Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  We stepped onto the elevator. “I won't linger,” I promised.

  She showed me into the microfilm room, a dim little space whose rarified air and dustiness betrayed a marked lack of foot traffic. The rolls of film—35mm—were sorted in tall cabinets by year and periodical, and each contained as many as 800 pages of newsprint. Said rolls were to be mounted onto the spindle on the microfilm machine, a boxy grey hulk sitting on a heavy wooden desk. Once switched on, the film would roll clockwise, and each image captured on it could be studied on the screen thanks to the magnifying lens. A series of buttons and dials controlling the zoom and other functions sat squarely beneath the glowing monitor.

  Delilah gave me a quick rundown on the machine, explaining its many functions and the system that had been used in sorting the film. I didn't have the heart to tell her that at my age I was old enough to remember a time before computers and had used microfilm as a grad student.

  “You wanted local papers from 1974 and 1975?” she asked, opening one of the drawers.

  “Yes, that's right.”

  She handed me four boxes containing rolls of film. All told, they probably contained over 3,000 pages of newsprint.

  “Much appreciated.” I loaded up one of them and queued the film to the first image.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, sporting a rosy smile. With that, she left the room and I dove into my work.

  Flipping through the rolls of film was excruciatingly monotonous.

  I sped things up a bit by skipping the actual news articles and zeroing in on the sections of each issue that dealt with local home sales, but even then the work was slow and taxing on my vision. The flickering monitor didn't do my eyes any favors. Sitting till my back grew sore and my rear end went numb, I found nothing in the rolls corresponding to 1974 and loosed a string of curses under my breath. There'd never been a guarantee that I'd find anything in these rolls, but I wanted badly to find something that vindicated my efforts.

  I pressed on through 1975, skimming only the real estate listings. The local paper's real estate section had only been three pages back in those days, and the layout left much to be desired. Packed with grainy pictures of old houses and brief, sometimes corny sales copy, the listings required a fair bit of zooming in order to be legible.

  I'd been ready to throw in the towel, my eyes and head aching for the visual strain, when I landed upon something. In my hurried skimming of the pages, one listing stood out to me in particular. I zoomed in on it till the text was readable. Under my breath, I recited what I'd found. “For sale by owner. 1121 Price Street, Annapolis. Asking price: $65,000. Contact Will Weiss at 410-5673.”

  The thing that had initially captured my attention did not appear in that brief bit of sales copy, however.

  It'd been the photo of the house that had caught my eye.

  I found it familiar, and a careful study of the grainy photo told me why.

  It was the very house I was staying in.

  Twenty-One

  I caught Ulpio at dinner. It was an outdoor spot—lively music in the background, a lot of laughter and clinking silverware. “You didn't burn the place down already, did you?” he joked as he picked up.

  “Listen, I've got a few questions for you. Do you have a minute?” I was standing just outside the library—only some minutes closed—and staring into the darkening sky. I thought I picked up a whiff of rain, but as yet the weather was dry. “I won't keep you too long.”

  Sensing the gravity in my tone, he could be heard to excuse himself from the table, and within a few moments the chatter in the background had lessened. “Sure, what's up?”

  “When did you buy your house, Ulpio?” I asked him flatly.

  “We moved in shortly after we married, late 70's,” he replied, sounding confused at the urgency of my question. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you remember who you bought it from?” I asked. “The name of its previous owner? Did you buy it from a man named Weiss, perhaps?”

  Ulpio whistled. “You're really making me think back with this one! Truthfully, I can't remember. I'm sure I've got the previous owner's name on the deed somewhere, but it was such a long time ago. My old man actually fronted the money for it when I was twenty-one as a wedding gift for me and Tracy, God rest his soul. It was in 1975. We spent some time there during vacations, but didn't move in till a few years later, when I finished school. Lot of history in that house. My father chose it because of its size and sturdiness—and because he secretly hoped Tracy and I would have about a dozen kids to fill it with.” He laughed.

  “I see. Can you tell me much about its history? Anything you remember from around the time of the sale, or that you've learned in fixing it up all these years?” I leaned against the exterior wall of the library. A fat raindrop landed on my brow as I glanced once more into the sky.

  “It was built in the 1890's, a real treasure. The local government has recognized it as a historical site. It's one of the oldest standing houses in all of Annapolis, and the ground it was built on was a POW camp in the Civil War.” Ulpio paused. “Now, if I may ask, why the sudden questions? Is there a problem?”

  “No,” I assured him, chuckling. “No problems whatsoever. It's just that the work I'm doing has me digging into the past.”

  “The genealogical work?” I could hear the quirk of his smile, as if he didn't quite believe me.

  “Yes...” Clearing my throat, I continued. “Can you tell me, off the top of your head, whether there were any orphanages near the house. Say, in the 60's and 70's?”

