a hundred and one, The Brotherhood hired the area’s best-known caterers, and the grieving family members were handed rare orchids and exotic flowers to place atop the casket in lieu of red roses.

  Sean rubbed his chin. He unlocked the driver’s side door when he heard Kenneth’s voice behind
him.

  “Hey,” Kenneth called from halfway up the sloped hill.

  Sean sighed and looked over his shoulder. Kenneth approached with a smile on his face. Water droplets fell from the ends of his light brown hair.

  “Why the long face, comrade?”

  “It’s my friend’s funeral, Kenneth.”

  Kenneth still grinned. “Mr. Austin is ready for you.”

  Tense, Sean exhaled.

  “No need to get nervous, Sean.” Kenneth slapped him on his shoulder. “It’s just a talk.”

  Mr. Austin limped up the hill with the support of Mr. Luzier. A recent hip surgery forced Mr. Austin to rely on his cane as temporary support. Though frail, Mr. Austin could still invoke nervousness into any researcher.

  Sean’s throat tightened as he waited for Veronica’s father to speak. Instead, the old man greeted Sean with a firm handshake.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Austin.”

  “Any time of day during a funeral is not good.” Mr. Austin gazed at the sky. “But we need the rain.” He raked his fingers through his wavy dark hair. Sean noticed no signs of gray; parallel wrinkles banding his forehead being the only telltale on his face that signaled his age.

  “Yes, sir,” Sean replied. “Much needed rain.”

  “Oh, please, Sean. Call me Samuel when away from work.”

  “Ahh, Samuel. Of course.” Sean nodded. I knew that.

  Mr. Austin turned to Mr. Luzier. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Luzier.”

  Mr. Luzier nodded and he took the umbrella from Kenneth and placed it in Sean’s hand. “If you need anything, Mr. Austin, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Mr. Austin motioned at Sean to follow him. “Walk with me for a moment, Sean.”

  The walk. Sean cursed the thought. This is about Veronica.

  Sean measured his steps to match Mr. Austin’s hobbling gait as the two ambled deeper into the heart of the cemetery, passing weather-beaten monuments and new headstones. The older man’s silence weighed heavy on Sean. His palms dripped with perspiration. He wiped them on his shirt, tipping the umbrella to one side, exposing the older man to the rain.