Dwelling (21 page)

“But I swear to God, Johnny-Boy, it felt like he was there in St. Hubert’s, with me in the sanctuary. Renfield, alive; not alive. I don’t know…but he spoke to me, and somehow I remembered his voice. He hadn’t said much at Ferrin-Huggins, he mostly whimpered—shock I guess, realizing he was going to die. But I remember his voice, regardless. And at St. Hubert’s it was the same. A raspy horrible voice.” Jake shuddered, killing his Coors in one final swig.

“Jesus—” Johnathan started. He suddenly wished he’d ordered that other drink when the waitress came by. “Look…” he glanced at Jake and quickly back to the table. “I’ve…seen something too,” he finally sputtered out, licking his lips.

“What?” Jake’s eyes were wide with anticipation, or perhaps it was relief…relief he was not the only one in need of visiting the wizard, the
Wonderful Wizard of Oz
.

Silence.

“Come on, Johnathan. What did you see?” Jake was on the edge of his seat.

“I don’t know what’s going on or even if it was real or what or maybe it’s because of the booze or the pills or both or maybe I took some brain damage from that RPG that took my leg, I don’t know…I just don’t know.” Johnathan was shaking. He tucked his hands under the table.

“What did you
see
, tell me!” Jake yelled in a hushed whisper.

“It wasn’t even real.”

“I don’t care, what did you see?”

“Ricky, damn it. I’ve been seeing Ricky,” Johnathan croaked, his throat dry as sand despite the continuous nervous sips.

“What? Where? When?”

“At the airport, before I took off for Washington. Lucky they didn’t take my ass to the ER or security or something. Blacked out, right there on the goddamn terminal, waiting for my flight. I’d gotten a cup of coffee, had taken some—meds to help clear my head, some jerk at security was yapping my ear off about ignorant bullshit and…that must have been it; it was the Paxils that did me in, must have had an allergic reaction or side effect or something.” Johnathan reached for his cane, propped against one of the empty chairs, and held it between his legs. “Must have been it, must have.”

But then how do you explain Jake and his
hallucinations
? How do you explain that?

I don’t know.

“Well…what did
he
…? Did he say anything?” Jake stuttered.

Johnathan cupped a hand over his eyes, wiping the beads of sweat that had started to bud around his forehead. “He was as you had described your vision, Renfield right? He was…” he swallowed “…messed up, as he was when he died. Nearly all burnt up and rotting. But still somehow whole, breathing almost. But if he was real, you’d think he’d be worse off, right? I mean, it’s been almost a year now. His eyes were there, intact. He looked the same as the day he died, man. Not that the dead getting up and walking around is possible, right? Jesus, listen to me, I thought we came here to talk about
your
problems.”

Jake pulled his chair closer, leaning towards Johnathan. He glanced around to see if anyone was looking. “Did he say anything? Did Ricky say anything to you?”

Johnathan swallowed. “I think he was trying to warn me about something, something to do with Mags,” he said, the fear in his eyes unmistakable.

“What
about
Mags?”

“Something to do with some house…I don’t know, like I said, I was probably tripping on those
Green Bastard
Paxils.
Or
maybe I took some of the
White Devil
Zyprexas by mistake. I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Johnathan looked away, searching for the waitress.
Fuck it,
I’m ordering another damn drink
.

“Anything else?” Jake probed earnestly.

“No.” Johnathan spotted the waitress and signaled for her to bring something strong. He looked back to the table. “Wait, yes. There was something else. A name, I think. Sounded like gibberish, but maybe…”

“What was it?”

“
Nashirimah
…?”

“
Nashirimah
?”

“I think so.”

“Sounds native, right?”

“How would I know?”

“You were studying history, right? Before you and Ricky went to basic?” Jake was reaching, taping the table with his fingers.

“Dude—how long ago was that! And besides, just because I studied history doesn’t mean I can spot Native American language when I hear it.”

“Sorry—but it
does
sound Native, right?”

“Sure.”

“
Nashirimah
…” Jake whispered, staring at the table. His gaze gave no delusion that he was pondering the
word
spoken by Johnathan, what it meant, and perhaps not only that, but the warning about Mags, about some house. The waitress appeared and sat Johnathan’s scotch in front of him, who took it anxiously and drank.

