Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The two of us returned inside, and I headed immediately for the kitchen. Turning on all of the lights, I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and sought out my shadow.

  To our surprise and delight, it was a normal length and behaved exactly as expected.

  “How about that...” muttered Joseph, testing his own. “It's really gone, isn't it?”

  I nodded. “It would seem that way.”

  We spent the next two hours cleaning the house with some thoroughness, constantly looking over our shoulders and listening for strange voices. When we'd cleared out all of the spoiled food and gotten rid of the broken drywall without incident, we grew in boldness and even began to feel comfortable in the house. There were no footsteps, no disembodied conversations and no distorted shadows any longer.

  It was, perhaps for the first time since its construction, a perfectly ordinary house.

  Finished with our cleanup, we locked the door and returned to the car. It was late now, but the thrill of the evening had us both in good humor. We started back to the resort in Auburn Hills, planning to stop by a nearby bar before turning in for the night. Melissa and Megan would be free to return the next day, and the family of three would be able to resume a normal life once more.

  Joseph was overjoyed. Shortly before we arrived at the bar, he chuckled and looked to me. “Megan was trying to bust a hole in that wall the other night. Maybe we should have let her. She knew what she was doing!”

  “A child's intuition is really something,” I laughed, looking out into the moonlit streets.

  My laughter felt a little hollow, though, when I thought back to Megan's assault on the wall. In her fugue state she'd made mention of the bird, almost as if she'd known it was there all along. Or like someone had told her—like someone had asked her to break open the wall and find it. But who? Had it been that phantom, the Cotton Man, or else some other spirit in the house? I meditated, too, upon the message we'd found scrawled on the wall and I felt my smile fading further. Don't let her out. I wondered, not for the last time, if we'd done the right thing.

  “You coming, uncle?” asked Joseph as he parked the car and stepped out.

  I nodded.

  It was too late now for second thoughts. I'd gone and made a cut in the heat of the moment; time would tell how well it measured.

  Twenty-Nine

  Three days. It was decided that I would stay with them another three days. If, in that time, nothing supernatural reared its head, I'd return home to Buffalo Grove and declare the case closed.

  They proved to be the longest seventy-two hours in memory for their pleasant monotony.

  We returned to the house the morning after Joseph and I had gone digging around in the wall for the carved raven. It was a fair day, the sunniest in recent memory, and the family was raring to return to a normal life after their exile to the resort. We dragged our bags in, unloading the sedan in several trips, and I brought my things back up into the guest room where I'd stayed days prior. The mood of the room had completely changed; perhaps it was simply my imagination, but the space seemed calmer, less threatening.

  Melissa found a rude shock in the gaping hole her husband and I had left in the living room wall. “What the hell is this? Did you two set off a bomb in here?” she'd asked upon first setting eyes on it. “This is a mess!”

  Her ire waned when I subsequently offered to pay for the repairs. “It's regrettable, but the object at the root of this haunting had been stashed behind that wall. In order to get to it, we had to do a bit of demolition work. Don't worry, I'm sure we can find a local contractor who can get it patched quickly.”

  The family reestablished their daily routine and I stood by as an observer, seeking to distinguish any lingering supernatural phenomena. We unpacked and spent the first day in the yard, cutting the grass and dining at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. Settling into bed around ten, we were in for quite a shock in the morning.

  A shock, because for the first time in ages we'd all managed to sleep straight through the night without interruption.

  Megan didn't wake screaming, didn't sleepwalk her way downstairs with a hammer. Nothing strange drew me out of bed, and our shadows appeared quite ordinary even after sunset. By all appearances, the house was cured.

  That isn't to say that all was well, however.

  On that first night back at the house, I spent some time sitting at the folding table in the guest room, cleaning up my fountain pen and replacing its empty cartridge. Pulling out the leather journal, I penned a note to Constance and prayed for a reply by morning.

  My dearest Constance—It has been days since our last exchange. I believe that the haunting in this house has effectively been solved, and that the spirits that once dwelt here have left this world. The shadows are no longer distorted, the house is no longer filled with such strange noises as once and all seems calm. I will remain here with Joseph and his family for these three nights and then return home, provided nothing paranormal takes place.

  I pray you'll forgive me, Constance, for my error. I left the pen in this house during my trip to Annapolis, and I can scarcely guess at the horrors you were subjected to as a result. If you're giving me the silent treatment out of anger, I can't say that I blame you. All the same, I wish you'd give me some sign of your presence here. It occurs to me—with no little fright—that I may be writing this note to myself.

  Are you still here? I suppose that if I do not receive a reply I will have my answer.

  I awoke that morning and rushed out of bed to find the notebook empty, the pen sitting precisely where I'd left it.

  I wrote my wife again the next night, and the next. Those notes, too, yielded no reply.

  So it was that I came to terms with Constance's passing a second time. Her presence in the fountain pen had always been a mysterious thing—a thing which might end at any moment, and for no clear reason. I could only guess that the stress of dealing with the other spirits in the house had exhausted her to the point of crossing over.

  Each morning at breakfast, Megan would look up at me from her cereal, asking, “What's the matter? You look sad.”

