Resurrection House (10 page)

Peter Carroll emerged from the run-down vehicle, swallowed a great big breath of warm air, and looked upon his new home.

A trio of withered men shuffled from the backyard with curiosity.

A middle-aged woman, her wounds still fresh and flowing, stood from where she had been reclining by the garbage pails.

A young man missing his left leg dragged himself across the front lawn.

Others came from the side yards. Some spilled out the front door in a slow, lumbering line. They rose from the places where they had fallen in repose behind the hedges or in the basement window wells. Soon they had Peter encircled. A few were rotted into unrecognizable armatures of bone, coated in slick decay and toughening muscle. A handful of the older ones were dry and mummified. Several could have passed for living but for the pallor of their flesh and the dullness of their eyes. And then there were the children, too many children. How many dumped by grief-stricken parents who then never returned to face the unthinkable?

Peter cataloged the visible wounds and injuries, the crushed skulls and severed limbs, the bullet holes and torn throats, the disease-riddled flesh, telltale needle marks, and long fatal gashes. A fair number he guessed had died of less-telling causes, heart attacks or poisons. The stench of the dead consumed his senses. He pressed a handkerchief to his face and wondered if he would ever get used to the smell. Uncertainty lanced him. Moments passed in which he convinced himself that he had made a horrible error. The urge to flee fluttered in his heart. But then his will asserted itself.

This was home, now. He was its master, and he had duties to attend to.

“Good morning,” Peter said. “My name is Peter Carroll. I’m the new owner.”

No response came but the unyielding indifference of the dead.

“I’m moving in today,” he told them. “My things will be coming this afternoon. I don’t have very much. I’ve been instructed to inform you that all the established rules remain in effect. Any living person to enter this property is to be considered my guest unless I specify otherwise. None of you will be turned out so long as the rules are obeyed. Is that understood?”

Peter sputtered a bit on the last part. Handing out orders was a new experience for him.

He awaited acknowledgment but none came. The mob simply dispersed. The dead folk returned to their places, folding back into the property like elements of the landscape come briefly to life but now exhausted of energy. In their absence the kneeling girl remained, her gaze steady in the direction of the flowers though the butterfly was nowhere to be seen.

Peter weaved gingerly around her and climbed the front steps. The door was open. He peered down the hallway into the bright kitchen where George Gail, head of the house’s security team, sat sipping a cup of steaming coffee while he read the morning paper.

* * * * *

Excerpt from Chapter 3 of the forthcoming book

A History of Resurrection House:

The Odd Events at 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and What They Mean to You

by Padraic Irwin O’Flynn

Who is Red Moriarty?

This is undoubtedly one of the most important questions regarding Resurrection House, perhaps second only to the question of the true nature of events that have transpired there and what they bode for the future of humanity.

Old “Monster” Moriarty enters the stage toward the end of 1972 at the peak of the ravenous success that earned him his nickname. By then the inhabitants of 1379 Hopewood had grown significantly in number. Carla Montgomery had decomposed to a state of bare bones and was no longer up to the running of the household. Yet, things seemed to carry on fine without her, since there wasn’t much to be done. The walking dead proved to be surprisingly tidy and promptly tended to the remains of their comrades who reached such advanced states of decay as to no longer be considered among the “living dead.” (See Chapter Seven for their means of disposal.) But this behavioral tidbit gave lie to one of the most oft-repeated myths of Resurrection House, that those who dwell there are granted eternal life. In truth they receive something more in the nature of a life extension—putting aside for the moment all theological debates of the nature of “life” after “death”—good only until their withering bodies ultimately dissolve into useless dust.

This, of course, leaves unanswered the question of whether or not their consciousness or soul then ceases to exist as well or goes on to survive in yet another form.

Hopes for the answer drew Red Moriarty to Resurrection House. The dilemma coincided rather strikingly with research endeavors into the nature of thought sponsored by several of his scientific and pharmaceutical companies. Whatever connections these firms and their studies might have had to clandestine government experiments in mind control and human psychic ability stands as firmly in the realm of dubious conspiracy theory today as it did thirty years ago. Such discussions are beyond the province of this book. Suffice to say that whatever potential Red saw in Resurrection House was enough to sustain his long-term interest.

In only a few months’ time events had conspired toward the destruction of the house. The Montgomery children refused to take responsibility for the property or the residents, who they considered squatters. Thus members of the neighboring community formed a committee and lobbied to clear the grounds and seal them permanently. The ranks of the curious and devoted swelled as people from around the globe arrived, overwhelming the small town and causing horrendous traffic jams, ludicrously long lines at the supermarkets, and many sleepless nights for those who could not block out the sounds of the visitors’ comings and goings. Worshippers arrived faster than police could shoo them off. Strange religious ceremonies often began at midnight and carried on until dawn. Chanting was a mainstay.

The most crucial factor, however, was the abject refusal of any official body to recognize the events at the house as unusual, supernatural, or miraculous. Every level of the United States government regarded Resurrection House as the work of publicity seekers and hoaxers. In a bizarre episode of electoral politics, 1974 gubernatorial candidates in a neighboring state attacked each other for weeks in an effort to pin the hoax on each other’s party. As a result, a third party candidate won in that state for the first time in forty-five years. Meanwhile, the Vatican condemned the place as a dangerous fraud, whose misleading theological implications would surely imperil the souls of any too eager to be persuaded to belief. Other established churches and religious leaders issued much the same opinion. Scientific organizations downplayed the events, stating quizzically that the phenomenon would merit further study only if it could be proven not to be a hoax, something no one could confirm without further study. In essence, everyone looked the other way for fear of ridicule or going on record and looking the fool a year later when the truth surfaced. Further, persistent rumors point toward the possibility of bribery and pressure brought to bear—whether by “Monster” Moriarty’s organization or other powerful factions on the world scene—in keeping bold officials from approaching Resurrection House with any credibility. Though unproven, these allegations may point to an explanation for why the place has gone unmolested by bureaucratic interference for more than thirty years.

