Harmony House (15 page)

“I hope it's still here,” Colin says, looking around.

Alex nods.

“Yeah. No one else comes in here. They're all too scared.”

“I don't blame them,” Colin says.

Alex narrows his eyes at him.

“Yeah, that's why you didn't take it last time.”

“It just seems like it might be . . . I don't know . . . bad luck, or something.”

Alex grins.

“Yeah, you told me. Well, you don't have to worry. I'll take it myself.”

“How much you think you can get for it?”

Alex shakes his head.

“If it's solid gold, like you say, then it should be worth a lot.”

They start up the big winding staircase, the banister gray
and greasy, with a thick layer of dust.

“I guess you're gonna want a cut, huh?” Alex asks.

Colin chews on his bottom lip.

“No, man. It's all you. This whole thing gives me the creeps.”

Alex laughs.

The two boys climb the rest of the way in silence.

When they reach the top floor, they walk down the creaking, dirty hallway to the room next to the upstairs bathroom—the storage room. The windows are caked with dust and dried mud, so the bright sunlight is dulled to a soft glowing yellow—casting long shadows across the piled furniture and boxes and sheets draped over the old player piano, bench, and sheet music.

“It's in that desk drawer there,” Colin says.

Alex smiles.

“Good.”

He goes over to the rolltop desk and opens the side drawer. There among the black-and-white and color photographs is the monsignor's ring.

Alex takes it up in his hand.

“Looks like real gold to me. Feel how heavy it is.”

He holds it out to Colin, but Colin backs away.

“Nah, man. I'm good.”

Alex laughs again.

“Fine with me,” he says.

He drops the ring in his front pants pocket.

“Let's look around and see what else we can find,” he says.

A wave of nausea sweeps through Colin and he puts a hand over his mouth.

“I'm gonna be sick,” he manages to say before running out of the room, where he vomits on his knees in the hall.

“Jesus, you are a sensitive little flower, aren't you?” he hears Alex say, laughing more.

Colin vomits again. He spits and vomits and clutches at his stomach.

“Ugh, I don't know what's wrong with me,” he says finally.

He spits again and gets up.

He doesn't see Alex around, but goes to the next-door bathroom. Surprisingly, the water comes on when he turns the rusted faucet in the chipped and broken sink. He lets the brown, tepid water run for a minute before drinking from his cupped hands. Then he takes a pack of gum from his pocket, unwraps a piece, and pops it in his mouth. He breathes out.

“What the hell was that?” he says, out loud, to himself.

Stepping back out in the hall, he looks for Alex again but can't see him anywhere.

“Alex!” he calls, not too loud, because he doesn't want to make too much noise.

There's no response.

He looks back into the storage room, where he found the ring a week earlier and where now Alex has taken it for himself. The room is empty.

So Colin begins to search through the house, going back down to the second floor and calling out for Alex, but not finding him anywhere. A cold feeling creeps over the back of his neck and he is dizzy and weak, but still he keeps searching. He makes his way through the many rooms.

“Alex, this isn't funny, man,” he calls.

But, again, there is no answer.

He descends the stairs to the basement. Light filters in through the dirt-caked, narrow windows. Dust motes are visible drifting and circling through the rays of light.

Down on the damp concrete cellar floor, boxes are stacked ceiling-high and wooden wine barrels are knocked over on their sides and busted open.

“Alex!” he tries again.

A voice whispers back this time.

“Sinner.”

The word is spoken right in his ear.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, going for the stairs now, ready to
just get the hell out of there.

But then Alex's silhouette fills the doorframe at the top of the stairs. In his hand he holds a metal fire poker, the handle worked into the shape of a snake, coiling.

“Where the hell'd you go, man?” Colin asks, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

Still Alex doesn't answer. He raises the sharp, pointed metal rod up over his head, then he runs straight at Colin. He wields the poker and Colin steps back.

“What the hell?” he says lamely.

Alex brings the poker down and Colin is knocked to the floor. He holds his hand to his head, now wet and sticky with blood. Alex lets out a terrible, unearthly scream and brings the poker down again. But this time Colin is ready and he rolls out of the way. He leaps then at Alex, slamming his body into him and beating on him with his fists.

