Vestige (12 page)

The doorbell rang. Clarke and Micah jumped. Looking at each other, they froze.

“What should I do?” asked Clarke. “Should I answer it?”

“Who do you think it is?”

“Maybe it’s Mary…or maybe it’s a neighbor. I don’t know. No one ever comes here.”

“We need to be careful Clarke. What if it’s looters?”

Clarke pulled a couple of knives out of the wood block standing on the counter. “Here…take one of these.”

The doorbell rang again. Clarke walked through the hallway towards the front door, holding a knife behind her back. Micah followed close behind. She slid the curtain over just enough to peek out the window.

“Who is it?” whispered Micah.

“No way.” Clarke set the knife down on the half-moon table next to the door.

“Clarke, who is it? Do you know?”

“I know.” Without another word, she opened the door and stepped back.

A tiny woman with short red hair stood in the doorway. She greeted Clarke with a huge smile. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Clarke didn’t respond. All the color drained from her cheeks.

The woman didn’t wait for an invitation and stepped across the threshold. “I barely recognize you. You look so grown up. Can I get a hug?” She reached for Clarke and put her arms around her.

Clarke didn’t move a muscle. She stood straight with her arms at her side.

Micah squeezed the knife handle. He couldn’t tell whether Clarke was in danger or not.

“I flew in last night. I wanted to see you then, but it was too late.” Pushing back from Clarke, the woman looked at Micah and smiled. “You have company.”

“This is Micah. Micah, this is Lilith Morgan, my…mother.” Clarke noted the difference in her mother’s appearance. When Lilith played the role of mother, she wore the appropriate costume, looking average and nondescript. Now, she oozed confidence and superiority. She looked young and put-together. She looked as she did in Clarke’s dream.

“Actually, my love, my name isn’t Morgan anymore. Your father finally signed those divorce papers. I remarried last year.”

Clarke felt light headed. Why didn’t
she
know that her parents divorced? How could her father have left her in the dark? A moment ago, she thought she would be able to handle this situation, but this announcement threw her off. It took every ounce of energy for her not to react.

“Your step-father is dying to meet you, Clarke. He wanted to come with me today, but I thought it would be better if I talked to you first.”

“I’m not interested in meeting him, and I’m not interested in getting reacquainted with you.” Clarke's voice was lifeless as she recited her lines.

Micah could feel the hate emanating from Clarke’s body, and yet, Lilith pretended as if nothing was wrong.

“Oh sweetheart, I know you don’t mean that. I know you’ll like him. He’s a very important man.”

“I think you should leave,” said Clarke.

“Let’s have dinner,” suggested Lilith. “How about tomorrow? I’ll send my chef by early. That way—”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be here,” interrupted Clarke.

“Oh don’t be like that, Clarke. We’ll see you tomorrow at six.” Lilith kissed her daughter’s cheek and turned to leave.

As soon as her mother was out of sight, Clarke shut the door and stood silent.

“Are you okay? Clarke, say something,” Micah pleaded.

“I can’t believe my dad didn’t tell me about the divorce,” she muttered.

“He probably didn’t want to upset you,” Micah said.

Clarke tried to wrap her brain around this new revelation. She had grown closer to her dad over the past three years. It was the two of them against the world. He obviously didn’t feel the same. If he had, he would have told her where Lilith was, and he would have told her about the divorce. Clarke didn’t know how to feel—sad, abandoned, angry? It took only a moment for her to settle on angry.

“Can you believe her?” Clarke hissed. “Acting like everything is fine. And a chef! All this time, my dad and me have been struggling to get by, and she doesn’t even cook for herself. Micah, I hate her…I hate her so much!”

Micah watched as Clarke transformed into someone he didn’t recognize. Her face was hard and lifeless, and her eyes looked black and vacant. She turned and picked up the knife from the table.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” he asked.

