The Glimpsing (27 page)

Finally the funeral itself would come.
 
He’d hear the preacher’s “Ashes to Ashes” sermon, and the tearful weeping of the mourners.
 
That would be followed by the noise of a large machine, then by loud bumping and thumping—the coffin being lowered into the ground.
 
It would hit the bottom of his grave, and there would be a moment of utter silence.
 
Then it would begin, the sound of the dirt hitting the coffin’s lid.
 
After a while, even those would disappear.
 
And there he’d lay, Jack Parke, listening in the blackness, completely conscious, completely aware, forever.

It was then that Jack heard the loud banging on the downstairs door.
 
Immediately, his mind came back, and his trek toward insanity dissipated.
 
He wasn’t dead.
 
Someone was here.
 
Someone who might be able to help him.

Jack listened intently for the banging to resume.
 
And as he did, he found himself being filled with something he long ago thought he had run out of.
 
Hope.

Gabrielle had arrived mere minutes before Jack heard the banging on his door.
 
She’d stood before the towering marvel of his house, one hand holding the car door open, the other covering her stomach.
 
The house was almost grayed out by the mists of falling rain.
 
Its windows seemed to peer down on her sorrowfully, as if aware of the reason she had come but not able to offer the comfort she so desperately sought.

She’d been standing there for several minutes.
 
The rain had flattened her hair against her head and drenched her clothes.
 
Tiny droplets of it beaded her face.
 
Some of them had joined together and begun running down like tears.
 
Another tear, this one real, joined them as she continued to gaze on the house, distraught.
 
Something awful had happened inside.
 
She knew that like nothing else in her life.

She’d been warned of this moment for some time.
 
Since the night of Jack’s birthday, a dark and foreboding premonition had haunted her, warning that some spectacular evil was approaching.
 
It was there that morning at Magnolia’s, and had reared its ugly head once more in Rio, after she’d witnessed the bloody pattern on the sheets.
 
It had completely overwhelmed her just last night, after that frightening call from Jack, who had informed her that Thomas McCain was in his house trying to kill him.
 
And early this morning, while flying back to New York, it was with her, wearing her mentally to the bone, telling her that it was already too late, that her journey was in vain.
 
Even though Jack had soon called and informed her that he was fine; even though he’d sounded so cheerful, like a changed man, the premonition still whispered its evil tidings, casting a dark pall on what should have been a moment of extraordinary relief.

She’d become so convinced of the premonition’s reality, of its truth, that she felt compelled to tell Jack everything she felt about him.
 
If some evil was approaching, if a day of great peril did
lay
ahead, then it was imperative that she tell him that she was in love with him, before it was too late.

She’d chosen Mark Joseph’s as the place to make her confession, although while she spoke with him on the phone, some extraordinary urge told her not to wait, to tell him right now because she might not ever get the chance.
 
But Jack had assured her that nothing was going to happen, either to himself or to her.
 
He’d sounded so confident, so
certain, that she couldn’t help but believe him.
 
It was as if he’d discovered the key to all the strange events in their lives and could somehow make them stop.
 
But listening to him had been wrong, perhaps fatally so.
 
She now regretted it with every ounce of her being.

It was true that admitting she was in love with him probably would only have driven him away.
 
After all, he was Jack Parke wasn’t he; a natural born playboy, God-blessed with physical beauty, intelligence and wealth.
 
What was love to a man who had held the world’s most beautiful women in his arms?

Of course, she’d spent the last several days trying to convince herself of just that: that he was falling in love with her.
 
But now she could see it for what it was.
 
Like some love-struck juvenile she’d been reading far too much into things.
 
A caress on her cheek meant this.
 
A passionate kiss meant that.
 
A hug that lasted for longer than a millisecond meant he was ready to whisk her down the aisle.
 
She’d allowed her own feelings to magnify the situation.
 
Everything he did, led to happily ever after.
 
She’d been a fool to think that way.

Seeing more clearly, she had in mind to merely meet Jack at Mark Joseph’s, tell him how she felt, and then watch him walk out of her life.
 
And that was okay, because at least he knew how she felt.
 
No matter what was coming, he’d always know that she loved him.

But the premonition would not even grant her that peace of mind.
 
Less than an hour after hanging up with Jack, long before the plane touched down, a cloud-like darkness seemed to fill the plane.
 
A violent, psychic tremor passed though
her
… and then she knew.
 
It had happened.
 
The great evil had come.

She’d done her best to fight the feeling off.
 
After landing, she’d called Jack once more, trying to pretend it meant nothing when she could no longer reach him.
 
But after hanging up, the premonition began to harass her so mercilessly that it almost seemed to have taken on life, to become real, like a ghost that had stepped into a body of flesh and bone.

