What made me believe him? What made me follow through with this madness? The fear of being alone, being without her, and the refusal to adhere to other’s views of how this was meant to end. Some may understand--most won’t, nevertheless, my choices were an immovable bag of flesh and bones in a bed, needing constant treatment, or a chance to have my wife back, with a worst case scenario of a hastened, yet peaceful death. I convinced myself that even if the man’s magic failed, I would be bringing a merciful end to my wife’s existence in this world.
One night, after a few drinks for courage, the old man and I snuck into the hospital. Once in her room, I switched off the machines keeping her in this realm. Luckily my knowledge of hospitals and how to avoid certain alarms, plus the inadequate and lazy ways of the understaffed, regressing hospital had seen us go undetected. When I had given the signal that indicated she was gone--something which strangely failed to register on the emotional scale within--the old man began chanting. At first, I worried the hospital staff would hear him, but my fears soon faded. I watched as he took a vial out his pocket, opened her mouth and dropped the purplish-black liquid into her mouth.
He took samples of her hair, and finally stopped chanting, the silence deafening. He instructed me to take a sample of her blood, and I did so, with a syringe I had liberated from the hospital. Once again, I had to thank the hospital for their lackadaisical approach to modern security methods.
I switched her machines back on, and we made our escape as the alarm warned the hospital staff of my wife’s flatline.
We returned to his home, where he made a fire, then asked me for the photograph I had of her. He opened the syringe and allowed her blood to drop onto the photograph; he added the hair he had retrieved, and then he threw the odd combination into the fire. He chanted some more; his dark eyelids closed. After what felt an eternity, his eyes slowly opened.
He nodded to me, the ritual complete.
He warned me there would be repercussions, something about her being ‘alive but dead,’ but at that point I didn’t care, anything was better than being without her. I barely heard anything else he muttered. A part of me--a delusional part I assumed--thought I remembered him saying she would require human flesh for sustenance. He continued reciting the list of do’s and don’ts, and other information he felt I needed. I pulled out my wallet and paid him his fee with a bonus, hoping to end his babbling. It worked.
Later that night, I received a call from one of the nurses at the hospital, there had been a miracle. All I could think about was getting home and forgetting this vacation that had been nothing but hell. Part of me did wonder whether the man had worked magi, or whether a miracle had taken place. I was drunk in the hospital after all, and maybe I only thought I had put her machines off. Initially, I wrongly opted to believe in the miracle.
I turned to the scene on the entertainment room floor. Ralph had gone quiet, but the thing--no, I must stop thinking like that--my wife Kimberly was still eating. I felt a flicker of guilt and decided to recover her heart from the bin outside, for tomorrow I would put it back where it belonged. I knew it was not needed and that it would never work as it once did, but it’s the thought that counts.
After putting her heart away in the refrigerator until the morning, I decided to take a peek in the entertainment room. Kimberly, clearly almost full, was seated on the floor with her back against one of the sofas. She took a bite on one of the deceased Ralph’s severed fingers, reminding me of a cocktail delicacy.
“Hey babe, I am going to the backyard, be back just now, okay?” I said.
She turned to me and nodded. I believed I saw another smile on her pale, blood splattered face.
I made my way to the backyard with a bounce in my step. I needed to dig a hole, a very deep hole, for bones and any other remains she may not favor. I figured this was something I would need to be doing a lot of in the future. I gave myself a pat on the back for owning a house with such a large backyard.
As I began digging, I felt my mind calm; I knew what was at fault with my wife, and it didn’t matter, this was true love--college sweethearts now married, and still living the dream. No lives are perfect, and I would adjust. Through sickness and health, for better or worse, and sometimes not even at death shall we part.
I said I’d be there for her and I meant it.
I am a good man after all. Though I still need to hire someone to clean the pool and cut the lawn.
THE END.
THE ORCHARDS by Derek Morrison
It’s springtime now. A time filled with sweet scents and the calm buzzing of bees as the sun shines with beauty on the dark soil of the Central Valley of California. Birds sing their merry songs as they hop about the earth and flutter about the sky. Down the long and lonely back roads, the occasional truck rumbles, kicking up deep brown dust that smells of the rich earth. Almond blossoms, with their rippled pink texture, lend an enhanced beauty to it all. It is a time I used to love.
Before I saw her.
Let me be frank. I am by all means a sane and lucid person. I have never been known to see things like this, and at first, I was determined that nothing was there. As time went on, however, I found that I could not have been more wrong. I now write this to tell you the true nature of the Orchards of California, so that you may know what really goes on there when night falls.
I used to spend most of my time in the Orchards. My childhood centered around growing them, and my occupation used to center on taking care of them. I’ve since relinquished my claim to those plots. I can’t go back out there. Not after what I’ve seen. I’m too afraid to even look out at the trees that stand outside my front door. I lost most of my sanity in one simple night. I am not inclined to lose the rest of it by going back out there.