  “Orphanages?” He paused. “There was a place...” Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember. There was an orphanage—kind of a sad-looking thing—about an hour away, way down on Forrest Street. Or maybe it was LeBlanc. Either way, I seem to remember it was run by Carmelite nuns. I remember it distinctly because sometimes, while Tracy and I would go for rides through town, we'd see the nuns in their habits milling about the grounds, keeping an eye on the children as they played in the fields. Sometimes, too, the sisters of that order would come around seeking donations for the orphanage. It was called Little Flower, I think. They bulldozed it in the 80's—sometime in the Reagan years. I was happy to see it gone, honestly. It'd always been a gloomy eyesore. I don't think there's anything left out there except a graveyard. There was some talk a few years ago about a new outdoor mall going in on the site, but the graveyard was terrible optics and the project got canned.”

  “So, this place was about an hour from the house?” I asked. “On Forrest Street?”

  “No, it's Leblanc Street, I'm sure of it now. If you hang a left out of our driveway, go several miles down Price Street and hang a left at the gas station, go another forty minutes down that way, you'll find the spot.” Curiosity entered his voice in the form of a chuckle. “So, tell me, who is it you're looking for?”

  “It's a long story,” I replied. Seeking some way to throw him off my trail, I asked him about his meal. “What's for dinner?”

  Ulpio never missed an opportunity to talk about himself and began at once to detail the contents of his meal down to the wine pairing. “I'm a man of simple appetites,” said he, “so I opted for a pound of sirloin with scalloped potatoes and a bottle of local riesling.”

  “Sounds delicious. Listen, I'm sorry for disturbing your meal. I'm going to grab a bite before I keel over. Thank you again for letting me stay. I'll try not to bug you again tonight,” I said.

  After he'd offered me a handful of recommendations on solid local restaurants—“The steamed crab at the Maritime Lounge, just off the docks, is to die for”—he finally hung up.

  My first day in Annapolis had brought me a new—and unnerving—lead.

  I was staying in Weiss' former home. The photograph in the paper had well enough convinced me of that, but knowing that Ulpio's father had bought the home in 1975 removed any doubt. It also turned out, as I'd suspected, that the house had been close to an orphanage. It was possible�
��probable, even—that Fiona had been adopted from this Little Flower orphanage on Leblanc Street. Though the building was no longer there, the discovery that the place had been run by an order of nuns brought me some relief. If the Carmelite order still had a convent in the area, then perhaps they retained their old files on adoptions—and even if they didn't, there was every possibility that the diocese of Annapolis had them. I still couldn't be sure I'd find anything of note in Fiona's file, but if it existed at all I now felt more confident in my ability to track it down.

  The day was spent, but at first light I'd resume my search for Fiona's adoption file. Having a clear objective and knowing where I might find the thing proved even more invigorating than the much-needed sandwich I scarfed down at a nearby deli before hailing a cab and returning to Ulpio's.

  The day had started with its share of hopelessness, but as I rode back to the house in the back of the taxi, the possibility that I might complete my work in the next day no longer seemed so remote.

  The sooner my work bore fruit, the sooner I could return to Detroit.

  To Constance.

  I just hoped I'd make it back in time to save her from the house. If I didn't, I'd never forgive myself.

  Twenty-Two

  The rain came.

  Standing at the kitchen window with a glass of wine in hand, I watched the skies heave. From the distance sounded the flam of thunder. Bolts of lightning halved, then quartered the sky; I looked past the property's many trees and wondered if one wouldn't get struck before the storm was spent.

  I'd opted for a 2007 Domaine Tempier Bandol—a fine bottle that had the added benefit of not setting my generous host back too far—among the dozens of wines on offer, and sipped it contemplatively while watching the rain pour.

  It felt strange to sit and drink wine in this house, knowing who'd once lived in it.

  Sometimes life throws us for a loop, seems utterly chaotic. My wife, who'd been in otherwise perfect health, had died before her sixtieth year when an undiagnosed brain aneurysm had suddenly ruptured. There'd been no good reason for it, and no one I could blame. It'd been a flaw in her design. Still, I often blamed myself for not being there, and wondered—even now—if I wouldn't have been able to save her had I not been working overtime that cursed day.

  But sometimes—on rare occasions—happenings in life have about them an uncanny order. One can feel at times the unmistakable nudge of an unseen hand, guiding them along the track.

  My stay in the Weiss family's former home could not be chalked up to mere coincidence.

  This meeting had been arranged. It was kismet.

  By whom I could not say.

  I should have found some comfort in the fact that my hunch had been right. I'd set out for Annapolis certain that the haunting had had its genesis here, and that some digging would provide me with the ammunition necessary to uncover the whole shape of the thing. That I'd unknowingly found my way to this house, owned by an old friend, showed me that I was very much on the right track. My intuition told me the next day's planned efforts would reveal even more. I was on the edge of a breakthrough—of cracking the case wide open. If there was any antidote to what ailed Joseph's house—a reason for Fiona Weiss' persistence beyond death—I'd find it here, and likely soon.

  But comfort was elusive.

  All I could think of as I stared through that rain-patterned window was Constance. I pictured her walking through the halls of that dark house, a throng of long, distorted shadows trailing at her back. I could imagine her face—brow tightened with fear, eyes bulging, lower lip pinned beneath her teeth—as she raced to escape them. I pictured a long, black arm stretching out of an open doorway like a tentacle; a shadowy hand griping her shoulder. And just like that, the chase was done. The horde of shadows would drag her away.

