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Post by ◊◊BLOODBEASTER◊◊ on Nov 19, 2013 16:38:56 GMT -8
Chapter 19
We were back in the safety of the cabin, the fire was lighting our world up in orange while outside was the color of an old tintype. I had to change my clothes after my pants had been soaked from walking in the rain. I laid on the couch while Bernard sat stiffly in the nearby chair, going through his photos again.
“How do you know if they’re good?” I asked. “Sometimes I need to work on them in an editor. They’re too dark, or need the levels adjusted. I look for anything unusual.” The light of the display made sharp white rectangles reflect in his eyes.
“What’s the best one you’ve found? Like, the best ghost.” I didn’t even know what that would mean. The strange men on the television shows would gape and gasp about vague sparkles on the lens.
“Well there was— OH. The best one I took?” He turned around in the chair to face me better, eyes wide. “There was this one— I wish I could show it to you, maybe— oh here, I’ll pull up my site!”
He looked at his phone, an excited smile growing at the corners of his mouth. “There! Look at this!”
He handed me the phone, but I couldn’t quite make sense of the picture. It was a dark hallway, a thin shaft of light came from above and made an oblique line across the image. A tall wooden chair was lit up by the light, which also sliced across a wall covered in a delicate wallpaper.
“Now wait,” he took the phone from me, and tried to sort something out in his mind. “Here just—”
He came to kneel by me. He zoomed in and moved around on the touchscreen with his slender hands.
“Now see this spot?” He pointed out a vague gray block in the background, possibly a very dim window catching a reflection.
“You probably think it’s just a window, right?” He was grinning, “But look at this!”
He paged down to another version of the image, this one all blown out with some kind of filter. The block in the background became an admittedly eerie looking skull face. “Oh,” I said, “Yeah I see it.”
He waggled a finger at me and gave me a face that said ‘wait there’s more,’ he paged down again. Now the image had been run through another filter, leaving only the red tones, and beneath the skull face window was a tiny figure that resembled a baby standing on its feet. It’d been completely invisible in the other photos.
“Wow it’s—” he interrupted me again with a head shake, and paged down one more time. Now the back of the chair had been cropped closer, rotated on its side and blurred. It resembled the face of an old hag with her mouth open. Bernard smiled again with tiny but well-arranged teeth. “What do you think?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the sofa next to me.
“Well, I’m honestly impressed. I thought ghost photos were all spirit balls and—”
He made a derisive snort, “Spirit balls are for amateurs,” he kept grinning, “This isn’t even the best one. I don’t put up the really good ones so people don’t steal them again.”
I remembered his reaction to the ‘spectie-heads’ so I didn’t ask further about that subject.
“What is the best one like?” I asked instead.
He gazed off as he recollected, but his voice was eager and energetic, “Prob’ly my favorite ones have multiple sightings like that one. There was this one I did recently at the Almshearst Asylum— now that place is always over-run with graffiti types and other photographers. It gets overlooked by ghost hunters because it’s so popular. Well! It was obviously a gem hiding in plain sight because I got FOUR sightings in one photograph!”
His breath smelled like chocolate, and he tapped me on the arm a few times as he spoke animatedly of his best find: an image of an industrial fan that had the ghostly images of three faces floating in front of it, in descending size, and a fourth tiny baby’s face peeking between the fan blades. I sat up, and he came to sit beside me as he recounted others. A skeletal figure at the bottom of a grain silo, a dark silhouette of a probably murdered child that stood in a window of the Ardenmore Orphanage. As he was sitting closer to me, I noticed the twitching eye again, and it seemed a little worse even with his cheerful mood.
“You have a good time with this,” I said.
“It’s my life!” I hadn’t seen him smile so much since— well, we’d only known each other for a day.
“Your photographs are quite good, you’re a photographer?” His grin turned to a tiny closed-lip smile, “No… Not really. I take pictures but it’s just for fun.”
“What do you do then?”
Bad topic. His shoulders dropped a bit and his eyes affixed on his grey-socked feet. “Nothing.”
“Of course you do!” I said, gesturing to the photo on the phone, “I couldn’t do that, that’s for sure.”
“You don’t need t’patronize me,” he rubbed his forehead wearily, “I know that my photos aren’t bad I’m just not a photographer. Not in the sense that someone’s gone t’school and has a job taking photos. I sell a few prints on my site but it’s just enough to uphold a mild chewing-gum habit.”
I sat up and tried to sound sympathetic but not condescending, “In that case I’m not a gardener either.”
“What d’you mean?”
I tucked my feet beneath me, “ Well, I’m getting paid but only because I lucked out and it’s only minimum wage anyhow. I never majored in it. Just enjoyed reading some gardening books, magazines… Had a little window planter at my apartment. Worked at a garden center part-time, just a passing interest really. I say I’m a gardener because I’m gardening, you know? You have more talent and skill than I do at anything.”
“I guess.” he muttered. He looked absolutely deflated and it was all my fault. I almost wanted to put a comforting arm around him, he was right there, and it seemed like maybe I should do it. But I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it, I didn’t want to upset him. I got up to make some tea.
“Well anyhow,” I said as I clanked around with the kettle, “I think the photos are just fantastic. I can’t believe you go in those places by yourself! How do you not fall through the floor boards?”
“By bein’ careful, but it’s happened.”