She called to me late one night last month. She had a soft voice, one that could diminish the strongest man to weakness. It was smooth like silk and warm like a good fire on a cold night. Despite its small sound, it still woke me. I looked about my room, wondering if the voice was coming from my usually running television. But the mounted screen on my wall and was dark, and I began to feel fear. Her voice kept calling my name, smooth and slow, soft and calm.
I felt her beckoning me to the Orchards. She didn’t say it, but I felt it. And, as if my legs had minds of their own, I stepped from my bed and put on my boots. I grabbed a flashlight and aimed the beam in front of me. Her voice grew stronger as my feet began to crunch on the leaves that lay on the ground. On the distant horizon, I saw the deep black sky give way to streaks of purple with underlying tones of orange as the sun began to rise. The small white stars began to fade as it neared them. The morning air was cold enough to freeze my soul, but I soldiered on.
The higher the sun reached in the sky, the fainter her voice grew. Soon, I could no longer hear her, and the sun shone in between the trees that stood above me. Suddenly knocked from my daze, I walked back home. When I returned to the Orchard later that morning, I noticed something different. The blossoms were not as bright. There was a cold nip in the air, one that was uncommon during this time of year. It was as if winter had made a second appearance. The usual sweet scents were replaced with a sour, distantly rancid stench. The bees did not buzz around. The birds did not sing. Everything was completely and totally silent.
I heard her again. She called to me. My name was repeated over and over. Her voice rang in my ears, drowning out my thoughts. Her voice grew from soft and smooth to a harsh and loud crescendo. I covered my ears, though I was unable to defend myself from her voice. The air grew from frigid to absolutely freezing. I shivered as my hair stood on end. My head began to hurt, as if it were about to split open. I ran to my truck, driving away from those forsaken Orchards.
I didn’t return to work for another week.
I spent that time trying to make sense of what happened to me. I can’t count how many calls my work gave me. I didn’t answer any of them. I didn’t want to engage with any person. I just wanted to think. Every nigh
t, I heard her call me. I covered my ears with my pillow, yelling at her constant pangs for my attention. She would beckon me to the Orchards for the entire night, but she would fade as the morning sun flooded through my curtains. I could do nothing but think.
Could there actually be something out there in those woods? Or was I imagining something? Was I losing my mind? I needed a second opinion. I needed someone else to come with me, to assure me that I wasn’t crazy. I found such a person in my friend, Toby. He always understood what to do. If I needed another set of eyes, or an opinion other than my own, he was always the man. I called him up after I was tired of thinking and being in fear. I needed to face this.
“Hello?” he answered in his usual calm fashion.
I could barely get my words out. “U-Uh hey, Toby.” My voice quavered.
“Hey. Are you ok?”
“Well…not really.”
His voice expressed instant concern. “Why? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“I-I can’t really begin to explain it over the phone. Are you free for lunch?”
“Yeah, of course. I just got off of work. What time?”
“In an hour? “
“Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
I hung up and looked out at the Orchards that stood outside my window. I shivered in fear, my head hurting again at even the thought of my experience. I shut my blinds and dressed myself. As I looked in the mirror, I began to hear her again. And this time, she was very close. I turned around and flickered my eyes across the room. The only thing out of the ordinary was that I had not made my bed yet. I sighed and turned back to my mirror. I was starting to get paranoid, and I knew it. Now that I look back at it, my paranoia was justified, because when my eyes caught sight of my mirror, she was standing right next to me.
I screamed as the pale figure reflected next to me simply stared. I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet and landing on my bed. I heard a high-pitched giggling. The room felt cold.
“Get away from me!” I yelled as I swatted at the open air, my eyes shut tight and my body curled in the fetal position. The giggling continued as I yelled all sorts of obscenities, as if I would offend her and that would somehow ward her off. Warmth slowly returned to my surroundings as her giggling faded away into nothingness.
I lay there for I don’t know how long. I just huddled under my comforter, my breathing slight and heavy. For the first time as long as I can remember, I cried. I just wanted this to be over, but there seemed to be no end in sight. How did it even begin? I was just curious one night, and now I was caught in the middle of this storm of evil and hatred. And now, I was afraid for my life. After a time, I threw my blanket off of me and stood from my bed. I stuffed my phone in one pocket and my wallet in another. I slipped on a simple cap and walked to my car. I hadn’t even bothered to lock my door.
I still had a half hour left before I needed to meet Toby, so I just drove. I kicked up dust as I sped out of my driveway and away from those orchards. As I started to get to town, I calmed down. I turned up my radio and rolled down my windows as I cruised at the normally calm pace of my small hometown. Ahead of me, a tractor lurched forward up the road. The cars behind it honked their horns in annoyance as it took its sweet time down the road. I just lay back in my seat and breathed out. I wasn’t in any particular hurry. I didn’t really have to worry about being late with Toby, so I took a detour into town.
