by Jaye Wells
23
The Visitation
Deacon Fry
The Dickey family had been burying Moon Hollow’s dead for generations. Some of the other towns in their section of Wise County used Perkins Funeral Home in Big Stone Gap, but Deacon Fry refused to let any of his people give business to those Episcopalians.
He arrived at two o’clock to prepare for the visitation. Angus Dickey IV, the current director of the funeral home, was technically in charge of the visitation, but he wanted to be sure that everything was just right for Jack.
The funeral home sat across the town limits from Moon Hollow in Norton. The single-story building had no windows and the pitched roof looked too large for the structure and pressed down on the bricks like an oppressive hand. A green-striped awning on the side of the building hung over the old hearse, which Angus’s daddy, Angus III had purchased in 1985.
Before he opened the front door, he took a deep breath to steel himself in case Nell was lying in wait. Ever since Jack died, the woman had stuck on the deacon like bird shit on a tree branch. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for her, but she was as depressing as a raincloud on Easter morning.
“Deacon!”
His hand spasmed on the door handle. Too late to back out and run. He tightened his lips into what he hoped was a smile and let the door close behind him.
Grief had bowed her shoulders and sucked all the life from her eyes. A few strands of hair framed her face, which was as cracked and dry as a creek bed after a six-month drought. She’d never really recovered after her husband, George, had died ten years earlier from the black lung. He had worked the mines for twenty years before they’d killed him. Her son hadn’t survived a day down there.
“You’re here early,” he said.
She pushed a strand of hair back. “Wanted to be sure everything was right.”
A flare of annoyance bloomed in his chest. That was his job. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Angus puts on a nice event. Jack’s in good hands.”
What was left of him, anyway, he thought, but immediately regretted it. Now was not the time for unchristian thoughts. Still, Angus had been pretty detailed in his description of the state of what was left of the body when it had come in.
“I swear, Virgil, it looked like what’s left after a pig pickin’. Must have been a bear or something hunkered down in that shaft.”
He pushed that conversation from his mind and focused on the mixture of hope and despair in Nell’s expression. “Why don’t you go home and lay down? People won’t be here for a few hours yet.”
She hesitated. “I cain’t leave him.” The words came out sounding like she was seeking permission to do just that.
“Sure you can. I’ll be here with him until the viewing begins. You probably haven’t slept a wink.”
“I don’t know if I could. Every time I close my eyes, I see him.” She shivered. He knew exactly how she felt, but didn’t mention the dreams he’d been having.
“At least go freshen up. A bath and a clean dress will help you feel more comfortable for the viewing.”
For a couple of hours that evening, family and friends would stop by to pay their respects and tell stories about Jack. Nell had originally wanted to stay overnight at the funeral home with Jack’s body, but he and Angus had talked her out of it.
“You’ll feel better if you let yourself rest a spell.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.
He lifted the corner of his mouth in what he thought of as his I-know-what’s-best smile. It worked well on women because they were so eager to have a man think for them.
She promised to be back before Angus moved the coffin into the viewing room. As the door closed behind her, he let his smile fade. He’d tried to convince her to skip the viewing altogether, but she’d insisted on sticking with tradition even though the infernal coffin had to remain closed. They could have done a nice wake with Jack’s picture framed on the table and some flowers. But now they’d all be in that room with the closed coffin and the boy’s mangled remains inside like some sort of grim surprise.
He grabbed his box and continued into the funeral home in search of Angus. After finding the funeral director’s office and the other rooms on the main floor empty, he gave up. Most likely, Angus was down in the basement doing last minute work on Jack’s remains to make them ready to sit out for several hours. He didn’t even consider going down to find out if his theory was true. He had no interest in seeing what was left of that boy with his own two eyes.
Instead, he went into the visitation room. A central aisle divided two columns of pews that could accommodate most of the population of Moon Hollow. At the front of the room, a raised stage held a podium and a platform for the coffin. In front of the stage, Angus had already set up a handful of chairs for Nell and her kin to sit on while receiving visitors. Along the right side of the room, long folding tables had been erected to hold all the food and drink the mourners would bring.
Traditionally, the viewing was not a time for grief. Instead, it was like a party where people shared stories about the deceased and celebrated their lives. There’d be plenty of time for wailing and hollering at the funeral the next afternoon up on Cemetery Hill. But at the visitation, the deacon’s job was to redirect anyone who was having trouble keeping their feelings in control out into the lobby so they’d not upset Jack’s family.
He began distributing prayer books to the pews just in case someone visiting decided they needed comfort from the Good Word. He didn’t like the visitation room. It looked like a chapel but it didn’t feel like one. This room was cold, sterile. His own church—the one he considered his, anyway—was always filled with colorful light from the stained glass and the ladies’ auxiliary kept the chapel full of flowers and beeswax candles. The visitation room, however, smelled like the carpet needed a good vacuuming and didn’t have any decorations or flowers. He couldn’t totally blame Angus for that last part. Nell couldn’t afford flowers to decorate the room. He made a mental note to call his wife and ask her to bring some clippings from their rose garden when she arrived later that evening.