“Really now?”
“Yeh, got a scar.” I peered around the counter and he pulled up his pant leg to show a red line as long as a finger on a white calf. “That’s only one of them, a few years old now.”
“Ah that’s terrible!” I said.
Maybe he would’ve been smiling about his badges of courage if he’d been in a better mood, but it felt rather somber. I put the kettle on to boil and stood around staring at my grimy fingernails.
The whole afternoon was a wash, quite literally. The rain let up, but had dumped all over the grounds until every bit of soil was as mushy as the edge of the pond. I was glad I’d housed the seedlings inside. The grass had been smashed down by the force, and it looked like I’d done a better job mowing then I really had. I tried to find something to do outside but it was so soggy and miserable I couldn’t bare to even look at anything. I’d run out of milk and eggs, since cooking for two people wasn’t in the schedule, light though the second’s appetite might be. Delivery wasn’t due for two days. The tension in the cabin was unpleasant, and I thought maybe I could stop by MJ’s shop now that he rain had let up. I told Bernard I’d go out for about an hour.
“Would you like anything? It’s like a typical convenience store.”
“Nah…”
He laid on the couch, poking around idly on his phone.He didn’t do anything when I opened the door and left. Depressing.
The bike ride was pleasant despite the puddles. The afternoon was as warm as the day was going to get, and fairly tolerable with a thick sweater and coat. Some of the trucks were gone for the day, and crows were swooping around now that the sky was clearing. I didn’t see any scary men, and MJ’s was actually open. It was the same teenager inside.
“Hey,” he said, reading a new book. Today he wore a purple sports jersey for a team I didn’t recognize. I picked up some more batteries, the milk and eggs and hesitated, wondering what Bernard would like. I grabbed an assortment of chocolates, I didn’t know what his preferred type was.
“Making a cake?” the boy smirked as he slowly tabulated my purchases.
“Haha, no. So…”
“Anything interesting. Hmm…” he knew what I wanted. “Saw a weirdo, yesterday I think.”
“Weirdo?”
“Yeah, these kids come in sometimes, buy batteries like you. Blue-haired girl, and a skinny guy.”
“Oh I know those two.”
“Well, they’re weird but not as weird as this other guy. Came in with them yesterday, spent a bunch of time looking at pocket knives. Asked if we had anything bigger. Wanted to know if we had a bunch of stuff we don’t have. Spray paint, chalk, hammer. Probably would’ve asked about guns but didn’t get around to it. Bought the biggest knife we had. I think… some candles, incense, rope. And some candy. Really creepy, I thought. The other two stayed pretty far away from him.”
He carefully stacked the eggs on top of the milk carton, thoughtfully stuffing the bag with crumpled newspaper.
“What was he like?” I dreaded the answer, I was pretty sure who he was talking about.
“Little guy, black hair. Weird eye. I mean, if you’re worried about freaks, look out for that one. Might just be a vandal but he’s got a knife and a rope…”
I nodded uncomfortably. “Er, you know where the kids went?”
“Oh yeah, they stopped by today, seemed all paranoid. Bought a few packs of cigarettes. Talked about going to gas up the car and how far they could get. Probably leaving town. Weirdo wasn’t with them. Creepy, man.”
I picked up my bag and hugged it to my chest, “Thanks.”
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Post by ◊◊BLOODBEASTER◊◊ on Nov 20, 2013 1:43:16 GMT -8
CHAPTER 20
I tried to be careful on the way home to not jostle my bag’s contents too much. Obviously the boy was talking about Bernard. I could rationalize everything, he wanted a rope for his exploration. Probably chalk and candles were for summoning ghosts or something. The knife… well, probably for cutting the rope? I felt a little unsettled though, I had to admit to myself. I also felt a little angry, was that common for him to be perceived that way? I hadn’t when I met him, but he certainly wasn’t the creepiest of the two of us that night. He was a little strange looking, and odd, but it didn’t seem right to think of him that way. An irritating part of my brain kept remembering the mysterious flapping door, and eerie theme songs from slasher movies. Why did I watch those so much anyway?
I rolled the bike up the drive as the sun was on its descent.I hustled in the cabin, feeling the milk sloshing around in my bag and imagining all the bacteria waiting to feast upon it. Inside, the fire had burned out, and faint wisps of smoke filled the air and made me feel like my eyes were blurry. No one was on the couch, and nothing stirred as I closed the door, and sat my shopping bag on the counter. “Hello?”
No one answered.
The leather satchel sat in the same place it had been left, by the door, next to a pair of hastily cleaned galoshes. Bernard must be outside somewhere. Funny that it was so hard for him to come inside, but he’d go off on his own like it was nothing. I put the food in the icebox, that stupid little part of my brain cringing. How did it go in movies? If I was going to be stabbed here alone in the cabin, I was surely just some minor character. I didn’t think I was sexy enough to be a random victim. Of course, it wasn’t a movie and anyone could be stabbed at any time for any reason. Did I even lock the door? Did I even look behind the bookcases? It was the middle of the day but it wasn’t like there was anyone to see or hear.
Delightful.
Just as I was turning to check the door, it came open with a creak. I gasped like a fool. Bernard furrowed his brow, and stepped inside. He held a can of beer at his side, almost under his sleeve like teenagers do to hide drinks from the cops. The red can. The Candy Stripe brand.
