Help for the Haunted: A Novel

by John Searles

  My mother kept quiet, looking down at the ground. The only sound was Abigail doing that thing on the pavement with her bruised toes.

  “You, Mrs. Mason. She told me about you and your husband. Only she didn’t say your names right away, so I didn’t realize. She said she had read of a certain couple and the things they’d been able to do. She suggested that this couple might be able to help my Abigail too. That’s when she pulled out a clipping from the newspaper, and I looked down to see a photo—your photo—and I read about all the things you’ve done since I last saw you.”

  “I see,” my mother told him. “Listen, Mr. Lynch, I don’t want to be one more person who adds to your disappointment, so I need to be up front. As I told you on the phone, I cannot guarantee I’ll be of any help. My husband and I don’t claim to have any sort of magic powers. When it comes down to it, our only method is prayer in its most simple and basic form. It’s all I have to offer. And that said, your daughter is a minor. I can’t have you leaving her here and disappearing on us.”

  “I’m not disappearing. I’ll be back. Of course, I’ll be back. But you and your husband are good people. At the very least, I know my Abigail will be safe here with you. And I can use a day, two days, three—however long it takes, to get myself together and calm my nerves before I do something I—”

  When he stopped abruptly, I expected my mother to prod, but she allowed the silence to do the job. She waited—we both did—watching him look down at those heavy shoes once more. When he lifted his head and spoke next, his voice crept close to tears. “It’s been so hard. This life. You have no idea. Or maybe you do. But there are times when I’m afraid I’ll lose my patience. Afraid that, despite my good intentions and faith in our good Lord Jesus Christ and the love in my heart for my daughter, I might snap and do something I’ll regret.”

  In the distance, we heard a car motoring along the main road. All of us, except Abigail, looked to see a red convertible with flashy hubcaps moving closer. At the sight of Lynch’s grimy van pulled to the side, emergency flashers blinking away, the driver slowed to get a glimpse of us there before speeding off.

  When the convertible was gone, I made up my mind to put an end to this situation before things went any further. “Sorry for your troubles, sir,” I began. “We really are. But you will have to come up with another plan. You can’t leave your daughter here.”

  Considering how unusual that sort of bluntness was coming from me, it sounded pretty convincing—that’s what I thought anyway, before Lynch fixed his gaze on me with such intensity, it was as though he was realizing for the first time that my mother had family who might interfere with his needs. A smile—so slight, so awkward, I was not quite certain that’s even what it was at first—formed on his thin lips. I had the feeling he might start laughing at the things I’d said.

  “Sylvie,” my mother said. “It’s okay.”

  “But—”

  She reached over, put a hand on my arm, and squeezed, while keeping her gaze on Albert Lynch. “I can try to help your girl,” she told him. “But I must inform you that I’ve not been feeling my best the last month. And these things—well, they take focus. They take energy from me. Still, I can try.”

  That not-quite-a-smile turned into something more full-fledged when Lynch heard what my mother was saying. After another rush of thank you’s, he turned toward the van and wasted no time gathering up rumpled clothes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, sneakers, books. I stood watching, having a hard time imagining his daughter brushing her teeth or hair or wearing sneakers, never mind reading.

  When Lynch turned to carry the pile toward us, something that had been swept up inside dropped out of the bottom. My mother and I watched it fall to the pavement and skid toward the front tire. In his excitement, Lynch must not have noticed, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to hold out a garbage bag so he could stuff his daughter’s things inside.

  “She likes this book,” he said, showing us a copy of something called Legends of Faith. “Or she used to like it. When she was younger, I read it to her. Sometimes, I still do, in hopes that it will bring back memories of happier times.”

  “Mr. Lynch?” my mother said.

  “And now that she’s up and out, I should warn you that it might appear as though things are relatively fine with her. That’s how it goes. For weeks at a stretch things seem almost normal. But just when you get comfortable, that’s when—”

  “Mr. Lynch?” my mother repeated.

  This time, he stopped talking and looked at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  My mother did not answer. She didn’t have to; his gaze trailed hers, mine too, to where a small black pistol with a blunt silver nose lay not far from the front tire. I watched Lynch’s hands begin to tremble as he shoved the last of his daughter’s things in the bag, then he walked quickly to the van and scooped up the gun.

  “Please,” he said, once it was stashed inside beneath the driver’s seat. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m a good Christian. A man of faith. But for a lot of complicated reasons, my daughter and me—we live our lives on the road. That means sleeping in campgrounds. Rest stops. People out there, they’re not always as nice as you. I learned that the hard way. I’ve never used this gun. Never plan to. It’s just to scare people when the situation calls for it.”

  “Well, you’re scaring me plenty right now,” my mother told him. “No matter what your reasons, you shouldn’t be so careless about where you store that pistol.”

  In the tone of a scolded child, he told her, “I’m sorry, ma’am. And you’re right. I won’t be so careless anymore.”

  “Well, okay then. Now that that’s out of the way, why don’t we agree that you will call in a few days and we can see how things are with your daughter. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good to me. And thank you one more time. I may not look like it, but I do have access to a little money when I need it. So I can pay something in return. Or if there’s something else I can do, let me know, and I’ll find a way to give it to you.”