What does this mean? Is this real? No—no, this is too messed up
, Johnathan thought. He looked at Jake, “And yours?” he asked, exhaling the burning sip from his drink.

“My what?”

“Your ghost, hallucination, whatever, what did your
dead
person tell you?”

“Renfield? Oh—it was more personal. He was…he told me to leave the church—said I wasn’t cut out to be a minister. To give up. Resign. Told me he was the sign I’d been praying for. God help me if he was right. God help me…and so, I ran. I ran away. I didn’t look back, haven’t called the church or anything, I just ran. I was supposed to have service this morning, but I didn’t go. I couldn’t, not after…”

“Jesus, Jake…”

“I know…”

Silence, as terrible and frightening as that sounded, fell over the table again. Even the noise from the crowd around them seemed muted. Kurt was gone. There were no more songs. No more clanks of pool balls. No more drunken bravado. No more sleazy deals made at the bar. No more promises of midnight rendezvous. Just them and their labored breathing between drinks, and the cold madness slipping in between them.

“What do you think all this means?” asked Jake, too terrified to look at his friend.

Johnathan looked at Jake and then at his drink. “I think it means we’d better go have that smoke.”
Denial is a powerful thing
, he thought.

Jake smiled and stood, stretching his legs as he did. Johnathan balanced against his cane. Outside, they each lit a Camel and took deep, languished breaths of yellow smog, exhaling clouds that lingered above their heads.

“You know,” Jake started after a few minutes, “I don’t think they’ll allow smoking in mental wards, or none of the VA hospitals I’ve visited.”

Johnathan took a toke. “Yup—better smoke as much as we can before
they
lock
us
up.”

Jake chuckled heartedly.

Johnathan attempted but faltered. His gaze drifted to his unsteady hand.

“Dude?” he prodded.

“Yes?” said Jake, finishing his last toke, rubbing the butt against the patio picnic table.

“You hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Whataburger?”

“Read my mind.”

CHAPTER 19

THE HOUSE

Augustus

1879

The fall of 1879 had been more pleasurable than Augustus had hoped for. To be fair, he thought he was just purchasing a piece of land. It would have taken him months to build a home. And in the end he would have ended up with nothing more than a shack no larger than the dead home he fled in Houston. But instead of just land, he’d found a home already constructed and furnished. He needed only himself and logs for the fire. It was a blessing, and though he didn’t believe much in miracles, the house certainly tested his faith, or lack thereof.

What Augustus saved in lumber and construction material he used to purchase three heifers, four chickens and one roaster, five swine, and two horses. His own stallion he reserved for travels to town, the other two were meant to pull the plow, tending to the large rows of wheat stalks that fell on his land. Augustus also purchased enough wood to build a modest wagon for hauling necessities to and from town and for the eventual haul of hay after the harvest in Jotham. For this, he purchased a scythe, keeping the long curved blade sharp and stored in the barn. He even bought a dog to keep him company, but the bitch ran off the very day he brought her home. Regardless, what had started out as a desire for a solitary shack to get drunk on moonshine turned into a rather decent farm for living. This continuation of life was certainly something Augustus had not planned.

The house held even more surprises. Though, in the back of his mind, Augustus was sure whoever had built the house would come walking through the door, demanding to know who was trespassing on their property. Surely, something was amiss with the deed. There had been some mistake. But no. No one ever showed. And as winter approached and the holidays drew near, the constant thought that ate away behind his eyes faded. By December, Augustus had built himself a distillery; nothing massive, just enough to keep himself and perhaps a few guests, if he had any, merry and warm-hearted. In the evenings, when his chores on the farm had been done, he’d venture through the house, exploring each and every room. There were five bedrooms in total, each furnished with furniture that had been draped in white shrouds. Whoever had lived here before intended to preserve the rooms, of that he was sure. The rugs were elaborate, made of silk and wool, oriental in design. The dressers and vanities and bed frames were hand carved, made of dark rosewood and oak. Brass chamber pots sat beside each bed. The paintings were works by artists unknown to Augustus. The only painting he had ever seen was a family portrait his father, Timothy, had sprung for when he and Bedford were just boys. The very painting Augustus salvaged from his mother’s mad ravings near the end of her life. He had it stored by a friend who recently had it shipped to Jotham. Augustus was set to pick it up the next day from the county clerk’s office. He had
the
perfect spot already selected for it down in the study. By memory, he recalled the image of the painting. His father’s tall, thin frame and short tempest hair, his mother beside him, younger, happier; Bedford and himself looking grave wearing dresses with a petticoat underneath. He remembered the image of the painting well, but for the life of him could not remember
when
the painting had been done.