“I was looking at the shed.” He backed against the door to close it, and let his eyelids fall closed.
“Ah, find anything interesting?” I was pretending to still be unpacking.
“Not really, I just started,” he stayed on the same spot, like he couldn’t get the will to move, “I got a beer. Sorry.”
“Oh of course not, they’ve just been sitting there since I got here. I’m not a fan.”
“You don’t drink?”
I searched for other things to do, deciding to put a kettle on to boil even though I wasn’t in the mood for tea. “Oh I do, I’m not just a beer drinker. Not that it’s not fine for others… Say, how is that brand? I never tried it.”
“Eh, s’okay I suppose. Tastes like something kids would like.”
“You’ve had it before?”
“ ‘Dehno. Not recently.”
“Why uh, why did you choose that one in particular?”
“ ‘Dehno. Were you savin’ it? I thought you didn’t drink beer.”
“No. I mean, yeah, I don’t. Anyway, I was just thinking of something to talk about I guess.”
“Yeh.”
This conversation was unbearable. I splayed the candy bars on the counter like a hand of cards. “I brought you something.”
He took small steps forward to get a look, “I didn’t ask for anything.”
“I know, I just thought you might like some. Or in case you run out. I wasn’t sure what your favorite is, so I got you a sampler.”
“Erhm… Thanks.”
He finally got the nerve to make the trip to sit down. I put the candies in the icebox, and started wiping down the counter just for something to do. It was hard to deal with him, I felt guilty but what had I done? I can’t know what will upset someone who is that easily upset. I wanted to ask him about the knife, or laugh about how silly the clerk’s perception of him had been, but I couldn’t imagine either would go over well. At least I could reassure myself, seeing the frail man sipping the beer like he was a hummingbird taking nectar. That was not the kind of person anyone should worry about. It was ridiculous. I couldn’t imagine him tipping over a sturdy milk crate. Of course… He was able to wander around all these abandoned places by himself, carting around that heavy bag with who knows what else inside. I squeezed my face up in pain at those terrible thoughts. Time for wine.
My treat from Barker, a cheap bottle of merlot from the local box store. It wasn’t my preferred brand, or variety, but I was saving it for… whatever I always saved treats for. Every year I threw out buckets of rotting holiday candies that I’d saved for too long. Birthday cards sat on my desk until I spilled tea all over them. Gift certificates sat around unredeemed. In this moment though, seemed like I needed wine. Immediately.
I poured the dark purple merlot into a coffee mug, as classless as it seemed, and walked around to lean against the wall casually. It looked like a cup of grape juice, and probably wasn’t all that far off in quality. Bernard glanced up briefly, and went back to studying the top of the can which he held with both small hands. It’s always the quiet ones. I slapped myself on the head to knock the evil out. It made a shockingly loud noise.
“What’s wrong?!” Bernard’s forehead was knotted up with concern. He looked like he might be ready to flee at any moment.
“Nothing. Sorry. Thinking about something stupid.”
“Oh…” He settled back down, but warily.
The kettle started whistling. I just took it off the burner to cool again. I topped my drink off, and came around to sit on the couch. Everything was just too awkward and I couldn’t stand it any more. I drank the wine like I was thirsty. Bernard sat the beer can on the card table and folded his hands primly. The smell of the extinguished fire hung heavy in the air, and my nostrils felt coated with it. The wine helped. I started to feel mildly relaxed after gulping down the alcohol, which was certainly gulp-worthy quality. I figured I could use the rest to cook, or just save it for these kinds of occasions.
“So,” I thought I’d just talk whether he was listening or not, “tomorrow everything should be dry I’d imagine. We can get out there to look at the manor, maybe do some more exploring. I never checked in that back corner where we found all the headstones. Maybe we can see what it’s like at night after all.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Really? I thought you were too scared.”
I laughed, but he was right. “Of course not, I just thought it seemed unsafe.”
“That means you were scared. Oh well, if you’re going t’do it I’m not going to complain.”
God. Sassy. He was bad as my ex. I laughed off his mild insult and slid down to the floor to start the fire again. I was getting low on firewood, but chopping was about my least favorite task. Maybe I should see if MJ’s has any pressed logs.
Bernard said to my back, “You’re scared to use the spirit board?”
I wanted to do the whole ‘don’t be silly’ thing, but I figured he had my number.
“Honestly? You’ve heard all those horror stories. On one hand it seems completely illogical, everyone knows someone’s pushing the planchette. On the other hand, why are there all those scary tales? Maybe there’s something to it. Have you found something good with one?”
I glanced over my shoulder, and met his eye. He let it flicker away to look at the ceiling.
“Well, no. I’ve wanted to, I never had anyone to do it with.”
That struck me in the moment as intensely sad. Imagining someone who couldn’t play a board game because there wasn’t anyone to put their hands on the puck.
“Of course I’ll use it with you,” I said as I wadded newspaper around the firewood. “Do you have one now?”
“No…”
I wondered for a silly moment if they’d have one at MJ’s. Bernard shifted in his chair, making the tiniest of squeaks under his meager weight.
“I could draw one.” He said, “We’ll not have the planchette but we could use a glass. They did that in the old days, I guess. Before they got ‘em out of fact’ries.”
“You want to do it tonight?” I lit the match with that loud, satisfying scrape.