I started to notice the natural beauty of my home. Compared to others across the state, it could be considered slow and exceedingly country, if that’s a way at all to describe a place. The only way I can describe how I now saw the world would be that of the perception of a man who is dying. I began to notice the little things and what I liked about them. I now saw the brightness of the daisies that were planted out in front of one family’s yard. I smiled as I saw mothers hold their small children, speaking in ginger voices and singing in melodious tones. The smells from various restaurants finally caught the attention of my nose, awaking my stomach and the sudden realization that I was ten minutes late to my lunch with Toby. Turning back onto the freeway, I was at our usual spot in five minutes.
The restaurant Toby and I frequent had a good and homely feel to it. Tacky yet comforting wallpaper was pressed on the drywall, bubbled in some places where it wasn’t smoothed down properly. The air smelled like freshly fried eggs and the warm, fluffy goodness of pancakes. The uproarious sound of contagious laughter filled the building, instantly making me feel better, no matter how bad your day has been. Coffee sat on nearly every table, steam rising up from the rims of the handmade mugs. And the food was always amazing. It had this amazing quality of filling you up and making you happy, if you weren’t already.
The usual Sunday brunch crowd had already rushed in, an assortment of all types of people. In the corner, a large family sat huddled around a large table created by several smaller ones, talking in happy and gentle tones. A baby lay curled against his young mother’s chest, his little eyes closed and his little fingers opening and closing as he slept away. In the middle of the room, an elderly couple sat across from each other, nibbling at their food and sipping at their drinks like the elderly always do. They exchanged slow and calm conversation, pausing every so often to pull their mugs to their lips. And across from the front door, in a rounded leather booth, sat Toby. I sighed in relief as I walked across the restaurant floor to him. I must’ve looked horrible, because he immediately looked concerned.
“Hey,” I said as I sat down with a huff. The somewhat over-cushioned seating form-fitted around my body, cradling me in soft leather comfort.
“Hey”, Toby replied, his eyes following me as I sat. He sat on the edge of his seat, his chin rested on his intertwined hands.
Our incoming conversation was cut short, as a waitress stepped up to the table, a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. “Can I get you anything?” she asked me as she pressed the pen to the paper.
“Just a coffee”, I said.
She scribbled on her notepad and nodded. “I’ll have that right out to you”, she said with a smile, and she walked to the kitchen.
After taking a momentary sip of his own drink, Toby began to question me. “So, what’s going on, man?” he asked.
“First off, let me tell you that I’m gonna sound crazy.”
“Never bothered me in the past.”
“Yeah, but this is monumentally crazy. Like committed into an asylum crazy.”
Toby leaned forward. “That crazy, huh?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Alright, go ahead and tell me what happened.”
Our conversation was cut short again, as the waitress stepped back to our table and set my coffee down in front of me. “Are you two ready to order?” she asked.
Toby pulled his menu in front of him, though I already knew what he was going to get. Chicken fried steak with over easy eggs and light hash browns. That’s what he always got. And, without fail, he ordered just that. I opted for the same thing. In general, I was just hungry, and I could eat anything. She wrote on her notepad once more and recited our order to us. When we confirmed what she said, she put her pen in her ear and walked back to the kitchen. As she turned the corner, Toby’s attention turned to me again. His eyes held the expression of a listener.
I had to think for a moment as to how I was going to explain this absolutely crazy thing. “Well,” I began, “Last week, while I was asleep, I heard someone calling me.”
“Like, on your phone?”
“No, from outside, in the orchards.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I went out there, because I was curious, and I heard someone calling my name. I got creeped out and I went home.”
“What happened next?”
“I went back out to the orchards later, for work, and I heard my name being called again. Only this time, it didn’t sound good. I started to feel woozy and
sick so I drove home. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, so I just secluded myself. And today…”
“What happened?”
“When I was getting ready, I heard my name again, but behind me. When I turned around, no one was there. When I looked back at my mirror, there was someone next to me.”
At this, Toby’s face darkened. His brow stooped and his mouth dropped. He looked as if he was trying to comprehend all that I was saying. He showed genuine concern, which was good. I was afraid he was going to think I was joking, or that I was crazy.
“You saw…a person?” he asked.
I shivered as I remembered it. “Yeah”, I said. I tried to relay to him what she looked like, but to be honest I had only gotten a quick look at her, and I didn’t remember much.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. We were stopped again when our plates were set in front of us. The fried smell of my food snapped me out of my fear momentarily. We let our conversation waver as we ate. As our meal diminished to clean plates and dirty silverware, I finally felt compelled to speak again. Toby sipped his coffee and resumed his former position.
“That sounds crazy, man,” he continued, as if our conversation had never lapsed, “Are you ok?”
“I think. I just need to ask you something. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, though.”
“If it’ll help you, I’ll do it. What do you need me for?”
“I need you to come with me into the orchards, and help me decide if I’m crazy or not.”
He nodded. “So just come into the orchards with you and see if I see what you’ve seen?”
“Pretty much.”
“When and at what time?” he asked with absolutely no fear in his voice.
I paused. I hadn't thought about that. I was so afraid that he would say no that I forgot to set a time for if he said yes. “Does tonight sound good?” I asked.
9 Tales Told in the Dark 16 Page 7
