Resurrection House (9 page)

Minutes passed in stillness. We sat amidst the murmurs of the creek and the wind through the high branches of the oaks and the low calls of the seagulls, and after some time I took Lynna’s hand and said, “I think I love you, Lynna.”

I had hoped she might kiss me then, but instead she looked away. She was crying.

I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, then stood and bolted into the woods, leaving me too stunned and confused to call after her.

That was the last time I saw her, and the last time I thought I ever would see her.

She never returned to school. The next day, strange men in dark suits walked the halls with our principal, and though none of the students knew who they were, I guessed they were the men Lynna feared, burly, clean-cut, chisel-jawed men who strode by with confidence and authority. I went to Lynna’s house after school, but no one answered the doorbell. I went back every day for a week, until one afternoon the door cracked open an inch and an ugly eye peered out from the shadows within. The stink of wet rot and salt wafted out.

I asked for Lynna.

“Lynna’s gone,” her cousin said. “Went away with her Gran’mama. Now git out of here.”

I walked home through the woods in the dimming twilight and told myself Lynna would come back once the federal agents left, once the coast was clear, but I knew that she never would. I made up my mind that one day I, too, would leave Knicksport, and never come home again.

* * * * *

I conspired to free Lynna from Dagmar.

Lynna told me of others like herself who dwelled below the waves, thousands if not millions, spread throughout all the seas of the world, hidden from humankind. Her school, her clan, would be seeking her, because they instinctively knew when one of them rose to the surface and moved onto dry land. They would free her violently if need be, but it could be avoided if I simply helped her return to the sea. She had heard from her cousins that I would be traveling the waters near her home and had followed our ship for several days, hoping for a glimpse of me, when the storm hit. Caught off-guard and unable to flee to the depths, she was battered in the maelstrom and left senseless, an easy catch for the
St. William’s
nets.

I questioned Lynna about Dagmar’s theories, and she confirmed many of them, including the immortality of her own kind, who died only by accident or murder. She spoke of her dwelling in the freezing depths, of the curse that had afflicted her family, and the pledge of her great-great-grandfather to Dagon, an old god, forgotten by mankind.

That was the truth of the disease she suffered: life immortal, a home away from cruel men, a place among the vast numbers of her clan. A balance for the hideous aspect her body had assumed as she matured.

I promised to return that night after Lynna had been moved into the Aquarium and help her escape. Taking advantage of Dagmar’s trust in me, I saw to it that no security officers would be on duty. The research facility stood on the coast, and it would be a short trip to the open water.

* * * * *

Human again. That’s how I had made her feel when we were together. But then she had robbed me of my humanity, shattered every hope I had of being happy, before she returned to tear down the foundations of the life I had built without her. Lynna and her grandmother had found their safe haven, but now they had destroyed mine.

A sharp gale carries stinging sand into my eyes. I rub them raw. I sigh. Leaning into the backseat, I seize the coarse burlap and tug the heavy bundle onto the beach. Something screeches on the water. I straighten and peer into the moon-licked ocean, seeking shadows, phantoms, monstrosities.

The water froths and calms.

The pale night looks like all eternity.

I scream the secret names Lynna shared with me, the abominable oaths of the outcast, of the damned.

* * * * *

Jealousy, hatred, rage, fear. My soul floundered in violent emotions. Lynna had come back into my life only to leave it again. Too soon. And knowing it was her, I no longer found her grotesque appearance horrifying. She was my Lynna, and in my mind, I still saw her as the beautiful, young girl who wrapped her arms around me and gave me my first kiss. I wanted to go with her now, but she said it was impossible. Maybe, when we were younger, it could’ve been arranged, but not now. But I didn’t believe her. With Lynna beside me, I thought, anything should be possible.

I remembered what I said to her the last time I saw her back in Knicksport, words to which she never replied. The memory boiled in my mind. My hands shook as I opened the tank access hatch and helped Lynna emerge. Then as she sought her footing on the slick tile floor of the lab, it was as if my thoughts broke apart and my body acted purely on the fuel of the rage I felt at this new loss. I seized a microscope and caved in the back of Lynna’s skull. Once Lynna had shown me the possibilities of the world, but twice she had stolen them all away from me. She gave me hope only so that I would understand the true depths of my loneliness. I had no forgiveness for her in my heart, which felt as scarred and calloused as my body.

