Wayward Souls: The Sequel to Beckoning Souls (A Psychological Thriller)

by J. R. Tate

  “Starting to wonder what, Dad?”

  “If I am sane, Russ.” He whispers and keeps his eyes downcast.

  “If this was all in your head, why am I seeing this shit too?”

  Looking up, he rakes his hand through his hair and doesn’t answer right off. We stare at each other for a few seconds and he finally breaks the silence. “Maybe you’ve heard me talk about it so much that you think you’re seeing it. The imagination can conjure up some crazy shit, Rusty.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He can’t be giving up. “You’re not crazy, Dad. It’s not my imagination, and it’s certainly not a chemical imbalance in your head making you see what you’ve experienced.” Leaning against the wall, I take note that it’s well after midnight. “Prove it to the department. Fight to get your life back.”

  “How in the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “I guess we start helping these souls. One step at a time, right?”

  For the first time this evening, my dad actually cracks a smile. “When did you get so motivated?”

  “When they started threatening to kill you. I lost mom. I refuse to lose you too.”

  Standing, he clamps his hand down on my shoulder and laughs. “Well hell, Russ. Let’s get to work. We’ve got a long road ahead and not much time to work with.”

  ***

  Nathan

  I’m not even sure where to begin. The pond seems to be the place where they speak to me the most, so I grab a hoodie from the closet, though it’s not the least bit cold outside. I want something where I can cover my face if they attack, and also, if someone spots me. It’s black, so I can run into the trees if I need to.

  Rusty moves toward the door, ready to go with me, but I hold my hand up, stopping him.

  “Stay here just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

  “Just in case you see something. Or if someone stops by. Or…” I bite my bottom lip, pausing before I say something I’ll regret.

  “Or what, Dad?”

  I try to find the right words, but there aren’t any. “Or if they are out to kill us, it’s best to stay split up. We can’t let them have it that easy.”

  “Dad, they’re ghosts. They can pretty much defy everything. If they want us dead at the same time, don’t you think they can do it with no problem?”

  There are days when I can’t stand Rusty’s smart ass attitude, but tonight I’m glad to have it around. It breaks up the intensity of our current situation, and grounds me in an otherwise unrealistic realm we are encountering.

  “Touché. If I’m not back in an hour, come check on me. But keep an eye on the front of the house. There’s no telling when a caseworker will show. They don’t work on an eight to five schedule.”

  Rusty nods. “Be careful. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Russ.”

  I hurry out the back door and jog through the open meadow and I’m paranoid as hell. The night sky is eerie and if watching out for the ghosts was bad enough, I’m also having to look over my shoulder for the men in white coats to carry me off to the funny farm.

  Edging onto the wobbly dock, I stand in the center to level it out. It rocks in the water, sending ripples out into the middle. The waves clap against the wood and for a moment, I enjoy the serenity of it all. The fog is there, as expected, almost as if it never goes away. Swirling a stick in the water, I see a swarm of snakes swim around it, ready to hop on their prey. I’m lucky one didn’t bite me when I was thrown in. At least that went right for me.

  Of course, when I want the ghosts to come out, nothing happens. I step off of the dock and walk around the perimeter of the pond. I’ve never really measured the distance, but it’s a good size, and at least now, I’m on stable ground. I can’t fall back in the water and have them think I tried to kill myself again, or this time, be attacked by the snakes.

  I sit down on the edge of the water, stick still in hand. Something flies by my ear and I assume it’s a bat – not too many birds fly at night. It flies by again and I feel the whoosh of air swipe the side of my head. Ducking, I watch the swarm fly up in the sky, their silhouette outlined by the moon.

  “Nathan, help me.”

  I turn toward the voice, but nothing is there. It’s not Rose’s voice, but that of a man. A sound I haven’t heard yet, and I stand, swiping the dust from my pants as I squint into the fog.

  “Who’s there?” I ask it loudly and it echoes. The trees begin to blow in the breeze that suddenly picks up out of nowhere. I check to see if there is a storm coming, but the night sky is clear.

  “My name is James.”

  Still, there is nothing there, but the voice is clear. His name is James. Why is that familiar to me? I step closer to the water and get as far as possible without touching it, hoping maybe he’ll appear for me and give me a better vantage point. James. I try and reach in the recesses of my brain and figure out who James could be.

  “James who?”

  No response. It is quiet again, and I wonder if he has left.

  “James, I do want to help you. I’m here to help you, but you have to talk to me. You have to let me know what you need.” To this day, I still feel awkward talking to the ghosts. Though I know this is happening and I’m not talking to the wind, it still seems strange. If someone saw this, there’s no doubt I’d be headed back to the padded room.

  And then it hits me – James Dawson, father to Lenora Dawson. Her grave isn’t far from where I’m standing.

  “Are you here about your daughter?” I’m not sure what will set him off, but I need to get some rise out of him to get him to come back. “You’re James Dawson, right?”

