TERMINAL HOUSE
a novel
AUTHOR’S NOTE – Please Read Before Buying
I’d love to be able to tell you my muse is generous and genre-consistent, but it just ain’t so. In the late eighties, she gave me a short run of horror novels, one a year for three years, letting me believe I was a horror writer in the tradition of King and his many imitators. And I was happy with that. But then she said, “Hey, you’re an anesthesiologist; why not write about a crazy one?” Sort of a horror novel, right? So I did, and Sandman was the result. Okay. Still on track.
Then the purchase of a lottery ticket overlapped a news story about a guy witnessing a car accident, but instead of helping the victims, he robbed them and left them for dead. And in a flash, Finders Keepers was born; a crime thriller, and a pretty good one. Now we’re on a whole new track—or so I believed—until she throws me Here After, another thriller, but with a subtle paranormal underpinning. So I’m like, Hey, girlfriend, a hybrid now? Come on! Readers like consistency. Don’t they? Her answer? Squall. Another thriller. Short, but also pretty good.
So I figure I’m a thriller writer now, and I’m okay with that. It’s fun. To prove me right, she gives me Last Call, a serial killer thriller. Dark, but a thriller nonetheless. So finally, my path as a writer is set.
Well…maybe not. Now she says, “Here’s a story about an old man struggling with Alzheimer’s disease. It’s set in a giant old folks home ten years in the future, and it’s about dementia, voluntary euthanasia, friendships both old and new, and it’s sad, funny, romantic, heartbreaking, and brimming with love. There’s no action, no horror (at least, not the supernatural variety), and almost none of the signature twists and turns your readers have come to expect from you. You’re going to call it Terminal House, and you’re not getting another damned thing out of me until it’s written.”
Jeez.
So that’s how we got here, folks. I’m telling you this in case you came to the novel from my previous works. Because the last thing I want is to disappoint you. If you’re looking for another thriller, this bad boy’s not for you. But if you feel like hanging out with some cool old dudes navigating the winter of their lives with wit and hope and abiding love, curl up with Terminal House and see how it makes you feel.
As for the next book? Well, I’m kinda toying with a sci-fi concept…
Sean Costello
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Books by Sean Costello
SUPERNATURAL HORROR
Eden's Eyes
The Cartoonist
Captain Quad
Sean Costello Horror Pack
THRILLERS
Finders Keepers
Sandman
Here After
Squall
Last Call
Sean Costello Thriller Pack
Visit Sean's website
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, May 30, 2028 – Ottawa
HE WAS AWARE OF the low thunder of the falls, the cool spray misting his bifocals, the slatted bench on which he sat. But, as so often happened these days, the texture of the moment seemed frayed, his place in it somehow obscure. He’d been coming to this spot at different times for most of his seventy-eight years. What seemed uncertain now was exactly which time this was.
But the day was fine, the spring air balmy, and when he felt this way—no aches or pains, vital inside his skin, almost euphoric—the specter of encroaching Alzheimer’s disease seemed much less fearsome than it did when he was rooted in the here and now. Here and now offered only the vagaries of aging: restless sleep interrupted by a grumbling prostate; the unyielding ache of arthritic joints; the subtle restrictions of life in the Eastern Ontario Center for Geriatric Care; and, in spite of the thousands of other fossils housed along with him on the thirty-acre site, a grim and abiding loneliness. Added to this was the growing certainty that in spite of a long and rich professional life, he’d missed the point. Missed it by a mile.
He shifted on the bench now, the hard slats putting his backside to sleep. When he was comfortable again, he noticed his hands. They were old man’s hands, liver-spotted and tremulous, and the sight of them startled him. When these disorienting episodes of dementia came, he was seldom an old man. Many times he was little more than a boy.
Maybe it was this place. Hog’s Back Falls, where the placid waters of the Rideau River slid under a low bridge to cascade into a rocky gorge. From the time he’d been old enough to make the trip on his own, the falls had been the place he’d come to contemplate life.
