Unclean Spirit (16 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

              "I don't see anything out of the ordinary," Javier pronounced after examining Paul's eyes. "Perhaps, Mrs. Forsythe, it was a trick of the light or..." Javier stopped speaking momentarily when he saw Starr roll her eyes around. "Okay, okay. I give up. No more rational explanations for irrational events. If you say you saw reptilian eyes, you saw reptilian eyes. I just wish to hell I could get a handle on what's going on here!" 

              Paul, shaken by what Tamara had seen in his eyes, finally spoke up.

              "So, Dr. Gomez, are you ready to admit that there is something going on here that neither neurosurgery nor psychiatry can explain or repair?"

              "I can't say that I'm ready to commit to your supernatural explanations, Mr. Forsythe, but I will confess that I'm beginning to lend them some credence. Having said that though, I still think a psychiatrist's input might be beneficial." 

              "You know how I feel about that, Doctor," Paul said. 

              "Yes, I do, so I'm not going to force the issue. Anyway, at the rate things are going, a psychiatrist would have to treat all of us, plus half the population of Van Horn! I don't have any colleagues who would be willing to accept such an assignment." 

              "Well, Doc, at least you're developing a sense of humor about this whole ordeal," Paul commented. "I have a feeling that we're about to face a dry-spell as far as jocularity s concerned."

              Patsy had slept the entire day away and when she finally awoke she did so with a scream. 

              "Pats, what is it?" Marybeth, short of breath from having raced up the stairs, was shocked by Patsy's appearance: Her hair was plastered to her face by sweat; her complexion was devoid of evidence of a blood supply; her facial expression was one of total anguish. 

              "Ma..Ma...Marybeth, he was here!" Patsy could barely get the words out. 

              "Who, baby, who was here?" 

              Patsy would not say, could not say. 

              "Pats, it's okay, I'm with you and there's no one here but me. Who was it? Who did you see?"             

              Patsy finally choked out a name. "Neill--Neill Davis." 

              Marybeth let loose a sigh of relief. 

              "Oh, honey, you were having a nightmare. You know you didn't actually see Neill Davis." 

              “I did, I did! I saw him standing at the foot of the bed. And he talked to me, Marybeth. He told me that I was finally going to die!" 

              Patsy had been fourteen years old when Neill Davis entered her life. He was a big, slovenly, foul-smelling man who lived in the apartment across the hall from Patsy and her mother. Although he kept pretty much to himself, Patsy would sometimes run into him when she went to the basement to do the laundry. He never talked to Patsy on those occasions, he never even looked her way; he just sat on a stool as he watched the clothes spin round and round in the dryer.

              Patsy wasn't afraid of Neill Davis; in fact, she felt kind of sorry for him. He seemed so lonely and pitiful.

              "Ma," Patsy asked one day, "do you know anything about Neill Davis? I mean, does he have a job, family, anything?" 

              "All I know about the man is that I want you to stay away from him," Felice Carlton had instructed her daughter. 

              "But why, Ma? He's never done anything to us. And he seems so sad."

              "Patsy, I know men and there's something about that particular man that doesn't set right with me. Just do what I say and steer clear of him." 

              Patsy was usually an obedient child, but she didn't think her mother was being fair about Neill Davis. She figured that the man needed a friend; there was no harm in showing him a little kindness. So, the next time Patsy went to the basement to wash clothes she took some homemade chocolate-chip cookies with her.

              Neill Davis sat in his usual place watching his clothes spin dry.

              "Mr. Davis, my name is Patsy Carlton and I live across the hall from you. Would you like some tollhouse cookies?" 

              Neill Davis did not even acknowledge Patsy's presence. 

              "I made them myself and they are very good. I put extra chips in them." 

              Still no response. 

              "Well, maybe you aren't hungry right now. I'll just leave them here on the table and you can help yourself when you feel like it." 

              Patsy loaded clothes into the washer and when she was finished she was surprised to see that both Neill Davis and the cookies were gone. 

              For the next several months Patsy continued to take little snacks with her to the basement. Neill Davis never spoke to her, but when he left the laundry room the brownies, chips, etc. left with him. Patsy never told her mother what she was doing. 

              Then, one night in September while Felice was out on a "date," Neill Davis came to visit. Patsy was fast asleep when a noise woke her up. It took a minute or so for her eyes to adjust to the dark and when they did Patsy was shocked to see a large, murky form standing at the foot of her bed. Thinking that she was seeing things, Patsy rubbed her eyes vigorously. But, the child was not hallucinating and she realized that when objects started landing on her bed. She didn't know what the objects were and she didn't care because, before she knew it, a hand had streaked toward her and pulled her up by the hair. It was then that Patsy recognized Neill Davis. 

              "Mr. Davis, what are you doing? What do you..." 

              But the man had quickly shoved something odious into Patsy's mouth to shut her up. 

              Patsy knew she was in trouble and she began to kick and flail her arms about as Neill Davis dragged her from the bed and into the dimly lit bathroom. Patsy struggled mightily, but she was no match for her attacker. Furthermore, the taste of the item that Neill Davis had stuffed into Patsy's mouth had finally caused the girl to vomit uncontrollably. Ironically, it was the vomiting that saved Patsy's life; she expelled the rag, or whatever it was, from her mouth and Neill Davis slipped on it and Patsy's vomitus and fell into the bathtub. Patsy tore through the apartment and ran screaming into the hallway, straight into her mother's arms.  Patsy and Felice didn't go back into the apartment, but several neighbors who had responded to the child's screams stood watch at the Carlton's door while Felice called the police.  When the police arrived, they found Neill Davis still lying in the tub. He had cracked his head on the porcelain and was bleeding profusely from a scalp wound. In addition to Neill Davis, the officers also found a rag saturated with feces, a hammer, a box of four-inch nails, and a twin bed covered in stale and rancid snack foods. 