Without answering, she stormed into the living room and lost it. Her anger raged, spilling out of every pore. First, she shredded the faded velvet curtains, leaving only strips of frayed fabric hanging from the rod. Next, she turned on the leather couch, mutilating it with each thrust of the blade. Then, she butchered the throw pillows, spilling fuzzy guts onto the floor. She carried on for at least ten minutes. Until, finally, she collapsed to the floor—a puddle of misery, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Micah knelt down beside her and cradled her face with his hands. “Please don’t cry. It’s gonna be okay Clarke. I promise. We don’t have to be here tomorrow when she comes back. We can stay at my house tonight.”

Clarke couldn’t speak.

Micah’s heart ached for her. He wanted, no needed to take her pain away. He pulled her face close to his and brushed his lips across hers. He could taste the salt of her tears as they ran down her cheeks.

Her tears belonged to him now. Her fears, sorrows, and worries blended with his. Micah would do whatever he could do to protect this girl, the girl he was falling for.

Chapter Thirteen

Thomas rummaged through the medicine cabinet, looking for a prescription of Fioricet. He hadn’t had a migraine in years, but today, he felt a doozy coming on. During his walk home from the village hall, he experienced the first symptoms, auras. Only this time, the auras were different. Usually, he would see flashing lights in his peripheral vision. Today, he saw a constant dark glow around objects, specifically people. Thomas had once read that auras could manifest in hallucinations. That’s probably what this was. A full-blown migraine was sure to follow unless he could get some medicine to prevent it.

He was relieved when he found a small vial containing three pills. He popped one into his mouth and swallowed it without water. He read the label. The prescription had expired over a year ago. He shrugged; it was better than nothing. Before lying down, he retrieved an ice pack from the freezer. Certainly, the stress of the morning caused this relapse.

As he rested on the couch, he replayed the words of the homeless man in his head. The man said the same thing that Father Vincent said—something about the Guardian. Sure, Vincent’s words were from his own subconscious mind. But what was the connection between the dream and the homeless man?

In the dream, Vincent said that he had to go. At that point, Thomas didn’t know that his friend was dead. Could he have heard someone talking about the priest’s death as he slept? Maybe the dream was a manifestation of what he was hearing. But what about Grimshaw? Sure, he might have registered him on a subconscious level too, but Grimshaw seemed to recognize him. They had never met before, had they? And then there was that feeling, that black, hopeless feeling. When Grimshaw looked at him, that same dreadful sense of foreboding from his nightmare tore through him once again.

Was he going insane? Maybe he should just try to find this Guardian. What harm could it do? But how does one go about looking for a Guardian? Thomas did have two clues: the Guardian’s a male and he has a golden light. He didn’t understand what the homeless man meant by golden light. Did the Guardian have blond hair? Did he wear a piece of gold jewelry?

This mystery would have to wait until the Fioricet kicked in. He needed to rid himself of the throbbing in his head before he could think straight. He put the ice pack atop his closed eyes and fell asleep.

Thomas stood on the stairs of the church, watching people pass by. The drugs hadn’t worked. A cloudy darkness still surrounded each of them. Some were bound in gray, some in brown, and some in black.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to get a new prescription for a while. He was sure that the remaining doctors were busy with more serious matters. Without a tag, he might not even be eligible to see a doctor.

A brown dog, standing at the base of the stairs, interrupted his thoughts. Strange, the dog had a white aura around it. It stared at Thomas for a moment and then barked. Thomas walked down the steps towards the dog. He put his fist out, so the dog could smell him, but the dog ignored his hand.

The homeless man had said something about a dog named Bob. “Are you Bob?”

The dog turned and ran to the corner of the block. It looked back at Thomas and barked. Thomas walked to the corner. The dog continued down the side street. It looked back at Thomas and barked. “I guess it wants me to follow.” Thomas walked behind the dog for several blocks until it stopped in front of a small Victorian.

Thomas had passed this house many times before. Its keyhole shaped entrance distinguished it from the other houses on the block. He always admired this house. It had character but in an understated, unpretentious way.