“Oh. I don’t know. You’re supposed to research.”
“No one does it on the movies. We don’t have to call the lady of the house herself. Aren’t there spirits everywhere?”
“Yeh, but… I guess so. I’ve got some incense and candles.”
And a knife and a rope. I squished up my face again, glad he couldn’t see it.
The match had a long stem, and the fire bounced around at the end like a sparkler. I touched the flame to the newspaper, and it crawled across the paper leaving a trail of black. An image of some journalist’s proud portrait shrank in on itself and blackened as the fire consumed it. I came to rest on the couch again.
“So,” I sipped the last burgundy dregs from the bottom of the mug, “let’s meet some spirits, huh?”
It coaxed out the tiniest of tiny smiles.
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Post by ◊◊BLOODBEASTER◊◊ on Nov 20, 2013 23:50:46 GMT -8
CHAPTER 21
The room was even smokier now, with little sticks of incense here and there, dangling out of coffee cups and un-recycled cans of soup. The scent was almost acrid, but the perfume beneath was pleasant. White candles burned on top of lids from used oatmeal tubs. Special black candles were arranged in a circle around a sheet of newspaper on the floor. They were scented like licorice, and the sweet smell was strong where we sat. It wasn’t the scent though, it was the color that was important. Black was helpful when using magic, so Bernard said. On the sheet of newspaper were letters marked out. Bernard had spent a good hour carefully drawing the correct symbols in the right order with a small piece of charcoal I’d fashioned from fireplace leavings.
His fingers were still stained black from the drawing, and in the flickering glow of the candlelight, he really did look like a magician in his black clothes. I pushed all the furniture against the walls, and rolled up the carpet. We sat in the center of the cleared floor. I retrieved a tiny shot glass from another cabin’s dishes, and it rested in the center of our newly fashioned spirit board. He added an additional response to the board that was his own idea: ‘Not sure.’ He said if he was a ghost, maybe he wouldn’t remember everything either.
“It isn’t the board,” Bernard said, “it’s the spirit of the people who are at th’board. Be sure to keep your mind open.”
In that environment, it wasn’t hard to believe that the supernatural just might be real. Our shadows had snaked on to the walls, and jittered around with the candlelight. Bernard said we had to wait to use the board until it was completely dark, and that we should get used to the ambient noises and sights in the cabin so we didn’t get a false reading. Sitting in silence, you really notice the strange sounds that were easily overlooked. The wood groaning, trees rustling, wind rattling the door. We closed all the blinds except the one closest to us, and we waited for the indigo sky to fade to black. Bernard nursed another beer, of the generic variety I had left over. Maybe he knew that kind and it was the reason he chose the Candy Stripe over it. I’d finished off the lousy bottle of wine, and was feeling the usual effect of extreme drowsiness. You could call it relaxed if I wasn’t having trouble keeping my eyelids open. The spooky environment helped, leaping shadows and the man with glittering black eyes in front of me weren’t conducive to pleasant naps.
At last the master of ceremonies deemed it dark enough to begin. Bernard had a clunky old tape recorder, and set it to go. We clumsily put our fingers on the turned over glass. Apparently bottom up was the only way to go, or you’d ‘release the ghost’, whatever that meant. The glass was maybe a bit too small, because we had to overlap our fingers to get it to move. Bernard’s fingers felt small and chilly. We moved the glass over the newspapers, drawing circles over and over. This was to ‘warm up.’ The paper was taped down and Bernard had spent a great deal of time smoothing it down with his stained hands, so the glass slid over it easily. We leaned forward, looking down at the paper, I wondered if our collective breath was creating an alcoholic cloud.
“Alright then,” Bernard said with a disappointing lack of pomp, “let’s get to it.”
He glanced around at the walls, the candlelight gleamed under his chin and cast shadows from his eyelashes like crawling spiders.
He spoke up, “Is there any spirit in the cabin that’d like t’talk to us? Tell us if you are here, tell us with the glass.”
We moved the glass around in circles. Bernard kept his eyes low but sometimes glanced around the room. I might have normally been tempted to crack a joke to lighten the air, but this ambiance was a bit heavy for me to even think of something to say. I kept holding my breath, waiting for something dramatic to happen. How did those tales go? The windows crack, dishes rattle, maybe someone gets possessed. I couldn’t imagine that I would be the one that was possessed, but then what…?
“Might take a while,” Bernard told me under his breath.
The glass went around and around for minutes. I finished spinning out tales of horror to myself and became blissfully empty headed. I was almost lulled to unconsciousness, then Bernard spoke again.
“Hello spirits, if you are here, tell us with th’glass. Tell us ‘yes’ if you are here.”
The glass slowed, and I wondered if Bernard was growing tired as well. He looked up at me with questioning eyes. Maybe not, then. The glass stopped dead, and then very slowly dragged the opposite direction. It was pushing toward Bernard, but his fingers weren’t curling around the glass to pull it toward himself. I felt a bit of panic crawling up my belly. Maybe we shouldn’t have drunk so much beforehand.
The glass stopped just short of yes.
Bernard looked at me with his eyebrows up. “We’re calling that a yes?” he whispered.
I shrugged and nodded. We pushed the glass back to the center, and back to circling but slower this time.
“Spirit,” he spoke up again, “do you want to talk to us?”
