Fallen Stones

by Thomas M. Malafarina

  Besides, in Armstrong’s opinion, it was not as if he were hiring anyone who would provide shoddy workmanship by any means, as all of his clients were top-notch contractors. But if one were to press him or were for example, to threaten to sever his finger or hand in order to get to the truth; and if they were then to ask him who the best candidates for the various positions truly were, there were only a few of his clients who could have hoped to have met those qualifications.

  As the project progressed during the previous year, Armstrong noticed a dramatic and continually declining physical and mental transformation in Emerson Washburn. As the months passed, the man began to lose a great deal of weight, eventually shrinking down to less than half his original size. In the weeks preceding his suicide, Washburn's clothing had hung limply on his bony frame. The man had seemed to have aged by decades; his once coal black head of thick hair had grayed, thinned and actually seemed to have fallen out in places. His formerly charming and charismatic smile had turned into what appeared to be a permanent scowl.

  Armstrong was shocked to see Washburn had actually lost several of his teeth as well. He was beginning to resemble a victim of radiation poisoning during his last days on earth. That same shadow of a man, over a month in his grave, or some twisted and perverse incarnation of what was once that man, now stood across the room from Armstrong. However, the unimaginable being now appeared more like some nightmarish creature from the warped mind of a deranged horror fiction writer.

  The thing, which was how Armstrong thought of him, appeared to be above average height, yet was noticeably stooped as if its skeleton could not support the weight of its empty withered skin. Flesh hung from its shadowed naked form like deflated balloons. Between glimpses in the darkness, Armstrong thought he saw a dark empty spot where the man’s genitalia had once been.

  The lawyer was perfectly aware of the horrible ending Washburn had apparently chosen for himself. Armstrong recalled the self-mutilation, which Washburn had so gruesomely carried out, the slashing of his wrist, the V-shaped furrows carved in his chest, the severing of his ear and finally the removal of his own genitals. Armstrong would never be able to forget that repugnant sight.

  He had been the person called to the scene by Ashton police Chief Max Seiler Jr. to officially identify and claim the body. He recalled how as he stared down into the crimson, blood-soaked bath water, Armstrong had no idea how the man could have inflicted such incredible damage upon himself. Mason had almost passed out when he saw Washburn’s severed penis bobbing along the top of the ruby tub water.

  The lawyer recalled how Seiler, a veteran police officer nearing retirement, had blanched white at the unimaginable carnage. Seiler was a tall muscular man who was no stranger to horrifying scenes of human disaster. He was a second generation Ashton police chief, his father Max Seiler Sr. having been chief during the 1950's through the mid 1980's. Max Jr.'s son, Max III was a member of the Ashton force destined to succeed his father someday, carrying on the Seiler dynasty.

  Seiler had seen many horrifying sights during his tenure on the force, but none as mentally challenging as the sight of Washburn's decimated remains. Although he had heard stories of worse atrocities from his father he had never been seen anything so horrible in his career. Seiler’ father had told him of an incident, which happened back in 1965, outside of an abandoned coalmine, the Coogan Coal Mine on the northern outskirts of Ashton. A young boy had apparently been attacked and disemboweled by some sort of wild animal while he and his friends were playing near the mine.

  Rumors began to spread about an old local legend of a soul-sucking demon living in the mine. The legend said the demon was a 19th century coal miner who had become trapped and sold his soul to Satan for a chance to escape. Apparently, the great deceiver had tricked the man and transformed him into a demon. The monster had to remain in the mine until he collected the souls of ninety-nine victims. Of course many people blamed the demon on the boy's death, but a conclusive answer was never determined as the mine collapsed the next day and was never reopened.

  Seiler had asked his father once about the incident, but the man refused to speak of it. That particular scene haunted Seiler's father until the day he died. Armstrong suspected the incident with Washburn would be Max Seiler Jr.'s equivalent.