She’d worn a mask of fear and anxiety as she sat at Mark Joseph’s, waiting for Jack to arrive.
 
She nearly broke down when she realized that he really wasn’t coming, that something terrible really had happened, and that she’d never be able to tell him that she loved him.

Distraught, she had called the studio and spoke with Mrs. Spivey, Mark Pirelli, and Dana Masterson, trying to determine his whereabouts.
 
It struck her with all the weight of a hammer when each of them, one by one, admitted that they had
neither seen or
been able to reach Jack all day.

At that, the premonition had begun to smile impurely.
 
Soon it began to speak, drawing close and whispering something so disturbing, so dreadful, that it made her stomach tighten in a knot.
 
You will never see him again.

She had left Mark Joseph’s devastated.
 
The pain of not seeing Jack, of not being able to express her love, had left her numb and disoriented.
 
But that only seemed to feed the premonition, make it stronger.
 
And all the while it continued to recite, louder and louder, with oily, unclean lips: You will never see him again.

She’d gone home in despair, spending the remainder of the day despondent and broken.
 
At dusk, she’d sat emptily in her bedroom, staring blithely out of a window at the fading sky.
 
Nightfall came, and, seemingly just a moment later, the passing of midnight.
 
And never once did the premonition relent, never once did it stop mouthing those same putrid words.
 
You will never see him again.

It was that open mock that sent Gabrielle barreling from her house.
 
No more would she let it torment her.
 
Enraged, she was intent on silencing its perverse and lying mouth.
 
She would go to Jack’s house, and when there, she would ring his doorbell.
 
And as he appeared, as he stood there in the doorway, proving that nothing had happened, she would issue a mock of her own, cackling as the premonition’s dark tidings are proven to be little more than the ass of superstition.

But even as she drove down Langley Drive, approaching the gate to Jack’s estate, the premonition’s red tongue was lolling from its mouth.
 
Through both the rain and an obscuring row of trees, she could see his house.
 
Not a single light was on inside.

She now stood before the magnificent dwelling, holding her car door open, weakened but still determined to win.

She took a deep and shaky breath,
then
blew it out nervously.
 
She commanded a foot forward.
 
Only reluctantly did it obey.

She moved toward the house like a wraith in the rain, taking slow, uncertain steps.
 
Water dripped from her nose, her chin,
her
fingertips.

She moved onto the cement pathway.
 
The whole of her body was now trembling, partly from the chill of the rain, but mostly from raw fear.
 
Her hand remained over her stomach.

Arriving at the door, she stopped and stared at it gravely.
 
She took another shaky breath,
then
slowly raised her hand toward the doorbell.
 
The premonition now began a new mantra; a single dismissive word, but one so powerful that it shook her to the core.

Useless.

Her hand stopped in midair.
 
Some part of her, some great part, actually believed the premonition.
 
Ringing the doorbell was useless.
 
Jack wasn’t coming to the door, because he wasn’t inside.
 
She really wasn’t ever going to see him again.

She pushed the thought aside, and willed her hand forward—until she sensed the word again.

Useless.

It struck like a lash of a whip.
 
Her hand, weakened, almost fell back to her side.
 
But she wouldn’t let it.
 
She urged it forward once more, making it creep ever closer to the doorbell.
 
And just before she touched it, the word came once more, this time with such a heinous screech, that it almost seemed audible.

Useless!

She flinched badly, and then her hand drifted away.
 
 
She stared at the door’s ominous frame for some time,
then
covered her mouth with both hands.
 
It was useless.
 
Jack wasn’t inside.
 
He was gone.
 
Forever.

She suddenly lunged forward, and began slamming her fists into the door, beating it frantically.
 
She wept as she did so, and soon the beating slowed, finally subsided. Turning around she leaned against the door, and gradually slid to the ground.
 
She sat there for several agonizing minutes, mourning openly.
 
At the end of it, she slowly stood and began back to her car.

Not far from the porch she broke down again, falling to her knees near a patch of blue flowers.
 
The rain, which had began to fall harder, abused her body.

Thinking back to the man on the hill, she cut her eyes toward the heavens and tried to pray.
 
She could not do so… still.

Her tears continued to fall, like the raindrops around her.
 
“Please.
 
Leave me alone now,” Gabrielle pleaded, addressing the premonition as if it stood above her.
 
“You got what you wanted.”

But the premonition would not depart.
 
Only leaned in to her ear, and whispered that greater horrors were to come.

At some point during the night, the rain ceased.
 
Another dawn was nearing, and once more the early birds whistled their melodic serenades, sitting silhouetted against a steadily bluing sky.
 
