Fallen Stones

by Thomas M. Malafarina

  On several occasions as a young boy, Washburn would catch his mother or father discussing something in hushed voices, wearing looks of disapproval. He might hear the occasional snippet of a phrase or the occasional word such as, “mother”, “father” or even words like “tragic” and “horrendous” and he knew they were speaking about his mother’s parents. His mother always got a look of anger, or perhaps hatred whenever they spoke this way, as if to suggest she despised her mother.

  This often served to confuse young Washburn as he had also heard that his grandparents had died when his mother was only about two years old. He couldn’t comprehend how she could have such hatred for someone she never really knew and certainly could not recall.

  Washburn’s young imagination often went wild with ideas trying to determine what his grandparents may have done to warrant such a family shunning. As soon as his parents would see him trying to eavesdrop, they would immediately cease their conversation and order him to go outside and play with his brother. They had no intention of allowing him to learn the mysterious family secret.

  Then years later, after Washburn had grown to be a man and had found his way into a life of crime, he often wondered if he had chosen the lifestyle because of some genetic predisposition. He often wondered what sort of evil his grandparents had perpetrated, which was so vile as to have their very names banished from all family discussions? As a child he often thought he would give anything to learn the horrible family secret, but now that he did know everything, he wished to God he did not.

  Growing up he often thought about what he heard adults refer to as “bad blood”. Later when he had broken all ties with his immediate family, having been branded a “black sheep”, he became more certain than ever that he had chosen a life of crime because he had been born for it. Whatever “bad blood” had coursed through his grandparents veins must obviously run through his own.

  Since then he had spent many years building his criminal empire, dealing in virtually every known vice modern man could desire, from stolen goods to drugs to prostitution. Although his activities were considered evil in the eyes of society, they felt perfectly right and normal to him. For Washburn, it was as if the idea of right and wrong had no meaning. His parents had tried to instill in both himself and Nathan what society considered proper values. The concepts seemed to stick when it came to Nathan, but Washburn couldn’t quite come to grips with them.

  As he lie soaking in the tub, Washburn recalled the life-changing event which made him cast aside his life of crime and which brought him home. As if ordained by fate, many years earlier during one of his “business trips” to Pennsylvania, Berks County to be specific, something happened that spurred him not only to suddenly become interested in his heritage but also to eventually have it become an obsession for him. While staying in the area around the city of Reading, he read a story in the local newspaper about the tragic death of a couple in a car accident. A drunk driver had plowed into the couple's vehicle head-on as they were driving home from a movie.

  To Washburn's surprise, the names of the couple, which seemed to scream out at him from the first paragraph of the story, were those of his estranged brother Nathan and his wife, Mary. Washburn had not spoken with either of them in many years and despite their lack of closeness, he felt a deep sadness, knowing he could very well be alone in the world, since he had never married and had no children of his own.

  Perhaps he was simply overcome with a bit of melancholy that might have accompanied growing older without either a wife or children, he didn't know, but the feeling was quite disheartening. That particular event had sparked what would grow through the years to become an obsession with learning about his ancestors. The death of his brother and wife was likely also the catalyst for him to leave his life of crime, eventually retire and then hire a private investigator to search for any possible living relatives many years later.

  As a recent unforeseen result of that investigation, he had learned a little over a year earlier about the existence of the farmette and its availability for purchase. It was when he discovered the property had originally been his ancestors' family homestead, he immediately decided to buy it; on the spot, sight unseen. This was not how Emerson Washburn normally conducted his business, but the idea seemed so right that he did so without forethought. It had been over ten years since he had first read about the death of his brother.

  Washburn had purchased the property from a holding company, which had bought it many years earlier. The farmhouse and out buildings had been abandoned and unused for over thirty years and had been allowed to fall into disrepair. The buildings were uninhabitable shells, which appeared to have been vandalized over the years. The original Livingston farm had been much larger, hundreds of acres but through the years, parcels of land had been sold off, reducing it to a forty-acre farmette. Prior to the holding company taking possession the property had hands many times with residents never staying more than a few months and Washburn now understood the reason why. No wonder the former residents had fled leaving the structures to fall to ruin.

  Washburn suddenly felt a slight prickling sensation at the back of his neck and knew from previous experience what was about to happen. He reached down over the side of the huge tub and allowed the document he was holding to fall to the floor with a slap, echoing loudly in the silent empty chamber. The cover of the document read “Last Will and Testament of Emerson Charles Washburn”.

  As he slowly returned to a sitting position in the tub he noticed a familiar change occurring to the wall-sized mirror located directly in front of him; a change he had seen many times before, but one which nonetheless always brought a disturbing sensation, which radiated to the very core of his soul. The mirrored glass seemed to slowly shimmer at first, and then begin to ripple like it was liquid in composition and as if someone had dropped a pebble into it. Then the ripples began to work outward in ever growing concentric circles. Washburn smelled a recognizable foul and dank odor like that of rotting vegetation and decomposing long-dead animals. During his lifetime, Washburn's illegal business dealings had required he dispose of more than his share of dead bodies and as such, he knew well the stench of decomposition.

