Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  “You know, there was one instance, a few years after Fiona got adopted, that I'll never forget. Things calmed down with Fiona gone and, eventually, people stopped talking about her. But I heard Sister Ethel talking to one of the other nuns one night, and she was inconsolable. Sister Ethel wanted to know if she'd done the right thing—if she shouldn't have given up her vows to become a mother to Fiona. She was sobbing, just absolutely devastated, but she said something that always stuck with me. She said, 'What have I let out into the world? My daughter is sin incarnate, and rather than face her I've chosen to stay here.' I didn't know what to make of that. She was obviously distressed, but I wondered then—and now—whether Sister Ethel didn't buy into the rumors we'd spread. You know, that she'd been assaulted by devil-worshippers and given birth to a demon.

  “Sister Ethel passed away around the time the orphanage got shut down. A heart attack, I think. I went to her funeral. I attended a lot of funerals in the years following Little Flower's closure, in fact. Sister Monica, the last of that cloister, passed on at 90 years old last February. They were like mothers to me.” Anna dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and then returned her bifocals to their proper place. Finally, she found it in herself to take a small bite of her sandwich. “That's basically all I know,” she said. “Like I said, Fiona was adopted in 1970 and I never saw her again. I've wondered, from time to time, how she got along. How did things turn out for her? How's she doing these days?”

  I declined to answer that. How could I? “To be honest, I haven't met her. Not yet. But thank you for sharing that with me. It's filled in some of my blanks.”

  “Right, your genealogical study? Are you tracing her adoptive family's line? Are you related to them?” She fixed me with a curious look. “You said you needed this information to help your family. Is it a medical issue—are you looking into the family medical history, perhaps?” She choked down another bite of food while I searched for an excuse to lob at her. “How are you related to her?”

  I was startled by the buzzing of my phone. It was Joseph. “Oh, speak of the devil,” I uttered, “this is my nephew. I have to take this. Please, excuse me. I'll be back in a moment.” I stood and exited the cafe, leaving Anna to her meal.

  I didn't return.

  Twenty-Four

  “Things have taken a decidedly darker turn,” I said upon answering.

  “You got ahold of Fiona's file?” asked Joseph.

  “Not quite. I met with a woman who knew her—a fellow orphan, though. And let's just say that our conversation was illuminating.” I crossed the street, wandering out of view of the cafe and diocese building, and then plopped down in an empty bus stop shelter. “You won't believe me at first, but I find myself feeling quite bad for the girl.”

  “You feel bad for her?” Joseph laughed incredulously. “For the ghost that's pulling all of the strings? I mean, she's the one who brought awful things with her, right?”

  “I don't know the whole of it yet,” I replied, “but she seems to have had a very difficult childhood. Her mother was a nun—Fiona was conceived through rape. There may be a Satanic bent to the whole thing... I don't know yet. Anyway, Fiona grew up at Little Flower orphanage until 1970, when she was adopted by Will Weiss at 8 years old. They didn't move to Detroit until 1975. That's five years they spent living in Annapolis. A lot can happen in five years.”

  “No doubt...” Joseph sighed. “Well, what now? Do you think you can convince Fiona to leave? What about all of the other spirits in the house—what's keeping them?”

  “I don't have anything nailed down yet. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd put down Fiona as one of those spirits that can't let go due to trauma. She never knew love in life. Being denied her birth mother's affection probably left a deep psychological scar, and that want for parental love has probably resulted in her spirit being restless. As for what she brought—I think it's possible that she somehow transported some of those spirits to Detroit with her, like you suggested earlier. Maybe she brought spirits with her as... playmates, if you will—maybe she reached out to the dead in her loneliness and they clung to her. The trouble is, I don't know how she did it, what kind of vessel she used in transporting them.”

  “I see. Well, how much longer will you be out there?” he asked, and I sensed a hint of impatience in his voice.

  “Why? Trouble in paradise?”