The dog ran up the walkway, up the stairs, and sat down on the porch. Thomas remained on the sidewalk. As Thomas regarded the house, a golden light spilled out from the windows. The dog stood and barked.

“Are you Bob?” Thomas asked the dog again.

The dog ran down the steps towards him and licked his hand.

“Huh...Is this where I can find the Guardian?”

Bob sat down and looked at Thomas. His ears stood at attention as he cocked his head.

“I guess I should go in.”

Thomas and Bob walked up to the door. Thomas turned the knob, but the door wouldn’t open.

Bob whined, pinned his ears back, and took several steps away from the door.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Thomas stepped over to the picture window and looked in. He expected to see the normal things one would see in a living room such as furniture, a TV, and pictures. Instead, he saw a pool of lava, smoke, and flames. The inverted cross of St. Peter bobbed up and down in the molten lake. Thomas gasped as acidic fumes filled his lungs.

He closed his eyes, hoping to dispel the image, but when he opened them, he was no longer standing on the porch outside the house. Rather, he found himself upside down, affixed to the cross. He could smell his own hair burning as waves of lava lapped against his head. His face seared.

He could see Bob outside the window looking in at him, but then the window and the dog disappeared. Nothing familiar remained except Grimshaw hovering over the lake of fire.

“Is this what you want, priest...to be a martyr? You don’t need to sacrifice your comfort for the sake of another. You’ve sacrificed enough. Leave the kid to me, and everything will be fine. You will live a long comfortable life. I will take care of you as I will take care of all my followers. You know there is no God; there is no eternal glory. Why would you put your own safety on the line for something you know doesn’t exist?”

“I don’t know what’s real!” Thomas yelled in agony. Terror ripped through his core.

“Thomas, you are not crazy. You know what is real. Trust yourself. Mind your own business, and your life goes on. Listen to the homeless man, and this will be your future. You will die a martyr.

“Thomas, I’m real. You saw me in the flesh. Have you ever seen God? Has he ever talked to you as I’m talking to you now? Any faith placed in Him is blind. Follow me Thomas and forget about the Guardian.”

“You’re Satan,” muttered Thomas. Tears blurred his vision.

“Now, Thomas, how can you believe in the devil but not God? That is truly insane.”

Thomas felt his doubt burn as the strands of his hair burned, consumed by the molten lava. He wanted to believe. He needed to believe. He would help the Guardian even if it meant his own demise.

“Thy will be done!” Thomas shouted to the heavens.

When Thomas woke, his head felt as if it were on fire. He pulled the ice pack from his face and in the process burnt his fingers. He threw it to the floor and watched it explode; its contents boiled and oozed. He stood, crossed the room, and looked at himself in the mirror. Blisters lined his singed eyebrows. “What the….”

As Thomas touched his disfigured face, he began to laugh. For a moment, he actually believed that he had a vision. Now that he was fully awake, he realized that he must have been having an allergic reaction to the expired Fioricet. He flushed the remaining pills down the toilet and reached for a Benadryl. Until he could get in to see a doctor, he’d have to make do.

In the meantime, Thomas needed to track down the homeless man. Since he had been taken into custody, he shouldn’t be too hard to find. Talking to him again might clear things up.

Chapter Fourteen

Micah and Clarke used the rest of the afternoon to gather the things they wanted to bring with them to Micah’s house. Micah loaded the food into an old Lil’ Tykes wagon that he found in the garage, and Clarke put some of her clothes into a backpack. Even though Micah’s house was less than a mile away, they waited until it was dark to make the trip.

As they walked, Micah pulled the wagon.

“You must have been a cute little boy,” said Clarke.

“Why do you say that?”

“With that wagon, it’s easy for me to imagine you as a kid.”

“I never had a wagon when I was—”

“Oh no!” Clarke stopped walking and did a half turn. “Micah, we have to go back. I forgot something.”

“Is it important? My house is right there.” Micah continued to walk, so Clarke started up again.

“It’s a locket. My dad gave it to me. I can’t believe I forgot it.”

“Can we go back and get it later?”