Harmony House (11 page)

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean for everything to get so . . . weird like this.”

Candace puts a hand on my shoulder and I see her exchange a glance with Mercedes.

“It's not your fault,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Mercedes. “And I'm sure Christy just went back to the TV room or something.”

“Of course,” I say. “You're right.”

We go together, walking close, back to the TV room, calling out for Christy all the while. The lights along the hall seem dimmer than I remember them, as though the house isn't getting enough electricity from the lines outside. We pass through several rooms, badly lit and dark-colored—the walls brown—with dust on every surface, though I cleaned this morning. When we finally come to the room where we set up our sleeping things, the TV is playing a grainy static so the blacks and whites flash like a strobe across the room.

“Dammit,” says Candace, once she realizes Christy isn't here. “Where the hell could she have gone?”

I breathe out, shaking my head.

“Maybe the kitchen?” I say.

Mercedes rubs at the back of her neck with her small hands.

“This just doesn't make any sense,” she says.

I repeat that I'm sorry.

We go now to the kitchen.

“Christy!” I yell as we walk. “Christy!”

I yell it 'til my voice is hoarse and I feel like I want to cry.

But she's not in the kitchen, either.

“Could she have gone outside?”

I look out the window.

“Her car's still there,” I say.

I can see it parked in the gravel, surrounded by the coming mist like a spiderweb. The rain has stopped and the sky is clear. The moon, half-full, casts a silvery light across the driveway.

“Maybe she went to your room,” Candace says.

Mercedes and I both nod together.

“Yeah, maybe.”

We start back through the front entranceway and climb the stairs, yelling Christy's name over and over and over.

When we reach the top floor, I lead the girls into my disgustingly pink, girly room.

Pieces of paper are spread out all across the floor. They are pages from a book—from that prayer book. It lies open on my bed, the pages all torn out of it.

Nausea makes me dizzy so I have to shut my eyes.

“What happened here?” Candace asks.

I shake my head slowly.

“I . . . I don't know. It wasn't like this when I left it.”

I open my eyes to see Mercedes is holding one of the pages in her hand—that same Prayer of Saint Francis.
Only now even more of the words have been blacked out.

               
               
Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace

               
Where there is
hatred
, let me sow love

               
Where there is
injury
, pardon

               
Where there is discord, harmony

               
Where there is error, truth

               
Where there is doubt, faith

               
Where there is
despair,
hope

               
Where there is
darkness,
light

               
And where there is sadness, joy.

               
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

               
To be consoled as to console

               
To be understood as to understand

               
To be loved as to love.

               
For it is in giving that we receive

               
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned

               
And it is in
dying
that we are born to
eternal
life
.

Hatred, injury, despair, darkness, dying, eternal.

“Did you do this?” Mercedes asks.

“No,” I say. “No, I swear.”

I open my hand and let the page flutter gently to the floor.

“I am officially fucking freaked out,” Candace says.

I nod.

“Me, too.”

“Where the hell is Christy?” Mercedes asks.

“We have to find her now,” I say, though I'm not totally sure why.

And so we start down the stairs again, still calling her name. We reach the second floor and start toward my dad's room.

We walk pressed close together. The lights flare with surges of electricity. A big dresser is pressed up against one of the dark-colored walls. The shadow of the dresser reaches out across the hallway. I take a step and then another step.

A figure emerges from the shadow and I jump a fucking mile. Candace screams and Mercedes grabs my arm tight.

It's Christy.

She's standing in the middle of the hall, just a few feet from my dad's room. Her head is down and her arms hang by her sides. Her face is colorless and her lips
slightly blue around the edges like she isn't breathing.

“Christy!” Mercedes says, running toward her. “Oh, thank God!”

She hugs Christy to her, but Christy's body remains limp. She teeters slightly. Her eyes are all black and distant. She stares, but with unfocused eyes.

“Where were you?” Candace asks. “We were so worried.”