As Alex falls back, hitting the concrete, the ring—the monsignor's ring—flies from his pocket and bounces off into a dark corner of the basement. Colin lunges at Alex again. Alex swings the poker across his own body, and as Colin falls on top of Alex, he also falls on the poker, impaling himself on the sharp blade. The poker goes all the way through him, piercing his lung and exiting his back. Colin's weight is heavy as he tries to take a breath but can't get any air. Blood pumps
in spurts out on the concrete with the beating of Colin's failing heart.

Alex pushes Colin off him and climbs back to his feet. He stares down at his friend, slowly dying there in front of him. Colin's mouth opens and closes.

It takes several minutes for the life to drain out of him. Alex watches, fascinated, all the while.

When Colin is dead, Alex wraps his body in a number of sheets, then drags him, sweating and out of breath, up the stairs, down the hallway, and out that same broken window they'd climbed into only an hour or so before.

He drags Colin's corpse through the tall grass and down the path and then deeper, still, into the forest. He covers his body in a blanket of dead leaves and a thin layer of dirt—the metal poker still protruding from his chest.

Alex leaves him, then, going back down the trail to the beach and the ocean beyond. He takes off his shirt and begins trying to wash the blood away in the cold salt water. Then he reaches into his pocket, as though suddenly remembering. Of course, the ring is not there. But he doesn't dare to go looking for it.

And so he makes his way back home.

While the body of his friend lies rotting in the forest.

I
wake with a crushing pain in my head.

The door to the garage is open and the wind sounds like a wounded animal caught in a trap. The oil lamp has burned out so there is only darkness illuminated by bright flashes of lightning. Thunder claps and makes the walls shake.

I sit up, holding my hand to my head, and try to look around, but I can't see Colin anywhere. I call to him.

“Colin!”

There is no answer.

And then I see the bent silhouetted frame of my father standing in the doorway. He walks in staggering, dragging his left leg. He holds something in his hand.

Lightning turns the sky a sickly pale white and his features appear gaunt and sneering. He keeps on walking toward me.

“Dad,” I say, my voice shaky and uneven. “Dad. I'm sorry. I had an accident in the car. I came in here to get out of the storm.”

My dad stops moving toward me and says, almost too quiet to hear over the rain and wind and thunder, “Get down here. Right now!”

I scramble to get my socks and boots on, then I climb quickly down the ladder.

“I'm sorry,” I say again. “I just had to get out of the storm.”

He raises his hand, showing me one of the positive pregnancy tests—shoving it in my face.

“I should've known,” he says. “It was right in front of my face all this time.”

“Dad,” I plead. “That isn't mine.”

He throws the test against the wall.

I watch it break and fall to the floor.

I feel my dad's hand gripping my arm.

It's like it could break.

I cry out.

And then he releases it.

“It's my fault,” he says. “I should've seen. I should've known.”

“It's not what you think,” I say.

“The devil was in your mother,” he tells me, speaking calmly now. “And now he's in you. He's been in you.”

He grabs my arm again.

“But we will cast him out. Together, we will cast him out.”

“Please, Dad,” I say. “Please, you don't understand.”

He pulls me toward him.

“I understand exactly. The devil's inside you. But I will take you to the house. You'll be rebaptized. I'll tear the devil out. We'll exorcise him from your soul.”

The fire cuts through my brain again—raging through my insides. I clench my teeth together.

“Dad, no!” I say.

There's a clap of thunder that shakes the ground and I try to jerk my arm free, but my dad holds me fast.

“Don't fight me,” he says. “The devil will try to fight, but you must resist him.”

“Dad, you're sick,” I tell him. “Please, you need help.”

“That's the devil in you,” he says. “He's got hold of you. You're burning in his eternal flame. The fire burns you from the inside out.”

He pulls me toward the door and the rain and the wind and the lightning and thunder.

And it's true, I think, the fire is burning me alive.

“We will tear it from your heart and gouge out its eyes.”

“Dad, please, let me go. Please. I didn't do anything wrong.”

“You speak with the devil's tongue. You must be silent. Do not let his words corrupt your ears and defile you.”

He drags me toward the door and I scream.

“Stop! Stop it!”

And then I call for help. “Somebody! Please! Colin! Colin!”

