Darkness Conjured (2 page)
Authors: Sandy DeLuca
She asks me. “Did he abandon the light?”
“It was a long time ago.” I need to get back to my room. If Maureen finds me here she’ll freak out. “I’m tired, but will clean up before I go.”
She stops. “You sense dark things here. It’s stronger with some of us.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s alright, girl. I’ll shut my mouth. Moon is full tonight. My brew is strong now.” She stops stirring, sprinkles more salt into the pot and then makes her way to
the refrigerator. “The dark things are restless. I do my best to bind them. Poor Mr. Greely has got
to deal with it as long as this house stands.”
the refrigerator. “The dark things are restless. I do my best to bind them. Poor Mr. Greely has got
to deal with it as long as this house stands.”
“I don’t understand. Tell me more about this house. What’s going on?”
“It’s different for everyone who comes here. You got to figure it out. Goodnight,
Meg. I’ll wash the dish and silverware. Go on to bed.”
Meg. I’ll wash the dish and silverware. Go on to bed.”
She turns her back on me again. She’s humming. I sense she’s not about to tell me anything else. I respect her wishes despite my gnawing
curiosity.
curiosity.
I leave her and move quickly to my room. I pass Mr. Greely again. He’s still lost in slumber. Clutching the splintered mop handle. I move by Marsha
Walker’s office.
Walker’s office.
She’s the head counselor. I’ve never felt comfortable with her. There’s a harsh and disturbing aura about her; from the stiff black clothing she
wears, to her heavily made up face.
wears, to her heavily made up face.
Her door is ajar. I hear heavy breathing. The door creaks and opens wider.
Marsha is seated at the edge of her desk. She’s unbuttoning her blouse with one hand and moving the other over her breasts. I
sense someone else is there. Watching her. Standing in inky darkness.
Marsha is seated at the edge of her desk. She’s unbuttoning her blouse with one hand and moving the other over her breasts. I
sense someone else is there. Watching her. Standing in inky darkness.
I hold my breath as I tiptoe down the corridor. I break into a run once safely
past Marsha’s office. I don’t want to think about who is there with her, or what they are about to do.
past Marsha’s office. I don’t want to think about who is there with her, or what they are about to do.
Maybe she saw me. Maybe she and her fiendish companion are watching me. I look
over my shoulder. No one is there, but the unsettling feeling in my gut
intensifies. I rush past ghostly photographs and through the eerie silence of
this house.
over my shoulder. No one is there, but the unsettling feeling in my gut
intensifies. I rush past ghostly photographs and through the eerie silence of
this house.
I wonder if Davika feels the same dread that I do. I wonder what’ll she’ll do with the
brew
she’s concocting. Is she just a crazy woman after all?
brew
she’s concocting. Is she just a crazy woman after all?
2
I gaze out my window. Davika stands in the yard below. She’s holding her pot with mitted hands. Wind whips around her. Tattered skirt
ripples. Scarves billow. She sniffs the air. Looks to the sky, lifts the pot’s lid and drops it on the ground. Steam swirls round her head. Slowly she tips
the container and pours a few drops of liquid onto winter earth, melting snow
and ice. She moves round and round beneath the moon. Skeletal trees sway above
her. Shapes form on thick limbs. Dark things with massive wings. They take
flight. They howl and Davika pours steaming fluid around the perimeters of the
house.
ripples. Scarves billow. She sniffs the air. Looks to the sky, lifts the pot’s lid and drops it on the ground. Steam swirls round her head. Slowly she tips
the container and pours a few drops of liquid onto winter earth, melting snow
and ice. She moves round and round beneath the moon. Skeletal trees sway above
her. Shapes form on thick limbs. Dark things with massive wings. They take
flight. They howl and Davika pours steaming fluid around the perimeters of the
house.
I hear Marsha cry out from downstairs and then a door slams. Footsteps pound.
The moon slips behind a cloud.
The moon slips behind a cloud.
I cannot see Davika now, but I hear her singing. I know she’s outside, moving around the house. Ignoring the horror within. Spinning white
magic. Touching the cracked foundation, ancient brick and splintered wood. She’ll keep moving until her pot is empty, praying the dark things go away. Praying
for us all.
magic. Touching the cracked foundation, ancient brick and splintered wood. She’ll keep moving until her pot is empty, praying the dark things go away. Praying
for us all.