  In response to that offer, my mother said nothing. It was not like her to discuss a fee for the things they did, that much I knew. So she just waited; I did too, watching Albert Lynch climb back into his van. He flicked off the emergency flashers, rolled down the window, and called out, “Abigail, I know you can hear me. I’m going to leave you for a bit, but I’ll be back. My hope, my prayer, is that your time here will help you get better.”

  If the girl heard him, she gave no sign. She stood behind my mother’s back still, though turned around now, looking down our street riddled with those gaping foundations like a mouth full of cavities. Albert gave up waiting for any response, or maybe he never expected one. Either way, he offered us a last wave, less hesitant than any previous, before pulling away from the curb. As he vanished in the same direction as that red convertible, my mother took the bag of Abigail’s belongings from me. Without a word, we began the walk home. The slow, careful way she moved made me realize that my mother must have felt fatigue washing over her again.

  In those early moments inside our house, Abigail did not seem so much a person with “something in her” as she did a houseguest, albeit an awkward one. She moved slowly around the living room, peering too closely at the clock, the cross, and the books imprisoned behind the glass of the curio hutch. She leaned in to study the grade-school portraits of Rose and me for so long, it felt as though she was touching them in some way, putting her fingerprints all over the frames.

  “What exactly is wrong with her?” I asked my mother, since she seemed different from the only other haunted person I’d encountered in our house, that man at the kitchen table in the middle of the night years before.

  I had followed her to the washroom, where she emptied the bag of Abigail’s belongings and inspected the broken zippers, torn hems, and tattered material. In a tired voice, she told me, “You don’t have to be a part of this, Sylvie. Once I get her cleaned up and fed, I’ll get her settled in the partit
ioned area that your father finally just about finished. In the meantime, you can go to your room and read or even go to the living room and watch TV for a change.”

  She seemed so weary that I couldn’t help but want to be of some use to her. “Here, Mom. Let me get this laundry going while you help her settle in.”

  My mother debated the idea, then put down Abigail’s clothes and went to a cabinet by the dryer. She pulled out a gift box with a torn scrap of Nativity wrapping paper taped to one side. Since my sister wore sweats to bed and walked around the house barefoot until the soles of her feet turned gray, I was never sure why my parents bothered getting her certain gifts. Now, my mother took out an unworn nightgown and slippers they’d given Rose the previous Christmas. She held up the gown, and it unfurled like a pale spirit before her. She carried that spirit, those slippers, from the room.

  A Grand Canyon T-shirt. A Mount Rushmore T-Shirt. A Jesus Loves Me T-Shirt. From where I stood feeding all those frayed shirts into the machine, I could hear my mother and Abigail in the kitchen. My mother offered her food but got no response. My mother offered her a shower but got no response to that, either. At last, she must have managed to convince the girl to wash her hands and face, because I heard water running in the sink for some time. I poured a double dose of detergent into the machine as I heard my mother say, “There we go, Abigail. That’s better—for the time being anyway. Now, I imagine you must be tired. Am I right?” The girl must have nodded, because after a pause my mother said, “I thought so. And you know what? I’m tired too. So let’s get you settled downstairs. We can say some prayers, read a bit of scripture, then I think I’ll head to bed early myself.”

  I cranked the knobs on the washer, realizing my mother and I would not be having any of the fun she promised earlier. Considering the way things had been lately, I should not have been disappointed, but I was. I didn’t have time to really get upset, though; no sooner had I lowered the lid and the machine started thrashing away than a crash came from the kitchen, followed by the sounds of a shrill yelp, furniture toppling, and dishes smashing. I hurried to the kitchen to find my mother holding open the basement door, the light we’d left on glowing below. The table had been shoved into the center of the room. The chairs where my parents normally sat had been knocked over. A fat strip of peeling blue wallpaper stripped from the wall.

  “What happened?” I asked my mother.

  She shut the basement door, looked down at that wallpaper book on the floor. It had fallen open to a pattern I recognized by now—The Tiniest Hearts. “I wanted to take her downstairs but she shook her head. I told her it would be fine and held out my hand. But as soon as we reached the top step, she pulled back so suddenly and with such force that our hands came apart and she fell into those chairs. She grabbed for something and caught that wallpaper, which peeled right along with her as she fell to the floor.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Once more, my mother told me I didn’t need to be a part of what was happening. But I ignored her. She picked up Rose’s nightgown and slippers, and we roamed the house. I expected to come upon Abigail tucked in the back of a closet or behind a hamper or beneath a desk, burrowed away like an animal in hiding. Instead, when my mother and I reached Rose’s doorway, we spotted her inside, slipped beneath the covers, eyes closed, as though she had been asleep for hours.

  More to herself than me, my mother said, “I can’t have this.”

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  She did not answer right away. Instead, we lingered in the doorway, watching Abigail. I thought of the story her father had told about the Sisters, those hunched old women who took his money but did nothing to help beyond pointing him to my mother and father. After so much false promise, no wonder the girl did not trust anyone to lead her into an unfamiliar basement.