Christy then looks up at her, but her eyes don't seem to fix on any one point.

“I have to go,” Christy says—so weakly it's almost inaudible.

“What?” Mercedes shouts at her. “We were worried. Where the hell were you?”

Christy goes on staring straight past us. Her slack body begins to move as though gliding to the stairs.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” I say.

I grab her by the arm, but her skin is so cold and lifeless-feeling, I let go and back away from her.

She keeps on to the edge of the banister.

“What happened?” Mercedes asks. “Talk to us.”

Christy doesn't answer.

She grabs hold of the banister with both hands.

“What are you doing?” Candace asks.

Christy's expression never changes.

“I have to go,” she says.

And then in one quick movement, she lifts herself up on the railing and jumps.

“Jesus, no!” I yell.

But I'm too late.

Her body free-falls for several seconds.

And then there is a loud crash below.

And then no sound at all.

T
he lights flash red, blue, red, and then blue again—reflecting off the windows and the badge of the officer in front of me.

I wrap my arms tightly around my chest and shiver against the clear, cold night. The sweet smell of rain is in the air still. The moon shines like a pearl in the starless sky.

“Why don't you go on in and get a jacket?” Sheriff Jarrett says, noticing me shivering. “Don't want you catching cold out here.”

I tell him I'm all right.

He shakes his head.

“Been a rough couple days for you. Don't want you getting sick on top of that.”

Again, I tell him I'm all right.

I watch as the ambulance doors slam shut and the siren sounds and it tears on up the driveway to the road. I can see Mercedes and Candace in the back of the sheriff's police car. Candace is crying and shaking all over. Mercedes is still and quiet.

Sheriff Jarrett follows my gaze. “EMT says her ribs are fractured and her legs and wrists are broken, but she'll recover.”

I shake my head.

“God, I feel terrible.”

He puts a large hand on my shoulder.

“Don't worry,” he tells me. “It's not your fault.”

And then he laughs.

“You're just unlucky, I guess.”

I force a smile.

“I guess I am.”

He drops his head.

“Anyway, she'll be all right. That's what's important.”

I nod.

“Yeah. I just can't figure out why she would've jumped like that.”

Sheriff Jarrett shrugs.

“Fear does strange things to people.”

He pauses a second, then gestures with his head. “It does strange things to people in that house.”

“So I gathered,” I tell him.

He frowns then, looking hard at me. He reaches a hand out and gingerly touches my collarbone.

“What happened here?” he asks.

I try to see what he's pointing at.

“What do you mean?”

“Those bruises,” he says. “Pretty nasty.”

“Oh God, yeah,” I tell him, reddening. “I forgot about those. I'm not sure where they came from.”

He glances back at the house, then at his idling cruiser, then back at me. He speaks in a hoarse whisper.

“If there's anything you want to tell me,” he says, “I can protect you. I can make sure you're safe.”

I almost laugh out loud at that, but I hold it together. I mean, what? Is he going to protect me from the rantings of my father? Or whatever the hell that was in the basement? Or the voices I've been hearing? Or the craziness in my own mind?

Maybe he has a couple of extra straitjackets he can lend me. One for me and one for my dad.

“No,” I say, not holding his gaze. “No, I'm okay. Anyway, it's the truth. I don't know how I got these.”

His shoulders rise and fall with an intake of breath.

“Okay, well, you know where to find me. I'll try 'n come by to check in. There's a big storm supposed to be hittin' us tomorrow night. You tell your dad to make sure you got plenty of provisions . . . just in case.”

The door to the house bangs open then, and my dad comes out holding what I recognize as Christy's handbag. My stomach tightens a little at the sight of him.

He'd been in the kitchen when I'd come screaming for help, screaming that Christy had jumped. Just sitting at the table, like nothing had even happened.

“Found this in the TV room,” he says. “Must belong to one of the girls.”

“It's Christy's,” I say.

