Authors: Keith Deininger
Ghosts of Eden
GHOSTS OF EDEN
Keith Deininger
First Edition
Ghosts of Eden
© 2014 by Keith Deininger
All Rights Reserved.
A DarkFuse Release
www.darkfuse.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To all the friends of my youth—
for those who made it through,
and for those who did not.
Acknowledgements
As always, I must thank my wife Amber, whose love and support for this writer’s obsession is more valuable than she knows. Thanks also to Shane Staley and Dave Thomas over at DarkFuse—it’s been a wild ride. And to the community of horror writers and readers, from which I have formed many a bond this past year, making the lonely pursuit of words a little less lonely. And special thanks to Greg F. Gifune, for his belief in my writing. He has been more than an editor to me—a mentor, and, I believe, a friend.
I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
—Hamlet
PROLOGUE:
THE DEATH OF KAYLA GREENWOOD
The man in the street, walking awkwardly in his wrinkled slacks and dress shirt buttoned all the way to his neck at midnight, seemed out of place in the neighborhood, as if he’d arrived from another world. It was quiet and the man’s black shoes made slow, deliberate clumping sounds, like the hooves of a horse on the asphalt. And it was dark, the moon like a thin cut in the curtain of the fabric of the starry night sky.
The man stopped beneath a large tree in front of one of the houses, indistinguishable from those to either side of it, and smiled. He leaned against the tree, watching the silent house. He produced an elongated pipe from the inside of his suit coat and it lit with a faint cloud of sparks as he put it to his mouth. Thick smoke ran like snakes from the man’s nostrils and then curled about his face.
“He’s late.”
The man with the pipe glanced up into the tree. “He’s always late,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m here.” The voice was muffled, a harsh whisper.
“Yes. You are.”
One of the branches shivered above the man with the pipe’s head. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do? I’ve been watching…all day…” There was clear disgust in the voice.
“She’ll be safe here. They’ll be watching me. It’s best if they think she’s dead.”
“But The Council. We should take her to—”
“That can’t be allowed to happen.”
The branches shook, more loudly this time. “She could be useful. She might be—”
“Quiet! Here comes Wrigley.”
There were faint scratching sounds as the voice receded up the tree. “Whatever you say.”
A rusty squeaking sound approached, grew louder. A flickering disc of light bobbed up the sidewalk, seeming to float several feet above the ground. Then the figure came into view, laboriously peddling a bicycle several sizes too small for him, his knees knocking the handlebars, swaying from side to side. Upon his head sat the disc, a large hat with a flattened brim, and upon its brim sat several wax candles with tiny multi-colored flames. Melting wax filled the brim of the hat and dripped in globular stalactites before his shadowed face. Behind this man, secured by a thin cord to the bicycle, a child’s wagon was being drawn, and in this wagon sat a woman in a frilly white dress. The woman was hairless, and old, her skin so white it seemed to glow even in the dim lighting, the moon glinting on her bald head, casting shadows through her crosshatched skin.
“He brought the denotic?” said the voice from the tree.
“Of course. She has a right to be here.”
A strange tittering sound came down from the tree above: laughter. “Some help she’ll be to you…should it come to that.”
The bike screeched to a halt; the man in the hat slumped against the handlebars. “All of this could have been avoided,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Then, he seemed to collect himself and looked up from beneath the brim of his glowing hat, smiling widely at the man with the pipe standing a few feet away in the shadows of the tree.
“Oh, hello, magus,” Wrigley said.
The man with the pipe made a face. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
“I’m very sorry. Are we still playing
that
game?”
“Science is not magic; there is a difference.”
“Of course. Of course.”
The man with the pipe stepped forward. “Did you bring her?”
Wrigley chuckled. “What? Can’t you see her?”
The Denotic sat unmoving; her dress filled the wagon, spilled over the sides.
“I don’t have time for your pranks, Wrigley. I’m surprised you didn’t wake the entire neighborhood with that rusty bike of yours.” The man with the pipe leaned closer to Wrigley. “Where is the girl?”
