Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  I gripped the empty glass and shot up out of my chair.

  The wall.

  The night before I'd kicked Joseph and his family out of their house, Megan had suffered a bizarre sleep-walking episode, and had struck repeatedly at the living room wall with a hammer. When, immediately afterward her mother had asked why she'd done it, Megan had responded, half-asleep, “I had to let the birdie out.”

  The wooden bird—and the likeliest source of the haunting—was behind that wall.

  I felt sure of it.

  When I had packed all of my things, I dropped the keys to the house on the kitchen counter as per my host's directions and engaged the lock on the front door knob as I stepped out. Then, rushing to the idling cab, I hauled my things into the back seat.

  “Where to now?” asked the driver. He'd made a good bit of money on me already and was probably wondering how much longer I'd retain his services.

  “The airport. That'll be my last stop.” I drew a hundred dollar bill from my wallet and dropped it into the passenger seat. “Ignore the red lights and stop signs as often as possible and you can keep that,” I said, slumping in my seat.

  The driver picked up the bill and, after holding it up to the light, curled it into his pocket. “I'll see what I can do. Buckle up.”

  Twenty-Seven

  The flight, though only three hours long, seemed to drag endlessly on.

  My thoughts had been so wrapped up in my investigations over the past day that I hadn't put much thought into Constance's plight. Since the night of the séance, when I'd let the fountain pen get away from me, she'd been left alone in that house. I had no way of knowing how she'd fared—if she'd still be waiting for me when I got back. If she was still there, I wondered if she'd ever be able to forgive me for my carelessness in leaving her behind.

  I ignored the other passengers on the crowded plane and must have seemed quite rude. There was a gentleman seated across from me, and a middle-aged woman in front, who chatted with one another and seemed intent on dragging me into their conversations about current affairs. I ignored them, too deep into my own thoughts to weigh in.

  Up to this point, I felt that I'd pieced everything together quite logically.

  Spirits, like my Constance, could take up residence in physical objects.

  At least one spirit from far-away Annapolis had found its way into the house on Morgan Road. Fiona Weiss had brought this spirit—and possibly others—with her in 1975. The only way I knew to do such a thing would be in the haunting of a particularly dear belonging—in this case, the wooden bird toy that Anna Godfrey had mentioned. This toy had allegedly never left Fiona's side, and she'd spent long nights whispering to it—or, more likely, to the spirits she'd invited into it. The lonely girl, in need of affection and companionship, had looked for it in the souls of the dead.

  Now, that toy was hidden within the house. It had ended up behind the living room wall, and the spirits Fiona had brought in it—along with her own—were still tethered to the thing. During the séance, three spirits had made contact; Bradford's, Fiona's and one other, who had refused to give a name. Judging by Constance's correspondence, as well as the commotion in the house whenever the spirits became active, I suspected there were likely more. Perhaps many more.

  The spirit of killer Bradford Cox was probably the one that my great-niece Megan had seen in the night—the so-called “Cotton Man”. It occurred to me that Cox, being a convicted killer, might have been put to death. The article I'd found had mentioned a life sentence, but the possibility that he'd gone to the electric chair for his crime could not be overlooked—at least, such an execution would account in some way for the “cotton” Megan claimed to see in the phantom's mouth and ears. To my mind, the cotton may have come from the sacks worn by those executed by that method in those days. Further research into Cox's death brought me to an article that mentioned he'd died by his own hand while serving out his life sentence in '58. The method was not given, but the stringing together of bedclothes, I thought, might still account for the specter's mouthful of cotton.

  Everything hinged on my finding that wooden toy.

  Clear-cut and logical as it all seemed up to this point, a nagging question remained.

  What if it isn't behind the wall?

  And then: What if you find something else back there?

  I recalled the terrible sounds I'd heard while staying in Joseph's house—the racket that had sounded like so many animals scurrying behind its walls. What if something else awaited me behind that broken drywall—something more terrible than the carved wooden bird I sought?