He was halfway up the aisle when he heard a noise that sounded like the doors to the room opening. He kept to his work but called out, “You all done?”
No answer.
He paused and looked up. The doors were closed and Angus wasn’t there. He was still alone. He slid another book into the pew’s shelf. It was no wonder he was hearing things. The funeral home always made him feel uneasy. Not that that was anything unusual. He figured it’d be unusual for a fella to feel totally at home around all them bodies and such. That’s why he was always careful around Angus. Even if the man had started out sane, the deacon couldn’t imagine that sniffing all them chemicals and handling dead bodies was good for a man’s mind.
The noise again. But the door at the back of the room remained closed. However, when he turned he saw that the door near the platform was open. That door led to the back hall where the elevator down to the embalming rooms was located. It was open wide, like someone had propped it open to bring in a coffin.
“Angus?”
His heart fell into a trot. It was possible he’d forgotten the door was open when he walked in. But no, it had been closed. He knew it.
“Hello?”
No response. Thinking that maybe Angus had opened the door and then realized he’d forgotten something and ran to grab it, he relaxed a fraction. But he still went to check it out.
“Angus?”
The back hallway was darker than the visitation room had been. The air was colder there, too. The air smelled different there—putrid. Maybe it was his imagination but he wondered if it was from the fumes creeping up the elevator shaft.
“Anyone there?”
At the end of the hallway, a thin line of light near the floor indicated the position of the elevator doors. He focused on that beacon and moved forward, past several open doors leading to other visitation rooms, an
office, and a restroom. Each were dark as mine shafts.
A loud grinding sound filled the dark corridor—the elevator churning up from the basement. He froze, his stomach tight with indecision. His rational mind rejected the fear immediately. Obviously it was just Angus on his way up. But his deep mind, the one that never walked past the cemetery on a new moon, whispered sinister theories in his ear.
The temperature dropped. His hands shook on the prayer book he’d carried with him out of the visitation room. The weight of the Lord’s words should have been a measure of comfort against his wicked imagination, but his throat still tightened on the first notes of a whispered prayer for protection.
Gears ground against metal. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and bile boiled up the back of his throat. The sliver of light from the elevator shaft changed from warm yellow to corpse blue.
It’s Jack.
“Oh God, no,” he whispered. He lifted the hymnal like a shield.
Grinding, the gears grinding like sharp teeth devouring bone.
Virgil.
The whisper seemed to come from outside and inside all at once and the voice that said it was not his own. He spun to look back down the hall. He was alone.
Repent, Virgil.
A sob tore from his throat. “What? Oh God, protect me.”
His knees wobbled. He fell back against the wall for support. He wanted to curl up and sob like a little child. It was so dark and he was so alone.
A high-pitched, lunatic’s laugh echoed through his head. You’re not alone.
“What do you want?” he shouted. “Tell me!”
Silence. Blue light creeped like frost across the floor. Cold air burned his throat, his lungs. His heart pounded like a prisoner against the cage of his ribs. Pressure built from inside, like madness.
Revelation.
One word, four syllables—a world of terror. Because when that single word echoed through his brain it conjured memories of a winter day. Bare branches scraping a steel sky. The river an indifferent witness. Blood on his hands. A deep, dark well swallowing his secret.
Before the voice or the memory could totally break him, a loud bell dinged in the hallway. The tension in the air popped like a balloon. The elevator doors opened to reveal Angus standing behind a long, wooden box.
His knees gave out. Angus called his name, but the word sounded as if it had been shouted under water. He ignored the call and tried to quiet the voice in his head.
Revelation, revelation, revelation.
A damp palm slapped his cheek. He shook himself and snapped his attention toward Angus’s ugly but concerned face.
“Virgil? By God, you scairt the hell outta me!”
He blew out a long breath and let his head fall back to rest against the wall. “What happened?”
“Them elevator doors opened and you was standing there looking like you’d seen your own ghost. Then you dropped to the ground. I thought you was strokin’ out or something.” He squinted, as if he could gauge the deacon’s health by sight alone. “You sure you’re okay?”
He swallowed the lingering lump of fear and pushed it way down. Indigestion. That’s all it was. His damned wife’s dog food casserole that he’d eaten because she’d been too busy carrying on with Sarah Jane to fix him a sandwich. “Ate something bad, I reckon.”
Angus chuckled, as if he’d suspected as much all along. “Hoo boy, I was worried. I’ve had lots of dead’uns in here, but I ain’t had nobody die in the funeral home. Wouldn’t that just beat all?”
He pressed his lips together to prevent himself from telling the man to shut up. Just shut up. He needed quiet. He needed to get the hell away from that hallway and—
His attention drifted to the coffin just outside the elevator.
He needed to get out of that hallway and as far from that building as he could.
“I need to go home,” he said, more to himself than Virgil. “Can you call Deacon Smythe? Tell him I fell ill and he needs to come tend the flock for the visitation.”