The sheriff takes the purse from my dad and thanks him.

“I'll make sure the family gets it.”

And then he adds, “Staffordshire Township Hospital's not too far out of town. I were you, I might think
about payin' her a little visit tomorrow. I'm sure the family would appreciate that.”

My dad nods stiffly.

“Yes, of course.”

“But as I told your daughter here,” the sheriff says, “big storm's due to hit us around midnight tomorrow. You'll wanna be sure to have plenty of fresh water, flashlights, batteries, and some canned goods in case the road to town gets blocked.”

“Jesus . . . ,” I start to say, but change it in my mouth to something like “Jesajeez.”

I swallow uncomfortably before continuing, “Is it really going to be that bad?”

For the second time, the sheriff shrugs.

“That's what they're sayin'.”

My dad nods, smiling.

“We'll be sure to stock up on a few things.”

“All right, then,” the sheriff says. “Better get these girls home.”

He turns to look directly at my dad now—the two of them about equal height, so their eyes stare back and forth.

“You take care of this daughter of yours, you hear? She's a good girl.”

My dad takes a step back.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Thank you for your concern.”

He extends his hand awkwardly out in front of him.

“We'll be praying for you, Sheriff. And we'll be praying for that poor young girl, too.”

The sheriff shakes my dad's hand, but there is a flicker of recognition in his eyes now—like he can see, all at once, that something isn't quite right with this man standing in front of him. The sheriff keeps on smiling, though, and he wishes us both a good night, saying, again, that he'll come by to check on us—and the house—tomorrow.

He walks down the steps and across the gravel driveway.

He gets in his car.


Mercedes and Candace are in the backseat, both of them quiet now and still. As the car pulls away, they don't turn to look at me. I watch them go. And I know that they will never come back. A thought comes to me then, clear as my own voice speaking out loud—I will never see them again. And while there's no reason why that should be the case, somehow I think it must be true.

“Come on,” my dad says. “Let's go inside. I want us to pray together for your friend. God will heal her. If she
is worthy, he will relieve her suffering.”

I dig my nails into my palms again—the pain making it so I don't spit in my dad's face. He puts a hand heavily on my shoulder.

“We'll ask God to forgive her,” he says.

He releases me then and walks back toward the open door.

The outside spotlight attracts mosquitos and gray, dusty moths and crickets the size of clothespins. It glints off the ring on my dad's left hand. It's the ring I found. The gold band with the coiling snakes around a red center stone.

I start to say something, to ask him why he's wearing it.

But no sound comes out.

My voice is as silent and useless as when you try to cry out in a dream.

“Hurry up now,” my dad says, turning back to look at me with his eyes hollowed out above dark circles.

I follow him into the house and he closes and locks the door behind me.

“We'll pray for forgiveness for ourselves, too,” he says. “We need to be forgiven.”

In the light of the hall his skin is so pale I can see all
the blue-green veins rising beneath the surface.

“Dad?” I say, finding my voice again.

He turns to look at me.

I feel my legs start to tremble.

“Are you sure you're all right?” I ask.

His smile is what it must look like if a corpse were to smile. There's no life in it. His lips are upturned and parted. He shows his straight white teeth.

“Before. You were listening to that record,” I say. “You walked off into the woods in the middle of the night.”

“What record?” he asks. “What are you talking about? Were you drinking? Is that what's going on?”

“I'm trying to tell you,” I say, holding myself back from reaching out and strangling him. “You were listening to that record—the one we found. And then you started walking out of the house, talking to yourself—like you couldn't even hear me.”

My dad shakes his head.

“You must be tired,” he says. “Maybe you dreamed it.”

“Dad!” I say.

He stares blankly into a dark corner of the room.

Again, I am chilled.

“Why don't you get some sleep,” he finally says. “I'll
go pray for your friend. I'll take care of it. You go up to bed.”

“But Dad,” I say.

He holds a hand up to me.