  The candles surrounding the tub started to flicker as if a breeze had suddenly blown across them. Within a few seconds, the image of a man gradually took shape in the undulating glass surface and Washburn knew the time he had anticipated with dread had finally arrived.

  From inside the liquefied glass, the visage of a man slowly emerged. He was dressed in the type of clothing an early twentieth century gentleman of wealth would have worn. His form was translucent and his movements appeared jerky and irregular as if he was but the projection of a man. The creature moved with the same spastic motion one would see if watching an old silent movie, filmed with an obsolete and possibly damaged camera, using substandard film. However, Washburn knew the likeness, which had visited him many times before was not an illusion but was actually the spirit of his long-dead grandfather Dwight Charles Livingston, somehow made manifest. The ghost was tall and thin, perhaps gaunt would be a better description and appeared to be in his early thirties with dark brown hair and stylish mustache. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried a cane or walking stick with what appeared to be an ivory handle fashioned in the shape of an animal’s head, a wolf. Washburn had seen a similar cane in a large portrait of Dwight and Marie Livingston, which he had professionally restored and which currently hung in the living room of the main farmhouse.

  One site he could never fail to notice, but always wished he did not have to endure, was the long gash sliced across the specter's throat. It was like a giant gaping toothless mouth of tattered flesh hanging in a flap across the wretched creature's neck. Several times Washburn thought he had seen some sort of insects, perhaps worms or maggots crawling about inside the cavernous slash.

  Over the past year, Washburn had been haunted and tormented relentlessly by the specter, ever since the start of the restoration.
In fact, he had first seen the image shortly after discovering the straight razor, which now lay on the floor next to the tub. Since then he had been forced against his ever-weakening will to do whatever the spirit commanded. In fact, the reason Washburn had been in that very room, soaking in the tub that very night was because he was carrying out a set of specific instructions the tormenting specter had ordered him to complete.

  Many months earlier, he had manage to resist the spirit's commandments, but after countless hours of relentless torment, sleep deprivation, weight loss and declining health, he found he had to either bend to the will of his long-dead grandfather or be driven mad by the ghost's taunting. Now, since what he hoped would be the creature's final demand had been met, Washburn prayed the spirit would be satisfied, would return to whatever corner of Hell it had arisen from and would leave him at peace.

  Washburn often wondered why he simply hadn't just cut his losses and run away early on in the conflict, rather than staying and continuing to fight a losing battle against the specter at the sacrifice of his fortune and his health. But such was not his way. Anyone who knew Emerson Washburn understood the man would never give up a fight until he or his adversary were either unconscious or dead. Like the legendary John Henry battling against modern mechanization, Washburn never gave in to an enemy.

  But there was more to his remaining on the property than simple stubbornness and willpower. Unknown to Washburn, there was force controlling his destiny, which was keeping him in the game, and making him believe it was all his own idea. He was being controlled and manipulated at a point far below the flesh, far below even the cellular level. His very soul was lost and was being controlled not just by the ghost of his grandfather but by another spirit in the house; that of his grandmother, Marie. They had set into motion a plan, which had to be carried out at the exact time and place of their designation and which would not only affect him, but also another unsuspecting group of Livingston decedents.

  The apparition looming before him had a face a white as chalk, and its blood red eyes were sunken deep into dark-rimmed sockets. If Washburn had looked at his own sickly reflection in the surrounding mirrors, he would have been shocked at how his countenance was almost as deplorable as the long dead being before him. The creature’s once fine garments were soiled and smelled as musty as a tomb. What must have once been the man's white linen shirt now hung askew was yellowed and covered with blood and filth. Washburn knew the reason the specter appeared to be much younger than Washburn’s own sixty-three years, was because of the couple’s early death.

  Washburn sat stock still in the rapidly chilling bath water, feeling especially vulnerable in his nakedness. He was having second thoughts about reading the agreement from the confines of the tub, even though the spirit had demanded it. Then again it was not as if he had either a choice or the willpower any longer to oppose the specter's orders. After months of anguish, he knew it was futile to resist the commands of his tormenter. He started to wonder if perhaps he actually was losing his mind or if he might have already gone mad several months earlier. He no longer understood his own actions, nor could he seem to be able to control them.

  The image began to emerge from the mirror, slowly floating through the air, finally hovering near the document, which rested on the marble floor. With a wave of its ghostly hand, the pages of the document quickly flipped open, and turned rapidly until the thing found what it was looking for. It stared down at the document on the floor for a moment and a look of satisfaction spread over its withered dead face. It had seen what it needed to see; the circle finally was about to be closed. What had happened before was destined to happen once again, and he would see to it.

  Washburn had not taken his eyes off of the specter and with caution said “Dwight… Grandfather… I… I have done… what you requested… I have named her as my heir… the one you said... will you now please go and leave me be?” The creature did not speak but simply floated and stared blankly at the man.

  Washburn asked once again, “What more can you possibly want from me? I have done as you ordered... I always do what you wish …I have left all of my property, all of my money and all of my earthly possessions to a niece I have never even met... isn’t that what you requested? Isn't that enough? Please, I beg of you... I am a sick and tormented soul... Go now and leave me in peace.”

