The Dark Above

by Jeremy Finley

  The narrow road opened out to a vast clearing, still surrounded by the same sprawling trees. If it weren’t for their massive trunks, it would be difficult to see where one ended and the other began.

  In the midst of the yard was a house; a mansion, to be more accurate. Antebellum in design, sweeping white pillars with upper and lower porches. Bright pink azalea bushes spread across the front.

  “Where are we?” William asked.

  “Right now,” Rudd said, taking out his pistol and engaging the safety button, “the only safe place in the world.”

  They pulled up to the front, keeping the engine running.

  “Last stop,” the driver said.

  Rudd reached over and gave him a hearty handshake. “Thank you, my friend. I know this wasn’t what you expected when we needed a ride out of Memphis.”

  “Just doing my part for the cause. Give Miss Blue my best.”

  As Rudd slid out and opened the back seat passenger door, motioning for William, Lily, and Quincy to exit, the driver turned around.

  “You keep little miss safe, you hear?”

  William nodded. As soon as they stepped out and the door was closed, the SUV pulled away. They watched it leave the clearing and disappear on the shadowy road.

  “If I took off running, how long would it be until an alligator ate me?” Quincy asked.

  “Feel free to try and find out.” Rudd began to climb the stairs to the house.

  “What are we doing here,” William asked. “Where are we?”

  “Where she told us to bring you.”

  “She? Who is she?” Quincy asked.

  Nanna? She couldn’t be here. Could she?

  “My grandmother? Is she here?” William asked.

  “Your grandmother?” Quincy whispered, keeping pace with Lily. “Really? Here?”

  When Rudd didn’t respond, William shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know.”

  They entered the front doors into a hallway with a stairwell surrounded on both sides by murals depicting peacocks and other birds nestled in billowing bushes and trees. A tall, stately grandfather clock stood guard next to a writing desk.

  Rudd marched past it all to approach the two men standing by another set of double doors. Both wore pistols in holsters at their waists.

  “She’s on the porch,” one of them said.

  “It’s too hot right now for her out there, even with the fans on,” Rudd said.

  “Go ’head and try to convince her of that,” the other responded, opening the doors.

  They followed Rudd onto a sprawling back porch. Boston ferns sat in urns overlooking a carefully manicured lawn with a reflecting pool. The sound of waves echoed in the distance.

  Observing it all was a woman sitting in a domed rattan chair. Beside her was a wheelchair, with a file resting in the seat. She turned to them as they stepped out.

  William swallowed his disappointment. It never made sense that his grandmother would be here, that she was behind all of it. But there was a part of him that had hoped at the end of this bloody and frantic journey, she would be there to somehow make sense of it all.

  The woman was, without a doubt, the oldest person he had ever seen. The hand she reached out to Rudd was small and frail, her cotton-white hair was pulled up in a tight bun. Thin glasses sat on her tiny nose.

  Even as Rudd knelt before her, she did not take her eyes off William.

  “You lived,” she said to Rudd, her eyes remaining fixed. Even at a distance, William could see they were a deep shade of blue.

  “Barely,” Rudd said, holding her hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, at last looking to Rudd. “About Kevin and Neve. I know better than anyone what the Suits are capable of doing.”

  “They knew the risks, just like all of us do.”

  “Still…” She paused, looking at his singed arm. “You all must be exhausted. Rudd, make sure that burn isn’t serious. You know where we keep the first aid kit. The rest of you, we’ll have food brought up to you. We’ve laid out clothes for you in your rooms. All except for Mr. Chance. I need to speak with him.”

  “Actually, I need to hear this too,” Quincy said. “I need some goddamn answers—”

  “Show some respect.” The men from the doors moved in closer behind them.

  “Respect to who? Where the hell are we? Who the hell are you people?” Quincy asked.

  “Mr. Martin is right to ask,” the woman said. “You may have come to find William to make money, sir, but it has led you on a dangerous path, one you now cannot veer from.”

  “I’m the only driver on my path, Ancient One,” Quincy said. “You can’t keep us here.”

  “Show Mr. Martin to our finest accommodations,” she said.

  Quincy was practically spun around into the house. With a slight shove, he was inside, the sound of his complaints echoing from the hallway.

  “Rudd, you can’t risk infection.”

  “I’m fine, Miss Blue.”

  “Just go make sure that wound is clean. Come right back. When William and I are done here, I’ll need a full debriefing from you.”

  Rudd nodded and went to leave, holding out his hand to Lily. “I bet you’re hungry.” Lily shook her head and clung to William.

  “I figured as much. She never leaves his side,” Rudd said.

  “That’s just fine,” the woman said, her eyes crinkling at the girl. “Miss Lily, you are welcome to stay if you’d like.”

  The remaining guard brought forth two chairs and sat them before the woman. He then walked away and, crossing his arms across his burly chest, leaned on a pillar on the far end of the porch.

  As William and Lily sat, the woman clasped her hands on her lap.

  “I am sorry for what you’ve both been through.”

  William leaned forward. “Once you tell us what you can, you need to let us go.”

