Where Darkness Dwells (27 page)

"Cha-Char-CHARLESss!" She pounded the door, shaking it within its frame, the wood vibrating against his cheek.

I'm so sorry, Mabel.
He whimpered silently, his tears flowing thicker as he continued to sober.

She stopped pounding the door and gave off a slight whine. For a moment, she sounded real and human and so alive. Then from the other side, only silence.

She wriggled her fingers through the small gap under the door. Gray skin, filthy fingernails splintered at the tips, overly long, still growing after death. They flicked like curving miniature swords.

His hand trembled as he impulsively reached for her. He stopped short, an inch away.

He could feel his wounded hand healing, his torn skin and sliced ligaments reforming, his bloodied knees scabbing, scarring, becoming soft pink skin. The immutable persistence of the Underground.

Goddamn it.
"I'm going to make this right, Mabel. I'm going to do whatever it takes."

Mabel's fingers twitched at the sound of his voice. She grunted, "CHAR!CHAR!CHAR!"

He touched her fingers. The tips of his met hers, and their coldness, their roughness, only solidified his resolve. While George was dead, his poor sweet boy, Mable lived on in the form of Elizabeth. He concentrated on the coldness of his undead wife's fingers, and promised himself he wouldn't let anything bad happen to his daughter. This time he would follow through. He could no longer turn a blind eye toward the child Mabel died giving birth to.

Unsteadily, he gained his feet. Looking at his clothes as if for the first time--the grime and vomit stained rags--he felt the shame often reflected in his daughter's eyes. This brought on a pain sharper than anything he'd ever felt before. Even worse than witnessing his wife's existence in the Underground.

"CHARRRR-LESSS!" Mabel cried from the other side of the door. Leaning on the cave walls for support, Charles Banyon stumbled his way through the tunnels--the cries of his undead wife haunting his every step--to the waiting daylight, and hopefully, to the forgiveness of his daughter.

20.

The home sat across two wide, buttressed limbs spreading parallel to the woods below. Cooper's stomach flipped as he looked down. They were nearly to Greta's door, thirty feet from the ground's safety. Cooper was afraid of heights. Ellie and Jacob were obviously not. They fairly capered up the rain-wet steps encircling the tree trunk.

Ellie knocked on Greta's door. When it opened, Cooper was disappointed when old Greta turned out to be no older than his own father. His mind had drawn her from the same palette as Eunice Blankenship: bowed by gravity and brittle with age, struggling through an unseen battle, fighting to live through one more day. Seeing her in the flesh, Greta held none of these characteristics.

"Children. You've brought a friend. Come in, come in."

"I hope we're not putting you out," Ellie said.

"Nonsense," Greta said, holding the door wide. Her face was broad and welcoming, her movements crisp, precise.

Cooper was the last inside. His head nearly touched the ceiling, and the spare furniture and kitchen appliances inside the one room catchall house seemed to be on a smaller than normal scale. With a familiarity of their surroundings, Ellie and Jacob took seats at a short table with four completed place settings. Greta was taking chilled milk from an icebox, while the children looked hungrily at the steaming bricks of cornbread on the plates set in front of them. Cooper sat, his knees bumping the table's underside. A wood burning cook stove was in one corner, still warming the squat home with its radiant heat. Chunks of corn textured the bread's surface. Melting sweet butter ran through the nooks and crannies in lavish rivers.

After pouring the milk, Greta replaced the glass pitcher to the icebox. She let out a contented sigh as she sat in the lone empty chair.

"Expecting company?" Cooper asked. He found it odd to see the table set for four. It looked like she had cut the cornbread even as they mounted the steps to her home.

"You must be Cooper." Greta stared at him, as if plumbing for knowledge.

"Cooper, Greta Hildaberg, Greta, Cooper," Ellie said, making a formal introduction.

Greta squeezed Ellie's hand. "I'm sorry for your loss, dear. I wish I could've warned him."

"Did you see anything before it happened?"

"No. If I had I would have done anything possible to bring about a different end."

Ellie seemed satisfied with Greta's answer. Cooper felt bad for the children so implicitly trusting an eccentric old lady living in a tree. He didn't trust what he might say, so he took a bite of cornbread. It tasted as good as it smelled.

"And Jimmy?" Jacob asked, his voice faltering.

"He's not in the army, is he? Me and Jacob know he's not, but no one listens to us."

"Do you know what happened to my brother? Where he is? Anything, please," Jacob pleaded.

"I wish I could close my eyes and see the answers written there. It simply doesn't work that way, child."

"Greta?" Jacob wiped away a single streaking tear.

"No, he's not in the army. I wish it were true." Greta frowned at her folded hands as if they had done her wrong. "You see, my visions, if that's what the townsfolk like to call them, well, they aren't my visions of the future at all. There's a peculiar trait in my family, going back, oh, I can't count the generations… but I do remember them. Every generation before me, I remember their memories. The memories of those who came before get passed on at the time of death like an inheritance."

"So your visions are of the past?" Ellie asked, confused.

"My family's memories go back a long time. From the time my ancestors were peasants in Europe, to even earlier generations, when they lived in barbaric tribes mixing with Orientals, Africans. The newest memories are the strongest, the most fully formed, of course. They get weaker the closer you get to the base of my family tree."