The glass cleanly rolled in the direction of yes, but again didn’t quite make it all the way there.
“Good enough for me,” Bernard said. His eyes flicked around in thought, and an excited smile grew at his lips. Was this real? Was I unconsciously pushing the glass? Was he pushing it himself? It was a good show if it was all pretend. Around the glass went, Bernard’s fingers warming beneath mine.
“Spirit, please tell us your name,” he bit his lip as we waited for the response. The glass continued its slow trajectory. As we made another trip around, it diverted slightly and landed halfway between ‘no’ and ‘not sure.’
“Okay,” he whispered to me, “maybe it doesn’t want to tell us.”
“That’s okay spirit,” he said to the empty room, “you don’t have to tell us. Do you want to tell us something else?”
Immediately the glass scraped across the paper to ‘YES’. The first time it’d landed directly on a response. The charcoal was beginning to smudge.
“What do you want t’tell us spirit?” he asked, looking around the cabin as though he might spot the ghostie lurking in the corners. Oh god I really hoped there wasn’t a ghostie lurking in the corner. The glass began to move again.
It was hard for me to see what letters the glass was traveling over, but Bernard read them aloud for the tape recorder. The glass moved steadily now, making sharp turns when it changed direction.
“G… O… E…?” Bernard stared down at the glass, his forehead wrinkling, “W… O…? I’m not sure if— A…! W… A… Y…?”
That did not seem good. I wanted to lift my fingers, but that was a no-no. Releasing the ghost and all that.
“Did it just say to go away?” I asked.
The glass slid to ‘Not sure.’
Bernard frowned and glanced around at the flickering shadows. “I think it said goe-wo-away. Yeah, maybe it did.”
“Spirit,” he said, getting the glass moving again, “do you want us to leave you alone?”
With a painfully slow movement, the glass slid to ‘GOODBYE’. Bernard removed his fingers and slumped on to his side.
“Tch. Sassy.”
“Was that real?” I finally removed my own fingers, our body heat had steamed up the top, “I couldn’t even read what it was saying.”
He leaned over to turn off the tape recorder. He remained on his side, reclining insouciantly and letting out a dramatic sigh.
“Should we try again?” I asked, “Or will that make the spirit angry?”
“Look at you,” his face was obliterated by a dark shadow, but I could catch glints off his eyes and teeth, “—believin’ in the supernat’ral.”
“I never said I didn’t believe in it. It just—”
“It’s a good act,” he mumbled, and finished off the last swallow from the can, “But I’m not going to do this if y’can’t take it seriously.”
“Not taking it seriously? What do you mean?”
He snorted derisively. “Go on then.”
“C’mon. It felt pretty serious to me. Is that ghost angry with us? What should we do?”
He was silent a moment, then he leaned up on an elbow, his face falling into the light again.
“You’re not joking with me?”
“No! I mean, I know I joke sometimes, but not about this.”
He sat up the rest of the way, accidentally knocking the empty can over with an elbow. He couldn’t be bothered to right it. He looked into my eyes for probably the longest time since he thought I was a ghost.
“You didn’t move the glass?” The candle light wiggled in the gloss of his eyes.
“No! I take it that you didn’t either?”
I thought for just a moment that this was a wonderful performance, and he’d burst into laughter at any moment. I remembered quickly, he was not one for jokes. He kept his eyes on mine, and a smile spread across his face. I waited for the ‘just kidding!’ moment, but it never came.
“We talked to a ghost,” he whispered. His shoulders moved with his quickened breath. His face was close to mine, and the scent of beer was not so offensive with my own inebriate vapors. I smiled myself, and the moment drew on, waiting for something to end it. I felt like I might be prone to alcoholic impulses, so I leaned back and pulled up my knees.
I was no good at reading his face, but he seemed a bit more solemn. He traced his fingers over the smudged charcoal. It was difficult to read now. We’d have to get a more permanent board if we were to try again.
“We should find a belonging of Mrs. Ardenmoore’s,” he said, his fingers looping around the ‘YES’.
“Does that help?”
“Yeh, we can call her. We should know more first, maybe she’s a bad spirit.”
“What happens if we call her and she’s bad?”
He looked at me as though I’d suddenly pulled out a rubber chicken and squirted him with a lapel flower. “Uh. You get haunted.”
“But what does that mean?”
“Well, you’d probably not want to stay out the summer, bare minimum.”
“Ah.”
I was now on board with this whole ‘research’ notion.
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Post by ◊◊BLOODBEASTER◊◊ on Nov 21, 2013 15:33:34 GMT -8
CHAPTER 22
Our evening winded down. Bernard sat on the couch next to me as I read, and counted out his pills. I tried not to watch, but his ritual was visually fascinating. His pillbox had the days of the week, and under each day were two compartments. Each compartment had a variety of colorful pills. I imagined some were for morning, some at night. He laid them all out on the card table, making sure they didn’t go rolling away. Then he took his cup of water and methodically took each one. They were different shapes and sizes, some were tiny, clear and oval, some were split down the middle and multicolored. A number were just round flat disks of chalky white. I had to feel my throat contract sympathetically as he choked a bit on a huge pill with pointed corners. I didn’t ask of course, but I wondered what was wrong with him. His eye twitch looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he never mentioned it, and it didn’t seem to bother him. Sometimes he flattened his palm against the eye, maybe that helped to alleviate the contractions. I wondered if his pills were for some unseen condition, maybe they were for a mental illness. He seemed reasonable enough, but of course lots of people had problems like those. I myself was on anti-anxiety medicine briefly, which only succeeded in making me gain some weight and have terrible nightmares. It wasn’t my business anyway, but I wished I could help him in some way if he needed it.
