Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  When finally the thing grew still, we had our answer.

  Not that we knew what to do with it.

  “Deep in the marrow, a raven pleads; and in the marrow, the raven breeds?” I asked. “What is this supposed to mean? Is it a riddle of some kind?”

  Joseph let out a howl. Falling out of his chair, he spilled out onto the floor and began a gibbering escape towards the exit.

  “Wait—what are you doing?” I shouted, rising to follow him. “Where are you going?”

  He slammed into the front door, rattled the knob until he confusedly pulled it open, and then fell into a panting heap on the porch. At first, he batted me away when I found him there, shaking and teary-eyed.

  “What's gotten into you?” I demanded, giving his shoulders a shake.

  Leaning on me, he managed to stand. Wiping at his face, he left the porch and walked down the drive. It was only when he was standing beside the car that he felt far enough from the house—and thus safe enough—to speak again. “It... the thing...” was all he could manage.

  “What?” I asked. “Was it the riddle? Did it mean something to you?”

  He shook his head fervently.

  “Well, what then?”

  Reaching down and clutching at his calf as though it had been injured, he winced and said, “I felt it touch me. I felt its hands... under the table...”

  That was enough séance for one night. At any rate, I knew there'd be no bringing my nephew back inside the house till daybreak—if he ever set foot there again, that is. When I was sure he was calm enough not to get us killed, I ordered him to get the car started and then walked up to the house to put things away and lock up.

  For the time being, at least, staying overnight at the house was no longer an option As such, I decided to gather my personal belongings and stopped briefly in the guestroom, where I packed my things and shoved them haphazardly into my valise. All the while, I kept one eye on the door, sure that a long shadow would stretch down the hallway at any moment.

  Returning downstairs, I knelt in the living room and picked up all of the things the spirit had spilled from my messenger bag in its rude display. When I'd grabbed up all the spilled items, I hurried to leave, shouldering the bag and hauling my valise behind me. The headlights of Jospeh's car were coming in strong through the dining room window, and the sight of them drew me like a frightened moth.

  I'd put out the candles, shut off the lights, tucked the board back into its box and was in the process of closing the door when, from somewhere in the shadow-darkened abode, I heard that sinister, croaking laugh.

  I didn't stop to check—didn't dare to—but I felt reasonably sure that it had come from beneath the dining room table where only minutes ago the two of us had been seated.

  Seventeen

  Joseph and I returned to the resort in Auburn Hills. There, I found a room for the night and slept like a log, just down the hall from where the others were staying. On the car ride back, we decided on a few things.

  Firstly, it was agreed that Joseph would not discuss the night's events with his wife or daughter, and would not return to the house until I'd found some way to sort the terrifying trouble out. We discussed a number of half-truths he could ply his family with, but he was under no circumstances to reveal the true gravity of the horrors. If Melissa—or Megan, especially—knew what was currently happening in the house, it would cause a good deal of unnecessary stress. Full knowledge of the night's events might also poison them against the house even further.

  The second decision was that I'd be traveling to Maryland. Specifically, Annapolis.

  What I'd find there that had any relevance to the haunting—if anything—I couldn't guess, but the forces in that house had made enough references to the city to make me think it worth a visit. The house's first owners—Willard and Irma Weiss—had come from Annapolis. Also, Constance had named Weiss' adopted daughter, Fiona, as her tormentor, and one of the spirits had revealed that the girl had 'brought terrible things' with her to Detroit. What those things were remained a mystery, but that their genesis had been in Annapolis was apparent. Lastly, the spirit that had called himself “Bradford” had named the city of Annapolis in his brief, cryptic message.

  So, my next stop was Maryland. There was no way around it.

