Deadly Decision (9 page)

 

 

12

 

I sat propped up in bed, clutching the Bible to my chest like a drowning man hangs to a life line.

When had things gone wrong? She was a Christian. I was missing something, and the scripture added another layer of stress for me to peel off. Where had the scripture come from? The subconscious mind recalls things learned long ago, right? And I had been frightened out of my mind in the attic. Something had challenged me for ownership of my body. My body!

Where was the thing now? Was it still in the house, hiding within the darkness of the rafters, waiting for someone to wander into its web? Or did it slither away, willing to bide its time until another psychic opened a conduit and once again allowed it access to the mortal world? Had Barbara brought it here, or had it come on its own? The curtains moved toward me, and I steeled my muscles for action. The sheer fabric now became one with the screen, and then puffed into the room again. From the window, I could see the tree limbs dancing against the dawn sky. I waited until I heard Ted and Trina go downstairs before I got up. I chanced a quick look in the mirror. Bags hung under bloodshot eyes. I had not heard any movement from Barbara in the next room. I hoped she slept better than I had.

As I entered the kitchen, I noticed the broom and dust pan propped against the hutch.
Must be battling dirt again.
I reveled in the normality, after the haunting experiences of the night before.

“Hey Dad. You sleep well?”

“Fine as always, honey.”

Trina handed me a cup of coffee, black and hot. It burned my throat. I was grateful for the discomfort; I was still human.

“I'm really worried about Barbara,” Trina said. “I mean, is she healthy?”

“She'll be fine. When she gets up she'll be as good as new, ready to take on the world.” At least I hoped so.

I shared Trina's concern, but my fears were not for Barbara's physical wellbeing, but for her spiritual safety. The previous night had been nothing like the quiet sessions we had shared at her home. Walking up the attic steps had transported me from pee wee football to the NFL, a place way out of my comfort zone. Thoughts of the entity that had possessed Barbara sent new shivers over my warmed body.

The morning sun flooded the kitchen, but still I probed the space for unusual shadows, looking for anything that appeared not quite right: a distorted section of the floor, a clouded portion on the ceiling, an unusual spot on the wall.

At the sound of an engine grinding, I turned to Trina. “What's he still doing here?” Once Mitch had removed all his possessions from the house, I had hoped Trina would be free of him. I gritted my teeth, knowing he must have been hanging around during the two weeks I was gone.

“He needs the money and we need the help. Sandra agreed to pay him to do odd jobs on the house for Ted. He only works a few hours a week.”

“What does he need money for?” I went to the door and watched as Mitch sauntered away from the house toward the garage. What was it about the kid that pushed my hot button just by seeing him?

“What are your plans for today?” Trina asked.

I poked my finger through the hole in front of me. “How about I start my summer jobs by replacing the screen in this door?” I watched Mitch enter the garage. “Nice list you created.” I nodded toward the refrigerator where a long piece of tri-folded paper had a list of jobs under each of our names. Trust Trina to be organized. I needed to put my back into manual labor. Maybe part of my need was the knowledge that working muscles produce heat, or perhaps, like the burn of my coffee, the pain of physical labor would reinforce that I was alive. Work was my therapy, and I needed a long session today, but more than that, I needed to talk to Barbara. Alone.

“You have a guest, Dad. Take a few days off and show her the town.”

We both grinned, knowing it would take all of thirty minutes to cover the entirety of Darlington, but this was my way to get Barbara alone.

“Did I hear someone suggest seeing the town?” Barbara stood in the kitchen doorway, looking rested and fresh. I expected her to spend a sleepless night, and appear in the morning with dark circles under her eyes and complaints of a sore throat. Being possessed by evil had to produce aftereffects. She appeared unscathed.

While she helped Trina finish breakfast, I buttered toast and drained two more cups of coffee. After we polished off crisp bacon, eggs over-easy and perfectly buttered toast, all of which Barbara swallowed without grimace, Trina again brought up the agenda of the day.