* * *
At nineteen the only job I could find was serving breakfast at a truck stop off
the highway. I worked the night shift, going in before midnight and getting off
around eight in the morning. Sometimes I worked double shifts on weekends. It
eased the boredom. And, though my father took most of my pay, I managed to put
some cash aside each week.
the highway. I worked the night shift, going in before midnight and getting off
around eight in the morning. Sometimes I worked double shifts on weekends. It
eased the boredom. And, though my father took most of my pay, I managed to put
some cash aside each week.
I’d get away from his dominance one day.
Until then I’d work hard and put up with my less than perfect home life and my less than
rewarding job.
rewarding job.
Luke’s Diner
had the best eggs and hash browns in the state. Despite its austere appearance—plain chrome tables and chairs bought in the fifties, a small counter with
swivel stools and walls painted creamy white—it always smelled great. It was cozy even on harsh winter days.
had the best eggs and hash browns in the state. Despite its austere appearance—plain chrome tables and chairs bought in the fifties, a small counter with
swivel stools and walls painted creamy white—it always smelled great. It was cozy even on harsh winter days.
The pay was bad. The boss was tough, charging waitresses for broken plates. The
tips were good when guys hauling loads across the country stopped after driving
all night.
tips were good when guys hauling loads across the country stopped after driving
all night.
Ken Aster was one of them.
Each Friday morning around five he’d slide into the same booth and pluck quarters in the small juke on the wall.
Jim Morrison’s voice would fill Luke’s and Ken would smile when I approached him. His gaze always took in my figure.
I would have been embarrassed before working at Luke’s, but months of serving truckers cured me.
Jim Morrison’s voice would fill Luke’s and Ken would smile when I approached him. His gaze always took in my figure.
I would have been embarrassed before working at Luke’s, but months of serving truckers cured me.
He drew me in as though he had mystical powers—as though he’d woven a spell on the lonely roads he traveled—places with no boundaries—with only an endless universe of dark and starless labyrinths. My attraction to him got stronger each time I saw him.
No doubt Ken cheered me up. Yet there was something unsettling about the massive
red trailer truck he parked in Luke’s lot. It displayed a logo reading
Aster Hauling
. A phone number was etched in gold on the trailer doors and
New Orleans, Louisiana
was painted in white beneath the number. Each side of the trailer was flanked by
an odd image.
red trailer truck he parked in Luke’s lot. It displayed a logo reading
Aster Hauling
. A phone number was etched in gold on the trailer doors and
New Orleans, Louisiana
was painted in white beneath the number. Each side of the trailer was flanked by
an odd image.
A crowned figure sat on a throne. Women danced beside the figure; seemingly
beating drums and sounding trumpets. Two somber females knelt before the
crowned being. They seemed on the verge of tossing a baby into a fire burning
in the background.
beating drums and sounding trumpets. Two somber females knelt before the
crowned being. They seemed on the verge of tossing a baby into a fire burning
in the background.
The other waitresses said the figure was a witch symbol and Ken hauled freight
for the Devil. Most were gossips, making up stories about the men who
frequented the diner.
for the Devil. Most were gossips, making up stories about the men who
frequented the diner.
Lizzy Frost, who’d been at Luke’s for years, said, “I caught a peek inside Ken’s trailer. It was a dreary night. I was out in the lot smoking when he opened
the door. Looked like bodies piled on top of each other. He must have sensed me
there—even though I was quiet as hell. He turned and gave me one of his charming
smiles. That’s when the wind picked up and blew the doors open wide. They were just store
mannequins and I laughed at myself for being so stupid.”
the door. Looked like bodies piled on top of each other. He must have sensed me
there—even though I was quiet as hell. He turned and gave me one of his charming
smiles. That’s when the wind picked up and blew the doors open wide. They were just store
mannequins and I laughed at myself for being so stupid.”
“He owns his rig and hauls retail merchandise for the big stores,” Luke scoffed, shook his head and went back to frying eggs.
“Sure is nice looking,” Lizzy said softly. “The way he looks at you.”