"But you've predicted the future. Like how Odette Fischer would win the pie contest last year with her secret recipe, her raisin custard. Or when you warned of Claude Cloutier having his heart attack while tilling his field," Jacob said.

"Sure, I know things about the future, but you have to understand, they aren't my visions. They're my mother's. She could see the future. She was the only person in all of my family's generations who not only saw the past and past lives, but the future and the coming generations. Upon her death, I inherited my mother's visions of the future."

Cooper had heard enough. "I'm sorry, but maybe I should step outside," Cooper said while standing. "I don't feel like I'm much help here."

"Cooper, you're a part of this. You might want to stick around."

"A part of this? So you're saying that I'm somehow connected to Jimmy Fowler's disappearance?"

Jacob looked accusingly at Cooper, as if the question had solidified his own conclusions.

"No, but you will be instrumental in what is to come."

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe a word you're saying. Kids, I think we should go now. This is a big waste of time."

"Greta, please go on," Ellie said quietly, as if she didn't want to offend Cooper for speaking up at all.

Greta closed her eyes in concentration. "There are places where even God won't go. The Blankenships learned this," she said, opening her eyes. She paused, letting out a sigh, looking at Cooper. "But it was too late for them to do anything about it. They were drawn in, consumed in darkness. When they were gone, God turned His back on Coal Hollow. From that day on, no man of God would step foot inside the town limits."

"Jimmy, my brother, do you know where he is, Greta?"

"I can't see that. Mom didn't know, didn't foresee this. But she did know he's somewhere close."

"Is he… is he…?"

"He's, more than anything, wanting to escape the hell he's a subject to."

There was a quick, familiar knock on the door, then Arlen Polk entered, carrying a wooden crate laden with groceries. He seemed surprised to see others sitting with Greta.

"Momma, I got your cooking things." He kept his eyes lowered. He could've just climbed from a coal bin. Black dust coated his skin. His greasy hair stuck out in weird spikes.

"Thank you, Arlen." Her son stood staring at Cooper. "You remember Mr. Cooper, right Arlen?"

"Yeah, Mom, I told you 'bout him. We found the, uh… we… went searching together that one night." He turned to Cooper. "I'd shake hands, but after the…" he said, then stopped as he looked at Ellie, "The uh… service, I went to my gopher hole. Then, I 'membered Mamma's cooking stuff, so I went to town."

"Such a good boy, always thinking of my well being," Greta said to Cooper, smiling. She turned back to Arlen. "Honey, we're about done here. Why don't you clean up, and by the time you get back, I'll have something on the stove for you."

"Sure, Momma." He went to his mother and kissed her cheek. She feigned a giggle at his quill-like beard, and then patted him on the head and shooed him away. Arlen moped as he went out the door and down the stairs.

"I'm sorry, but that's all I have to share. I wish I could be more precise. If I knew anything else, I would say so. There's an unpleasant undercurrent in this town. It will pull at you unexpectedly and drag you under its surface if you don't watch out. Just please be careful."

The children took this as their cue and headed for the door.

"Thanks, Greta." Ellie seemed disappointed in what Greta had told her, but still somewhat relieved.

"Cooper? Can I have a private word?"

Jacob waved goodbye to Greta and then closed the door, leaving them alone.

"I think you should be ashamed for what you're doing to those kids," Cooper said, doing his best to keep his voice from traveling too far.

"You're being unfair," she said whimsically. She seemed comfortable with someone questioning her abilities.

"You give a sense of hope when there isn't any."

"Because there
is
hope. I know it's hard to see, but the life of this town will soon shift. Daylight will swallow shadows. Shadows most people don't even see, or if they do, won't acknowledge for what they are. You, Mr. Cooper, are at the center of this change."

"You speak in riddles. People speak in riddles when they are trying to hide something."

"I speak the truth. My mother's truth."

"Why should I care what happens here?" He didn't believe his own words, because in some small way he did feel a connection with this town and the people he'd met. The kids waiting outside, Jane Fowler, Hank Calder, Magee, everyone… even the Blankenships--they were all good people.

"Because you already do. Otherwise, you wouldn't have bought that house. You wouldn't be protecting those kids when you think they might be in danger of whatever fate stole Jimmy Fowler from his family. Besides, most strangers wouldn't have waited a day to take leave after George's death. You're here, Mr. Cooper. You're invested."

"I don't want to hear any more of your runaround. You're just a lonely old lady luring people to your door with your jumbled talk. Right now, I'm going to walk those kids home. As soon as I see Jacob's mom, I'm going to let her know about everything, about how you are nothing but a snake charmer."

"What if I told you I know your secret?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

As if Cooper hadn't voiced his dissent, Greta continued: "You discovered your father's mother was a former slave, her son, your father, was born from relations with her master, and you didn't know about this until recently."

"How the hell--"

"This knowledge has left you confused about who you are and your role in society."

"I'm not going to listen to another--"

"Cooper, it's okay." Greta raised her hand to interrupt him. "I won't tell anyone. I just wanted to prove to you…"

Cooper didn't know what to say, and couldn't meet Greta's gaze. He turned quickly, and was out the door a moment later. He nearly bowled over the kids at the top of the stairs.

"Cooper?" Ellie asked. "Everything all right?"