“I thought you might like to show Barbara some of the historic neighborhoods. She'll love the houses.” Trina stacked our plates and headed to the sink. “Then take her to Williamson Park. And go to the Farmer's Market. You can pick up a few things for me while you're there.”

Barbara collected our cups and carried them to the sink. “Won't you and Ted be joining us?”

“No, we've already seen the town,” she said with a laugh.

From under the sink, Trina removed a jelly jar with telltale holes poked in the lid. My daughter never killed anything. Seeing the bug jar brought back memories of her childhood, and the dozens of spiders she had trapped and taken outside to release. The sensation of tiny arachnid feet marching up my legs distracted me. I brushed off the phantom menaces.

Bill, is something wrong?” Barbara asked.

“Sorry Dad. I should have waited to get out the bug jar.”

“Is there a story here?” Barbara asked.

“I just have this issue with spiders. Traumatized as a kid,” I said.

“More than traumatized. Poor Dad. When he was a little boy, some kid had a black widow in a jar and chased Dad, telling him the spider would eat his face off.”

“I was a little guy then, believe it or not.”

“And you have been afraid of spiders even since?” Barbara asked.

“He's not afraid, he just doesn't like them,” Trina added.

I listened as the conversation evolved as though I wasn't in the room.

“When I was a kid, he would not only kill a spider, he would smash it into a puddle of goo. It was awful.”

“I wanted to make sure it was dead,” I said.

“Oh, it was dead.” Trina looked like she could hardly hold back her laughter.

“No, really, I have seen those suckers look like they were dead, and you take your foot off them and they jump up at you.”

“Oh Dad.”

“Seriously. The only dead spider is a smashed spider.”

Trina held up the glass jar. “Thus the bug jar. When I got older, I asked permission to be the bug catcher in our house. I would catch them and take them outside to the back yard and let them go.”

“So why the jar now?” Barbara asked.

“You won't believe this,” Trina said. “I came down for some water last night and saw this
huge
bug in the kitchen.” Her arms flew into a wide arc: we were in for a story.

“It looked like a giant cockroach. I've seen them before. The locals call them Palmetto bugs. I don't care what you call them, this one has to go.” She peered around the kitchen with squinted eyes. “It's hiding somewhere. And that explains the dirt.”

Barbara looked at me, appearing confused.

“Trina's kitchen floor is getting dirty,” I mouthed.

“A pile of dirt shows up every few days, right here.” Trina said, looking at Barbara and pointing to the back of the kitchen in front of the built-in hutch.

“How much mess can a bug make?” Barbara asked. I knew her well enough to be able to see the laughter she was struggling to hold in.

“It leaves giant doo droppings,” I replied.

“Daaad.”

“Haven't you taught Ted to take his shoes off?” Barbara joked, still biting her lip.

“There has to be a whole army of bugs to make this much mess,” Trina replied, “and they have to go.”

“We'll help,” I offered.

“I don't want any help, Dad. I feel a personal need to vindicate myself. Ted tells me I'm imagining things, and sand always gets tracked into the house. I don't think so. Besides, what does he know about dirt?”

“If you're sure you don't want my help…”

“Go.” Trina waved us off as she headed to the back of the kitchen, bug jar in hand.

Swallowing hard, I gathered my car keys.

 



 

I sidestepped personal conversation while Barbara and I toured the downtown of Darlington, and drove around the historic districts, gazing at what Ted and Trina's house must have looked like at one time. Next we walked from booth to booth at the Farmer's Market, sniffing and fingering local produce fresh from the field. Besides the items on Trina's list, I purchased a dozen ears of corn and a quart of strawberries.

I saved Williamson Park until last, hoping it would be a good place to talk. I had never been in the park, and was pleased to see how well the sixty-four acres of wetland and forest had been maintained. Knowing how quickly the creeping vines had taken over the bushes in the back of Trina's house, I couldn't imagine being responsible for a whole park.