  “Well, it's just that I'll be starting my summer job in a few days. That, and... Melissa and Megan are getting a little antsy. Melissa wants to get back to the house. Megan isn't really enjoying herself anymore, either. It's getting hard for me to put them off—Melissa, especially, wants to know why we can't go home, and is sure I'm lying to her.”

  “I'll see if I can't wrap things up quickly,” I said. “Perhaps I can catch a flight home tomorrow. Sound good? Provided, of course, that I don't encounter something that keeps me longer. It's high time we settle things at your house, but I don't want to leave until I have all the pieces.” I looked at my watch. It was just past 12:30. “I'm going to head to the site of the old orphanage. I doubt there's anything there, but I've been told about a graveyard on that road, and I understand that Fiona spent some time there as a child. I reckon it's worth a look. I'll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

  The call ended soon thereafter. Dialing for a cab, I waited outside the bus stop. Minutes later, the taxi rolled up to the curb and I hopped in.

  “Where to?” asked the cabbie, straightening his rearview mirror.

  “There's an old graveyard on LeBlanc Street. Do you know it? I'd like to go there.”

  He nodded. An instant later we were off.

  Twenty-Five

  “Keep the meter running,” I said, stepping out of the cab.

  The lonely stretch of LeBlanc Street offered few sights of note. On the right side of the road, marked by tall metal railings, was the graveyard. It took up no more than a hundred and fifty yards of the vast, grassy field surrounding it. The tombstones sat close together like crowded teeth. Resembling florets of broccoli wedged between those teeth, I spotted small clusters of wilted flowers left in tribute upon many of them. There was an empty gravel parking lot on the opposite end of the thing and a paved walk leading into the cemetery that looked on the verge of crumbling.

  I didn't start at once into the cemetery, first looking for any remaining signs of the orphanage that had once sat beside it. I walked through the field, spying interminable seas of corn growing in the distance. Buzzing insects sped by and tall weeds shot in all directions from the lumpy, stone-strewn earth I walked upon. Everywhere I stepped there were chunks of what looked to be broken concrete, and some fifty yards from the door of the cab I discovered a weatherbeaten slab of stone—perhaps a part of the former orphanage's foundation.

  Except for the scattered bits of concrete that'd been left behind in its demolition, every trace of Little Flower was gone. Having seen the site with my own two eyes, I tried to picture what the place might have looked like in its heyday. I pictured a drab, boxy building in the middle of the field, something austere. Perhaps there'd been a chapel in the back, where the Carmelites would go about their daily prayers. And maybe, beside it, there'd been a small playground where the children would frolic...

  Unlike the other children at Little Flower, Fiona Weiss had reportedly never been one to play with others. Instead, she'd always gone alone to the graveyard to chatter at the stones. And so, putting myself in her shoes, I turned away from the rubble and started towards the rows of graves.

  I crossed the field, approaching the iron railing. Rounding the corner and slipping in through the open gate, my forearms tingling for the warmth of the sun, I took a slow scan of the tight rows ahead of me and wondered what allure such a spot could possibly have held for a girl of eight years.

  Unfastening a few buttons on my shirt and draping my blazer over my arm, I began walking down the center path. It had once been paved in smooth, flat stones. Now, the path was marked chiefly by tufts of g
rass punctuated with the odd rock. Though not as sorry-looking as the tiny, crumbling cemetery on Morgan Road near Joseph's place, my surroundings were certainly overgrown and uninviting. The abandoned flowers and American flags were proof enough that some still came to this remote stretch to pay their respects, but before long I suspected this collection of monuments would come to look more like the battered remnants of the orphanage than they would grave markers.

  I studied a number of stones as I walked, reading the names on them under my breath. Here was Michael A. Johnstone; there, twins Brigitte and Timothy Halsted, who'd gone in infancy. Further down, I found a grave marker belonging to one Sr. Gail Zimmerman, who'd passed in 1979. Her epitaph, a verse from Matthew, was crowned by a smiling cherub statuette, whose wings framed the top of the marker.