  But the image did not fade, did not leave nor did it melt back into the glass as Washburn had hoped against all hope. Instead, it stared silently at Washburn. It did not speak, nor did it convey any message through its typical mysterious telepathic means, which it had used on previous occasion. Instead it simply stood and stared expressionlessly at Washburn, as if uncertain of, or deciding what its next move would be.

  No, Washburn did not quite believe that to be true. He knew the creature had a plan; it always had a plan, and Washburn was certain the ghost was moving events in the direction necessary to carry out that specific plan. This time surely the situation would be no different although he feared it might not end well for him.

  Then the translucent image began to dissolve before Washburn's eyes, breaking down into a mass of millions of tiny glowing, sparkling particles. It had never done any such transformation in his presence before. The sight transfixed Washburn. A moment later, the cloud of luminous white iridescent specks floated over toward Washburn and surrounded his head like a throng of flying insects. Next the collection began to grip tightly against his skull and slowly absorbed themselves through his pores, into his body. Washburn sat motionless in the tub, his eyes glazing over as if in a trance. He was clearly no longer in control of his actions. Then like a mindless robot, he slowly reached his right arm down over the side of the tub, grasping the handle of the straight razor firmly.

  Sitting upright in the bathtub, Washburn, or the creature that now inhabited his body, looked down at the blade of the razor, glimmering in the candlelight. Then he took special notice to the blood red candle wax dripping down the sides of the bathtub and a sly smile appeared on his lips. Calmly looking down at his chest, the man methodically began cutting a series of diagonal wounds into his flesh, making a number of “V” shapes. The point of each "V" was located where the two diagonal lines met at the center of his chest. Washburn neither flinched nor cried out in pain even though he felt the burning, sizzling agony as if every nerve ending in his body was explode. Instead, he sat calmly as the blood streamed down from one "V" to the next like thick, muddy water running over a terraced hillside, before it began to turn the bathwater a hideous shade of crimson. He looked upward, seeming somewhat strangely amused at how the newly sliced furrows in his chest matched the patterns of the wood surrounding the walls of his spa.

  Next, he made a series of incisions across his face, his forehead and cheeks before reaching up and slicing off his left ear, which fell into the water with a moist sickening plopping sound. He then made a number of deep incisions across his left arm and wrist allowing the arm to hang limply in the bloody water. As the spirit felt Washburn's body becoming weak with blood loss, the phantom reached down into the water where it systematically began to hack at Washburn’s testicals and penis, castrating them from his body, allowing them to float almost comically in the ruby water like some sick, perverse bath toys.

  The glowing mass of glittering elements slowly left Washburn's body and within a few seconds, the specter was once again standing next to the tub looking down at the bloody carnage it had left behind. The ghost, which had once been Dwight Livingston, floated calmly toward the mirror wall and once again was quickly absorbed into whatever horrible world existed beyond the glass.

  Washburn’s eyes suddenly opened, filled with shock, pain and terror upon the realization of the irreparable damage, which had been inflicted on his now dying body. Too weak to help himself, unable to move, the ravaged man moaned and cried with agony as the last of his lifeblood flowed into the tub.

  Seconds before his body finally shut down, he noticed something or someone watching him
from one of the other mirror walls. It appeared to be the image of two young boys, their faces hovering in the glass. Washburn could see no bodies, just floating faces. Although he had never seen the pair before, they looked familiar to Washburn. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of he and his younger brother Nathan as little boys. The one boy looked to be about six years old while the other was perhaps a year or two younger. Then, because of the extensive research he had conducted he suddenly realized who they were.

  The two did not seem to have the same sort of evil countenance as the spirit of Dwight Livingston, but instead appeared to be filled with sorrow. There was an almost angelic aura about the pair as they watched with a look of grief as the last few moments of Emerson Washburn's life fade from his mutilated body. Soon the image faded from his sight as did all vision.

  Washburn lie dead in the bloody cauldron his head tilted to the right against the back of the tub, his right arm dangling limply over the over side of the tub, resembling the familiar pose in the famous painting "The Death Of Marat" by Jacques-Louis David. The bloody straight razor had fallen to the floor and the tips of his fingers rested against the face of his cell phone, which lay near his last will and testament. Suddenly the phone sprang to life and began automatically dialing a number. After a series of rings, a man's deep voice answered. After several minutes in which the faint echoes of a conversation could be barely heard, the phone went dead.

  As Washburn's spirit left his body, it was quickly pulled as if by some unseen magnetic force into the still undulating glass. Then the surface of the mirror returned to its normal appearance, and the room was once again silent. Inside the mirror, the emaciated, naked genital-less image of Emerson Washburn appeared looking distraught, beaten, tormented; yet sadly accepting of his fate.

  The floating faces of the two young boys looked on from the adjacent mirror wall as they slowly shook their heads as if in sad resignation. A sudden cold wind swept through the room as all of the candles were extinguished and the room was plummeted into total darkness. A slight glow appeared at the center of the wall of mirrors and wild maniacal laughter echoed through the pitch-black space.