But when I looked upon her dying face and saw her eyes turning plastic and filmy, my senses returned, and I realized the expansive horror I had committed against Lynna but against myself, as well. I had become those who had tortured me in my youth, a body animated by dumb fury, lashing out at something unlike me, something that had shattered the fleeting security of my existence. I wailed as the last spark of life faded from Lynna’s expression, and I wept as I wrapped her body in burlap, placed it in my car, and drove to the beach. Even in the face of such horror, I felt compelled to keep my word, to help Lynna escape.

* * * * *

Fresh tears roll down my face.

I pray Lynna’s people can undo what I have done, that immortality can be renewed, that her powerful, ancient god can restore what I have taken from the world. And that perhaps, he may find some measure of pity for one such as me, unwanted by my own kind, unsuited for the one being I ever loved. What sacrifice could I possibly make to win his favor?

I bellow over the rumbling surf.

Dark shapes rise among the swells. Deformed heads mounted by bulbous eyes pierce the surface. Massive webbed hands guide them forward. Slender gray fins protrude from the hulking backs of horrible creatures Lynna called her Deep Ones, her family, her kind. I drop to my knees beside Lynna’s lifeless body and beg forgiveness, crying out for them to restore Lynna, praying to the unknowable god that rules them.

They circle me. One among them steps forward, fat and squishing, vaguely familiar, its shoulders bent with anger. It points at me with one monstrous hand, adorned by a ring I have seen before, the twin of that which Lynna showed me, the pearl that had adorned her grandmother’s hand.

Her eyes, like Lynna’s were, are deep, rolling abysses. They are unforgiving. They are cold, cruel, and inhuman. After all, Lynna’s grandmother never did approve of our relationship, but hoped I would help her granddaughter get something out of her system.

“I have nowhere left to run,” I say. “Like you once did. Like Lynna.”

The circle tightens around me. I am an interloper. I am different than them.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I only wanted someone to be with.”

I remember Lynna’s room on that gloom-soaked afternoon, the way the cold rain washed across its windows, and how Lynna’s smooth warmth felt pressed against me. I no longer deserve such a memory, but still I try to lock it in place, to live in that moment.

A clammy hand wraps around my throat. Others join it, I feel myself dragged onto the wet sand, into the surf, and a cold black world welcomes me.

Of 19,453 prospective buyers Red Moriarty chose Peter Carroll to purchase the notorious property at 1379 Hopewood Boulevard, better known as “Resurrection House.”

No one was more surprised than Peter.

Carroll only met Red at the closing when the great man swept into the office, trailing a team of assistants and lawyers in his draft. For a man said to be in his eighties Red got around like an athletic fifty year old, his body commanded by a mind still sharp and facile. He moved with the effortless superiority and inbred poise of royalty, the unspoken assurance that all in his path belonged to him or could be made to belong to him should he only desire it. Moriarty’s presence transformed the powerful, wealthy men he employed, powerbrokers hated and feared by those with whom they did business, into fawning children, who shrank from his gaze.

But not so Peter Carroll.

From the moment he met him Peter felt something akin to warmth and paternal affinity from Red, even as the man used his ethereal blue eyes to pick him apart from across the table.

Satisfied, Moriarty sported Peter a wink. “Wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into, Mr. Carroll?” he said.

“Well,” said Peter. “It is a…a big day, isn’t it?”

“Did you know that your offer was the third lowest one I received?”

“Oh.” Peter hadn’t thought it had been that bad. “It’s really all I could muster. It’s my life savings.”

“Hmmm,” Moriarty said, reducing the sum of Peter’s efforts to less than words.

The lawyers shuffled papers past Peter like tag-team blackjack dealers. He signed each one, some more than once, his wrist growing numb and his fingertips tingling. The incessant explanatory chatter rattled on too fast for Peter to assemble the details. He would sort it all out later. He was determined now to forge ahead, the course of his life plotted and fixed after so many years of aimlessness.

The paperwork took nearly an hour to be done, and then the room fell quiet except for Moriarty’s soft voice speaking German into his cell phone. Peter gazed out the window while they waited. Swaying green leaves caressed the vacant blue sky, and he thought of his new home and its garden, which would soon be in full bloom. He wondered if he wasn’t getting himself in over his head.

Red pocketed his cell phone and resumed speaking to Peter as though the interruption had never occurred. “Not everything is about money, of course. How funny is it that I had to make billions before I learned that lesson?”

Peter started to answer, but Red cut him off. “A laugh riot, right?”

“Money isn’t everything,” said Peter.