“Yeah, he’s real cute,” I said as Luke shot us a disapproving glance.
Ken’s hair was light brown and his eyes were dark. He didn’t have a mustache or long hair like most of the guys my age. He was older,
harder. He wore a charm around his neck. It was a tiny wooden figure—a primitive drummer, hands raised, seemingly attempting to strike his drum.
harder. He wore a charm around his neck. It was a tiny wooden figure—a primitive drummer, hands raised, seemingly attempting to strike his drum.
“What does it mean?” I’d asked him.
He smiled wide. “Got it in New Orleans. I have an apartment there—spend time there in between hauls.” He touched the charm. “Origination is Voodoo, but other religions use it. The drummer’s music is supposed to be a mediator between us humans and the Gods.”
I bit my lip. “Voodoo?” I remembered what Lizzy thought she’d seen in his trailer. Maybe he was a dark magician; taking human sacrifices on
his hauls. I took a step backwards.
his hauls. I took a step backwards.
He chuckled. “It’s just a religion, Hon. Not bad like the movies make it out to be. Anyway, the
painting on my truck was done in New Orleans, too. Copy of a painting by
William Blake. English dude. Illustrated a bunch of bibles. I like to think the
art keeps me safe on the highway.”
painting on my truck was done in New Orleans, too. Copy of a painting by
William Blake. English dude. Illustrated a bunch of bibles. I like to think the
art keeps me safe on the highway.”
“Oh,” I said as I handed him a menu. I remembered my sister Beth talking about
William Blake when she was reading
Paradise Lost
for a college English class. She’d called Blake a visionary. I told myself that made it alright, but I swore the
drummer’s eyes moved and a soft beat emanated from Ken’s charm when he brushed his hand against mine.
William Blake when she was reading
Paradise Lost
for a college English class. She’d called Blake a visionary. I told myself that made it alright, but I swore the
drummer’s eyes moved and a soft beat emanated from Ken’s charm when he brushed his hand against mine.
“
The Flight of Moloch
,” he said.
The Flight of Moloch
,” he said.
“What?”
“That’s the name of the painting. Just came to me.”
“Oh.”
He gave me his order, “Eggs over easy, waffles and a large orange juice.”
The charm spooked me. But I was tired that morning. I’d worked a double and black coffee had been my only nourishment.
Ken’s words echoed in my head.
“Not bad like the movies make it out to be.”
“Not bad like the movies make it out to be.”
I tried to find comfort in those words.
My attraction to Ken didn’t fade, but we exchanged only small talk for a while; the weather, the war and
how good Luke’s coffee tasted.
how good Luke’s coffee tasted.
I figured I was just another waitress he met on the road. Things changed one
steamy August morning.
steamy August morning.
He touched my hand as I poured his third cup of coffee. He leaned forward and
asked softly, “Got a boyfriend, Meg?”
asked softly, “Got a boyfriend, Meg?”
“No.” I felt my face flush. The drum beat softly. Ken’s touch made me tingle.
The other truckers teased me, told me I was cute and had great legs, but nobody
ever made a direct hit on me. I’d never had a steady. Closest to a boyfriend was Alan Burle, a guy I’d known since high school—and despite the times we
made it
, we were more like friends than anything.
ever made a direct hit on me. I’d never had a steady. Closest to a boyfriend was Alan Burle, a guy I’d known since high school—and despite the times we
made it
, we were more like friends than anything.
Ken pulled his hand away and touched his coffee cup. “I’ve been hauling cross country for ten years. A guy gets tired. I need a break
every now and then.”
every now and then.”
I just nodded, not sure how to react. I wondered if he sensed how inexperienced
I was.
I was.
“Well, maybe some Friday morning, after your shift is over, we can do something
relaxing. I go down to the Carolinas after I leave here, but I can make
arrangements—or I’ll make up the time somehow. What do you say?” His eyes twinkled.
relaxing. I go down to the Carolinas after I leave here, but I can make
arrangements—or I’ll make up the time somehow. What do you say?” His eyes twinkled.
“I get off at eight.” I reached for his bill in my pocket, slipped it under the creamer.
“Next Friday then?” He said.