Bernard actually borrowed a book from my stack. He asked if anything was a horror, and I lent him a classic vampire tale— the Shadow of Lord Demos. I hadn’t read it yet but the film was pretty luscious. Personally, I was reading a frivolous story of flouncy dresses and high romance to stave off ghost related nightmares. Unfortunately, once the lights were off, I continued to sleep fitfully. The shop clerk’s words ran through my mind, and I had to cringe at my subconscious suspicions. Those old slasher films always had a discrimination against the disabled. The killer was always ‘crazy’, deformed or both. As if people needed to feel bad in more ways. Those childish thoughts were hard to shake, especially when one was in the throws of semi-sleep. There were so many things to disturb someone’s sleep that night. Ghosts, slashers, now even vampires worked their way in there.
I woke with a start. In my dream an unseen monster had been chasing me, making a strange gasping noise. I wondered for a moment if I was in a dream within a dream, because the noise persisted even as I found myself lying on the couch in the dark cabin. The noise went on even as I sat up. From behind the bookshelves. I heard the sound of someone thrashing against cloth.
I scrambled to my feet, my socks sliding against the slick floor. Should I get a knife? What was going on? Slashers?
I slid my way to the bookshelves, catching myself before I crashed. It was dark in the corner, but I could see movement on the bed. Bernard was shaking and making a loud gasping for breath, face down on the pillow. I called his name, and he didn’t respond. Light? Would light help? I felt like there wasn’t time. I rushed to the bed, and laid a hand on an exposed leg. His muscles felt like steel cords beneath cold skin. It was a seizure, it had to be a seizure. Should I call the ambulance? What does someone do? Should I put something in his mouth? Did people really swallow their tongues? I tried to roll him to his side, it was difficult and I found my own hands shaking with the stress. No sooner than I’d freed him from the pillow, he vomited with a gasping choke.
I wanted to cry, was he dying? It couldn’t be a ghost, that was just stupid! I pulled the soiled pillow away, trying to tuck dry blankets beside him. His breath was still gasping and hoarse, but I felt like he was at least getting air now. I scrabbled around in the dark for my phone, and dialed emergency, sliding my way back to the bed.
A woman helped me, I thought I must sound like a complete fool but she treated me kindly as I gibbered. Seems I’d done the right things for the most part, and I should stay with him until the seizure was over. He spasmed violently for what felt like an eternity, but apparently only a minute or two according to the woman. She said to call back if he had another seizure, or had some other problem. He’d grown still, and seemed to be asleep. How could he sleep through that? I touched his shoulder, the flesh beneath felt ropy but not as stiff as earlier. He felt small under the shirt, it reminded me of the thin flesh of a cat’s body through its fur.
I called his name, softer this time. How could I wake him? I turned on the tap lights around the cabin. I carefully cleaned his face with the edge of a towel. I checked his pulse but had no idea what to look for. It didn’t seem shocking, so I figured it was okay. His face was placidly asleep, like nothing had happened. I called his name again, and his eyelids finally fluttered.
“Bernard, are you okay? Can you wake up?”
He groaned unintelligibly, and went back to sleep. I tried again with similar luck. Maybe he just needed to sleep, it certainly looked like the kind of thing that would exhaust someone. I was completely racked with indecision. I took away the soiled bed pillow, and tried to straighten up. He slept soundly. My heart was still thudding, and my muscles ached with spent adrenaline. I paced around the cabin, there was absolutely no hope of me sleeping now. I needed to call emergency if he had another seizure. I got a glass of water to put on the bed stand, and pulled the blankets over him. His bare arm was exposed, and I saw that bracelet. Closer now, I saw that it was a medical ID stamped with words. Bernard Roch, Epilepsy. I didn’t know what to think, so I just covered him and climbed next to him, on top of the covers. Maybe an hour passed. I tried to flip through a book but my head throbbed and every sound in the cabin sounded threatening. Each time I heard a soft breath from him, I was ready to spring to the phone.
Another hour passed. I saw the vivid blue of the sky outside peering in from the blinds. I had wrapped up in my own blanket, and maybe I’d been able to drift off here and there, with my head leaned against the wall. It felt like nothing though, and time drifted by interminably.
He coughed, and rolled around.He face crumpled up with pain, and then relaxed again.
“Are you okay?” I said, trying to not let the quaver in my voice get too strong, “Can you wake up?”
“Why…” he whispered, his voice ragged.
“Do you know where you are?” The woman had said to ask this.
“Why?” he said a little louder, it sounded like he’d gargled with rocks. He tried to sit up, but grimaced with pain, and laid flat. His eyes squinted at the dim lights.
“You had a seizure…” I wanted to kneel at his side instead of being awkwardly propped up in bed next to him. I figured he didn’t need to be treated like he was on his death bed though.
“God. No…” he whimpered, and buried his face.
“It’s okay! I mean, it’s okay if you’re okay. Are you okay?” I had a way with words, it seemed. He mumbled into the pillow.