“Maybe power is the thing, eh? That’s what you’ve really bought here today. That’s what the others bid on—the power to decide the fate of 1379 Hopewood Boulevard. Roughly a quarter of them wanted to raze the place, salt the ground, scorch the earth, and remove the blemish of Resurrection House from existence. An almost equal number proposed plans to enshrine it, turn it into the destination of pilgrims worldwide, complete with space for spontaneous prostration and prayer, speaking in tongues, and the burning of biers. Most of the other offers came from folks who wanted to make it into an amusement park or a museum, a meditation garden, a low-cost day care center, for Christ’s sake, a concert venue, a night club…”

Red’s voice trailed off as he faded into thought. A haze of distance spread over his eyes as though an ancient memory had kidnapped him into the past. And then it was gone.

“The owner of this house must be someone very special, indeed, Mr. Carroll. There is no place for the banal at 1379. Do you know how many other people tendered offers with proposals like yours?”

“No, sir, I don’t. How many?”

Red held up his thumb and index finger to form a zero and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Three simple words you wrote told me that you were the one, no matter what you could pay.” Red slid his chair back and rose to his full height of nearly six and a half feet.

“The all-important question,” he said and spread wide his arms. “What do you plan to do with 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and its residents?” Then he swooped forward like a diving kingfisher, stretching over the table toward Peter, his figure propped on his lanky arms. “Your answer: ‘
I don’t know.
’

“You were the man I was looking for, a man with an open mind. Honest. Unafraid of the unknown. We had you checked out thoroughly, of course. Watched you for several months. Background investigation and credit check. Dug up your history. Reviewed the orphanage records. All to be solid and secure that you are who we think you are.”

“You had me followed?” Peter said, half standing. He flashed a look of concern at his ineffective but affordable lawyer, Finnerty. The attorney shrugged.

“Tut-tut! A formality.” Red wagged his index finger. “Don’t get indignant when you’re on the verge of getting what you want, son. You’ve been searching a long time for something. Why risk losing it when you’ve finally found it?”

“I don’t understand,” said Peter.

“Come, come, my boy. Two years in a seminary, a year volunteering at a hospital in India, two-and-a-half years spent drifting across the good old U.S. of A. Sounds like you were looking for something all that time, something extraordinary.” Red settled back into his chair. “What goes on at 1379 Hopewood is damn hard to understand, and especially so for anyone maimed by preconceptions of reality, convictions of faith, or plain old stubbornness. You’re as close to being free of these traits as anyone I’ve ever met. You’re a rootless loner with more intelligence than your station in life indicates, and you’ve never even committed to an opinion on whether the phenomenon is genuine or not. That’s exactly what’s called for. The house
will
explain itself if you let it. Events will unfold. Secrets will be revealed. And you must be prepared to follow where they lead. Are you…prepared, Peter?”

Peter hesitated, caught off-guard by Red’s insight into his life then he said, “I’ll take good care of the place, Mr. Moriarty. You have my word.”

“I hope so, my boy. I’d hate selling to you to turn out to be a mistake.” Red looked to one of his associates. “Is the paperwork done, Tomas?”

The lawyer stepped forward. “All in order, sir. We have Mr. Carroll’s check. The house is now his.”

“Magnificent.” Red exhaled the word like fine cigar smoke, his eyes closing to narrow slivers, his lips curling in a wry smile. “You’re aware of your civic and legal obligations as owner and manager of the maintenance fund, Peter?”

“My client is fully informed on all such matters,” Finnerty said with an air of accomplishment.

“Yes, well, I’m going to assign one of my team to you for three months, free of charge, to advise you and help you get on your feet,” said Moriarty. “He’ll report to the house tomorrow morning. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

With that Red Moriarty stood and walked to the door. His cadre of suits swiveled and followed. Peter and Finnerty rose on polite instinct.

Red paused to shake Peter’s hand with his dry palm and bony fingers and said, “I almost envy you the journey you’re beginning, Peter. There’s a lot I could tell you, but it’s better to learn it for yourself. I will share a word of warning with you, however.”

Red leaned in, wrapping his free arm around Peter’s shoulder and pulling him close. Peter’s eyes fell to the odd metal bracelet encircling Red’s wrist, its luster something like that of polished gold but diffuse and fluid. It shimmered like a heat mirage. Palpable warmth radiated from the thick metal band as though it conducted heat from Red’s body.
Or
, Peter thought,
to Red’s body.

“The dead walk their own paths,” Red whispered.

Then he and his entourage left. Finnerty and Peter stood alone in a room that felt like it had been flushed. And that’s how Peter Carroll came to own the house where the dead live.