  The picture painted by the obituaries for Willard and Irma Weiss was a lonely, isolated one, and I knew my odds of finding someone in Detroit who'd known them well was slim. It stood to reason however that they still had family in the Annapolis area—family that they may have kept in touch with over the years. Perhaps such family members would be able to tell me more about their daughter, Fiona. Furthermore, if I could locate the orphanage Fiona had been adopted from, then it was possible I could fill out the details of her early life. Based on what I was able to piece together from her parents' obituaries, Fiona—born around '62—had been roughly 13 years of age when the family had moved to the house on Morgan Road. And, according to the spirit that'd reached out to us through the talking board, the girl had brought terrible things with her to Detroit. I was determined to find out what.

  Joseph no longer had it in him to protest when I suggested they stay at the resort a few days longer, and I made sure they had the funds they needed to remain out of their house until I cleared their return. I then began considering my own accommodations and looked into a number of hotels in Maryland.

  While making my preparations, I called an old university friend of mine, Ulpio Ricci. He was a vascular surgeon of some renown in the Mid-Atlantic and had lived in Annapolis since graduation. In the last year we'd gotten together a few times, usually when his travels to medical conventions brought him close to my home in Buffalo Grove, and I hoped he'd let me pick his brain. I gave him a call that morning while booking plane tickets and plotting out a tentative itinerary.

  One could not escape an encounter with Ulpio without first reminiscing about the past, or discussing his newest acquisitions in regards to wine. In person, he was warm to a fault—a dealer in firm handshakes and amusing—if not ribald—anecdotes. His energy came through nice and clear over the phone as he launched into a greeting. “Marcel Dubois! How're you doing? It's been awhile, hasn't it? I'm glad you called—you know, as it happens, I was just thinking about you the other day. I was at a wine tasting, sampling Bordeaux, and it reminded me of that little bistro we used to eat at after class every day in university that served a good—and cheap—Bordeaux. You remember that? The flavor was a dead ringer—a time machine in every bottle! I bought a case of the stuff, of course.”

  “You don't say,” said I. “Perhaps I'll have to steal a glass from you. You see, I'm going to be stopping by Annapolis for a few days. I have some genealogical research I've been meaning to get done, and will be flying out there today if I can. I'm looking into hotels—any with a good reputation thereabouts?”

  “You're coming to Annapolis?” he asked. “I'l have to give you a rain check on that Bordeaux, my friend—I'm currently in Los Angeles with Tracy. We're visiting our daughters for the next two weeks. It appears we'll miss each other yet again.”

  “No kidding? That's a shame—”

  “How long will you be in town?” he interrupted. “I could name a few hotels, but—” He set the phone down a moment, and I heard him speaking to his wife in the background. A moment later, he returned. “Why not stay at our place, Marcel? We're not in, but we've still got Mara, the housekeeper, popping in every now and then to check on the place. Knowing you're staying there will put our minds at ease. What do you say? You've free reign of the bar and humidor, of course.”

  “Oh, I couldn't,” I said. “But thank you for the offer. I'd hate to impose like that—”

  “Enough talk of imposition,” he said with a laugh. “Tracy agrees, you should stay. Think of it as a favor to the two of us. You enjoy our home while we're out and we enjoy the security of knowing someone's staying there. When are you set to arrive? I can have Mara meet you at the house with a set
of keys.”

  “Well, if you're really sure... It looks like there's a two-and-a-half-hour flight heading out of Detroit Metropolitan at 12:30. Depending on how far the house is from the airport, I'd probably be there around five o'clock.”

  “Excellent. I'll have Mara on standby. She'll put together a guest room for you and everything. I assure you it'll be a more enjoyable stay than any hotel! And at least I won't charge you for tapping into the mini-fridge!”

  The conversation drifted from that point to a number of other topics. Ulpio, some years older than me, was closing in on retirement, but still found himself performing operations routinely. He discussed his most recent procedures—AV Fistula formations and venous ablations were most common—and hearing him talk about his work I found I almost missed the world of medicine myself. I assume his wife, Tracy, wandered away from him because he immediately segued from his tales of the surgical suite to a rather lurid description of a new nurse practitioner who'd started working with his vascular team. “Her ass looks like a proper meal,” he confided.