  I'd walked nearly to the iron railing that marked the far border of the cemetery when I realized my trip here had been in vain. Fiona Weiss had wandered this very spot and laid eyes on certain of these graves, it was true, but in coming here I'd discovered nothing more about the girl. There were no clues waiting to be unearthed, no aspect of the orphanage preserved enough to confer any insights. My pilgrimage was fruitless, then.

  I sulked back to the cab, a hand in my pocket and my mind roiling with questions I had no hope of answering. In 1975, the adopted Fiona Weiss had moved to the house on Morgan Road—and on that move she'd allegedly brought something terrible along with her. Just what it had been I had no hope of guessing, and as I exited the graveyard I glanced between the rows, hoping that I might run into her and ask.

  I'd nearly stepped through the gate when one stone, tagged with black graffiti, caught my eye. Unlike the rest, this one had a bit of space around it—was separated from the others by a few extra feet. The stone was simple, unadorned except for the illegible scrawl in black spray paint that marred its side. My eyes scanned the name on it as a matter of course and I left the graveyard, looking to the taxi I'd left idling on the shoulder.

  And then I halted.

  A cool breeze rushed through the field, cooling the sweat I'd built up on my trek. I shivered, turning back at once and singling out that stone.

  I'd recognized the name.

  At first, I couldn't be sure where I'd read it—only that I'd encountered it semi-recently. The sight of it had flagged something in my memory, and so I strode back through the gate and stood before it.

  HERE LIES BRADFORD COX

  1929—1958

  I stared at the writing a long while, as though I'd forgotten how to read. I knew that name—Bradford—but where had I heard it?

  Then I remembered. Bradford from Annapolis. I just want to talk, Sarah. Memories of the séance on Morgan Road surfaced, sent my pulse hammering. Was the Bradford on this tombstone the same that had reached out to Joseph and I during the séance? Was that even possible? I pulled out my phone and ran a search on “Bradford Cox Annapolis 1958”, and the results stunned me.

  I read an article about Bradford Cox, an Annapolis native. In 1952, near the campus of St. John's College, he'd murdered a student by the name of Sarah Cantor. The killing had made the national news and earned him a life sentence.

  Now, I was standing before his tombstone.

  “Bradford from Annapolis. I just want to talk, Sarah.” That'd been the message, then cryptic, that one of the spirits had passed on to us through the talking board. Now, it made some sense.

  Fiona Weiss, frequent visitor to this graveyard while living at Little Flower orphanage, had seemingly brought the spirit of Bradford Cox with her to the house on Morgan Road in 1975. But how? And who—or what—else had she brought with her?

  That was what I'd have to find out.

  I stumbled back to the cab, panting. “All right, please take me back home. 1121 Price Street.”

  Twenty-Six

  I stuffed some bills into the cabbie's hand—ordering him to stay in the drive—and stormed into the house, dialing Joseph. He answered on the second ring. “You were right,” I said. “The girl—Fiona—she brought spirits to that house.”

  Joseph was at lunch, and paused his chewing. “How did she do it?”

  “Do you remember what one of those spirits told us during the séance? He called himself Bradford from Annapolis, and mentioned a girl named Sarah. Well, I've just left an old graveyard—a graveyard situated on the same lot where Fiona's orphanage once sat. There, I discovered a headstone bearing the name Bradford Cox. He died in '58, after murdering a co-ed named Sarah here in Annapolis. I believe the spirit we spoke to in your house is his. In fact, I feel confident that Bradford Cox may be this phantom your daughter has seen around the house—the one you call the Cotton Man.”

  “Uh... so, how did it get there?” he asked. “Detroit isn't exactly next-door to Annapolis...”

  Pacing up the stairs, I entered the guest room and began shoving my things into my valise. “I'm still working on that part, but I have some idea. You see, there have been cases of spirits being contained in, say, heirlooms. Antiques. Certain objects that the deceased had a strong tie to in life, or which appeal to the souls of the dead for unknown reasons. I suspect that Fiona owned such an item, and that one—or many—of the spirits in your home hitched a ride in it. How many she brought with her, and why she did so, remains to be seen. I've only ever heard of one spirit taking up residence in a haunted object before, but...anything's possible.”