  It almost seems unrealistic, but something becomes visible in the middle of the fog. It’s blurry at first, but it’s the outline of a man. I wait, not saying anything as he practically rises from the mist. It feels like some scary music should be playing, or some dramatic effect in the background like what happens in a really corny horror movie. I can finally see him clearly, and he’s hovering just above the surface of the pond. His clothes are old and faded – donning brown knickers and a matching coat, he’s definitely not dressed in today’s style.

  “James Dawson?” I ask again.

  He nods. “Yes, I’m James Dawson.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. I still don’t know what he wants, but at least I feel like I’m making some headway. “Nathan Gallagher.” It’s redundant, but what I’m trained to do when I meet someone new, even if he is dead.

  He floats above the water, getting closer, and my gut instinct is to run in the opposite direction. But I stand my ground. Leaving now would send the wrong impression, and physically, I don’t know how much more I can take. And I won’t allow anything to happen to Rusty.

  “How do you know about my daughter?” He’s close to me now – close enough to hurt me if he wants.

  “Her grave is back that way.” I point in the direction of her headstone, visible now that the grass has been cut back. James glances toward it, but it’s so dark out that the only way we’d see it is if we were right on it.

  “Take me to it.”

  I walk toward it, glancing back after a few steps to make sure he’s following me. I can’t even explain what it feels like to have a ghost right behind you, following your stride. It’s enough to make the hair on my neck to stand up – to make my pulse race so fast that I can literally see it pumping in my wrist. I don’t know what this man is capable of. Rose wasn’t evil in real life, but whatever entity has taken her over in death has made her into something I don’t even know. What if James is that way too?

  It feels like the grave is farther than I thought, and I fear I missed it somehow. But just as I think that, I see it a few yards away, pointing at it again.

  “It’s right here.”

  He stands over it for a moment, staring down at the weathered stone. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking – It pains me to even look at him. Los
ing Rose has been hard enough. I can’t imagine how it would feel to lose a child. We stand in silence for what seems like an eternity. The cool wind blows through my hair and I glance up at the moon – it’s got a silver ring around it, and though I’m not a man who believes in signs, I want to take this as something good.

  “Mr. Dawson, why are you here? What is it that you’re needing?” What better way of getting something done than cutting right to the chase?

  He doesn’t look up from the grave. His gaze stays on it and he doesn’t even move. Does he realize I’m still here, attempting to connect with him? I don’t want to ruin his moment. Anything could set him off and then Rusty and I are dead men. But if I leave, he might also construe that I’m not interested, and again, Rusty and I are dead men.

  More silence. More staring down at the ground. What in the hell am I supposed to do? The ghosts before were more reactive. I’ve never dealt with someone from the past. Taking a deep breath, I look up at the moon again, and this time, storm clouds are forming. Lightning crackles, striking from one cloud to another, followed by enormous rumbles of thunder that are deafening. If I don’t take cover soon, I might get struck.

  “Mr. Dawson, please. I want to help you.”

  Finally, he slowly turns to face me, and the wind is blowing so hard that I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear him speak. His eyes are cold and dark, his gaze forlorn. He opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates.

  “I’m here for you. Please, talk to me.” I feel a few drops of rain hit my skin, and it’s cold.

  “I did not commit suicide. Help me figure out what happened.”

  Finally, a turning point. Stepping closer, I hold my hand out. I’m not sure what I’m doing, as my body seems to have been taken over by a higher power, but I roll with it. I can relate to him, being accused of suicide when you know damn well you’re not capable of taking your own life, no matter how hard the grief may be.

  “What do you remember, Mr. Dawson?” I have nothing to go on. I hope to God he has some shred of information that can at least get me pointed in the right direction.

  “I was terribly sad about Lenora. So was my wife. They took me to a lunatic asylum. I lost my soul. I lost my identity.”

  The term lunatic asylum strikes a nerve with me, possibly because the term isn’t used anymore, despite the fact that being mentally ill is so taboo.

  “You were put in a hospital?”

  He nods and glances back at the grave, kneeling right beside the headstone. Placing his hand on it, he ducks his head, his shoulders shaking as he cries. My heart aches for the man. Lenora’s death ruined his life and he’s been wandering around the earth for closure.

  “They took me away. I never saw my wife again. I am not even sure when or how I died. I just know they said I took my own life, and all of this time, I’ve been trying to prove I haven’t.”

  I’m still not sure how I am supposed to help him. If he wants to prove his death happened some other way, is there even anyone left alive that knows about his stay? Mental health records are locked up tight, and did they even keep the ones from back then? Though I’m making headway, this still seems to be getting even more complicated, but I can’t let him know that.

  “What asylum? Where did you go?”

  He looks at me again, stoic, unmoving, and his expression is so sharp that I fear the question has sent him over the edge. “I do not remember. That is where I need you, Nathan Gallagher. That is where I need you.”

  He begins to fade, just like they always seem to right when I need them the most. “No, don’t go! I need more from you!”

  It’s a failed attempt. I blink and he’s gone, leaving me standing over Lenora’s grave alone. The storm that was brewing just minutes ago has dissipated, and the night sky is clear. I’m not even sure what time it is, and with morning coming fast, I have to get in the house and hide in case someone shows up on my doorstep to take me away like Mr. Dawson, never to be heard from or seen again.