“Alright,” I said softly, backing away from the booth.
He left me a twenty dollar tip that morning.
I knew what he wanted, but I told myself,
It’s the sixties. Free love is in and you aren’t getting any younger.
It’s the sixties. Free love is in and you aren’t getting any younger.
I put Ken’s tip in a battered old bag on my closet floor. I hid generous tips there. Ken’s offering fattened my stash to around two hundred bucks.
I managed to tuck away a little more over the next week. I worked harder than
usual, hoping it would make the time pass, but the days crawled by slowly. Now
I realize it would have been better if that Friday had never come.
usual, hoping it would make the time pass, but the days crawled by slowly. Now
I realize it would have been better if that Friday had never come.
* * *
The baby kicks as I lay back on my bed. I wonder who it’ll look like, if it’ll be a girl or boy.
I close my eyes and the wooden drummer beats his fists against my belly. Its
eyes are red, filled with hate and a red trailer truck zooms down the highway—twisting and turning down a dark road. The driver hums in time with the drum and
he says, “One more day to New Orleans. Another load for Moloch.”
eyes are red, filled with hate and a red trailer truck zooms down the highway—twisting and turning down a dark road. The driver hums in time with the drum and
he says, “One more day to New Orleans. Another load for Moloch.”
I hear Divika mumbling soft chants. Sounds like she’s downstairs. I wonder if she’s exorcised the demons.
I’m floating away. Deeper into a dream. Beyond the confines of reality and logic.
Black clouds engulf me and dark wings beat as I rise upward. Gentle hands guide
me away from the darkness, hold me as I descend.
Black clouds engulf me and dark wings beat as I rise upward. Gentle hands guide
me away from the darkness, hold me as I descend.
Now I’m sitting in the dining room. Mr. Greely is mopping the floor. He plunges his
mop into his bucket. Water splashes onto windows, tables and chairs. It
splatters everywhere, trickling from the ceiling and windows. It turns to
silver and gold. Pours down on him like an ethereal rainstorm. Lights flicker
around him. Red and bright orange.
mop into his bucket. Water splashes onto windows, tables and chairs. It
splatters everywhere, trickling from the ceiling and windows. It turns to
silver and gold. Pours down on him like an ethereal rainstorm. Lights flicker
around him. Red and bright orange.
“Most important thing in this world is to make sure all souls get to Heaven, Meg.
Lots don’t make it. Will you? Got to go now. One of
them
is close by.”
Lots don’t make it. Will you? Got to go now. One of
them
is close by.”
His face is somber. Wings sprout from his back. He weeps as he floats upward.
I’m awakened by a soft knock on my door.
It opens slowly.
Maureen Dugan, is standing there. Her hair is tousled and she’s wearing a man’s lumberjack shirt over faded jeans. There are dark circles under her eyes.
“More bad dreams, Meg?” She asks. “Heard you talking in your sleep.”
“I’m alright,” I tell her. I want her to close the door, go back to her rounds. She creeps me
out almost as much as Marsha.
out almost as much as Marsha.
She opens the door wider. “Maybe a hot cup of milk?”
Anger begins to brew inside me. I wonder if angels once conjured in a darkened
attic will come to my aid. I wish her away. “No thanks.”
attic will come to my aid. I wish her away. “No thanks.”
Mr. Greely is suddenly beside Maureen. His white hair seems to shimmer beneath
the hall light. He’s dressed in a Nehru shirt and loose cotton pants. A string of red and orange
beads hang around his neck. He reminds me of a vision I once saw when I took a
hit of LSD with my sister Beth.
the hall light. He’s dressed in a Nehru shirt and loose cotton pants. A string of red and orange
beads hang around his neck. He reminds me of a vision I once saw when I took a
hit of LSD with my sister Beth.
He’s holding his bucket. I hear something slosh as he shifts it from one hand to
another. “Leave the girl alone, Maureen. Let her sort out her dreams.” He shakes his head. He peers into the bucket and moves away. Soft footsteps pad
down the hall.
another. “Leave the girl alone, Maureen. Let her sort out her dreams.” He shakes his head. He peers into the bucket and moves away. Soft footsteps pad
down the hall.
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