Angus hesitated. “Sure thing, but you sure you’re okay to drive?”
Nothing hurt, except for a dull ache at the base of his skull from dealing with Angus. He pushed himself up the wall until he stood. His legs wobbled a little, but it was nothing some fresh air couldn’t fix. “I’ll be just fine.”
He placed a reassuring hand on Angus’s arm. He had to get out of there before Nell returned. If she caught him in this condition, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get away without snapping at the poor woman. “Just need to get home and let the missus fret over me a little.”
“You want me to call her?”
“Don’t worry her. Thanks, Angus.”
He walked away before the man could open his fool mouth again. Instead of taking the direct route all the way down the hall to the lobby, he detoured through the visitation room. Behind him, the squeak of wheels told him that Angus had begun wheeling the coffin into the room. He picked up his pace. Death thickened the air and smudged every surface. He had to get out.
When he finally burst through the doors back into the lobby, some of the tension in his chest eased. He took several quick steps toward freedom. He could already taste the blessing of fresh air on his tongue before he reached the door.
His palm and fingers curled around the handle, but before he could open it, a painting next to the door caught his eye. He’d seen the small picture of Christ holding a baby lamb dozens of times, but, that day, something unsettled him. He released the handle and stepped closer to get a better look.
An entire flock of mature sheep gathered around the Savior’s legs as He cradled the lamb. It was meant to be a comforting image to mourners, a happy reminder that their loved one had joined Christ’s flock in heaven. Something, though—he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong.
A rush of air swept in as the door opened. “Deacon Fry?”
He didn’t look toward Deacon Smythe; he was too busy studying the image. The man’s cloying cologne reminded him how he’d longed for fresh air, but first, he needed to figure out—
“Deacon Fry?” Smythe’s tone veered toward a whine. “I brought the food the ladies’ auxiliary cooked for the viewing.”
Smythe’s words evaporated inside his head before they took on real meaning. He stepped closer. He reassured himself that the sheep looked normal and that Christ’s robes were pristine as ever. The sky in the background was cheerful blue, and the Savior’s face was serene. But then, a detail in the background he’d not noticed before caught his eye. While the foreground was a cheerful scene of Christ and his flock, in the background there was a grouping of tombstones.
“Sir? Where do you want me to set up?”
He fumbled with his jacket pocket and removed his readers. Slipping them on his nose, he moved closer until he was only a few inches from the painting.
“Should I ask Mr. Dickey instead?”
There were three tombstones—one in front and two behind. Only the front appeared to have writing on it. He squinted at the tiny letters. Instead of a name inscribed on the tombstone, there was a single word.
“Revelation,” he whispered.
“Huh?”
He jerked away from the painting. In his haste to escape it, he barreled over Smythe.
“Hey! Where you going?”
Without answering, he threw open the door and ran into the parking lot. Once he was by his car, he bent over with his hands on his knees and sucked in three great gulps of sweet mountain air.
He got inside the car because it felt safer there. He gripped the steering wheel. Despite what he’d told Angus, he had no intention of going home. The thought of being around all those tears and the damned neediness made him want to hit something.
He needed help. Someone who could tell him why a ghost might be haunting him despite his doing everything right. Wasn’t he setting up the viewing? Hadn’t he spent the morning writing a eulogy for the boy? Yet the ghost was still upset.
He nee
ded help, but the only person he could think of who could do the job was the last person he ever wanted to ask for a favor. He looked in the rearview mirror at the funeral home. The building seemed to throb with menace.
He turned on the ignition, and drove off without deciding where he was headed. He figured the good Lord would guide his wheels in the direction he was meant to go. He just prayed that wherever he ended up, the ghost wouldn’t find him.
24
Petals And Thorns
Granny Maypearl
The wild roses spread their petals to the sun. Overnight, the large bush on the eastern corner of the house had offered up a dozen hot pink beauties. Come June the branches would be weighed down with hundreds of blooms, but right now she only needed a few handfuls.
The previous night she’d dreamt of crows gathering against a bloody sky. She’d woken with a dry throat and her left knee ached something fierce. Trouble was comin’ to Moon Hollow, and she needed to prepare. Once the rose petals were simmering in rainwater she’d collected during a dark moon, she’d begin the process of washing down the front door and sweeping the threshold.
While she collected roses, Billy lay on the porch. He’d been restless all morning, sniffing at corners and growling at the windows like intruders were loitering in the woods, but he’d finally found a warm shaft of sunlight that had lulled him to sleep.
The petals felt like silk on her fingers. She paused in her harvest to bring one to her nose. The scent reminded her of her own granny—Granny Bell—who’d worn rosewater perfume every day of her livin’ life. A generous hug from her always brought with it the scent of flowers and freshly risen dough. Bell had taught her how to use food as medicine and spent hours drilling her in the garden about the proper use of herbs and plants for different ailments. Granny closed her eyes and took another wistful sniff. Roses were a sign of spring and hope, but the reason she needed them was definitely the stuff of deep winter and dread.