  I reflected upon the cryptic riddle Fiona had delivered during the séance.

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

  What had the spirit meant by this? The more I fixated on it, the less I thought I understood.

  Fiona Weiss had led, by all accounts, a difficult life. Her conception had been the result of a heinous assault by several men. Sister Ethel, her mother, had decided to maintain her vows, rather than raise the girl, and for the duration of Fiona's stay at Little Flower she was kept at arm's length. Though she knew her mother, Fiona never enjoyed that maternal closeness that all children seek—and require to some extent if they're to lead happy, well-adjusted lives.

  I puzzled over the riddle in a pseudo-philosophical way, focusing on the mention of “the marrow”. Perhaps, in her way, Fiona had intended to voice both her deep-seated yearning for her mother's love, as well as the maleficence that had brought her into the world. The girl had known where she had come from—that she'd been the product of rape—and thus this line might have represented the acknowledgment of some congenital tendency towards wickedness, passed on by her mysterious father.

  Evil was the reason Fiona had come into existence. She was, in that sense, a physical incarnation of the malefic. Perhaps this little rhyme was an acknowledgment of that.

  Maybe, too, it was her loneliness that had seen her reach out to the dead. Without friends or parents to look to for comfort, she'd gone walking in graveyards, chatting with whatever soul might lend her an ear...

  There was an announcement overhead. “And if you'll look outside, you'll see that we're entering the Motor City. Please make sure all electronic devices are off and buckle up. We'll be landing shortly. Thank you for flying for us!”

  I peered out the window.

  Somewhere down there was a house where the shadows grew long.

  A house where the doors slammed, and where croaking whispers sometimes sounded in the dead of night.

  In that house, too, there was something hidden behind one of the walls.

  My wife, God willing, was there as well.

  I was soon to return.

  And this time, I planned to put a stop to it all.

  I was going to quiet that house, empty it of souls, before the day was through.

  When I was done, I'd quit this ghost-hunting business for good. I'd had more than my fill of it since first arriving in Detroit. Once Joseph and his family were freed from its clutches, I'd return to my home in Buffalo Grove, with Constance in tow, and never again investigate those bumps in the night. Till the end of my days, I'd content myself by corresponding with Constance, never concerning myself with the “how”.

  Looking back on it, I'd been an arrogant ass for thinking I deserved to know the ins and outs of the supernatural world—and I'd been stupider still to think that I could ever actually understand them. Perhaps one day, when my life was spent and I could join Constance, I would understand the true nature of death. Until then, it wasn't my place to know that world. In chasing the knowledge, I'd risked everything.

  I prayed that Constance would still be with me at the end of it all.

  We touched down. I shouldered my messenger bag and left the plane at the first opportunity, calling Joseph at once. When I'd grabbed my heavy valise from the baggage claim, I had only to wait ten minutes outside the airport for him to arrive.
He sped up the front lot in his sedan, parking alongside the curb.

  “You ready?” he asked, stepping out to help me with my things.

  I urged him back inside, choosing instead to heft my bags into the back seat on my own. When I was done, I dropped, sweating and fidgeting, into the passenger seat. “Hurry. We need to hurry.”

  The sun was beginning to set.

  Twenty-Eight

  “And you think it's behind the wall?” asked Joseph, peering nervously into the rearview as we neared Morgan Road.

  “I do.” I couldn't sit still as we re-entered familiar territory. I recognized a few buildings—a school, the natural grocer, a post office. Then the Mexican restaurant on the corner came into view and I knew we were close. I tapped out a nervous beat on the car floor and clutched at my seatbelt, ready to throw it off the minute the car stopped. Outside, the light was fading rapidly.

  “So, we're going to get in there and tear out the wall?” he asked, sparing me a nervous smile. I'd told him about the wooden toy—about the strong possibility that the haunting in his home emanated from it, but he seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure that getting rid of it will stop it?”