  “I wish I could, sweet boy. Well, you aren’t a boy anymore, are you? I know your family wants to know you’re alright. And pretty girl, I wish I knew of anywhere safe to send you. But there is nowhere safe now, for either of you.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.”

  She sat up surprisingly straight for someone of her age. “Everyone here calls me Blue. My eyes are the only thing about me that hasn’t dulled. Tell me, William, how much did your grandmother tell you about the Researchers? Did she ever mention a group called the Corcillium?”

  “My grandmother never spoke of her work. I only know what I’ve read; that they researched unexplained disappearances.”

  “She was smart not to tell you. She wanted to protect you. She’s a…” Blue’s voice trembled for a moment. “She’s a good girl, your grandmother.”

  “So you’re one of them, then? Rudd said it was my grandmother who summoned him and the others to find me. Are you taking orders from her?”

  She took a deep breath. “We claim her as one of us, even though she only communicates with one of our members. The Corcillium wanted her to join us, but she refused. She trusted no one. I certainly cannot blame her.”

  “What is this … Corcillium?”

  “It’s actually the name of this house,” Blue said, looking around. “The family who owned it considered it the heart of their family—corcillum means “heart” in Latin. Ultimately, it was inherited by one of our first members, and it became the center of the group that took its name. The Corcillium is like a council that directs the work of the Researchers. About fourteen years ago, I joined that council. But before that, I worked for the same shadow agency that wishes to take you and never let you go.”

  “You mean … you worked for those men in suits?”

  “I was with the SSA for most of my entire life, until something happened, shall we say, that showed me the truth. And now I lead the Corcillium. Which is why, when I learned that you had surfaced in Arkansas, I sent my people to protect you. Leaving your family was a dangerous move. You were safe with them, in the protective bubble created by your
parents and grandparents. You have no idea what danger you put yourself in by going on the run.”

  Blue looked to Lily. “And when Rudd and the others told me about you, Miss Lily, I knew we had to keep you both safe. I’ve lived more than one hundred years without dying, but I felt like I almost would when I heard of the motel exploding. And yet, you survived. And at last, you are here.”

  “So it’s all been a lie, then,” William said. “My grandmother wasn’t behind all this.”

  Blue leaned forward. “Tell me, what do you know about your mother’s family? Her mother and father?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It matters greatly.”

  William raised his eyebrow. “Not much. Only that they built the house where my grandmother lives. My great-grandfather was a landscaper. And my grandmother’s mother died when she was just a child.”

  Blue reached over to the file in the seat of the wheelchair, her hands trembling, to open it and pull out a small photo. “I don’t even know … if your grandmother has any photos of her mother.”

  She passed a small black-and-white photograph to him. The edges were yellowed and torn on one corner. It looked to be an ID of some sort, as the woman in the picture was not smiling.

  “Do you recognize your great-grandmother?” she asked.

  “Honestly … I think my grandmother has one photo in her bedroom, of her mother holding her as a baby. But I never really looked at it. Are you saying this is my great-grandmother? And how, may I ask, do you have it?”

  “Her name was Freda Stanson, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Look closely at it. In fact, focus solely on that picture until I tell you otherwise. Hold it up, right there. Think of nothing but that face.”

  “Ma’am, please—”

  “Please, William. It’s the beginning of the explanation as to why you’re here.”

  He sighed, holding up the photo before his eyes. Even in the black-and-white photo, he could see she had the same blond hair as Nanna, a trait passed along to his aunts but not his mother. She had other features like his grandmother: a graceful neck, the small ears, the curled hair. How many times had he heard Nanna grumble about how often she had to pull her own curls from her face, muttering that the only time it was ever controlled was when it was tightly curtailed in a bun—?

  He dropped the picture. In the seconds that he’d stared at the photo, Blue had pulled out the few pins in her hair, letting it now fall in curls around her face. She was also extending her own neck to reveal its natural state before age took its toll.

  No. It can’t possibly be—

  “She didn’t die, William,” she said. “Despite all she’s seen and done, she is still alive. And she is very happy to, at long last, meet her great-grandson.”

  * * *

  William had not wanted to go when Rudd returned to the porch, right on cue from where he had been waiting, directing him to follow. He’d stammered something about not moving a muscle, staring at Blue’s face, astonished at the growing resemblance to Nanna, even his own mother. Blue’s eyes were filled with happy tears as Rudd had placed his hand on William’s shoulder, saying there were things he needed to see.

  “Go, my boy,” Blue had said. “Read our family’s history. You need to see it for yourself. I’ve waited all my life for this moment. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Rudd’s grip had been insistent. Blue turned to Lily and said she’d love to get to know her a little better, and the little girl had warily watched William stand and leave in a haze of astonishment.

  Once in the hallway, he’d stopped and turned back to the porch. “No, I’ve got to talk to her—”

  “You will. But she wants you to see something first. You’ll understand. And then you can come back,” Rudd beckoned.

  Down the hall and then a turn into a butler’s pantry, where a heavy set of double doors stood. Directly beside them was a small painting of a woman standing behind a greyhound. Rudd moved the painting, which hung not on a hook but by hinges, opening it like a cabinet door to reveal a keypad underneath.