  Each time, I would smile for her sake and reply with, “It's nothing much, my dear. Your old uncle just gets wrapped up thinking about the past sometimes.”

  By that third night, I found my sleep interrupted not by hideous, croaking voices or slithering phantoms, but by heartache. Sitting awake in bed, I stared into the darkness and wondered whether I'd ever speak to her again. Maybe in the next life, I thought wistfully.

  “Are you sure there's nothing we can do for you before you go, uncle?” asked Joseph as I finished breakfast on that final morning. “Would you like to stay longer?”

  “No, that's all right. I've stayed long enough, I think—overstayed my welcome. It's just about time I head back home,” I replied. “But thank you. I appreciate your hospitality.” I'd purchased an Amtrak ticket the day before, and my one-way train to Buffalo Grove was set to leave at half-past noon. “If you can just drop me off at the station, that'd be swell.”

  I'd showered that morning upon waking and had only to gather my bags now. Joseph and Melissa both offered to help me with them, but I waved them away. “Don't trouble yourselves. I've got some muscle in me yet!” When the meal was done, I took my leave and returned upstairs to grab them.

  As I neared the guestroom—prepared to enter—I heard a noise that seemed to issue from within. Pausing, I listened hard and tried to figure out what it was.

  It was a dull scraping—very slow, somewhat clumsy. For close to a minute, I remained outside the room, my hand resting on the door, until finally it ceased.

  Could it be Constance writing me a note? Eager to find out, I burst into the room and looked immediately to the pen and notebook I'd left sitting on the table.

  There was nothing, however, and the scraping noise did not make a reprise—if in fact it had come from this room at all. I paced around a moment, putting on m
y blazer and pocketing the fountain pen. I returned the leather journal to my messenger bag and zipped my valise. Before returning downstairs, I paused at the window and took one last look at the Callery pear tree outside. Its flowers were glowing in the morning sun, and I was only a moment in staring at them before my eyes began to water.

  Turning from the window, I dragged my things clumsily downstairs and joined the assembled family in the living room. “Well,” I said, putting on a smile, “I guess this is it. Goodbye, all. It's been a pleasure.”

  Melissa wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “Please get home safe, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to call us.”

  To my delight, Megan followed suit and clutched one of my legs in a hug.

  Joseph, keys in hand, motioned to the car and took my valise. Struggling, he dragged it out front and placed it in the trunk of his sedan while I finished saying my goodbyes. “I'll let you know when I've made it home,” I promised them as I stepped through the door. “You be sure to enjoy your house now, you hear? Everything is fine, but on the off-chance that...”

  Melissa combed a hand through her dark hair, nodding. “If we notice anything strange, you'll be the first person we call.”

  The two of them waved from the porch as I joined Joseph. I dropped into the passenger seat and he pulled out of the drive. In the next moment, the house on Morgan Road was gone—a speck in the rearview.

  We made it to the station in good time, and I idled in the car awhile. “Do you need anything before I leave you, Joey?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, you've done enough already,” he laughed. “Thank you, Uncle Marcel. For everything. If not for you, I don't know what we'd have done. You gave us our house back.”

  I nodded, lips pursed. “You know,” I said a short while later, “I'm not sure I've ever told you this before. You asked me once why I had such an interest in the supernatural. I think I have your Aunt Constance to thank for this hobby of mine. You know, after she died, she reached out to me.”

  “Oh?” asked Joseph, sitting upright.

  “It's true. One night, she left me a note.” I pulled the fountain pen from my breast pocket and gave it a twirl between my fingers. “She used this pen of mine, wrote me a little something to let me know that she was still out there. Your aunt's death was unexpected; she died before her time, and without being able to say goodbye. I think that's why she stuck around in this pen of mine. Since her death, she's written me often, and her messages have brought me a lot of comfort. It was my interest in this phenomenon that really got me studying the paranormal. Though, in retrospect, I wish I hadn't been so obsessed with the mechanics behind it all. It doesn't really matter, in the end, how she was reaching out to me. Only that she was. The only thing that mattered was our bond.”

  Jospeh stared at the pen a long while. “So,” he eventually continued, “is that like the wooden bird?”

  “I think so,” was my reply. “At least, it was. She hasn't written me in days, and I'm afraid that her spirit might be gone from the thing. I left it behind while I went to Annapolis, you see, and the specters in that house had it in for her. I'm afraid that they may have upset the delicate balance we had—that her soul has finally crossed over. I suppose it's not a bad thing; I just hope she's at rest.”

  Joseph sat in thoughtful silence, staring out the windshield.

  “I'm going to go now,” I said, wiping discretely at my moist eyes. “Do me one favor, lad. Take care of your family. Look after them, cherish every moment with them. Life can be cruel. You're very fortunate to have a family that loves you. Some people—like Fiona Weiss—never know that love, and that's where real monsters come from.”

  “Will do. Thanks again, Uncle Marcel.” He reached over and shook my hand. “Travel safe, and let us know when you get back.”

  “I will.” I stepped out of the car and headed into the station.

  An hour and two cups of Starbucks' coffee later, I was on the train, bound for Buffalo Grove.

  Thirty

  It was getting dark by the time I returned home.