* * * * *

Excerpt from Chapter 1 of the forthcoming book

A History of Resurrection House:

The Odd Events at 1379 Hopewood Boulevard and What They Mean to You

by Padraic Irwin O’Flynn

Thirty years ago 1379 Hopewood Boulevard was just another well kept home on a sleepy residential, middle-class, suburban street. The three-story, World War I era house stands off-center in its lot, a bit too far back from the road, shaded by oaks and pines that have grown there since the time of its construction. A low picket fence borders the property and a tangle of rose bushes spreads to either side of the front gate. Its garden is old-fashioned, a seemingly random combination of plants, flowers, and shrubs that becomes charming in the bloom of spring. A wide front window, draped with lace curtains sewn by Carla Montgomery, looks out over the narrow brick path to the front door.

The house’s first residents were the Köehlers, a family of German immigrants who lived there for ten years before vanishing into the shroud of history. No trace of them exists following their departure, purportedly to New Jersey where Mr. Köehler had obtained employment as an engineer. The Montgomery family took up residence in the home in the twenties and occupied the house for several decades, staying, in fact, until the strange events in the summer of 1972.

At that time Carla Montgomery was the house’s sole occupant, her husband some years dead from an industrial accident, her children all grown and off in pursuit of their lives. The Montgomery family is best described as average—the father, an electrician and small business owner; the three children, a recording engineer, an advertising copywriter, and a high school gym teacher; the mother, a homemaker. None of the Montgomery children agreed to be interviewed for this book, and in past statements, they have uniformly maintained their disbelief in any of the unusual events recorded at their homestead, particularly those directly involving their mother. It is, they declare, a cruel hoax, and they were apparently eager to accept Red Moriarty’s generous financial offer for the house and property in late 1972. They wanted nothing more than to put all the stories behind them and get on with their lives.

Their mother was well liked by her neighbors, who looked after her and gave what help they could. And yet in August of 1972, three days passed before anyone knew Carla Montgomery had died.

Finally, bored waiting to be found, she went outside and announced it.

“I’m dead, you know. Feels kind of funny,” she said.

A group of local kids who were playing nearby at the time recalled the event in recent interviews with the author.

They didn’t believe her.

No one did.

Not until Carla started to rot.

By then others like Carla had come to visit and finding the homey environment to their liking, decided to stay. Where those early few came from remains part of the mystery of 1379 Hopewood Boulevard. No one saw them arrive. No one has ever identified them and the bodies are long gone. Perhaps they came in the dark when the shadows concealed their hideous, decomposing features. Possibly they tunneled underground from the confines of their graves in the cemetery half a mile away. Or maybe, still living, they slipped inside looking for a warm, hospitable place to die. Whatever the explanation, events were well underway at the house before anyone realized what was taking place.

The first identifiable body, after Carla’s, was that of Douglas Hollander, an accountant from two houses down. One night soon after Mrs. Montgomery’s demise, Hollander joined a group of neighbors confronting Carla about her ranting in the front yard, which had begun to scare their children. They thought she had gone senile, and they wanted to help. Carla did her best to play genial host despite her shriveled larynx. She found it hard to make introductions among her neighbors and the half a dozen or so animated corpses—all in various states of decomposition—that had settled in with her since her passing. While Mrs. Montgomery huffed and puffed, four of the dead seized Hollander, beat him to death with a candlestick, and began plucking away bits of his flesh and stuffing them in their ragged pockets.

The rest of the stunned neighbors fled and called the police.

Officers arrived to find Carla Montgomery at her front gate, wheezing and spitting apologies. Though quite flustered, she somehow conveyed that she’d given her guests a harsh talking to and that no such attack would be repeated. Her word proved good when the officers entered the house to investigate. Carla’s guests stayed on their best behavior while the police interviewed Hollander who pointlessly tried to convince them that he was, in fact, dead. Their report quotes him as saying, “Apparently it was a misunderstanding, but that doesn’t bring me back to life does it? I’m fucking dead, now.” Given his talkative state, the police were understandably skeptical. What they made of the house’s decaying residents was never recorded.

Hollander, however, finally made his point when the police removed him—despite Carla’s warnings—to the waiting ambulance. The very moment Hollander passed through the front gate, he collapsed. All signs of life immediately departed.

People then began to shed their illusions about Carla and her sickly, old friends.

* * * * *

Morning sun limned the yard with delicate fire. A butterfly danced in the hazy air around the buttery flowers of a low, rotund azalea by the front stoop. A girl, who’d been sixteen when she died, knelt by the shrub, her glassine eyes intent on the insect. One of her ears dangled from her skull where an old scar had rotted apart like a split seam, and a shred of muscle dangled out like loose padding. She was oblivious to the coughing motor of the overworked Saturn that rolled into the driveway and chugged into stillness.