  After he punched in a code, a loud, mechanical sound echoed from the wall. Rudd opened the doors to reveal a concealed elevator.

  It was a short one-floor ride downwards. The basement that opened up before them was a stark contrast to the airy, antiques-filled rooms above. The walls and floor here were all concrete, with rows of shelves stocked with files and folders. A long metal table with a lamp stretched out in the center, with a thin stack of papers in the center.

  “It’s all ready.”

  The voice was deep but scratchy with age. The back of a man’s head, almost bushy with stark white hair, was barely visible in a corner table, where he sat in front of a laptop.

  “Thank you,” Rudd said.

  “Is she doing alright?” the man asked. “I do not want her overextended.”

  “Good luck telling her to go take a nap.”

  The man chuckled, returning to study the computer screen.

  “William, have a seat,” Rudd said.

  “What is all this?”

  “The most valuable assets we have.” Rudd pulled out a chair, motioning to sit. “The research of the Corcillium. Into all the cases of the missing, gathered from around the nation. Each one has a file. This is your grandmother’s.”

  A photocopy of a letter rested on top of the stack. “These aren’t the originals; those are stored in the shelves around you. But we’ve taken the copies and put them in chronological order so you can understand.”

  “Copies of what? I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”

  Rudd crossed his arms. “Not even your grandmother has seen the letters that her parents wrote about her disappearance.”

  “Letters to whom? The Corcillium?”

  Rudd shook his head. “To fully comprehend what you’re facing, you need to read every word. I’m going to leave you to it. It’s not that we don’t trust you—but our friend there in the corner will keep an eye on you. He’ll let me know when you’re done.”

  William leaned forward as Rudd walked away, his steel-toed boots crossing the floor to the elevator.

  He looked at the letter on top, seeing immediately it was a relic of a different age, the handwriting not just precise, but also elegant. The gentle sweep of the y, the supple o, the gentle dots above the i, all written by a hand not yet ravaged by age.

  CLASSIFIED SSA AUTHORIZED READERS ONLY LYNN STANSON FILE

  October 26, 1951

  YUCATAN, MEXICO

  I will use what is left of me to write this. This is the time to do it, as I am as numb as a magnolia branch in December, bending but not yet broken by the ice. Do not take me for an unloving mother or wife who is able to methodically dictate the loss of my daughter and husband. My heart has already broken, along with much of my body, and I cannot ever recover. If this exercise assists in determining what’s happening to other families like mine, then so be it. This is for them. It will not help me.

  My name is Freda Stanson.

  I’d only meant to lay down for a minute the night my daughter disappeared. But the rain was an undeniable lullaby.

  The flash was so bright I could see it despite my closed eyes. I sat up to see a section of the woods momentarily illuminate and then go dark. The rain had stopped, long enough for the screen on the window to dry. I must have drifted a bit more, because I only truly woke when I heard Bud’s calls from outside.

  Immediately I was on my feet and running down the hall. I pushed through the screened door, spotting my husband on the edge of the woods, his hands cupped around his mouth, calling for Lynn.

  He’d answered my question before I could ask it. They’d dozed off, watching the fireflies that our daughter loved so much that she spent nearly every night trapping them and then delighting in letting them go. He’d woken to find her gone. He’d searched the house and the yard. He’d noticed then that the fireflies w
ere heavy in the trees after the rain.

  He’d directed me to get the flashlight from the greenhouse. She’ll see the light and come back, he said. She just got turned around. She’s a country girl. She’s not afraid of the woods.

  I’d run to the greenhouse and found the silver Rayovac where Bud had left it after trying to chase away a coyote that had wandered too close to the property line a few weeks ago.

  I thought of the creature, its eyes reflecting the flashlight. I’d stood on the porch, watching Bud waving his arms to spook it. It had examined him for far too long, in my opinion, before slipping into the dark.

  I’d reminded him of the coyote when I hurried back. He ran into the woods.

  The light winked between the dark trees as I’d yelled out, telling Lynn to follow the flashlight to Daddy. I could see the other flickerings from the fireflies as well, and felt one dart in front of my face, another bounce off my ear. I anticipated their illumination before me, but none appeared. Even in the night, I could see them zig-zagging, with one or two landing on my neck.

  I pulled them off, gentle as I taught Lynn to do if they landed on her. They popped in my hand, and yet as I opened my fingers, no tiny glow emerged.

  I felt a few on my legs now, and knew, the way they clung to me without piercing or irritation, that they were Bud’s ladybugs. He’d had them shipped in to eat the aphids in the gardens, but they were supposed to rest at night.

  They were everywhere now, and I thought of how I’d have to search through Lynn’s curls later to make sure none got entangled. She would laugh if I brought one from her hair, like a magician pulling a dime from behind her ear.

  I kept walking to escape their swarm, following Bud’s light as he went deeper into the woods. I then saw the light stop, and I held my breath, waiting for him to call out that he’d found her.

  The light came towards me with a rapid pace. When he at last emerged, I could see he was alone, his face sunken in the harsh light, holding out one of our daughter’s shoes.