“Can you talk to me?” I said, wringing my hands under the blanket. He mumbled again. “Please?” I said.
He rolled to face me abruptly. “I SAID, leave me alone!” He rasped, trying to be loud but only sounding like he was hurting himself. His forehead was all knotted up with pain or anger.
I stood, and backed away a bit. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“Leave me alone,” he said softer, turning away from me. “I just want to sleep.”
“Can I get you anything? Th-there’s water on the table… Is there something I can do?”
“No, go away,” he said into his blanket. I only saw the back of his head, his usually neat hair was damp and ruffled.
I shuffled off to lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling until the cabin was too bright to even pretend to still be sleeping.
I tried to go about my chores. I hurried in the bathroom, preferring to do my washing and grooming with a tiny mirror in the kitchen. I did the laundry and just flopped it over the railing, I could pin it up later. I boiled some eggs, and sorted out the furniture after our nighttime rearrangement. He was sleeping late. I ate my now cooled eggs, and put his in the icebox. I drank some tea and flipped through my book. It was noon. After this morning I did not want to wake him up, and rouse the bear, but I peeked back there a few times to listen to his breathing.
A sudden noise startled me. My phone buzzed like an irate bee, and slid along the side table with its vibration.Barker.
“Good afternoon my friend!” He sounded like he was at a bloody carnival. “How is it going?”
“Oh, it’s going,” I said weakly, “Did you need something?”
“I was just planning my next visit. You’ve been getting a lot of work done?”
He was bad as my mother.
“This and that, mostly— mostly been sorting through that gardener’s shed. Got a flower bed started.”
“Wonderful, I can’t wait to see it! How does tomorrow look?”
“Err…”
“Oh now, don’t be afraid of your old pal.I’ll bring you treats, anything you like! We’ve got a ShopMart nearby with anything you could desire.”
“Huh… Um, how about a spirit board?”
He paused for just a moment, and I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake.
“Ha! Really? Trying to contact the Argentmoores, eh?”
“Heh! Um, yeah… I thought it could be amusing.” I wondered if I sounded as weak as I felt.
That was it then, Barker was coming by. I was not to have a guest. I had a cranky, ill man sleeping in my bed with no way to go home. This was not going as well as I’d anticipated.
CHAPTER 23
I really needed to be getting work done. Time was passing, and Barker was coming. It wasn’t like he’d fire me, but he’d already given me the hairy eyeball last time, and I’d been doing more work back then. I couldn’t think of anything to do in the cabin, try as I might. I decided to stay close by, but get to work. The stones I’d arranged for the garden bed had gotten washed over with mud when it rained, and it took some work to clean them to their former beauty. I got around to laying out the rest that’d laid in a stack for several days. The cherub’s head still sat on the tub, and it caught my eye. It too had been washed by the rain, and actually seemed a bit cheerful, its expression looking less melancholy without the dripping muck. Maybe that was just my perception after such a bleak night. I gathered the bottles from the shed. I could clean them and start arranging them to catch the light in the cabin windows. Inside the shed I saw the Argentmoore Estates pamphlet lying neatly on a dusty wooden table. I felt a pang of sadness, remembering our relatively fun time here just the day before. I hurried back to the cabin with the bottles, thinking I’d at last found an indoor activity.
A dark figure stood on the porch. My guest looked absolutely rumpled. He seemed to have dressed hastily, his shirt half untucked, his feet shoved into his boots with the laces untied. His hair was a wild mess and his already dark eyes seemed to have sunken in another inch.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he curled his lip and cast his gaze away. I don’t know what kind of look I’d been giving. “I need the key.”
I held it out, and he didn’t quite snatch it away, but I wondered if he wanted to. He limped away behind the cabin. His arms hung stiffly at his sides. I could only imagine every part of your body must hurt after that kind of thing. I sat on the edge of the scummy fountain and picked at the torn bits of labels remaining on the bottles. I’d hung the laundry, and brought out a bucket to soak the bottles by the time he came back. His hair had been wetted and combed, and his clothing arranged but there was no helping that pallor. He stood at the edge of the cabin, and watched me. I couldn’t stand it after a couple of moments of silence. I turned to face him.
He sat the key on the railing. “At least I didn’t piss myself this time.”
Maybe it was a joke, but it didn’t make me want to laugh. He folded his arms, and took a few steps forward, “I should go.”
“But how—”
“I can call my parents and get a loan, take a taxi. Really, I should go.” His voice was still gritty.
“Why? You d—”
“You know why?” he stalked around, avoiding my eyes, “You know why I had a seizure? I’m not supposed to drink.”
“Really? I didn’t—”
“I was drinking because— because you make me nervous!” He shot me an accusatory glare. I was too confused to be offended.
“Why? I don’t… I don’t mean to do anything?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head to nothing in particular, and faced away from me on the porch steps. “I should go.”
I let him storm into the cabin, maybe he was too weak to slam the door. I sunk down to sit on the fountain edge again. I heard a soft croak from within. Plenty of maggots.