He smiled now, remembering other times that had little to do with reflection. Necking in the moonlight. Oh, yeah. His girl saying, “Benjamin Hunter, what is that in your pocket?” Playful. Or standing on the spur of rock overlooking the deepest part of the gorge, trying to summon the courage to leap through twenty feet of thin air into the churn of mist and whitewater at the base of the falls. The kids called it The Funnel, a reputedly bottomless chasm with downward-spiraling currents you had to swim like hell against if you wanted to live to tell about it. He never had found the guts.
Slipping deeper into his disease, Ben recalled another trip to the falls, this one decades ago with his pal Ed Quinn—but had it really been all those years ago? Or was it happening now, in this oddly skewed moment? Because he could smell the Brylcreem on Quinn now, gobs of it plastering the guy’s ginger locks to his skull…gangly, awkward Quinn, with his Coke-bottle glasses, teenage wisp of moustache, and that perpetual glint of mischief in his eyes. They’d biked here from Hillcrest High on their lunch break, thinking they might ditch the rest of the day. History and phys-ed this afternoon, sheer torture, and it was such a beautiful day, spring coming early this year.
Leave it to Quinn to screw things up.
Now Ben heard himself say, “Quinn, you mental case,” and he turned away, in the hope that ignoring the wildman would make him stop. He’d only taken his eyes off the guy for a second, and now Quinn was hanging out there on the wrong side of the fence bordering the gorge, gloved fingers clutching the chain-link, feet dangling over The Funnel, the water beneath him freezing on this sunny May afternoon. Christ, there were chunks of ice the size of suitcases tumbling past down there.
Ben said, “C’mon, man, let’s head back,” and turned to see the fingers of Quinn’s fleece-lined gloves still gripping the chain-link—only Quinn was no longer in them. Quinn was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, shit.”
Ben sprinted to the end of the fence, pivoted out onto the crumbly ledge and saw his friend down there, clutching the slippery rock-face, the current dragging him under—
“Doctor Hunter, there you are.”
Squinting against the sun, Ben looked up into a tiny woman’s face. A familiar face, smiling down at him the way a teacher might smile at an errant grade-schooler. Somehow, he knew Quinn was going to make it—but still, he had to get to him. He said, “Sister Mary Grace, call an ambulance,” and watched the woman’s expression turn to one of patient understanding.
“Daydreaming again, Ben?”
He shifted his gaze to the fence. No gloves in the chain-link. Different fence. A cluster of high-rise condos where the Shell station used to be. He’d called the ambulance from there himself…
Ben closed his eyes, past and present swapping places in his mind, the sensation akin to being trapped inside a revolving door for a few brisk rotations before stumbling out on the other side.
Looking again at the woman’s face, Ben said, “Yeah, Sister, I guess I was.” He smiled, trying to mask his bewilderment. “What can I do for you?”
The nun tapped her wristwatch. “Your speech, Ben. Your speech. It’s in ten minutes. I’ve been all o
ver the grounds looking for you. And you with no coat. You’re going to catch your death out here.”
“Right, my speech.” As one of the Geriatric Center’s founding fathers, now a resident, he’d been asked to say a few words at today’s twenty-fifth anniversary celebration.
“Come on,” the nun said, reaching for his hand. “I’ll help you up.”
Ben Hunter got to his feet, letting the nun help him, his knees popping in protest.
How long had he been sitting out here?
Christ, the speech. He hadn’t even prepared one. That explained the suit he was wearing, at least.
He glanced over the edge into the roiling falls, flashing again on Quinn, The Funnel swallowing him whole. The son of a bitch had made it out on his own, in spite of Ben’s reckless attempts to save him, bobbing up a half-mile downstream with ice in his hair and downy moustache, clinging to a sapling on the flooded bank. Three busted ribs, his glasses, shoes, socks, jean jacket, watch and wallet all gone. Crazy bastard. A couple of guys from a road crew had hauled him up the embankment with a rope.