Bedford could have been no older than ten. Perhaps I was twelve at the time
, Augustus thought.
Father must have had the painting made before we moved to northern Houston, when he started working with the Cotton Auxiliary. Before the recession. Before he got sick.

Downstairs was just as elaborate as the second floor. The living room was rather expansive with a looming gothic fireplace that stretched up toward the vaulted ceiling. Small trinkets lined the mantel. There were a few wooden Nutcrackers with red painted jackets and white beards. The name
Steinbach
carved on the base of each one. Two ebony wood elephants faced each other on one end and on the other a large, obese jolly-looking monk sculpted from some kind of stucco. On the wall beside the fireplace, an eccentric cuckoo clock shaped with wild blackwood, carved leafs, vines, and branches. At the center, a circular face with roman numerals. When it chimed, the hatch beneath the clock face would open and a red robin would appear, sing, and then disappear back inside the mechanism.

There were other paintings downstairs as well, some of scenery, others of people, supposed previous owners perhaps, or maybe someone local in Jotham or of authority. The furniture was plush and inviting. The couch was warm and comforting, the chairs sturdy and good for enjoying the fire. Everything was exceptional, except for a precarious, sinister, looking armchair, which Augustus, for reasons even unbeknownst to him, carted off to town one evening and sold to a man, some Baron supposedly, who had come to Texas on a hunting expedition and was traveling back to Lithuania within the month.

There was a study beside the living room, its walls lined with bookshelves and filled with books on subjects Augustus had little desire to read. There were a few he considered taking down, perhaps on cold winter nights. Mark Twain’s
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
or Dickens’
Great Expectations
. There was one he’d picked up one night, curious by its title,
Frankenstein
, written by Mary Shelley. He had made it farther through that one than
Anna Karenina
, which he found utterly boring. Drama and tales of monsters were not conducive to his sensibilities. Augustus enjoyed adventure, and rarely strayed.

The kitchen was the most modern room in the house. A sizeable pantry near the back, filled with mason jars containing various grains, seasonings, and vegetables. A wide soapstone sink sat in front of a fat window overlooking a garden outside. It even had plumbing, at which Augustus marveled, though became a tad bit apprehensive. If something broke, he’d have no understanding of how to fix it. There was also a wooden table draped with a linen sheet in front of a black iron coal stove that stood almost as high as the ceiling with several cooking and warming ovens on each shelf. There was a door in the kitchen leading down into a cellar, to which Augustus never went, except for once in curious exploration. The place seemed otherworldly to him, both damp and surprisingly warm. Condensation collected unnaturally along the stone walls. And there was something else there as well, a
presence
perhaps, if you happened to believe in those sorts of things. On certain nights he’d have nightmares of stumbling down the stairs, alone and prisoner to whatever creature or creatures crawled within the depths. What ever happened next was a phantasmagoria of horror and misery. So, the door had always remained locked.
Next time in town,
I’ll purchase some bolts and some wood and cover the door, sealing it permanently
. Until then, the nails he’d found out in the barn would have to do. But even then, he kept an ever watchful eye on the door. Expecting, though never admitting, for someone or something to birth from the depths.

On one such occasion, while sitting at the kitchen table attempting to enjoy a cup of coffee and a bowl of grits, as the evening sky was snuffed into darkness, the faint whisper of clicks came from just behind the door, sounding something like chirps of some small insect, like the locusts from biblical stories. Augustus nearly dropped his mug. He listened carefully, but the terrifying sound was gone.