  Rusty is looking out of the back window when I come through the door, the tension easing when he sees me.

  “Dad? What happened? It’s getting close to an hour. I was about to come look for you.”

  I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and chug it as I sit at the kitchen table. I’m trying to process it all so I can put it into words. “Lenora Dawson’s father is needing my help.”

  Rusty sits across from me but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m not sure if we are in a better position or not.” I go over everything with him and he immediately heads to the computer, pulling up Google.

  Following him, I watch over his shoulder. The Internet is a blessing, but I am not so sure anything from that long ago will even pop up. Records back then weren’t kept as well as they are now. Just like Mr. Dawson put it, they were thrown inside and never mentioned again.

  “I’m going to do a search for asylums in the area from then,” Rusty says, typing away. “I’ve also tried to do some more looking for Dr. Clint, but not getting any results we can use.”

  I pull up a chair and wait, making note that it’s almost six AM. With the sun coming up, I’ll be limited in what I can do. I know I should try and sleep – it’s been damn near twenty-four hours since I have, but I’m almost scared to.

  “Holy shit, Dad. Read this.” He swivels the monitor where I can see it better.

  “Ruthardt Lunatic Asylum, established in Eighteen Eighty Five, once housed insane people from the area. The hospital was renamed in Nineteen Fifty Five, to Sunset Canyon State Hospital,” I read aloud, stopping myself when I see the connection. “Do you think?”

  Rusty shrugs. “I don’t know, but there’s a lot of stuff about it. People reporting mysterious deaths. Lots of people getting mistreated. Even when they switched to Sunset Canyon. Even recently.”

  My heart begins to race. To think that I was there with the bloody history. Of course, psychology is such a young science and most people know how mentally ill were treated. To this day, the view is clouded.

  I go on to read more, but the doorbell rings, pulling me from my concentration. Heat overtakes me and just as expected, someone is showing up at a random time to check up on me. Or it could be Hershel. But not going to go to the front door and find out. I don’t even want Rusty to.

  “Stay here. Maybe they’ll go away,” I whisper, both of us staying as still as possible.

  The doorbell rings again, followed by four loud knocks. “Open up! I’m with the state mental health authority and I’m here with a sheriff’s deputy. We are here to do a well check on Nathan Gallagher!”

  I feel like I’m going to vomit. I’ve got to find a place to hide, or they’ll knock the door in. Crouching down, I try to think fast. I can’t go out to the pond – that’s where they think I tried to kill myself the first time and they’ll go looking there. I’m not sure how thorough they’ll check the house, but I remember the crawl space near the attic door upstairs. No one would want to go up inside there, so it’s the best place I can think of. I stay low, hurrying up the stairs. I hope Rusty can keep a straight face. He’s handling it better than me, and I trust him.

  Climbing up the very narrow staircase, I crawl into the cramped space, which probably served as storage. It’s musty and there are cobwebs that tickle me, and I try hard not to think about the spiders and things that might be around. Closing the door, I try to control my breathing. This is a pretty damn good hiding spot – at least, I hope it is.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rusty

  I wipe my sweaty palms on the side of my pants and try to make myself look like I just woke up. Swiping my hands through my hair, I’m glad I’m already in sweats to give off even more of an appearance of having to climb out of bed to answer the door. This is where they’re going to find out that I’m alone and a minor. I hope they don’t sweep me off to some foster home.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door and a woman and a cop are standing right outside. Both of them are flashing me th
eir identification, and I make sure to glance over each one before I even think to speak to them. I wish I knew the law better. Can I refuse for them to come in? Can I tell them they need a warrant, or does this work differently?

  “My name is Carla and I’m with the state mental health authority,” she says, glancing toward the cop and back at me.

  “I know who you’re with. Can you tell me why you’re here this early in the morning? You woke me up.”

  “Is Nathan Gallagher your father?”

  I look at the cop who still has yet to say anything. He just stares at me, like he thinks if he does that he’ll intimidate me.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Carla closes her wallet and puts in her bag, smiling, though she isn’t amused. “I want to know. What is your name?”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you that,” I reply. “You need to leave.”

  “I need to make sure that Mr. Gallagher is okay. This is his address listed on his driver’s license he left behind when he ran from the hospital.”

  “We are all free to refuse care, lady.” I hope they can’t tell that I’m nervous. I feel like I’m hiding it well, but to them, I’m probably appearing like a dumb kid.

  “Not when you’re in custody for mental health purposes. And Nathan, who I presume is your father, was.”

  “And why was he?” I spat back, trying to keep on my toes.

  “We have reason to believe that he tried to kill himself. You’re the one who found him at the pond, right? I have a Rusty Gallagher down on the report, and you fit the age and description. We aren’t here to hurt him. We want to make sure he receives the care he needs.”

  There is something about this woman that makes me want to slam the door in her face. It’s not because of what she does or who she’s with. It’s her tone, her facial expression toward me, and the fact that she thinks my dad wanted to off himself.

  “That’s a harsh assumption of him. He’d never kill himself or even think about it.”