Coleridge

by Tom Deady

  Dalia pulled into the driveway of her home, the car windows foggy from her body heat. The past several weeks she’d spent all her energy trying to get her life back into something that resembled normal. Her nightly beverage was back to tea, she’d removed all alcohol from the house after that night for fear of backsliding. She didn’t miss it. Most days.

  After a long day of setting up the spring and Easter displays at the shop, she’d spent an hour at the gym—another habit she found easy to get back to once she made up her mind. She’d been going to therapy, a kindhearted old woman who listened intently to Dalia talk but didn’t offer a lot of feedback. Dalia had held back some of the more bizarre memories, but had told Dr. McIntire almost everything about that night. Dalia thought it was the exercise and abstinence from alcohol that was getting her life back on track, but she was hesitant to give up the therapy. Just in case.

  Now, she was ready for a hot shower and some reading by the fire. She’d spent a lot of time in recent weeks researching obscure Native American tribes of the Southwest, unable to shake all the memories of Slade’s visit. The information ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous, but it was something she had to keep doing. She was plagued by the disjointed recollections of the events and didn’t think she could ever be her old self, not completely, until she knew what had really happened that night. It’s almost time, she thought.

  After a shower, she lit a fire and put on a pot of tea. She glanced out the back window, eying the frozen ground suspiciously, searching for signs of thaw. Obsessions die hard, she thought. The kettle whistled and she poured her tea, already feeling drowsy. Once she sat down, she knew, her eyes wouldn’t be open long. She only hoped for dreamless sleep.

  A gust of wind rattled the windows. “Better get the mail,” she muttered. A careless plow had clipped the mailbox after one of the endless winter storms, and the door sometimes flopped open in the wind. More than a few times, she’d had to search the street for her mail, but it had been too cold to put a new mailbox up. Foregoing her coat, she trudged down the driveway. Sure enough, the door hung crookedly open like a broken jaw. Thankfully, there were enough advertisements to make a snug bundle and the mail was intact. Dalia did her best to close the door, but when she was halfway up the driveway another icy wind erupted and she heard the metallic screech of the mailbox door opening. She shook her head and went back inside.

  Dalia dropped the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, briskly rubbing her hands together to warm them. She was about to grab her teacup when the return address on one of the envelopes caught her eye: Escondido, California.

  She froze. A chill not caused by the outside temperature embraced her. She slowly picked up the letter, holding it by the corner as if it might be diseased. She knew the letter might hold answers, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted those answers. She’d worked hard to get back to a stable life and the contents of the letter could very well send her back to chaos. Her eyes darted toward the living room and the flickering glow of the fire. No! Too many answers had already died there. She picked up her tea and carried it upstairs to her desk, along with the letter. Away from the temptation of the fire.

  A few days after her final battle with scotch, Dalia had been struck with an idea. Slade had said that Coleridge was in prison in California. She’d spent a good part of the winter penning letters to every prison she could find in the state, inquiring about a prisoner named either Coleridge or Taylor. Most went unanswered. Some responded that the information she had requested was confidential. She’d given up weeks ago that she would get any meaningful information about Coleridge.

  Dalia held the letter for a long time. When she placed it on her lap to take a sip of tea, she was shocked it had gone cold. She remembered the day Slade came, how she’d lost track of time staring into the fire. Then she thought of the day at the beach and Zadie’s calm, steely strength. She reached for her letter opener but it wasn’t on the desk. She slid a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open, resolutely pulling the single newspaper clipping from it. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

  MYSTERIOUS DEATH AT DIXON STATE PRISON

  Officials at Dixon State Prison report that inmate Jackson Bellows was found dead in his cell on Thursday during morning rounds. Warden Joseph Morales refused to comment but one guard who wished to remain anonymous indicated the inmate’s death may not have been natural causes.

  “I saw Bellows’ body when they brought it out, it didn’t even look like him. It was…older.”