  Armstrong looked at the horrifying creature, now standing far across the main office from him. The thing's chest appeared to have become shrunken and still bore the marred V-shaped gashes occasionally visible in partial, shadowy glimpses. Armstrong remembered from one of his previous encounters with the spirit how the thing's mottled flesh had folded downward from the savagely ripped incisions in flaps, loose and shredded, and how from deep inside each of the ghastly tears worms and larvae seemed to crawl freely. He hoped against hope that he would not be forced to see so much grizzly detail this time. He prayed the beast would stay back in the shadows.

  He had no idea what the insects inhabiting the ghost actually were. He was quite certain they were not creatures of this world, as they only slightly resembled any insects he had ever seen; enough of a likeness that he was able to think of them as insectile in nature. Although Washburn was now some type of non-corpulent being, Armstrong assumed perhaps on the other side, in that unimaginable hellish world where Washburn now resided, his body must have taken on some strange new form.

  It seemed logical that if such an alternate manifestation of the man existed in such a bizarre world then it would also stand to reason other strange creatures, similar but different than those in our world, would likewise exist over there as well. And just as such similar creatures find their way into open festering wounds on this side; those particular things must have been able to do something quite similar on the other side.

  He recalled how in some past encounters with Washburn, some of the disgusting creeping maggot-like things occasionally would drop from the specter's open wounds, falling to the carpet where they would writhe as if in agony for a few moments before they simply flattened out then vanished in a puff of foul smelling smoke. Apparently, the creatures from that world beyond the grave could survive in this world only as long as they stayed attached to Washburn. However, once they contacted the physical aspects of this world, they simply could not survive. The lawyer noticed how Washburn's shriveled and blackened feet never actually touched the carpet but floated an inch or so above it. Armstrong began to wonder if perhaps this small tidbit of information would come in handy at some time in the future. He had always believed knowledge was power, so he tucked it away for reference, although he had no idea when or if he would ever find an opportunity to use it.

  Now Armstrong could clearly see the creature’s face, which was a mask of slashes and its left ear was missing, as he remembered it had been. From within the gaping hole where once Washburn's ear had hung, a long worm-like thing emerged as if sniffing the air. Then the disgusting creature retreated, squirming back inside of the specter's skull.

  As far as Armstrong could recall, this was the sixth time he had been confronted by the specter of his deceased client, but its inexplicable sight still nonetheless revolted him; not to mention the foul and disgusting odor, which accompanied its countenance. Trailing in its wake was a horrible smell, which only such a vile undead creature could bring with it; a reek, which Mason recognized as the very stench of the grave.

  Armstrong recalled now how on the night of the suicide Washburn had called him to the house feigning some sort of emergency. He had always assumed that the man had made the call just moments before he decided to begin butchering himself, but now after many, post mortem encounters with the fiend, he realized he likely had made the call after he was already dead.

  A month ago, Armstrong would have never believed such a thing possible; now he only wished it were not. It had taken a good deal of acting for the lawyer to convince Max Seiler that the chief's call to him had been the first Armstrong had heard of Washburn's death. In reality, after receiving Washburn's call he had hurried to the house and
seen the carnage in the tub, but had fled the scene without taking any action.

  Then he had made an anonymous call from a local pay phone to the police department. This had resulted in Chief Seiler hastening to the scene and eventually calling Armstrong, knowing the lawyer was handling Washburn's affairs. He had a feeling Chief Seiler had suspected him of being the person who had made the call, but the chief continued his pretext of ignorance during the entire investigation. Eventually, Seiler had no alternative but to declare the gruesome scene a suicide, although he had no idea what form of psychosis would drive a man to butcher himself so savagely.

  Now back in Armstrong's office, the creature took one apprehensive and unsteady floating, twitching air-step after another like a newborn calf unsure of its footing. Armstrong was certain he could hear the thing's bones rattling against one another as the dreadful ghost-thing slowly made its way across the room. Then before it came into the light of the desk lamp it stopped, much to Armstrong's relief, as he did not want to have a better look at the ungodly hell-born demon.