That had been sixty years ago.
Yet the smell of Brylcreem still lingered in his nostrils.
God help me.
Ben shivered, out of his sheltered niche now, the wind cutting through him in spite of the end-of-May sunshine. That, at least, felt real.
“Come on,” the sister said. “If we hustle we can just make it.”
* * *
By the time they reached the gated entrance to the Geriatric Center, a hike of about a hundred yards across manicured grounds, Ben had begun to feel more limber, and he shrugged off the nun’s supporting grip on his arm.
No matter how many times he viewed the Center from this vantage, he always felt a sense of pride: the lavish admin building in the foreground, with its pillared portico and reflective glass façade; the adjoining twin high-rise condos, reserved for clients capable of independent living; the acute- and chronic-care hospitals, just visible through a stand of budding maples; and beyond that, the Euthanasia Foundation. In his younger days as medical director of the original site—the gloomy husk of the old St. Joseph’s Hospital in the city’s south end—he’d lobbied hard for the gorgeous tract of riverside land upon which the Center now stood. It had been a heated battle, one he’d come within an ace of losing to a billionaire developer planning to bulldoze it flat and turn it into a shopping mall. He’d called in a ton of favors to help make this place a reality. And whatever regrets he might be harboring now about the way he’d spent his adult life, his role in the creation of the Eastern Ontario Center for Geriatric Care was not among them.
Sister Mary Grace took his arm again. “Come on, Ben,” she said. “You’re on in two minutes.”
* * *
Clifford Hicks, CEO of the Center, was just finishing up, mouthing platitudes to the attending heavyweights, cordoned off from the rest in a corral of red-velvet rope at the front of the auditorium: the Prime Minister and his entourage; the mayor and her gang; the big-money sponsors, lounging up there with support staff hovering, topping up their refreshments; the press in a cluster outside the rope.
In a changing world, Ben thought, feeling lucid now and more than a little irritated, some things never change.
Sister Mary Grace tugged him along the left-hand aisle, past curving rows of plush burgundy seats, occupied now by residents able to attend. No support staff here, save a few near the back, assisting those confined to wheelchairs. No refreshments, either.
Hicks, CEO for the past fourteen years and a man Ben quietly despised, glanced his way as he climbed onstage and took a seat next to a fellow speaker. The men had locked horns from the outset: Ben, in his role as Medical Director, feeling Hicks was wrong for the job, more interested in politics than sound patient care; and Hicks, a gifted manipulator, hamstringing Ben’s every innovation with cries of cost, cost, cost. The lobby alone, uncountable thousands’ worth of brass, marble, and stainless steel, could have financed Ben’s most extravagant treatment notions a dozen times over. He could still hear the man’s stock justification for streaming funds away from medical development: “When families bring their loved ones here, Doctor Hunter, they need to see this kind of opulence, this kind of confidence.”
Ben said, “My ass,” and the woman seated next to him bugged her eyes, saying, “Pardon me?”
Ben tried to shape a reply, but for once Hicks saved him, looking his way now with that shit-eating grin on his face, saying his name into the microphone.
“—introduce Doctor Benjamin Hunter, former Medical Director, now a proud resident of the grand facility he helped pioneer. I asked Ben to say a few words today because I could think of no one better qualified to add such a sweeping perspective to our ongoing efforts here at the Center, both from a historic point of view and, more recently, as an actual client.” Hicks extended an open hand. “Doctor Hunter?”
With a quick prayer for steadiness, Ben took the podium. Applause chattered through the large gathering, one white head popping up and shouting, “Ben-ji.”
Ben chuckled, saying, “Sit down, Quinn, you old jackass. I was just thinking about you.”
As he waited for the audience to settle, he noticed the big anniversary banner at the back of the auditorium: 2003-2028. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OF CARING FOR OUR ELDERLY.