I try to wrench myself free. A blow hits me on the side of the head.

And I go down.

And there is only unconsciousness.

And in that unconsciousness, I see:

Winter in the darkness and the bare, frozen branches tap-tap against the fogged icy glass windows. Windblown snow paints
the gray sky white. Within the cracked walls a fire offers little heat, burning dully in the shallow hearth. An Oriental rug frayed at the edges is laid out across the roughly textured floorboards. The light is dim and flickering—shadowy—playing across the face of the same small, pale-skinned boy with inky blue-black hair and clear blue eyes. He wears a white pressed shirt, wool pants, and jacket. His hands clasp a leather-bound book and beaded rosary.

Kneeling next to him is Sister Margaret, again dressed in a habit, with a cross dangling from her neck—the cross on a silver chain reflecting yellow light.

The boy opens his eyes, looking up at her—thinking for the thousandth time that she is the most beautiful person he's ever seen. To him she is only pure and perfect.

He follows her down to the nursery—the walls painted a washed-out pink trimmed with painted pink and white roses. The curtains are drawn—the air cold and stale. The infants take turns crying and kicking their legs and flailing their arms uselessly—dressed in white lace nightgowns.

The boy follows Sister Margaret with a jar of silvery-gray ashes as she makes the sign of the cross over each baby's tiny forehead.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. . . . Amen.”

Sister Margaret smiles down at him, her teeth white and
straight, her lips full. He watches her with his own eyes flashing. But then she tells him to wait while she goes to get fresh towels. She leaves. The boy walks to the window, looking out on the snowy wilderness. A bird, huge and black, smashes into the frozen glass. The boy jumps back, spilling the sacred ashes on the polished wood floor. He falls to his knees, panicking, holding his breath, desperately trying to get the spilled ashes back in the jar.

Someone shouts from just behind him—the voice of a man, deep and rasping. It is the monsignor.

The boy trembles violently as he approaches.

The monsignor's baritone bass voice booms out.

He holds a small leather whip in one hand.

He raises it high above his head.

The boy trembles and wets his pants.

The priest calls the boy's name.

Urine pools beneath the boy on the floor.

The priest says his name again.

“Anselm Noonan!”

Then the whip comes down.

I
am first aware of the cold concrete pressed against my cheek. My hair has fallen down in front of my eyes and a steady pressure at the back of my neck keeps me pinned where I am. That blood taste is back in my mouth and I have to be sick. I retch against the wall and I feel the pressure release.

Then I hear my father's voice. My father, the boy who lived here in Harmony House. The visions are coming on more and more frequently. I feel myself out of any one time—drifting from the past to the present.
But now I am down in the basement, held fast against the wall the way the sisters of Harmony House were. My dad stands holding a silver cross and rosary, like the monsignor did. He wears the monsignor's ring. He speaks with his voice. On the ground, at his feet, are the torn pages of the book—the words all crossed out with thick black lines. Candles are lit. The flames make the long shadows writhe like snakes. Without the rain and wind and thunder claps and flashes of lightning make the whole world seem like it's going to come crashing down around me. I hear the falling of the trees in the forest.

And through it all my father's voice like the monsignor's carries through the echoing basement. Reverberating so it seems to berate me on all sides—like the monsignor's whip lashing. Like Sister Angelica's edged metal ruler. I feel the stinging pain of his words like there really is a devil in me that's clinging on for possession.

“Lord have mercy,” my father says.

“Christ have mercy. Holy Mother of God,

Holy Virgin of virgins,

Saint Michael,

Saint Gabriel,

Saint Raphael,

All holy
angels
and archangels,

All
holy orders
of blessed spirits,

“From all evil, deliver us, Oh Lord.

From all sin,

From your wrath,

From sudden and unprovided death,

From the snares of the devil,

From anger, hatred, and all ill will,

By your coming,

By your birth,

“By
your cross
and passion,

By your holy resurrection,

By your wondrous ascension,

“Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against that reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: ‘I know not God, nor
will
I set Israel free.'

“Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servant,
Jennifer Noonan, so he may no longer hold captive this
person
whom it pleased you to make in your image, and to redeem through your Son; who lives and reigns with you, in the
unity
of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”

“Dad,” I whimper. “Dad, please. Don't do this.”