  Seeking to steer the conversation elsewhere, I chanced to ask him about the general layout of Annapolis, sought recommendations on restaurants. Knowing I'd have a lot of research to do I also inquired after the subject of libraries or historical societies. Just when I'd been set to end the call, I remembered the séance from the night before and the one spirit that had offered up its name. “Say, Ulpio, does the name 'Bradford' have any meaning to you? Know anyone who goes by it?”

  “Bradford...?” He paused to think. “Can't say that it rings any bells. Have something to do with your genealogical work? You know, I wasn't aware you had family out this way. I thought your line came from down south.” Tracy called to him from somewhere in the background. “I'm afraid I've got to go, old friend. Text me if you need anything. I'll let Mara know to wait for you. Let me know once you're settled in.”

  “I will, Ulpio. And thank you for this. I appreciate it. If you ever find yourself in Buffalo Grove, drop me a line. Drinks and dinner on me.”

  I now had a place to stay. I ordered a plane ticket, called a cab and said my goodbyes to Joseph and his family. I met them in the lobby. Megan was still in her bathing suit with a towel draped over her shoulders. She looked impatiently back towards the water park entrance as her parents insisted on seeing me off.

  “Do you have everything you need?” asked Melissa. From the very start, this sudden change in my plans had confused her. “I still don't understand why you need to go all the way to Maryland... isn't there someone in Detroit who can help?”

  I smiled warmly and repeated the lie I'd told her earlier. “It's like I said, I've a friend in Annapolis who's very skilled in this area. I need to speak to him and get his take on things, but you can be sure that I'll return in a few days. And when I do, I should have everything I need to truly tackle the problem back at the house.”

  Melissa accepted this, but any talk of her home, and of the great pains I was taking in curing it of haunting, made her suspicious on other fronts. “It's just... I didn't think the problem was all that bad,” she added quietly so that her daughter wouldn't hear. “Is it bad enough that you have to ask for help? Is there something really wrong with the house that we don't know about?”

  “Nothing like that,” I insisted. “Incidents like this one are rare enough that they ought to be brought to the attention of a true expert in the field, however. That's all. For the purposes of research and documentation I'll be consulting with this associate of mine, and then I'll be back with the fix.”

  Joseph struggled to maintain his facade of understanding. It was clear that he'd slept poorly, and even in the daylight he looked haunted by the things we'd seen the night before.

  I reached out and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze, looking him straight in the eye. “All right, then. You take it easy, now. I'll handle this.”

  My nephew nodded.

  Dragging my valise behind me, I stood near the curb and kept an eye out for my cab.

  It arrived within five minutes, shuttling me to Detroit Metropolitan with just enough time to board.

  Eighteen

  We're in Puerto Vallarta. Warm day, sunny.

  The music is loud. Sounds like Pedro Infante. “Aqui Vienen los Mariachis”.

  Constance is laughing that beautiful laugh of hers. She's into her second or third margarita. “I don't want to go home!” she says. Her hair is in golden braids, legs crossed. The ice in her drink leaves her lips extra pink; I want to kiss them.

  “Maybe we won't,” I reply, giving her a wink.

  She takes my hand. Hers is smooth, fragrant. I bring it to my lips, give her fingers a peck.

  Something's off.

  “What's the matter?” she asks.

  I shake my head, get lost in the moment. “Aqui Vienen los Mariachis” starts over again.

  The restaurant is empty. I look out the window and find it's dark now.

  There's no one else with us; the waiters are gone. The barkeep, too. The lights have dimmed, and the Mayan step pyramid painted on the wall across the room almost looks real. The streaks of blood running down from its summit have an eerie kinetic way about them.

  “What's wrong?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Plant another kiss on her hand.

  That's when it hits me. Her skin smells strange.

  It smells like a Callery pear.