  “So, what kind of object is it? And if that's really the case, then what do we do with it once we find it?” He paused, racking his brain. “There was nothing left in the house by the previous owner—no furniture or anything like that.”

  “If I had to guess, I'd say it's hidden, or lost. Perhaps she left it somewhere in the house, or it got away from her,” I explained. “Either way, we must find it and destroy it. Or, at least, get it out of the house. Whatever the object may be, I believe that her soul is likely bound up in it as well. If we can get rid of the thing, then the spirits leashed to it will leave this world.”

  “OK. Should I go and have a look?” asked Joseph. “I can head to the house and start—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “Absolutely not. I'll go and look. I'm heading back as soon as I can. I'll buy a plane ticket and set off for Detroit at the first opportunity. When I arrive, I'll give you a call and we can go there together. But you are not to re-enter that house by yourself under any circumstances, is that understood?”

  “All right,” he said. “I won't go in. I'll wait for you.”

  “Good.” I zipped up my valise and dragged it out into the hallway. “I'll call you when I've landed.”

  I hung up and immediately began looking online for plane tickets. Exhausted and tense, I found my way into Ulpio's study and dropped into his high-backed chair. While hunting for a flight to Detroit, I poured myself an extra tall scotch from the decanter he kept on a side table. A few pulls from the glass went a long way towards steadying my hand. After a brief search, I happened upon three planned flights to Detroit out of the Annapolis Metro. I bought a ticket for the 4PM and then drained my glass.

  Leaning back in the chair, I placed a quick call to Ulpio, informing him that I'd be leaving immediately. “Thank you for everything,” I said, trying my best not to sound winded and nervous. “It's been a lovely stay, but I'm afraid I have to settle some matters back home. How shall I leave the keys?”

  “Already?” protested Ulpio. “You've been there a single night! Was the house not to your liking?”

  “It's lovely,” I told him. “Perhaps you can invite me back one of these days. Unfortunately, I've got to go. Some unforeseen family troubles with my nephew.”

  “Oh, I see,” he replied, sounding contrite. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Staring up at the ceiling, my throat still stinging for the last gulp of scotch I'd taken, I began to peer about the room. My gaze settled near the study door—specifically at the carved wood panel positioned directly above it. I'd admired that detailed, life-like carving of a raven
the night before, but when I gazed upon it now, I startled and nearly dropped the phone.

  The raven.

  “If you're in a hurry, leave the keys inside, on the kitchen counter. I'll go ahead and call the housekeeper to collect them and lock up properly. Mara lives close-by, so it's no trouble. Just make sure to engage the lock on the front door's knob, at the very least,” said Ulpio.

  I barely heard him. “Y-Yes, I'll do that,” I replied at last, my gaze still fixed to the carved raven.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. His usually jovial tone was marred with concern now.

  “Thank you for everything, Ulpio.”

  I cut the line.

  Anna Godfrey—the only living acquaintance of Fiona Weiss I'd been able to find—had mentioned something during our conversation at the cafe which now struck me as significant. Fiona had always carried around a wooden toy in the shape of a bird—a thing which, to hear Anna tell it, had had no little significance to her.

  Was it possible that this wooden toy had been used to house spirits? Had Fiona used it to transport the soul of killer Bradford Cox—among others—to her new home in Detroit? According to Anna, Fiona had spent many a late night whispering to the thing—or, possibly, to the spirits housed therein.

  I recalled, too, a message that Joseph and I had received during our séance—a cryptic limerick which had touched upon this theme of ravens that now ran like a thread through my investigation. I'd thought it a bit of sinister nonsense at the time, but now I saw it for what it was: A clue.

  “Deep in the marrow, a raven pleads; and in the marrow, the raven breeds.”

  I'd figured it out.

  The souls haunting Joseph's house had been brought in that wooden toy. Fiona's soul had probably been bound to it in death as well—but where was it? The thing had to be hidden in the house somewhere. Maybe it had fallen into some crevice, or was underneath the house. Under the floors? Behind one of the walls?