A pain shoots through me then as if a bite has been taken out of my side and I can't help but cry out and put my hand to the tender skin there and fall to my knees.

“I command you, unclean spirit,” my father shouts. “Whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and
ascension
of our
Lord
Jesus
Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our
Lord
for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure.

“I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am a
minister
of
God
despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions.”

He lays his hand on the back of my head again and his touch is like a flame burning me, so I struggle to
get away, though I'm too weak.

“Stop,” I say. “Please. Dad, you need help. I can help you.”

He goes on with his shouting prayer:

“When
time
began, the Word was there, and the Word was face-to-face with God, and the Word was God. This Word, when
time
began, was face-to-face with God. All things came into being through Him, and without Him there came to be not one thing that has come to be.

“In Him was life, and the
life
was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not lay hold of it. There came upon the scene a man, a messenger from God, whose name was John. This
man
came to give testimony to testify in behalf of the light that all might believe through him. He was not himself the light; he only was to testify in behalf of the light.

“Meanwhile the true light, which illumines every man, was making its entrance into the world. He was in the world, and the world came to be through Him, and the world did not acknowledge Him. He came into His home, and His own people did not welcome Him.

“But to as many as welcomed Him, He gave the power to become
children
of
God
those who believe in
His name; who were born not of blood, or of carnal desire, or of man's will; no, they were born of God. And the Word became ‘man' and lived among us; and we have looked upon His
glory
such a
glory
as befits the Father's only begotten Son full of
grace
and truth!”

I'm lying fetal on the cold concrete floor now and my dad crosses himself and bends to kiss me on the forehead and I try to spit at him, shouting, “Fuck you!”

And his words cut into me like an axe blade:

“At that
time
Jesus
was driving out a demon, and this particular
demon
was dumb. The
demon
was driven out, the dumb
man
spoke, and the crowds were enraptured.

“But some among the people remarked: ‘He is a tool of Beelzebul, and that is how he drives out demons!' Another group, intending to test Him, demanded of Him a
proof
of His claims, to be shown in the sky. He knew their inmost thoughts. ‘Any kingdom torn by civil strife,' He said to them, ‘is laid in ruins; and house tumbles upon house.'

“‘So, too, if
Satan
is in revolt against himself, how can his kingdom last, since you say that I drive out demons as a tool of Beelzebul. And furthermore: If I drive out demons as a tool of Beelzebul, whose tools are your pupils when they do the driving out?

“‘Therefore, judged by them, you must stand condemned.

“‘But, if, on the contrary, I drive out demons by the finger of God, then evidently the kingdom of
God
has by this
time
made its way to you. As long as a mighty
lord
in full armor guards his premises, he is in peaceful possession of his property; but should one mightier than he attack and overcome him, he
will
strip him of his armor, on which he had relied, and distribute the spoils taken from him.'”

He goes to kiss me again and I retch more, but nothing comes out. I feel something soaking through my jeans and look down to see blood pooling between my legs.

“Dad, please,” I say. “Stop!”

And then I yell to anyone and no one.

“Somebody please help me! Please!”

My dad makes the sign of the cross above me again. He holds up the book of prayers with the pages torn out and says, beseeching,

“Almighty Lord, Word of
God
the Father,
Jesus
Christ,
God
and
Lord
of all creation; who gave to your holy
apostles
the power to tramp underfoot serpents and scorpions; who along with the other mandates to work
miracles was pleased to grant them the authority to say: ‘Depart, you devils!' and by whose might
Satan
was made to fall from
heaven
like lightning;

“I humbly call on your holy name in fear and trembling, asking that you grant me, your unworthy servant, pardon for all my sins, steadfast faith, and the power—supported by your mighty arm—to confront with confidence and resolution this cruel demon. I ask this through you,
Jesus
Christ, our
Lord
and God, who are coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire.”

And then there is a sound loud like the chiming of bells that cuts through the chaos around me. It comes again and again.

My dad lays down the book and the cross and the rosary and we both turn and look up to the stairs leading back to the main floor of the house.

The bells chime again.

And again.

It is the doorbell.

Someone is ringing the doorbell.

“Stay here,” my father says. “Do not move.”