  Six years ago, I'd failed to save her life. Now here I was, on the verge of failing her a second time. I had to get back to Detroit, had to make sure that she—

  My phone rang. Wine sloshed over the rim of my glass as I reached for it and took a seat upon one of the stools beside the kitchen island. “Hello?”

  It was Joseph. “How's it going, uncle?” he asked. I could tell he was holding his breath.

  “It's all right,” I said. “Though, if it keeps raining like this I'm going to have to build an ark. How are things back in Detroit?”

  “Fine,” he replied. “Melissa's a little suspicious. She doesn't think I'm telling her everything. She wanted to run to the house today to pick up a few things, and I really had to put my foot down to dissuade her. She's pretty angry at me...”

  I chuckled. “Well, she isn't wrong. We've withheld a lot of truth. Trying to hide anything from a woman is a lost cause, but do try and keep her from going there. Even during the day there's no telling what might be encountered. After what we witnessed during the séance, I feel that the spirits in that house are growing more active—and bold.”

  “Definitely. So, anyway... have you learned anything?” he asked. “I know you haven't been there for a full day, but I was just wondering how things were going.”

  At first, I wasn't going to tell him anything—figured it would be better to wait until I had the entire picture to start sharing details. Considering the nature of the investigation however, and the things we were up against, I understood that there were no guarantees that I'd even be able to finish my work. I'd been thinking about how life sometimes threw wrenches in even the best-laid plans, and when I extended that tendency to my own situation, I decided to spill. If something happened to me out here, then it was imperative that someone know what I'd uncovered, lest all my work be for naught and the haunting on Morgan Road continue unimpeded.

  “Well, I came looking for information on the Weiss family,” I began. “I'm staying at a friend's house, an old colleague of mine. It's a fine old place, if a little big for my tastes. Anyhow, his father bought it in 1975 from Willard Weiss.”

  “What?” he blurted. “You're staying in their old house?”

  “That's right.”

  He laughed incredulously. “Are you serious? What are the odds of that?”

  “Candidly? They're damn close to zero. But here I am nonetheless. I went into town today and poked around the microfilm collection at the library. That's where I found the sale listing. I don't have a deed or anything listing Weiss as the former owner, but I'm confident that this is the same house. So, without my realizing it, I stumbled into the very heart of things.” I emptied my glass of wine and set it on the granite countertop before continuing. “My friend Ulpio and his wife have lived here for decades, so you can be sure there isn't anything left of its former owners. But I've learned that there used to be an orphanage within an hour of here—a place called Little Flower.”

  “You think that their daughter was adopted from there?” asked Joseph.

  “I do. The place was demolished in the 1980's, but was run by nuns. I'm hopeful that the old adoption records from that time are still around—possibly at the diocese offices. I'm going there first thing in the morning. These records are the only lead I can think of. There's nothing to be found on Fiona Weiss anywhere; precious little proof that she ever lived and no indication at all that she's even dead.”

  “The board mentioned her, didn't it? She has to be one of the spirits that's haunting the house. You said that it was her body that the last owner found, right?” he asked.

  I nodded. “It's very possible. At any rate, the board told us that Fiona brought something terrible with her to Detroit. I believe she spent the first thirteen years of her life here in Annapolis, and after being adopted, she lived in this very house for a time. I need to figure out what she brought, how she brought it and—in order to bring this haunting to a close—why.”

  My nephew meditated on these questions for a time. “There are a lot of ghosts in the house, right?”

  “Yes. I don't know how many, but there are multiple presences.”

  “How did they get there?” he ask
ed. “Some of them might have died in the house over the years, but... do you think it's possible that Fiona brought some of them with her? Would that qualify as bringing something 'terrible', like the board said?” He laughed sheepishly. “That's kind of dumb, I guess, but do you think it's possible to move a spirit from place to place? To bring it with you from somewhere else?”

  I found his take rather insightful. Perhaps the house on Morgan Road was so crowded with ghosts because Fiona had brought them with her. I couldn't begin to guess at her reasons, but in wondering whether the transportation of souls was possible I had only to look at my situation with Constance. “It's not dumb at all,” I offered. “You might be onto something.”

  “All right, it's getting late. I'm heading back up to the room. Have a good night, Uncle Marcel,” he said. “And stay safe.”

  “I will, lad. Sleep well.”

  I pocketed the phone, still deep in thought.

  Had Fiona transported spirits from Annapolis to the house in Detroit? And if so, by what means?

  I've mentioned that I have no solid explanation for the mechanics behind Constance's residency in my fountain pen. After death, I can only imagine that she—not ready or able to move on from this world—was drawn to it. The thing had been a gift from her to me, and thus the two of us shared a sentimental connection to it. Up to that point I'd always considered my wife's situation to be unique, but if Fiona Weiss had brought ghosts with her during the move in 1975, it stood to reason that she'd done so in a similar fashion, and that the spirits had been transported in a vessel not unlike my pen.

  What had Fiona carried the spirits around in, however? And why had she done so?