“God save us,” Ben said into a silence that might have lasted longer than he realized. “A quarter century already.” He glanced at the crowd, as if seeing it for the first time. “But my, what a quarter century it’s been.
“Two-thousand-three. Year of the gene. The entire human genome mapped and sequenced. The lid on a huge can of worms. Human cloning. Genetically engineered embryos—designer babies. Sex reduced to the status of recreation.”
“What’s wrong with that?” some old guy hollered, getting a few laughs.
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it,” Ben said. “Look at the array of drugs we have now to keep the lead in our pencils.” Behind him, the CEO cleared his throat, a sharp, intrusive sound. “And if the drugs don’t cut it, look at the work the Japanese are doing with tissue preparations. Ten years from now, we’ll all be able to grow a new one, like a salamander’s tail. And chances are, most of us’ll still be around to see that day. Have a look at our life expectancies: forty-seven in the year nineteen-hundred; seventy-six at the turn of the century; now, it’s nothing to be spooning up Pablum at age one hundred.”
“Don’t get me started on the menu around here,” someone shouted—sounded like Quinn again—and a few more laughs tinkled through the big room.
Ben said, “I remember reading an article back in the nineties that predicted the doubling of the elderly population by the year twenty-twenty-five. That informed forecast fell shy by twenty-three percent. We baby boomers turned out to be a tenacious lot. The article also predicted that in the same time period, the number of people suffering from dementia would rise from four million to eight million in the U.S. alone. Enter broad-spectrum anti-aggregates in twenty-seventeen—Alzheimer’s all but vanquished in a single stroke, a half-dozen variants of the disease thrown in for good measure.”
Quinn again: “And we’ve got you to thank for that, Doc.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true now is it, Ed,” Ben said. “I was only one member of a very large team.” The irony was, he couldn’t take the drug himself. He was deadly allergic.
A few photographers swept into the orchestra pit now, flash-glares blinding Ben for a moment. When his vision cleared, he said, “And what about cancer? The great and fearsome slayer of the twentieth century, on the ropes in the twenty-first. Matrix metaloproteinase inhibitors, anti-cancer vaccines, anti-angiogenic factors, the p53 gene. All gifts of the past decade.
“And the new stuff coming down the pike every month? Pure science fiction twenty-five years ago. Nanotechnology, neural stem cells, brain transplants less than a decade away—though I prefer to think of that particular notion as a body transplant
.
“But here’s the rub, folks. We are deep in the maze of technology now, a maze from which there is no longer any escape. We passed that point five years ago with the extinction of the manta ray and the decimation of the Great Barrier Reef. Egress blocked by progress. Fortunately for us ‘clients’”—he glanced at the CEO, tipping him a wry wink—“most of the benefits fall to us, the residents of this fine institution. Here we live in a modern, self-sustaining community. We want for nothing—apart, perhaps, from any sense of individuality or personal freedom. We have the drugs—” He heard his friend Vince Wilder out there, saying, “Right on, Doc,” but chose to ignore him. Hicks was on his feet now, approaching the podium. “We have the malls and the restaurants, the physiotherapy clinics and the bike paths, the rec center and the greenhouses, and a couple of modern hospitals should we fall ill. And when it all becomes too much for us, as it sometimes will, we have the Euthanasia Foundation, something I helped realize and design. My baby, if you will. As a physician, I saw it as an answer to the kind of suffering that has no other answer, save the whims of the gods. Today, as a member of this great community of the aged, I see it in much the same light.” He glanced at Hicks, crowding the podium now, and said, “It’s the administration of the thing I—”
Hicks made a slicing gesture and the mic went dead, the rest of Ben’s sentence “—take issue with,” reaching only Hicks’s ears. Nudging Ben aside, the CEO bent to the mic and said, “I hate to interrupt,” into a live feed. “But we really must press on. Thank you, Doctor Hunter, for that insightful overview.”
Now Ben was being led offstage, shielded from the press by silent men clad in black, ushered into a back hall, the door slammed shut behind him.
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