  “Don't put words in my mouth,” I uttered, shifting in my seat. I rolled down the window, sucked in the fresh air and let it wash over my sweat-slick face. “I don't know what'll happen, Joey. All I know is that the spirit of an Annapolis serial killer is in that house, and that the girl—Fiona—brought him there. The carved bird is the only thing I can think of—the only thing that seems to have had any personal value to her.”

  “Sure, but how would that work? I know we're talking about ghosts, but... would a ghost willingly hitch a ride in a little wooden toy? And why?” he asked.

  In the distance I could make out the swaying flowers of the Callery pear tree. My gut tightened. “I've known a ghost to latch onto a fountain pen,” I nearly blurted. Thinking better of it, I merely shook my head. “We'll see, Joseph. We'll see. We're going to find something in that house, though. I know it.”

  We reached the driveway. The sedan bounced up onto it and Joseph threw it into park. “OK, so—”

  I yanked the keys from his hands as soon as he shut off the car.

  “Hey! Come on!”

  Climbing out of the car, I stared up at the house a moment, its borders lent an inkiness by the fresh night, and motioned towards the door. “Come on. There's something I need to do first.”

  Joseph followed closely at my heels, hands buried in his pockets. “What is it?”

  The first order of business, of course, was to find my fountain pen. I'd be better able to focus on the task at hand if I knew the thing was safe and sound.

  The motion-activated porch light flashed on, giving us both a jolt. I lowered my head and went to work on the lock. Throwing the door open, I proceeded to enter, and went looking immediately for the lights. From the very first we found the air hard to breathe; it was still, sour, and plagued with the perfume of spoiled food. I pushed through the foul air, batting on the dining room, living room and stairwell lights. With these on, I nearly dropped to my knees and began searching for my fountain pen, except for one distraction on the living room wall that stole my attention.

  Joseph saw it an instant before I did, and gripped my shoulder. “W-What's that there? Did you write that?” he asked.

  “Of course I didn't,” I replied, jerking away from him.

  There was, quite literally, writing on the wall. Black, runny ink had been smeared all over the wall where Megan had left it damaged. The letters were a hasty scrawl, and ink-flecked bits of drywall littered the floor where the writing instrument—a sharp-nibbed fountain pen, I was sure—had carved in. I stepped towards the wall, scrutinizing the message left just above the small, one-inch peephole the hammer had left behind.

  DON'T LOOK

  DON'T LOOK

  DON'T LET HER OUT

  From the last of these letters, a trail of black ink ran through a deep gouge in the wall whose terminus was the peephole. I scanned the floor below this message, shoved the rug and sofa away, but saw no sign of the pen. It occurred to me that it might have fallen into that opening after the note had been written.

  “Who wrote that?” asked my nephew, peering at the wall and running his finger across the letters. “Was it one of the spirits?”

  I didn't reply to him because I wasn't sure myself. My first instinct was that the message had been left by Constance as a warning. There was something dangerous or frightful behind that wall that she didn't want me to find. But then, I'd raced back to Detroit to dig into that very wall in the hopes of ending this haunting for good. Was it possible that one of the other spirits in the house had left this message to throw me off—that Fiona's ghost had written this to dissuade me from finding the wooden toy she'd used in transporting souls?

  There was nothing to do but break through the drywall and have a look.

  “It says 'Don't let her out.' What does that mean?” asked Joseph. “When we were messing with the talking board one of the spirits told us something like that, didn't it? It said 'Don't let her leave.' Should we really poke around back there...? It seems like a warning.”

  “I don't know,” I sighed, regarding the letters with a wince. “Damned if we do, damned if we don't.” Wiping the sweat from my brow, I pulled my sleeves up and approached the wall, fists balled. “How lucky do you feel, Joey? How much faith do you have in my theories?”

  “Hold up,” he said, stepping between me and the wall. “We don't know what's back there. What if... what if we find something other than the toy by opening up the wall, huh? Like... What if...” he trailed off, gulping.