  It raised its right bony hand, pointing a long skeletal finger directly at Armstrong. Something appeared to move on its finger and Armstrong's stomach turned with revolution when he realized some sort of worm or maggot-like creature was crawling along the length of the gnarled and twisted digit.

  Then speaking in a distorted multi-octave voice, the likes of which the lawyer had never previously imagined the creature said, "I've been monitoring your progress, Armstrong, and I see you have done exactly what I instructed you to do. Very good. Very good indeed... They are coming... She is coming...and so it can once again be as it was...good work, my minion...congratulations; you have earned yourself some additional time on this planet. Death will not be claiming you this day."

  Armstrong sat silently, not wanting to even acknowledge the presence of the hideous specter. As the Washburn-thing hovered in and out of clarity in the dark shadows, Armstrong could see glimpses of its sagging flesh shining with some sort of thick slimy gelatinous fluid, which reminded him of transparent coagulated snot and it gave the creature a slick, wet appearance.

  The lawyer suddenly realized with revulsion the countless worms and maggoty insects, which crawled freely in and out of the creature's festering wounds, must be leaving the disgusting snail trails as a slick medium to help them move about with ease. The very thought made him want to vomit.

  "Don't bother trying to ignore me, Mason," Washburn said to the lawyer's downcast head. "You are wasting both your time and mine…But since I have an eternity…of damnation ahead of me, my time is meaningless…However, your time is still precious…perhaps more so than you realize." Armstrong slowly lifted his eyes trying to avoid looking directly at the creature's jaws, which seemed to move in a way resembling those of a grinning hideous death's head. "Now…did you take care of that little problem…from last evening?"

  The ghost was referring to the fiery death of Jack Moran the previous evening. "Um...yes..." Armstrong said reluctantly. "I spoke with chief of police Seiler, and he has decided to rule the death a suicide. For now, Moran's charred corpse has been listed as a 'John Doe'. The car had been reported stolen and even if they somehow were able to identify Moran's blackened remains, they would simply find that he was an ex-con, and they would never be able to tie him or his death to your property. I told Seiler since your estate was my responsibility, I would take care of cleaning up the site of the...the incident.

  "Chief Seiler had a local towing company remove the car from the scene and today I had a landscaper out to the property, trimming the trees by the side of the road, smoothing the gravel and basically erasing all signs of trouble. As I am sure you already are aware, I went back into the house and cleaned up the mess Moran had made in your former bedroom, putting everything back in order. I replaced the broken jewelry box with a new one, and I returned its contents to their proper place. That is to say, all except for Moran's severed finger. That particular item will never be found. So rest assured; when the Wright family arrives at the farm tomorrow for their tour, they will not notice a single thing out of place."

  "They...had better not," the demanding specter moaned. "I’m relying on you...to make sure they fall completely in love...with the property...so they can't wait...to take possession…You must also be sure...to explain the contingencies of the will...so they understand they have little choice...but to move into the estate...as soon as possible."

  Armstrong replied with a somewhat haughty tone, "I would make certain of that whether or not you were involved in the process. I am a lawyer after all; it is my legal and professional responsibility to make sure the Wrights have a thorough understanding of all the stipulations of your last will and testament. My integrity should never come under question."

  The specter ignored the comment and replied from the shadows, "Just make sure...that you do, Armstrong...because I will be watching... and more importantly...they will be watching as well...And the only reason you are still alive and walking the earth...is because they still need you and your services... The day that particular need ceases to exist...so too will you... And the fate they likely have in mind for you...might make my agonizing death... seem like a pleasurable experience... However...if you keep them satisfied...with your performance...then great wealth and power could be yours...for the rest of your miserable earth-bound life... and I know how very important...that is to you."