  We're alone, but a long shadow seeps out of the kitchen, stretching slowly across the dining room like a leak. “Maybe we should get going,” I mutter, staring into my drink.

  It's not Controy and Tequilla anymore—it looks soupy, black.

  My glass is full of fountain pen ink.

  There's something crawling down from the top of that step pyramid, I'm sure of it. It's got two black spots for eyes, like holes punched in drywall, and it's crawling on its belly. A man-sized worm slithering down the steps, robed in a thin veneer of ink, rather than mucous.

  “What's wrong?” she asks again.

  I look at her, smile.

  I hear the blood before I see it.

  She raises her glass, cocks her head to the side, and blood starts streaming from both nostrils. Then, from the eyes and ears. Her blouse is soaked through. It's running off the edge of the table like a red downpour.

  The shadow stretches all the way to our table now.

  “What's wrong?” croaks a voice from beneath the table.

  The middle-aged woman seated across the aisle caught my scowl as I woke up, gasping. I'd been halfway out of my seat, ready to drop to the floor, when wakefulness had stolen over me.

  “What's wrong?” she asked, clutching the magazine in her lap and glancing over the seats in search of a flight attendant. “Do you need help?”

  I wiped at my face with quivering hands and chased the dream out of my head. “No, sorry. Dozed off for a minute there. Didn't sleep very well last night,” I said, forcing a smile.

  Relieved that my facial contortions hadn't been indicative of a stroke, she returned my smile. “Oh, I see. Sorry. You just looked really uncomfortable for a second there.”

  I thanked her for her concern and then turned to the open seat beside me, mortified. Here I was, cruising at 30,000 feet and causing a scene. When the flight attendant passed by, I asked her for a glass of water, which I subsequently drained in one go. Not long after take-off I'd leaned back in my seat for a nap, wanting to be fresh and alert by the time I got to Annapolis.

  Well, I was alert now, at any rate.

  Scrubbing the hideous nightmare imagery from my mind, I tried to focus on the work ahead of me. The moment I got off the plane, I'd have to take a cab to Ulpio's place to meet his housekeeper. Then, when I'd dropped off my things and gotten a good handle of the place, I'd have to begin looking into Fiona Weiss.

  Would I find anyone in the city that had known the girl or her adoptive family? What could she have brought with her from Annapolis to the house on Morgan Road? It occurred to me that this
would all be much easier if Constance were able to assist me.

  Then again, perhaps my wife could be of help to me, now that we were out of that accursed house. No longer confined to that place, would she be able to resume her previous rate of correspondence? Fill me in on her observations and detail her interactions with the spirits? I didn't want to get my hopes up, but it was possible she'd start writing regularly again, and the prospect delighted me.

  I'd been in such a hurry that morning to make arrangements for the trip that I hadn't even checked the notebook. It was possible she'd written me overnight in the hotel while I'd slept. I rummaged through my messenger bag for the journal and flipped to the most recent page excitedly.

  Unfortunately, it was blank.

  What this meant was impossible to say. Maybe she needed more time to gather her strength after encountering the dark entities in that house, or else she would wait until nightfall to reach out, as was her habit.

  Or perhaps she's gone for good this time. Maybe the stress of dwelling in that house drove her out of this world.

  I refused to entertain such dreadful scenarios, hopeful that her spirit remained intact in the fountain pen. Rather than worry, I decided to write her a quick note, explaining the newest developments on my end.

  I reached into my blazer pocket for the pen, dug through the miscellaneous items bunched therein, but it wasn't there. My heart skipped a beat, until I recalled the messenger bag at my side. I'd probably shoved it in there after the chaotic séance, along with everything that'd been spilled out onto the living room floor. I picked through the bag's contents calmly at first.

  And then, more forcefully.

  I withdrew a few books, my phone and its charger and set them down in the empty seat where the leather journal sat, but even as I upended the thing and checked all of its zippered compartments I found no trace of my treasured pen.