Wooden bridges, some showing signs of recent repair, spanned the marshy areas and creeks. Mulched paths weaved through the higher sections of the park. My eyes scanned the underbrush and tree limbs that dropped over the path for snakes. The place seemed deserted except for us. But with the winding paths and dense growth, people could be ten feet away and you would never see them.

As we crossed a bridge, I stopped and stared at the shallow water below.

“What do you see down there, Bill Iver?”

Every time I looked at Barbara, familiar warmth and kindness looked back. This was the Barbara I was growing to love.

Last night, in the shadows of the attic, I had allowed myself to think thoughts that now, in the warm sunshine, seemed unimaginable. In the quiet peace of the park, I wondered if my fears had been exaggerated. It unsettled me that just a few hours ago I had been afraid of her. Now the fear that had gripped me seemed preposterous. Demons don't come and go from the bodies of beautiful women. I shook my head, amazed at my own narrow-minded thinking.

Hungry minnows swarmed around the bread I had flicked into the water below.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

A breeze, just strong enough to discourage insects, brushed wisps of hair across Barbara's face. She pushed the strands away. Soft lines curved from the edges of her eyes. Laugh lines my sister would call them.

Betsy. I missed my sister, but she had built a wall between us that I wasn't ready to pull down.

Except for the ache that had taken residence in my chest, the day was perfect. Even with my new clarity, I knew I would have to deal with the monster standing between Barbara and me before it ate me alive. I only hoped Barbara offered an explanation I could accept.

I turned and searched her face, burning her beauty into my brain as I pulled out my verbal sword and made my first lunge at the monster that divided us. “How long have you been able to…do what you do?”

“How long have I been a psychic? Is that what you want to know?”

I fidgeted. Breadcrumbs stuck to my hands, and I wiped them off on my pants. A pair of squirrels jumped from one towering limb to another, and disappeared from view behind the foliage. A dragon fly lighted on the railing in front of me, seemed to size me up, then winged toward the water below. I watched as he flitted across the water then headed toward the thick underbrush.

“God won't cut off your tongue if you say the word psychic. It isn't something evil.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at me,” she said quietly. She took my hand. Instinctively, my fingers curled around hers, as though they belonged there. My pulse quickened.

The scent of Barbara's perfume mingled with the earthy fragrance of pine and loam. Although acutely aware of her presence, I couldn't bring myself to face her.

“I understand that you were upset last night.” Her voice was quiet, soothing. “It's not a normal experience.”

“Have you ever been afraid?” How could I tell this strong woman of my irrational fears from the night before, how I had jumped when the curtains moved?

The scripture replayed in my head, “Let no one be found among you who …is a medium or spiritualist or who consults the dead. Anyone who does these things is detestable to the Lord…”

This couldn't mean Barbara. Not kind, thoughtful and caring Barbara. Her gift was different. She said so. But the prickle of doubt jabbed at the back of my skull.

I glanced at the woman who stood beside me. She smiled. “Let me tell you my first experience with the paranormal,” she said quietly. “I sat with my mother once while she was holding a séance. I was bored, and wanted it to be over so I could go and play. Something pushed me hard from the side, and I fell into my mother's lap. When our two bodies touched, her eyes jerked open, but they weren't her eyes. She looked directly at me and started talking in a strange, deep voice. Terrified, I tried to push myself off of her, but couldn't.”

Barbara stared out over the water. “I don't know if I managed to pull away from her and that made the voice stop, or if the voice stopped and allowed me to pull away. I ran and locked myself in my bedroom.

“That must be how you felt last night. I'm so sorry. I forgot how frightening it can be.” She searched my face, and then looked back at the slow moving water. “I've become so used to it.”

“I'm trying to understand,” I whispered, “but you scared me to death. What happened? Was it because we were in the attic?”

“You have to understand, I don't have control over what happens when I empty my mind.”

“It wasn't like at your house, when you sat still for a few minutes. This time we had barely gotten into the attic.”