  The ghost began to float back toward the mirror and soon seemed to dissolve back into the glass. Just before the rippling, shimmering surface became still and the foul sulfurous stench began to slowly dissipate, Armstrong heard Washburn say one last thing, "Understand this, Armstrong...you don't ever want to let us down."

  The lawyer sat at his desk with his head downcast, his hands trembling, his lower lip quivering, trying desperately not to burst into tears. He wished he had never met Emerson Washburn or taken him on as a client. He cursed himself for his own pitiful greed. He may have made a great deal of money from Washburn while he was alive, but now he was an unwilling servant to the awful spirit, or whatever the man had become since returning from the grave.

  Armstrong thought back to all the money he had essentially stolen from Washburn by hiring his handpicked preferred contractors to do the work on Washburn's renovations and how he had falsified records skimming even more money from the gangster. He also recalled how the sicker and more demented Washburn became, the more he stole from the man. Now Armstrong realized he was not as clever as he had thought and was paying the ultimate price for his treachery. He was essentially dead Washburn's slave in the world of the living.

  And he knew Washburn was not the only creature involved in this unholy alliance. The specter often spoke of "we" and "us" when discussing Armstrong's potential fate. As a result, Armstrong suspected there might be a sordid collection of dead spirits involved in the events taking place.

  The lawyer had always justified his stealing from Washburn as something which was not wrong since Washburn, himself was actually a criminal. He constantly told himself that stealing from a thief was not actually stealing. Unfortunately, he refused to acknowledge that in the eyes of God, or morality in general or the cosmos, stealing was still stealing, regardless of the circumstances or trumped up justifications. He therefore eventually began to fear he might have crossed a line somewhere, and when his time to die finally did come, the universe might see fit so he too might be destined to become one of the same type of ungodly creatures, Washburn had become.

  He also suspected that as bad as Washburn might have been in life and was still now in death, he might not be the worst of the worst. Armstrong was quite certain Washburn was not the top dog in this cadre of demons, but was simply another servant in some twisted unholy pecking order of the undead. This thought did little to ease his internal anguish since he suspected, when his time came to cross over, he would be at the bottom of that same food chain and would in turn be subjected to every torture Hell could imagine. But it was muc
h too late to consider such a fate any longer; too much damage to his soul had already been done. His only chance for at least a temporary reprieve from such a fate was to say alive and find some way out of his predicament.

  Chapter 8

  When Jason walked into the bedroom, he could hear water running in the master bath as well as Sammy giggling and splashing merrily. Sammy was one of those kids who absolutely loved being in the tub. Before Sammy was born, Jason had all but forgotten how much fun it was bathing little ones and how much they enjoyed the splashing and playing. He still thought of Sammy as a baby even though at almost eighteen months old most people would consider him a toddler. He and Stephanie both assumed Sammy would be their last, although they still had not done anything in the realm of surgery to prevent any surprise pregnancies. Nor were they using any form of birth control. They just both had an unspoken feeling or perhaps knowledge there would be no more; as if they knew instinctively. As a result, neither of them was in a hurry to have the little fellow grow up and wanted to enjoy his being a baby for as long as they possibly could.

  "Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!" Sammy shouted as he slapped the surface of the tub trying to make the bubbles multiply as his father had taught him. Jason could smell the sweet, fresh scent of whatever bubble soap Stephanie had added to the water. It seemed that no matter how many years passed by every time he smelled bubble soap; it always seemed to bring back memories of his own childhood.

  Stephanie quickly wet, shampooed and rinsed Sammy's dark brown hair then let him sit for a while in the shallow water while she stood and stretched out a kink in her back, which resulted from being bent over for too long. Then she hugged Jason and said, "Oh, honey, there is so much for us to think about."

  "I realize that, baby. But I think we really should let all of this go until tomorrow," Jason replied. "Tonight we need to get a good night sleep, and I have just what the doctor ordered. Here you go, sweetie." He handed her the elliptical blue nighttime pain pill. "This should help you sleep like a baby and wake up with a clear head."