  A spokesman for the prison stated that the autopsy of Bellows indicated no foul play. “Bellows had no known family and we are considering this matter closed.”

  The unnamed guard mentioned Bellows had received a visitor prior to his escape attempt, but efforts to locate the visitor have been unsuccessful. “Bellows changed after that visit. He was always calm, quiet, just doing his time. After the visit, he was agitated all the time, stalking back and forth in his cell like a tiger at the zoo. Then he tried to escape by hiding in a laundry bin, it was crazy, there was no chance it would work. He was a smart guy, why would he even try a stunt like that?”

  Inquiries made about the whereabouts or identity of the visitor have not been answered. Local and State police have both confirmed that there is no open investigation on the matter of Bellows or his visitor.

  Dalia examined the clipping but there was no date. The other side was part of an advertisement for men’s clothes but contained no clues as to how old or recent it was. Dalia folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. She sat stoic, unsure what any of it meant. Was the clipping referring to Coleridge? Slade had said Coleridge's alias was Taylor, had he been mistaken? Was Slade the visitor? What did it mean that the body looked older?

  Someone associated with Dixon State Prison must have sent the clipping. Dalia surmised that if Slade visited Coleridge, he knew of the imminent loss of the stone and tried to escape. Finding no way out, he slipped into some sort of mental illness, knowing the shadow of his death was looming. And what of Slade? “That is the question,” Dalia mumbled, wishing for the first time in ages she could pour herself a scotch. She stood and shuffled to the kitchen, the weight of her knowledge and questions giving her the step of an older woman.

  She stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the patio in the dying light. The spring had remained unseasonably cold and the ground still hid under a scrim of dirty snow. Her gaze fell again on the irregular mound at the corner of the patio and her heartbeat quickened.

  g

  The next day dawned clear and bright. Dalia sat in the kitchen drinking her tea and planning her day at the shop. Friday was always busy, and with Easter just around the corner, she expected a lot of foot traffic through the shop. She frowned, noticing for the first time an odd sound. Slow and rhythmic. She realized with a mix of joy and terror that it was drops of water landing on the window box: the last of the snow was finally melting.

  g

  The next few days at the shop passed in a blur of customers and constant glances at the weather. The warm spell continued, finally erasing all but the most stubborn snow drifts. Spring had arrived. Dalia regretted not digging up the yard last fall. Regretted hiding in a bottle until the ground was too frozen to dig. She woke on April 29th to warm rays of sunshine streaming in her bedroom windows. With a resigned sigh, she climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. It felt right, doing what she had to do, a year to the day of Zadie’s death.

  It was only in the mid-forties and breezy, but Dalia dressed in jeans and a light sweatshirt to go out. She had work to do that would keep her warm. Foregoing her morning tea, she stepped onto the patio, giving the wreckage in the corner a furtive glance before heading for the shed. The muddy ground squished under her work boots. At least she wouldn’t need the pick. She grabbed the long-handled shovel and trudged back to the corner of the patio. Brilliant sunlight glistened off the black stone like so many diamonds. Black Sahara granite, or something else? T
hinking only of her love for Zadie, she plunged the blade into the earth to find the truth.

  The shovel slid easily into the damp soil. She threw the dirt off to the side, pausing only for a second—am I doing the right thing?—then scooped out the next shovelful. Her movements became more fluid, the excavation—or is it an exhumation—an easier task than she had guessed. A few times, the blade of the shovel hit a chunk of buried stone, sending a jarring reverberation up her arms. But she didn’t stop. Beads of sweat erupted on her forehead, dripping down her wind-chilled cheeks. The deeper she dug, the more shattered stone she encountered. When she thought she’d gone deep enough, she went another foot deeper and widened the diameter of the hole. She had to be sure.

  When the shovel hit the layer of sandy clay beneath the crushed stone of the patio’s base, she raised the shovel over her head and tossed it across the yard with a shriek. It occurred to her she’d wanted, no, needed to find Slade’s rotting corpse. At least she’d know she was sane, that the memories of the previous November were real. She sank to the cold ground, head in hands, out of breath from digging and out of ideas.