  My mother must have been thinking the same thing, because as I watched, she entered the room, reached out, and made a sign of the cross on the girl’s forehead again and again. It went on long enough that I looked away, staring at my sister’s globe and giving it a spin the way she used to do, planting my finger down on random locations: Hong Kong. Ontario. Bombay. I wondered if Rose had arrived at Saint Julia’s by then. Maybe she’d even checked into her room and begun making friends with other girls there, realizing already that it was the best place for her after all.

  “I don’t like the idea,” my mother said to me in a hushed voice when she was done making crosses. “But we could leave her here for just tonight. Do you feel comfortable with that, Sylvie?”

  I lifted my gaze from the globe and looked at Abigail asleep in Rose’s bed. “For now, I guess it would be okay.”

  “When your father gets home, he can help us make other arrangements.” She stood, leaving that white gown Rose had never bothered with at the foot of the bed, those slippers on the floor. My mother joined me in the hallway and was about to close the door when we heard something from inside the room: a voice, worn as those tattered clothes in the washer, saying, “Thank you.”

  My mother and I looked at each other to be sure we had actually heard it. And then, through the small crack in the door, my mother spoke gently, telling her, “You are welcome, Abigail Lynch.”

  Chapter 19

  Candles

  In the dark beneath that scratchy wool blanket, the station wagon’s wheels turning beneath me, it became difficult to keep track of time. Had an hour passed? Or only twenty minutes? The woman turned on the radio, and an announcer’s voice filled the chilly air inside the car. His was a syrupy, southern drawl I recognized as one my father sometimes tuned into when we were driving. The preacher spoke of things I’d heard him say before: that the end was near, that the listeners better hurry up and get right with God. Normally, there was a menacing edge to the sermons but tonight even he sounded tired of it, rattling off the scripture as if it was old news, which in every possible way, it was.

  The woman at the wheel must have grown bored too, because she turned off the radio without warning. I wondered if we were getting close to our destination, but then the car picked up speed and I felt us climbing upward, heard the whir of cars and trucks passing. We were merging onto a highway, and I realized I’d slipped into the backseat without considering that Delaware license plate on her car.

  When I couldn’t bear the darkness a second longer, I peeked from beneath the blanket. Above me, headlights from passing vehicles shape-shifted on the ceiling. I lifted my head just enough to make out the driver’s hair yanked into a tight bun. I wanted a better look, but didn’t dare risk her catching sight of me. Instead, I did my best to read the dozens of road signs we moved beneath, though it was impossible to see more than a blur. Beside me lay a few Tupperware containers, like so many she brought to our house, only these were empty.

  After what felt like ages, the station wagon finally slowed. I heard the clicking of the turn signal, and we moved off the highway, stopping a few seconds before picking up again at a slower speed. Once more, the woman began to hum that same hackneyed tune as we made a series of rights and lefts. I tried to memorize the order in case I needed to follow the path in reverse when finding my way back home, but after too many, I lost track. And then we made one final turn before the car came to a stop—her humming stopped too.

  In the silence that followed, I worried she might hear me breathing. I slipped back beneath the blanket, pressing my face to the floor and feeling the sand and grit there against my cheeks. When I heard the woman gather her purse from the front seat, I realized she might also want the containers next to me. She opened the door and got out while I bit down on my lip, bracing myself again to be discovered. But then came only the sound of her footsteps clicking away.

  A moment later, I poked my head out and was considering sliding back over the seats when a car rolled up and parked directly behind the station wagon. A police car, I saw when I turned. I ducked and listened as the officer got out and slammed the door,
his footsteps heavier than hers.

  “Where were you?” a male voice asked.

  “Errands.” The woman’s voice, like her humming, sounded full of false cheer.

  “More errands?”

  “Yes. You know, post office, grocery store.”

  “Where are the bags?”

  “Bags?”

  “The grocery bags.”

  “Oh. Well, I just stopped to see if they had more of those potpies you like. The turkey ones. I had a coupon. But they were all out. I swear the stores do that just to get you in the door, figuring you’ll buy something at full price instead. Not me. I turned around and walked right out of there.”

  Things were quiet, and I considered lifting my head to look around again, but waited to be certain they’d gone.

  “What’s the matter?” the woman asked at last.

  “Why do you think something is the matter?”

  “The way you’re staring at me right now. Like you’re angry, Nick. Either that or I’ve got food in my teeth.” She laughed, but if he did, I couldn’t hear it over the shhhh.

  “I’m just hungry is all. Bad day. Very bad day.”

  “Sergeant again?”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t make out before saying, “Let’s just eat. Then I’m going back down there and talking some sense into that jackass.”

  A door opened and banged shut, and the voices disappeared. Still, I lingered beneath the blanket in case they returned. When I lifted my head finally, the world came into view in pieces. There was that police car with the gumball lights on top. There was the front lawn, or not a lawn really, but a strip of crushed shells with a small plastic windmill spinning away in the center. There was the house, tall and narrow, white with black shutters, the roof full of peaks and dips—the sort of place I remembered from nights trick-or-treating in my parents’ old neighborhood. Except this must have been near the ocean: I could smell salt in the air, hear the faint sound of waves crashing.