Help for the Haunted(118)

“No,” she told me. “It might still be warm enough for that. But it’s almost fall now, then winter will come. And he’ll be here to get me long before that. I have to do something. And I have to do it now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, giving the answer I know my parents would have expected of me. “But I can’t help you.”

I turned again toward the stairs, put my foot on the first step as a few chunks of the cement crumbled away. From behind me, there came a shuffling sound. A moment later, when I reached the top of the steps, I heard the smallest of moans before Abigail shouted, “Sylvie! Look at me!”

Something in me did not want to turn back, but her voice grew louder as she called out again. And when I looked at last, I saw that she was standing by those twisted iron rods, the ones Rose speculated had once been the start of a fireplace. Blood pooled on one of her open palms. The sight caused me to gasp.

“Now do you see?” she said. “I do have something inside of me? It may not be the demons other people talk about, but it’s something that makes me capable of hurting myself if I need to. Hurting other people too unless I get what I want. So please. What I want is your help.”

It seemed I should have made some sudden move, scrambled back down the stairs to help her by trying to stop the bleeding. Or run quickly as I could away from her before she tried to harm me too. But, no. I just stood at the top of those stairs, staring at her a long moment, watching blood drool down her fingers and drip onto the cement of the foundation. Neither of us said a word. And then came the sounds of another voice, calling “Sylvie! Abigail!”

It was my father.

“I have to go,” I said. “We both do. You’ve got to clean that wound and bandage it up.”

Abigail still did not speak, but she reached over and dragged her other hand across one of those rods, releasing another moan, louder this time as her face contorted in pain. When she was done, she held her blood-smeared hands out to me and said simply, “The money. I know you have it. I can’t ever promise to pay you back, but please.”

“Okay,” I told her at last, since it seemed the only way to make her stop. Still, I couldn’t help stalling if only to give me time to figure out the best way to handle the situation. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need that money tonight. When I’m asleep down in the basement, bring it to me.”

“The basement?” I said, surprised. “Why would you be sleeping down there?”

“Because, Sylvie, that’s the other thing I have to tell you. Your parents are putting me downstairs on the cot tonight. That person I mentioned, the one who’s at your house right now with them, well, it’s your sister. You won’t be going to see her this weekend, because Rose has come home at last.”





[page]Chapter 21

Help for the Haunted



Most people, they are afraid to believe      in ghosts. Me, I’m afraid not to believe. Because, well, what then? If there      really is nothing else—nowhere to go after this, no way to linger on this plane      to finish unsettled business if we must, then that means each moment, each      breath, each passing second, is as ethereal as the wind. It means all we do here      on earth—the going and coming, the loving and hating—it is all for naught. So,      no. Ghosts don’t scare me. But no ghosts—that terrifies me.

Enough about that, though. Back to what I      was saying previously, Mr. Heekin. Forgive me, I mean, Sam. What I have always      wanted, more than anything, is to build a good life for my daughters and my      wife. To have a family of my own with proper values. Growing up, my father drank      too much. He was not abusive, but his remote nature was in its own way a form of      abuse. My mother and I had our tender moments but shared such different      interests that we were never close. And my brother, well, he did things I can      never forgive. For all those reasons, I ended up creating my own world.

What’s that? Excuse me?

No, no. That is not what I am saying.      Those things I saw—still see—are every bit real. What I mean is that I created      my own life apart from the family I was born into. I moved away. I found the      Bible. I came to believe that a life lived in the light, free of sin and      reproach, protects us as we move through this world. It keeps the darkness at      bay.

The tape came to an end, and the cassette player in      Detective Rummel’s car automatically ejected it. He asked if I wanted to listen      to the other side. “Depends,” I said, my father’s voice echoing in my mind      still. “How close are we?”

Rummel lifted a hand from the steering wheel,      pointing to an impossibly high metal fence in the distance. I looked to see      barbed wire curlicuing across the top, a compound of low-slung brick buildings      on the other side. “We’ve got a little time still, Sylvie. But why don’t we wait      until after to hear more, so you can clear your head?”