***

Winter came with a colorful explosion of autumn leaves turning brown and fading into barren, gnarled branches. And likewise, the weather had grown cold and miserable.
Colder
, Augustus would say,
than Houston
. But he would say this with a smile, for Augustus enjoyed the cold. And misery was never far from his heart. It had been nearly fifteen years since Bedford was killed. More than a year since his mother’s passing. And while the farm had sparked new life, he still felt shattered with thoughts of those he had lost. He’d wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the sound of cannon fire echoing in his head. The shouts of men and terrified screams of young boys pierced with bayonets—
his bayonet
. The madness that had gripped him at that ship, at times, seemed so near. Sometimes when he’d nap during the day, he’d wake to find the Army surgeon standing above him with the crude, metallic saw that took his leg. He’d scream and fall from his chair and find no one there. And now with Christmas approaching, his heart felt even hollower than it had in seasons past.
Maybe coming up here alone was not the best of ideas.
Maybe I should have stayed in Houston. I know no one here in Jotham. But this is what I wanted, is it not?

With the air turning colder, Augustus spent most of his time inside the house getting drunk on moonshine by the fire. He kept the firewood on the porch. His only chores during the day involved tending the chicken coop and feeding the swine and milking the heifers. By midmorning, he’d be done with these banal tasks and then tend to what he considered to be the most important job on his meager farm, the distillery. If he could distill enough he planned on selling some of it in town. But then again, that would involve going to town, being around people. And the more time Augustus spent alone, the more time he spent inside the house, the more and more he’d rather keep away from people. Alone, no one mocked him. And though they’d never say it to his face, he knew they whispered about him, they looked at him as nothing more than a cripple, an unpleasant memory of a time most would rather forget.
Who needs people?
Who needs anyone? Out here, alone, this is paradise
.

Though, in retrospect, perhaps it was being
alone
that drove him into the one place in the house he did not want to go.

***

It was twelve days before Christmas when Augustus went down in the boarded up cellar. He had stopped going to town completely. Killed all but one of his swine who looked so diseased he dared not eat it. The chickens died of a mysterious sickness. The heifers withered away. He thought about butchering them too, but for reasons unbeknownst to even him, he decided to just watch them slowly starve to death. He found a strange glee in watching them suffer. If anyone happened to pass by they might have heard the faint sound of
laughter
coming from the barn. After a week or so, the cows died. He stayed clear of the barn and the terrible stink that rose into the grey winter sky. In the end, the only creature he took care of was his horse. The others had run off. However, twelve days before Christmas, before he ventured into the cellar reeking of starvation, feeling the tightening nauseating knots in his gut, Augustus ate his horse. Gobbling down meat and sinew, it was not enough. He raided the pantry and the jars of vegetables, pouring seasoning down his throat without thought or heed. Now, twelve days before Christmas, only whatever was in the cellar remained.

Augustus recalled seeing shelves of jars and boxes and sacks of grain during his first adventure. If it was spoiled or not, he had no clue. But it was something. He’d have to brave the humid, haunting cellar and the horrors within if he wanted to
eat
.

I need rations,
I need to eat or I’ll die. God…I’m so hungry
.
But why? Was the pantry not enough? The horse? Why do I feel so pained? It’s as if I’d eaten nothing at all.

He fetched a hammer and a lantern that hung on a hook on the porch. With a few labored grunts the boards came loose from the door. With a long, iron key, he unlatched the locking mechanisms. The door creaked open on rusty, moaning hinges. The dark abyss stared up with the dark eyes of a predator. Augustus shuddered, as if expecting someone—
something
—to come up and snatch him, dragging him down to his death. But when nothing happen, he exhaled and carefully approached the stairs with the lantern in hand.

The wood bent with his first step. Balancing his free hand on the wall, he led with his prosthetic wooden leg, his bumbling Pinocchio monstrosity. A hot gust of wind attacked his nose and if not for the pains in his stomach, he would have turned and run. He shifted the lantern downward but its weak flame pierced little of the dank gloom. The smell was of some rotten stink, meat perhaps, uncooked and left out in the sun. But there was no sun down here.
Whatever could it be?
After a dozen or so steps he reached the bottom. Quickly, he scanned for movement and found nothing.

See,
nothing to be afraid of. Just some smelly old cellar. Smelly and…warm…

Augustus spotted the shelf he had seen during his first exploration into the cellar several weeks before. The jars were coated with dust. Several looked to contain some sort of green vegetable, beans perhaps, or maybe cucumbers. As he shifted, the light from the lantern caught a gleam of something that was neither vegetable nor grain.

What is that?

He set the lantern on a clear space on the shelf. With both hands he lifted a large round glass jar filled with…

What is…? Some sort of creature?