              Patsy testified at Neill Davis' trial; the six other young girls who had encountered Neill Davis were unable to do so because they had died when Neill Davis had hammered nails into their brains. 

              Neill Davis was executed two years after Patsy Carlton had first baked chocolate-chip cookies for him.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The Sixth Night

              Tamara and Starr had gone back to their motel room for the night. Tamara had wanted to spend the night with Paul, but he had convinced her to leave. Paul knew that if his wife stayed with him she wouldn't get any rest at all, that she would stay awake just waiting for him to need something. More to the point, however, Paul hadn't wanted Tamara with him during the night because he was fearful of what she might see and of what he might do.  Ever since the priest had come into his room by mistake, Paul had been feeling very peculiar. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone because he had been more concerned about Tamara than he had been about himself. Paul didn't feel physically ill exactly, but he was aware of some type of subtle change within himself. He had tried to make light of this perception by telling himself that it only stood to reason that a person with snake-eyes should feel different! But now that he was alone, Paul focused on deciphering exactly what it was about himself that had been altered. 

              He looked the same, except for that brief episode with his eyes, so the change he was discerning was not physical in nature. But Paul already knew that; he recognized that it was his psyche, not his corporeal being, that had been amended. But, Paul asked himself, what is it about my spirit, my essence, that has been modified? As Paul reflected upon that query to himself, he realized that there was no way he could ascertain how his spirit had changed since he had never really considered what his spirit was like to begin with! My God, thought Paul, am I so shallow as to have lived sixty-four years without contemplating the unique character of my soul, my core?  Paul had always believed that the soul was that component of living beings that imbued them with vitality, purpose, and individuality. He had never regarded the soul as an entity unto itself but, rather, as an integral part of each and every living cell within each of earth's creatures. Although Paul had pondered, in the abstract at least, the concept of a soul, he now realized that he had never really appraised
his
soul. In short, Paul Forsythe had to confess that he really didn't know who he was and, if he didn't know that, how could he possibly identify how he had changed? 

              Paul was growing increasingly frustrated with his inability to catalog not only his essence but also his divergence from same. He wanted answers to what was plaguing him, but those explanations were not forthcoming...not yet. 

              The Valium Patsy had taken throughout the day had kept her pretty well zonked; Marybeth, on the other hand, was emotionally and physically exhausted. Not only had she cleaned house and prepared lunch and dinner, she had also run upstairs every thirty minutes or so to check on Pats. In addition, she had been preoccupied with Patsy's assertion that Neill Davis had stopped by for a visit. The man was dead, of that there was no question, so there were only two possible explanations for Patsy's conviction that the erstwhile murderer had been in the house: One, Patsy was losing her mind, or; two, whatever had touched Paul was extending its reach. 

              Marybeth decided to pull a Scarlett O'Hara and think about it tomorrow, after she'd had a good night's sleep. 

              Marybeth was out like a light the minute her head hit the pillow. Four hours later, at three a.m. on the dot, Marybeth awoke to the sounds of a baby crying.  Although she tried to convince herself that she was only imagining the sound of an infant crying, Marybeth knew that her imagination wasn't capable of producing the wails that were now reverberating throughout the house. Patsy, thanks to the lingering effects of the Valium, was not awakened by the noise, so Marybeth put on her robe and slippers and struck out to find the source of the cries.

              Marybeth flipped on every single light switch she passed by as she made her way downstairs. No way was she going to add to her fear by fumbling around in the dark! Just as she was going to turn the light on at the foot of the steps, she ran smack-dab into something that stopped her cold in her tracks. 

              "Jesus Christ!" Marybeth exclaimed as she reflexively hit the light switch. 

              "Fuckshit!" 

              "My, God, Charlie, you just about gave me a heart attack!" 

              "Gave
you
a heart attack? Hell, my heart's sitting right in my gullet. I thought ya was a demon out fer a stroll!" 

              Despite the fact that Marybeth and Charlie were relieved that they had run into one another rather than into something other-worldly, they were far from calm, especially since the cries that had awakened them both had now intensified. 

              "You do hear that, don't you?" Marybeth asked Charlie. 

              "Hell, yes, I hear it! I ain't deaf! Sounds like a baby what's in trouble. Ya know where them sounds is comin' from, don't ya?" 

              Marybeth knew. 

              "The basement?" 

              "Gawddamn, fuckin' cellar! I jest cain't git away from that place!" 

              Penelope greeted Charlie and Marybeth when they arrived at the kitchen door. Her ears were flat against her head and her whiskers stood at a ninety-degree angle from her face. 

              "It's okay, Pen, it's just us. You wait here." 

              Like Marybeth even had to tell the cat to wait; Penelope had no intention of entering the kitchen! 

              Once in the kitchen, Charlie and Marybeth were chilled by the loudness and urgency of the wailing that was obviously originating from the basement. 

              Charlie, shotgun in hand, spoke first.  "Soon's I open the cellar door, hit the light switch. I don't rightly know what we're gonna see down there, so be ready for anythin'! Ready?" 

              Marybeth was definitely not ready. 

              "Yeah." 

              The door opened, the lights went on, and Marybeth and Charlie were confronted by a horror that neither had expected.