  No journals, no business card, no plastic ties, no blood on the carpet, no smashed Trinity Stone, and no Slade. Dalia threw her head back, about to let loose another cry of frustration, when her gaze landed on the boarded over attic window. Excuse me, Miss Cromwell, what about the third floor?

  Dalia stood, her eyes never leaving the weathered piece of plywood. She’d gone up there with him. She closed her eyes, and a slideshow of memories played in her mind. Reaching for the letter opener when the letter from Dixon came. The flash of red when she thrust the blade toward Slade’s throat. The letter opener sliding across the attic floor.

  Dalia rushed into the house, kicked off her mud-caked boots and ran up the stairs. She paused at the foot of the attic steps. Nothing good ever happened up there. Then she took the stairs two at a time, skipping the creaky step and flipping on the light as she went. She stopped at the top, her eyes drawn to the covered window at the far end of the room. A chill passed through her. Just from being out in the cold and sweating, she told herself, remembering Zadie’s journal entry.

  She moved to the middle of the room and dropped onto all fours. Should have grabbed a flashlight. But it wasn’t necessary. There, between the stacks of boxes with Zadie’s neat printing sat the letter opener. Dalia licked her lips and crawled slowly toward it. The lunatic idea that if she moved too fast, it would get away crossed her mind, and she suppressed a giggle. With a shaky hand, she reached for the letter opener. It’s real, she thought, standing to bring it into the light. Maybe Zadie brought it up here to cut the tape on the boxes, a voice whispered. Slade’s voice? She held the letter opener up to the unforgiving light of the bare bulb, smiling when she saw the red scraps of silk hanging from the glistening blade.

  Later, she sat in front of a roaring fire sipping tea. The past year had been a nightmare, but it was behind her now. The letter opener was on the table next to her, a reminder that her sanity was intact. Slade was real, and he’d been in her house.

  She’d gone back out to the patio after finding the letter opener and collected a bunch of the black chunks of rock. Maybe she’d have it analyzed, see what the Elder’s Stone really was. Maybe she’d take some time off and travel west and learn more about the Nunnehi. Maybe she’d track down Slade. She glanced again at the letter opener.

  For now, she was content gazing at the fire and searching for faces. The words Zadie had written to her in the journal were etched in her memory. Etched in her heart. For now, that was enough. Never fading.

  Acknowledgements

  Coleridge was a difficult story to write. It was intended to be part gothic mystery, part love story, and part homage to The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. That was the intent. It is up to you to decide if I pulled it off.

  First, I’d like to thank Ken McKinley for giving Coleridge a home at Silver Shamrock. I am thrilled to be a part of his publishing family.

  And how about that cover? Kealan Patrick Burke is a master of capturing the essence of a story with his art. It is a stunning piece of work and perfect for my story. I couldn’t be more pleased. Thank you, Kealan.

  Many thanks to Richard Alan Scott for coming up with the name “Coleridge.” It fits the house and the story perfectly.

  Ben Eads, author of Cracked Sky and Hollow Heart, suffered through an early draft and helped immensely in putting the story on the right track. His input, as always, made the story stronger.

  Thanks to Kenneth Cain, who took what I thought was the finished product, and showed me the truth. You are holding the result of that truth.

  For all the authors in the HWA and NEHW who have supported me, motivated me, and befriended me: Thank you.

  To my wife, Sheila, who puts up with all my shenanigans and still supports and shares my dream tirelessly, I love you.

  And always, for Shannon and Alyssa.

  About the Author

  “Tom Deady is a true storyteller, and I can offer no higher words of praise.” – Richard Chizmar

  Tom Deady is the author of Haven, winner of the 2016 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. He has a Master’s Degree in English and Creative Writing from SNHU. Tom is a lifelong resident of Massachusetts, where he is hard at work on his next novel.