  I knew what he was going on about and nudged him aside with a callous laugh. “What, a body? You think there's another body in this house, like what the last owner found? No, I doubt it. More likely, the things in this house are trying to throw us off of their trail. They know I've figured things out, and that I'm searching for the object that keeps them rooted to this spot. If I get rid of it, that's the end of the line for them, so they want to scare us off. Don't let them.”

  With a quaking fist, I reared back and struck the wall just above the small hole. The drywall cracked and small bits struck the floor. Prying away the broken material, I prepared to deliver a second blow, but this time I hesitated. What if Constance left you this message? I thought. What if you're wrong... what if she knows something you don't?

  Joseph only added to my hesitancy. “Hold on! Shouldn't we think this through?”

  Since I'd last fled this house I'd had more thinking than I could handle. I'd done nothing but think about this house, about Constance, about Fiona Weiss for days. I was tired of thinking. Right or wrong, I decided, there must be action, and so I stepped back put my foot through the pre-existing hole in the wall. The drywall split, and I heard chunks of it clattering as I pulled out my shoe and went at it again. When the hole was large enough, I thrust my hands into it and began to tear it away like an animal. Grunting and straining, I went at it for several minutes. Joseph, having no choice, stepped in and helped me.

  Eventually, we'd ripped away a section of drywall from roughly eye level to the floor, and a few feet across, revealing the studs behind. By the looks of it, one of the studs had been cut away previously—making this a non-load-bearing wall.

  We found it leaning against one of those studs in a mess of off-white cotton. Joseph and I stood stock still, staring at it a long while, until finally I found the courage to reach out.

  A toy bird carved out of wood, some four or five inches across and sanded very smooth, sat in the fluff. Beside it, the gold trim marred in splotches of spilled ink, was my fountain pen. I grabbed up both items, studying them with closeness. Picking away the whitish fluff that clung to the toy, I examined its exterior and found it to be a well-carved thing in the general shape of a raven. It had a long beak, and its wings had been detailed in such a way as to give them a feathery tactile feel.

  “So,
this is it, huh?” asked Joseph. I handed him the bird and he toyed with it in his hand. “This is where the spirits are?”

  I nodded. “I believe so.” I wiped the excess ink from the exterior of my pen and, giving it a thankful squeeze, slipped it into my breast pocket. Then, looking upward, I called out. “Fiona Weiss, I know you're listening,” I said. “I've been back to your home in Annapolis. I know all about you—all about the life you led. And I want to say that I'm sorry. Sorry that you never knew love—that your mother was never close to you. I know, too, about the friends you made.” I took the wooden bird in hand again and gave it a little shake. “You brought them here in this, didn't you?

  “Was it because you didn't want to be lonely anymore? Is that why you surrounded yourself with these spirits?” I sighed. “I'm sorry for everything that happened to you in life, Fiona. I pray that you'll be able to find rest now that I've learned about your past. I don't know how you died, or why Kevin Taylor found your body in this house ten years ago. Let go of those bad feelings and move on from this house. And just in case you can't, I'm going to get rid of this thing, hopefully releasing you and everyone you brought here.” I held up the toy raven as if to show it to a crowd. “Be free, Fiona.”

  I led Joseph out of the living room and instructed him to fire up the small charcoal grill he kept in the backyard. When he'd filled it with briquettes doused in lighter fluid, I lit it with a match and dropped the wooden raven into the blaze. The fire ate the old wood eagerly, blackening it. I prodded it with a stick and watched as it crumbled into ash, releasing a particularly foul-smelling smoke.

  We watched the smoke drift up into the sky and stood, sweating, beside the fire until it was reduced to embers. Giving the white coals a stir and finding no trace of the wooden bird, Joseph looked up at me, and then to the house. “So, is that it? Is it over?”

  I joined him in looking up at the house. Rounding the corner and slipping into the front yard, I gazed into the upper story windows in search of any ominous figures. “I guess there's only one way to find out,” I said. “Let's go.”