“You're just overtired,” he says. “That must be it. Now go to bed.”

“But . . .”

“Go on,” he tells me.

His expression doesn't change. His words are flat and inflectionless. He stands teetering.

I decide not to argue with him.

I do what he says.

I go up to bed.

And, surprisingly, maybe, I do fall asleep.

In the unconsciousness of a fitful sleep, I dream. And in the dream the house becomes the house as it was before. A young girl cries—screams—tears at her hair and skin. Her white dressing gown is soaked with dark, almost black blood. The older nun is there holding an infant in her arms. The infant is dead, bloated, its face blue, its lips purple. The girl cries louder. She screams, “Why? Why?”

The older nun speaks. Her voice is cruel, hoarse, ugly. She mimics the girl, saying, “Why? You know why. Because
you are a sinner. This is what you deserve. God is punishing you. He will go on punishing you. You are evil. You are full of the devil. You are going straight to hell.”

And then the little boy approaches—the boy with the dark hair. He runs down the hall toward the nun. His fists are clenched and he screams now, “Stop it! Stop it!” He crashes headlong into the older nun—still screaming and hitting her.

The nun's eyes flash as she looks down at the boy, her face flushed red. Cradling the dead infant in one arm, she reaches out fast as a snake and strikes the boy hard across the face. He falls back and tears stream down his cheeks. The nun gnashes her teeth and hits him again, even harder.

The boy cowers on the floor. Then the nun takes the dead child and shows it off to the boy, holding it out just in front of his face.

“This is what happens,” she says. “This is what happens to sinners like you.”

The boy cries hysterically, trying to close his eyes, but the nun pries them open.

From behind them the young nun—the pretty one—
Sister
Margaret—with a voice like my mother's—comes up and grabs hold now of the older nun's arm.

“That's enough, Sister Angelica,” she says.

The older nun turns on her.

“What did you say to me?” she asks. “You dare talk back to your superiors?”

Sister Margaret shrinks back, but still she tells her, “Leave the boy alone. He's too young to understand.”

The older nun, Sister Angelica, shows her gray, crooked teeth. Then she slaps Sister Margaret across the face now, too.

“Your relationship with this boy isn't natural,” Sister Angelica tells her, spitting the words out.

The boy springs up off the floor and runs to Sister Margaret's defense.

“Don't touch her,” the boy shouts. “Keep your hands off her.”

Sister Angelica grabs the boy around the throat and gnashes those same gray teeth. “Evil child, you will rot in hell!”

“Stop it,” Sister Margaret says. Her voice is very weak.

And then the monsignor walks heavily up the wooden hallway. They are on the third floor of the house. His footsteps echo up to the rooftops and then down again. He has a wide, porcine face with a small, upturned nose. His blond hair is slicked back above his veined, massive forehead. His hands are small but he has long, manicured fingernails. And on the finger of his left hand, he wears a ring—the gold ring with coiled serpents around a red stone.

Silently, the monsignor grabs the boy from the older nun and flings him brutally into the wall. The boy's head snaps back and cracks loudly. The monsignor turns to Sister
Margaret
.

“Come with me,” he says, hissing like a coiled serpent.

Sister Margaret shudders visibly, her cheek red and swelling from Sister Angelica's slap. She bows her head and walks slowly behind the monsignor. The boy runs after them, pleading, “No, no!”

“Silence,” the monsignor says to him. And he is silent.

The monsignor opens the door to a small room off the main hall. Inside, crucifixes adorn the walls—hundreds of them—covering the walls completely. There is a standing wardrobe built of dark wood and inlaid with gold crosses. The young sister enters. The monsignor closes the door behind them. The boy wails and cries.

From within he hears the lashing of the whip and the pitiful whimpering of Sister Margaret.

“Mea culpa,” she whispers. “Mea culpa.”

The sound of the whip is like a bone breaking.

The boy drops to his knees.

And the whip sounds again.

And again.

And again.