Jack watched and listened, still peering into the bedroom with unclosing eyes.

He counted himself fortunate to have made it through the night.
 
His savior had been the pounding on the downstairs’ door.
 
Despite its furiousness and brevity, he’d drawn great comfort in hearing it, because he was almost certain who it was.
 
Gabrielle.

That was the most sensible possibility.
 
She would have been the first to think that something was wrong, given his failure to show up at Mark Joseph’s, and her general concern that some calamitous event was approaching.
 
Desperate to reach him, she likely would have driven here and began banging on the door, hoping he would answer.

He could not answer, of course, and it bothered him that she had left believing he was not inside, but he was glad she’d come anyway.
 
Just knowing she was near, that she cared, was the only thing that got him through the night.

Another thirty minutes passed.
 
The bedroom had brightened considerably.
 
It felt good to see the light, but it could not completely quell his fear.
 
He couldn’t help thinking about the day ahead, that there was more to come, that a stiff body wasn’t the end Rose had in mind.

Just then, he heard a peculiar sound coming from the downstairs door.
 
This time it was not a loud and distraught banging, but the jangly rattle of a pair of keys.

He listened excitedly as he heard the door being pushed open and then closed.
 
A moment later, he heard several barely discernable bumps.
 
Then another door clunked closed.

For probably ten minutes or so, he didn’t hear anything at all.
 
He surmised that the person had merely passed deeper into the house, but the quiet bothered him nevertheless.
 
He was relieved when he suddenly heard the soft tap… tap… tap of their shoes as they ascended the staircase.

He waited eagerly for the person to appear in the hallway.
 
And several interminable seconds later, they did.
 
He wasn’t surprised in the least by
who
it was, for Monday morning was one of her two regularly scheduled cleaning days.
 
It was Janice, his housekeeper.

Jack felt a very welcomed wave of relief pass through him.
 
Very soon this would all be over—although without question Janice was in for the jolt of her life.
 
The sight of his body leaning rigidly against the dresser, his eyes open and
staring,
was a spectacle sure to rattle even her unflappable persona.
 
She’d likely think he was dead.
 
Hopefully, he wouldn’t give the poor woman a heart attack.

Janice had begun down the hall.
 
It was odd watching her come.
 
With the illusion of the sloping bedroom, he half-expected her to fall sideways against the wall (he had a darkly comical thought of her entering the bedroom, losing her balance, and tumbling sideways through one of the windows).

She entered the bedroom carrying her usual compliment of a feather duster and small white towel.
 
She immediately proceeded to the wet bar and began wiping it down.
 
She then moved to the curtains and, seeing that they were already open, merely straightened them, brushing along their surface with a hand until they seemed to be in line.
 
She moved to the other set of curtains and did the same.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, which struck him as particularly odd.
 
Then again she hadn’t noticed him the other morning either, although then he’d been lying in the bed, where the blankets and sheets had lent him some camouflage.
 
It still didn’t make sense, however.
 
He was sitting out in the open, rather plainly.
 
In fact, she should have easily spotted him as she approached down the hall.

He peered at Janice in astonishment as she moved away from the curtains and headed back to the wet bar.
 
She laid the feather duster on a stool, and then went to the far side of the bed.
 
She began to tend it, separating a sheet from the blankets and dragging it up toward the headboard.
 
But very suddenly she stopped.
 
Something in the bed seemed to have caught her eye.

She reached in and pinched away a tiny object.
 
She held it up for a better look.
 
It was a button.
 
She pulled the sheet back and was promptly greeted by three more, sitting scattered on the mattress like flattened marbles.

She seemed to notice something else as well.
 
She slipped a hand into the covers, rummaged around blindly for a few seconds, and then pulled away a pair of black slacks.
 
She reached forward again and pulled away a shirt.
 
She held them up, turning them this way and that, and then sighed loudly.
 
“Oh Jack, what am I going to do with you.”

She retrieved the buttons one by one and placed them in her pocket; the shirt and pants she folded and sat on one of the other bar stools.
 
She returned to the bed and fixed one side, then began moving around it to make up the other.

Now she had to see him; she literally had no choice.
 
In moving to the other side of the bed, she’d have to walk directly in front of him.
 
Yet the sagely old woman strolled by without the slightest care, casting only a brief glance at him as she continued to the bed.

Jack was appalled.
 
And confused.
 
He watched incredulously as she leaned over and grabbed the corner of a sheet.
 
She was dragging it into place when, quite suddenly, her movements eased to a stop. She slowly turned her head, and then looked over her shoulder, peering directly at him.
 
She had seen him after all, Jack thought.

However, upon closer examination, she was not actually looking at him, but just off to his right, at the very spot where the painting was hanging.