He gets up from his place kneeling above me and crosses himself and goes to the stairs. I watch him
climbing them slowly. He opens the door and closes it behind him. Then I hear a key turn in the lock and the bolt drawn.

Fuck.

I push myself up and feel the room spin around me and I start to black out—even as I crawl toward the steps. I see the vision as if it's being projected around me on the walls and ceiling.

In the vision I see the garden beyond the house. It is summer—hot—a cool wind blowing in off the ocean. Birds sing overhead and squirrels chase one another through the trees and across the grass.

At the edge of the forest I see my father but as a young boy. I watch him watching Sister Margaret—who is waiting by the large, reaching-up oak tree where Anselm and the sister had that picnic together. But Anselm—the boy—and the sister are not together now. He watches her from afar—and she watches the forest. She watches and waits. The boy Anselm has dark circles under both eyes. He clenches his fists.

And then through the forest a man comes crashing through the underbrush. He is young and handsome, wearing a white T-shirt and paint-splattered jeans rolled up to the ankles and boat shoes. He's a local dockworker from the
town. Sister Margaret smiles as the young man comes closer. Her whole face lights up and she flushes bright red. The young man smiles, too, his rugged face broad and handsome. They clasp hands and then he kisses her on the mouth. She kisses back.

The boy Anselm takes a step back.

Sister Margaret and the young man kiss and talk about their future. The young man laughs and pulls a switchblade out of his pocket. Still laughing and smiling, he carves their initials into the bark of the great tree. They are the same initials I saw carved into the tree that first day I moved into Harmony House. Only they are different. The initials I saw were
AMJG
. But what the young man carves in are only the two initials
M
and
J
. So he must be
J
. And
M
is Margaret.

They kiss again and hold each other close.

While the boy Anselm storms off. He's seen enough. Anger pulses through his whole body. He rages to himself.

She is a sinner, he thinks. She is just like all the rest.

He decides to tell the monsignor. He decides to tell him what Sister Margaret has done. Father Meyers will punish her. He will teach her a lesson. He will give Sister Margaret what she deserves.

The boy Anselm wants her to pay.

And so he betrays her to the monsignor.

And there is no going back.

Coming out of the vision, I find myself at the basement door.

I try the handle, but the lock holds fast.

There is nothing in me now but the blind need to get free—to get away from my dad and this craziness and to run and run and run and never stop.

I put my hand on the doorknob again.

A voice whispers in my ear.

Only it's not a voice.

It's a memory of a voice—Rose's words repeating over and over in my mind,

“If I had some time with you, maybe I could teach you how to control the power you have, but as it is, I'm afraid you're in a lot of danger.”

The power I have?

What the hell does that mean?

And what did Colin say?

“Maybe you haven't found it yet.”

But what was Colin anyway?

There's the heat in me like oil fire burning. It's like the fire is in my breathing. It goes from my lungs out my throat and mouth.

I try the door again.

It stays locked.

I mean, Jesus Christ, if I did have some power,
wouldn't I know about it? Other than having these visions that don't do me any good at all. If I have some power in me, then goddammit, I need to open this door.

The fire burns through my hands and out my fingertips.

I need this door to open now.

I need to get out of this house.

I have the power to see every fucking thing that's happened in this house.

Give me the power to get the hell out of here.

The fire burns my eyes and I have tears coming down.

I try the door.

I try the door again.

I try it again.

And then the door opens.

The fire is swallowed up in my body.

I step through the door.

The power is out and it's all dark except for the lightning making the sky bright reflecting through the corridors of the house. I feel my way along the walls—bumping into dressers and end tables, only able to see when the lightning splits the sky wide open.

Blackness is followed by the strobe of lightning and
then blackness and then lightning and then blackness. Thunder follows the lightning. The thunder makes the floorboards shudder beneath my feet. And then there is more blackness. And then lightning. And then blackness.

I reach the corner of the hall where I turn and feel my way down toward the front door. The rain is like a war being fought on all sides. The wind is like the howling of wolves after a kill. The thunder sets my teeth chattering.

The lightning strikes.

I see the silhouette of a crouched figure moving.

It is far away, down the end of the hall.

In the drowning blackness I call out, “Hello?”

Thunder takes the words from me.