There were exceptions, people who protested the summary dismissal and mockery of the phenomenon, but their voices were often squelched, their opinions dismissed with the same casual humor that greets reports of flying saucers, Bigfoot, crop circles, and the Loch Ness monster. A regional news anchor lost his job after refusing to report the case as a fraud. The town mayor was one of the few local voices in favor of preserving the house, and the town residents, for their first-hand experience, seemed far less convinced that it was all a put-on. Most others protesting the scam theory came from fringe groups involved with alien visitations, transgressional theologies, UFOs, and other extreme and minority perspectives.

Thus the door hung wide for one of the richest men in the world to step in and take on the full expense of properly securing the house and property, seeing to its upkeep and security, compensating the neighbors for their inconvenience, and launching a full investigation into the matter.

What a collective sigh of relief was breathed.

However, thirty years later and three months after Moriarty’s announcement of his intention to conclude his study and put Resurrection House on the market, the public yet awaits the results of his research. It is inconceivable that, with three decades to investigate and the enigmatic Moriarty’s resources to draw upon, no progress was made. What is the old man hiding?

* * * * *

George Gail lit a cigarette then deftly managed to wield it with the same hand with which he held his coffee mug and morning paper as he clapped his free arm around Peter Carroll’s back and ushered him out the door. The backyard was larger than average for houses in this neighborhood. Peter was unprepared for the number of corpses milling about, perhaps fifty or sixty, all of whom turned and looked at him. Some of them only had empty eye sockets, but he could feel their stares. They looked frail and hungry in the glare of the late-morning sun. Sparrows flitted among them, plucking worms and grubs from the crevasses of their polluted flesh.

“So’s not much to it, really,” said George. “Twelve-foot, chain-link fence running on three sides of the property, more to keep ‘em out than in, you understand. And Mr. Moriarty, he sunk vertical concrete slabs seven feet down below all the property lines. Still, we get a new face now and then, though I can’t say for sure exactly where they come from. Got my theories, you bet, but that ain’t what you pay me for, is it?”

George twisted Peter sideways and pointed across the yard. “Up there we got the platform and one of two monitor stations for the cameras. Fifteen feet high. Always a man on watch in there. The other monitors are in the cellar safe room. I’ll show you that later. The guard on the platform is always armed, though we’ve only had call to draw our weapons maybe a dozen times since I’ve been on the job. Most of those were to scare away vandals.”

Gail dragged Peter off the porch and walked him toward the driveway. Every few steps he paused to point out a nook or corner of the house where a small black camera peered down at them.

“We got cameras on every angle of the building and grounds, and twice as many covering the grounds off-property. Those are the ones that matter. Law says we’re responsible basically for two things. One, no one live gets hurt by anyone ‘dead,’ which isn’t much trouble as long as we keep the live ones off the property and you make sure to enforce the rules. And, two, we ain’t allowed to accept dead bodies on the property. That boils down to doing everything we can to discourage corpse dumping. If they get by us, though, well, ain’t much we can do about that. They come back to life, they’re welcome to stay. Law says they ain’t dead if they’re moving. But we’re not permitted to store ‘em otherwise, even if they’ve been properly embalmed. But, now, I ain’t telling you anything you don’t already know, am I, Mr. Carroll?”

George and Peter rounded the front of the house and closed full circle toward the backyard. Peter eyed the sturdy framework of the security platform. It could’ve passed for an overgrown patio deck, but for the concrete, steel, and glass. Gail dug his fingers into Peter’s shoulder, spewed smoke, and gazed up at the structure against the glare of the sun reflected in its windows.

“I’ll tell ya, Mr. Carroll, eight years I got on this job, and I still can’t understand why they want in here. I mean, hell, I’m getting paid to be here or you wouldn’t see me within five miles of this place. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Not at all. Oh, some I get it—the ones who want to sneak in with the bodies of their loved ones and bring ‘em back. But it’s the live ones that baffle me, the ones that sit vigils all night outside the front gate. Like they just enjoy being around death, you know? Like they got some sick urge to fulfill or some unhealthy questions they’re looking for the answer to. This whole neighborhood is full of them, you know, folks who moved here just to be near this house.”

Peter blushed and looked away.

“Oh, not that I mean you, sir. No, you’re the owner, and this place is one of a kind. And that I get, too. Owning a place like this? It’s kind of special. And who knows? Maybe you’ll figure out how to turn a buck or two off it. Now, let me show where all the alarm boxes are. Officially the dead don’t come back to life, but I guess somebody high up is smart enough to hedge their bets. So, we got direct lines to the fire department, the police department, the hospital, and, my personal favorite, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Soon as they put one in for Lazio’s Pizzeria, we’ll be all set.”

Gail unleashed a raspy chuckle, slapped Peter on the back, and steered him toward the house. They passed an outside entrance to the cellar, covered over by a pair of cyclone doors painted dark blue and set in a sloped concrete frame.

Have to look around down there,
Peter thought.

* * * * *

Obituary

Rudolf Mann,
Physicist and Founder of
The Society of the Second Death,
Dies at 80

Rudolf Mann, whose scientific contributions include
Kinetic Delinquency: A Treatise on the Transfer of Energy
, but who is better known for founding the cultic Society of the Second Death in 1953, died Friday in Hamburg. The cause was a cerebral hemorrhage. He is survived by his granddaughter Dotti Gruenlotter.