Straightening, she turned and proceeded to it, standing just to his right.
 
She reached up and stretched her hand toward the painting.
 
The angle was too severe for him to see what she’d done, but he soon heard a soft shirring sound that he could only interpret as her fingers being passed along the wall.
 
It seemed that the painting had been removed.

She frowned, her fists going to her hips.
 
“What did you do with her?” she questioned with a degree of wonder.
 
She then turned and began to search the bedroom.

She checked behind the wet bar, the bedroom door, his walk-in closet.
 
Nothing.
 
Finally, she dropped to her knees and looked under the bed.
 
She seemed to struggle, grunting, and then pulled something away.
 
“There you are,” she said, rustling to her feet.
 
She then made her way back to the wall, holding the painting in her hands.

But as she once more passed in front of him, he saw that it was not the painting that she held, but the picture of Gabrielle.
 
That confused him even more.

She re-hung the image directly to the right of his head, and then stood back.
 
“I guess he didn’t want you watching what he was doing last night.
 
Or who he was doing it with,” she added.

Jack was frantically staring around the bedroom, trying to reassess his true position.
 
If Gabrielle’s picture was directly to his right, then that meant his head was in the same spot as—

He was distracted away from the thought when he realized that Janice was no longer looking at Gabrielle’s image, but had now trained her gaze unswervingly on him.
 
She peered at him for just a moment, and then blinked off.
 
She had begun to walk away, but just as she was passing in front of him, she slowed.
 
She turned her head back to him a little; and then a little more, until he could see the profile of a frown on her face.
 
She then backed up a few steps and faced him fully.

Her hand came up, and extended toward his face.
 
He watched it gleefully, thrilled that she had finally discovered him—although he could not quite understand why it had taken so long.
 
Her fingers passed over his eyes, momentarily obscuring the bedroom. She then leaned in, so close to him that he could smell the scent of coffee on her breath.
 
She took a step back, however, and gestured in a way that caused him some concern.
 
She’d placed her hand over her chest, as if quite disturbed by what she saw.

Just then the sound of the doorbell rang out.

Janice flinched, but continued to stare at him, clearly puzzled by what she saw.

The doorbell rang once more.

Janice slowly began backing away, but still refused to take her eyes off him.

When it rang a third time she finally turned and hurried away.

He tried to remind himself that Janice’s reaction was to be expected.
 
In fact, it should have been a lot worse, given his condition.
 
But it bothered him greatly that he seemed so difficult to see.
 
Had Rose somehow entombed him in the wall?
 
Was that also why he couldn’t move?

He could now hear Janice downstairs conversing with someone.
 
The voice was soft and feminine, but not immediately discernable given the distance.

He heard the front door
close,
and there followed a brief stint of silence.
 
Then the conversation began once more.
 
This time the voice was familiar, and, growing exceedingly joyful, he now realized to whom it belonged.
 
Gabrielle!

He listened to them intently, smiling inwardly, and became almost euphoric when he heard the sound of her heels begin clomping up the staircase.
 
She was ascending with a steady, almost mechanical gait, the hollowness of the foyer seeming to amplify each footfall.

Finally, she appeared in the distance of the hallway, an angel, glorious and perfect.
 
Only it wasn’t Gabrielle.
 
And it wasn’t an angel either.
 
It was a demon, a nightmare.
 
It was Portia.

She hesitated in the hallway, clearly confused about which way to go.
 
She took several wrong steps in the direction of one of the other bedrooms, then, seeming to realize her error, whirled around.
 
Almost immediately she seemed to catch his eye.

Brightening suddenly, she began a slow, almost arrogant stroll down the hallway, each knock of her heels provoking in him a fresh wave of fear.
 
She wore an elegant black dress, with a plunging v-neck that offered two sumptuous halves of her breasts.
 
Her skin was like pure milk, creamy, smooth and white.
 
Her lips were covered in a siren-red hue, and that wavy blonde hair was spilling everywhere, over her shoulders, down her
back, and well beyond her chest.
 
Never before had she seemed more beautiful than now.
 
And never before more terrifying.

She entered the bedroom with her eyes very clearly trained on him.
 
A livid smile had crawled onto her face.
 
Something seemed to enter with her, a presence of some sort, dark and unsettling.
 
He found himself tensing, wanting to turn away as she came closer, to close his eyes and shield his face like a child from a monster.
 
But his eyes remained open, forcing him to see.
 
 
 
 
She moved around the bed, then came and stood in front of him.
 
She stared for a moment, still smiling, seeming to gloat.
 
She then tilted her head to the side, as if she’d noticed something odd.
 
Her hand
came
chest high, paused, and then reached out toward the area of his chin.