I let him be. It was hard to work again, but to some extent it kept my mind off the trouble. I checked on the seedlings, and they were growing fantastically to my delight. Tiny stalks were stretching toward the sun, buds plump and ready to unfurl. All around the once bare trees were studded with green, some tiny pointed leafs already snaking their way out to the light. The air was terribly cold as any Glennish spring ever was, but the light was vivid and the world was coming to life. I ran the mower over the grass smashed down by the rain, and found it easier to cut, though it was prone to tangling. I even chopped up some firewood, and gathered broken branches to bulk out the fire. I was considering even tackling the compost, when the dark spectre returned. He stood watching me again, white hands on the railing. I glanced over, but kept at my work. I was gathering the cut grass, and tossing it into a bin. I could use this to start the compost, or to bulk out some flower beds. After an uncomfortable eternity, he limped a little closer, still keeping a tremendous distance.
“You’re planting flowers here?” he knelt down to look at my flower bed.
“Yeah. Some other plants too. You pick the right ones and they keep the pests away.”
“Really?” His voice sounded strained.
“Uh huh. You plant some marigolds, they keep out weeds and attract snails who eat bugs.”
“Oh?” He ran his fingers over the smooth rocks.
“Then you can plant weaker flowers and plants around it. It’ll protect the others, and it still looks nice too.”
“What’s a marigold look like?”
“Ah you’ve seen them, all orange and ruffly. They kind of stink, but I like the way they smell,”
Did he chuckle? I kept my work going, until he came within a few feet.
He grimaced like the sun was in his eyes, “They wouldn’t help me.”
“Your parents.”
He nodded weakly, and covered his face with his hand. His fingernails were still stained dark.
I brushed the grass off myself, “It’s okay. I can lend you the money.”
He looked up, aghast, “What? Why?”
“Why not? If you want to go, I can help you.”
“Why would you help me? We don’t even know each other.”
I sighed loudly, and he looked at me like I’d turned blue.
“If you don’t want to go,” I said, “that’s fine too. Whatever you want to do.”
“You said y’got paid minimum wage. I shouldn’t take money from you. I have money I just, I need to wait for my check to come in.”
“Well, do whatever you want.” I tried not to sound gruff. He stood wringing his hands, and I pretended to work.
“What would I do if I stayed here?” he asked.
“You could help me if you’re able to. You’ll need more clothes though, and your medicine.”
He winced at the last part, but quietly said “I have enough for a month or so. Yeah. Maybe I could order some clothes.”
I nodded, and smiled with tight lips. I went back to actually working, and he watched for a while. After a bit he limped over the the cherub head, and brought it back to sit next to him on the fountain edge. I remembered a pressing matter.
“If you decide to stay,” I said, “we have an issue tomorrow…”
I explained about tomorrow’s visit. Maybe he was a little put out about the idea of hiding, but didn’t say anything if he was. I was too sore to work, and we both came inside. It seemed too dark after being in the bright light for so long. Bernard nibbled on his icebox chilled eggs, and I laid about like I’d earned it.
“That book is interesting,” he said between tiny bites, “it starts out dry though. I don’t think they paint Lord Demos t’be as sexy as he was in the movie.”
He chuckled, and wiped at his brow bashfully. “Of course, they paint everyone pretty sexy in that movie, don’t they?”
His voice was still hoarse, so at my insistence he was sipping tea the rest of the day. The afternoon sky turned an Autumn orange, and he’d had gone to lie down behind the shelves. I got bored of tales of chivalry and simpering elites, and now the book rested on my forehead to block out the beam of sunlight slicing through the room from the blinds. I was too lazy to do anything about it.
“Robin?” a weak call. I resisted the urge to slide into action, and actually look several steps to walk over.
“You need something?” I asked. He was sitting on the bed with the book. I’d lent him my red flannel pants and a t-shirt while I washed his clothes. I’d given him my tightest shirt from younger days, emblazoned with the Glennish arms. It still bagged at the shoulder seams. He’d rolled the pants up to the knee, probably to avoid the comical look of them bunching at the ankles. I remembered that bare leg that had felt like coiled metal, and resisted wincing. “Maybe… maybe you could come sit with me?” He gestured at me with the book. I was almost shocked.
“Of course.” I decided to dump the frilly story, and picked up a tale of haunted mansions and probably incestuous drama. It was still a bit frilly, but it was a classic after all. I joined him on the bed, feeling awkward, but not in a bad way. The bed wasn’t very big, but he was a narrow person. He held his book on his lap still, chewing on his lip. His eyes moved around like he was thinking furiously.
“Is there something…” I said.
“You stayed with me last night?”
“I did. I was really worried.” I hoped I didn’t sound like a fretful parent.
“Ah. I didn’t know if I was dreaming that.”
“Was it a good dream?” Oh, that was too much. He hunched his shoulders and looked at his knees. “Eh, anyway…” I flipped around in my book.
“Sorry,” he said to the wall, “I should’ve told you. I don’t… I hadn’t had a seizure in a long time so I didn’t think it would come up. I didn’t think— well, anyway. I’m sorry I was a bastard.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had worse.”
He gave me a disdainful look, but maybe a just little amused too. I decided to risk a question.
“Do I really make you nervous?” I kept my eyes on my book, maybe that would help.He paused for a long time but I didn’t want to upset him by looking over.
“Yeh, I mean, maybe a little. I’m just not used to… I… it’s not a bad thing. I ‘dehno.”
I shuffled through the pages with my finger, making a little zip sound. “Eh, it’s nothing. You have nothing to worry about.”
Maybe he believed me. We read our books, got some tea and read until the light was gone.
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