Wax dripped from Wrigley’s hat, struck the sidewalk with a hiss. In the darkness his eyes were the color of the moon, his mouth the shape of its crescent. “Why, she must be here somewhere…” He began to pat his coat like a man feigning the loss of his wallet. He pulled at one of his pockets, peered inside. The candles jiggled precariously and a molten spill of wax dropped from his hat as he leaned forward, leaving solidified splatters across the front of his bike. Then he looked up, smiled thinly. “Oh, here she is,” he said, reaching into the folds of his coat. With one hand he produced something large, which reflected the moonlight, made of glass. He held it up with both hands: a jar, something bundled within.
“In one of your jars?” The man with the pipe sounded angry.
Wrigley nodded his head. “Yes, of course. I keep everything in jars. Most convenient.”
The man with the pipe snatched the jar from Wrigley’s hands, cradled it to his chest, spinning the lid open.
Wrigley, licking his lips, made a sudden gesture in the air and the jar was gone, the man with the pipe now cradling the bundle inside: a baby wrapped in blankets.
“Don’t practice your art here!” hissed the voice from the tree. “Someone might see!”
Wrigley jumped, looking from side to side. “I thought I smelled something awful. Where are you, you filthy little animal?”
“You’re a fool, Wrigley,” said the voice from the tree.
Wrigley looked. “Up a tree. I should have known.”
“Your art will be the death of you.”
“Then we’re all doomed, aren’t we? Some of us use it to light our fucking pipes—”
“Science in not art, nor is it magic; it is rational and can be explained and proven mathematically,” the man with the pipe said, looking down at the face of the infant he’d uncovered, floating in her swaddling.
Wrigley let out a snort. “Whatever you say, oh-wise-magus, sir. Why do you care so much where it comes from? How we define it matters little. What counts is what we can do with it.”
The man with the pipe sighed heavily. “Understanding brings knowledge; knowledge brings power and ability.”
“We have power and ability, more than most believe possible.”
“You don’t see the whole picture, Wrigley,” the man with the pipe said, shaking his head.
“Idiot,” said the voice from the tree.
Wrigley bristled. “Do you really think this girl is special in some way? Do you think hiding her is a good idea? You don’t think your plot will be discovered? Your arrogance will be the death of you.”
“And your ignorance will be yours,” the man with the pipe said.
“We’ll see.” Wrigley’s eyes were slits.
The man with the pipe sighed again. He stepped past Wrigley, the infant in his arms, and began up through the front yard towards the nondescript house. Wrigley, and his hat of candles—the Denotic silent in the wagon—waited on the sidewalk. The voice in the tree was silent.
The man with the pipe lurched up the porch steps, out of earshot of the others.
“The magus doesn’t belong with us, Barlow,” Wrigley mumbled.
A branch shifted in the tree. “He’s all we have left.”
“What about her?”
The voice in the tree was silent.
Wrigley watched the man with the pipe return through the yard, having left the baby abandoned silently on the porch before the door. He walked stiffly, each step making his shadowed form bob and sway. It was a confident walk, despite the potbelly and receding hairline.
The denotic sniffed at the cool night air. Tree branches shuddered. A knowing smile slid across Wrigley’s face.
They were being watched.
TWELVE YEARS LATER
KAYLA’S WEEKEND
ONE
She’d been promised the next book by this weekend—her friend from school, Stephanie, had said she would lend it to her—but now it was Saturday and she had nothing to do. She’d read the first five Narnia books eagerly, consuming them like rare nourishing fruit, then, picking the fruit pit clean, read them again and again. She was most excited by the next book,
The Magician’s Nephew
, because Stephanie had told her it was about Professor Digory Kirke from the first book and the creation of Narnia and about stumbling into other worlds and…
“You know what I think?” her father said. “Hey. Wake up. I’m talking to you.”
Kayla’s head snapped up. She hadn’t noticed her father had come into the living room and was staring at her intensely from the other side of the couch. His eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t stagger as he came forward, falling into his reclining chair.