  It'd been a warm day in Buffalo Grove—muggy—but some coolness had stolen into the air now and heaps of grey clouds were rolling in from the west. Before long it would be pouring. The grass had exploded in length since my departure, and would need trimmed soon. I glanced to the garden as I approached, keys in hand, and found that the roses there had really begun to bloom in my absence.

  A lazy bumblebee darted away as I approached the rose bush and plucked a blossom for myself. They'd been put there by Constance six years ago, shortly before her death, and every spring I labored in my clumsy way to keep the perennials going. She'd be happy to know that her roses were still thriving, six years on.

  And I'd have liked to tell her about it.

  I stepped inside, head low, and was faced with near-perfect silence. The chittering of songbirds in the trees surrounding the property was muffled as I slammed the door shut and tossed my blazer onto an empty kitchen chair. Hauling my valise down the hall and into my bedroom, I abandoned it near the bed. My messenger bag was tossed into the chair next to the closet, along with my shoes.

  Made it back. That was the brief text message I sent Joseph before rolling up my sleeves and hunting around the kitchen for a glass. Carrying it with me to the living room, I glanced at the record on the turntable. Astrud Gilberto was still where I'd left her the night before my trip to Detroit. Starting it up, I lowered the needle and listened to the opening to “Aruanda” while plucking my decanter of scotch from the corner table.

  I plopped down into my easy chair, feet propped on the ottoman, and filled my glass to the brim. There was a light tapping against the living room window as the rain got started, and as I sat there, in the same spot, listening to the same song, drinking the same scotch, I realized that I'd picked up right where I'd left off.

  Except that now, I was alone.

  I inspected my fountain pen with a shaky hand, then set it on the side table beside me. I peered at it in my periphery, daring it to write a message, but it only sat there. So, I thought, she's really gone, then.

  I dug out the wrinkled photo of Constance I kept always in my wallet and studied it like it was the first time. Her golden hair, her sharp green eyes, her smile—this was the only way I'd be able to interact with her from now on. In memory.

  Quickly tiring of the music, I shut off the turntable and immediately stood before one of the bookshelves lining the room. I returned to my seat with a lapful of old journals and a second helping of whiskey. Opening the first in the stack, I began to read. From between the pages slipped some pressed rose petals; remnants of seasons passed.

  Marcel—How is the garden? Are the roses still in bloom? I hope that they're still growing nicely. I only worry because I know how you are with plants. Do you remember that orchid I brought to your office, years ago—the one in the vase with directions printed on a label? I'll never forget dropping off your lunch at the hospital and seeing the thing on the windowsill. You let it become a withered husk! The directions were printed on the side of the thing! I do hope you're taking more care with my flowers than you did with that poor orchid, mister! Forever yours, Constance.

  I'd written her back, Indeed they are growing! I'll have you know I'm quite the horticulturist these days. Look here! I'd placed the rose petals in the notebook for proof.

  Some pages ahead, I found another note of hers: You asked me in a previous note what it's like here, where I am. I wish I could tell you, but it's not an easy thing to describe. Suppose that you were standing in a vast, dark room. You can feel other people standing around you, but you can't see them. At least, not at first. But now and then, there are flashes, like lightning, and the whole room is lit up for a blinding instant. Sometimes they talk—most of them, though, are caught up with things that happened in life. They mumble about death, or utter seeming nonsense. I tell you, I haven't had a gratifying conversation with anyone I've met here. I
'm thankful that we can share this bond, this correspondence. Without you, my love, I don't know what I'd do...

  Another: Marcel, I'll continue writing you as long as I can. It's true that my ability to do so may be cut short at any time, but isn't that what lends life its beauty—the impermanence of it all? Don't distress over it, dear. Let's enjoy it however long it lasts. Even if I can no longer reach you, someday you'll join me on the other side and we'll be together again.

  I went to turn the page, a tear rolling down my cheek, but a sudden buzzing of the phone on the side table kept me from it. Wiping at my eyes, I traded my glass for the phone, and found a reply from Joseph waiting for me. Glad to hear it! We all miss you already. One other thing—you forgot some of your books here, in the guest room. They were stacked under the cot. You want me to box them up and ship them to you? Let me know!

  I reread the message, but was still left confused. Which books could I have left behind there—and under the cot, of all places? I was quite certain I had all of my books and other belongings with me—the valise had certainly been heavy enough on my return journey to convince me so. I rose from the easy chair, a bit unsteady for the drink, and paced down the hall towards my bedroom, intending to check my bag.

  I reached into the room for the light switch.

  My fingers stiffened and I froze before I even reached it.

  From somewhere in the darkened bedroom there came a loud, unmistakable croak.

  The thunder cracked, made the house shake from roof to floor. With it came lightning; a singularly bright jolt that tore open the sky. Through that burst of light I'd only glimpsed the inside of the room for a moment.

  But that'd been enough.

  Something was emerging from my valise. The lid of the thing flopped to one side as a figure began to slither from within it. I heard the thump of bone as it met the floor, and then an energetic scraping as it got to moving. The smell of decay filled my nostrils and drew up the booze from the well of my stomach.