Mask of Flies (8 page)

She dug in her purse
and pulled out a napkin and a black ball point pen. She drew a box
for the general store and a line for the main road that ran through
the reservation. Then an arrow that indicated the direction of travel
would be south west, through the neighboring town of Red House. She
finished lining in a road that intersected southbound. Next to it she
wrote “OSR”
.

“This is Old Spirits
road, you take a left here,” Jennifer said. She penned in a small
cross on the east side of OSR, followed by a weaving road. “On OSR
you will pass a large burial ground on the left, take the first road
after you pass it. The road is unmarked and unpaved, so you have to
keep an eye out for it. About 5 miles down, you will see the
Kingbird’s cottage . . . I hope this helps.” She handed the
napkin-map to Tony.

Tony had thanked
Jennifer for her time, got in his car, and followed the map out of
Salamanca. He had found the unmarked road with little trouble,
although, five miles into the wilderness there wasn’t any sign of
domicile. He worried he was on the wrong road, or that Jennifer sent
him astray. Barren trees seemed to shrug in an absurd fashion, as if
clueless to the validity of the napkin-map. After seven miles he
finally saw the ominous structure sitting alone in the wilderness.

* * *

The Cutlass was
parked up front, glossed over in sheen of melted ice, making the
exterior candy-wet like black licorice. The car didn’t have a speck
of rust; Tony guessed that the roads didn’t get salted, or plowed
very often on this part of the reservation, hence the large snow
chains on the tires.

Tony walked up a small
set of steps to the warped door of the cottage, and knocked three
times—no answer. He tried the doorknob. It opened. He peeked
through. “Is anybody home?” he said through the opening.
Apprehensions of crossing the Kingbird threshold uninvited stopped
him from going further.
The only
welcome I’m likely to receive is a shotgun pointed at my face
.

Around the backside of
the house, he found a long wooden barn of much older construction.
Its entry cracked open, and Tony saw matted snow stained blush,
trailed inside. He went over—the door let out a slow creak,
followed by a dog’s bark.

“Cody, stay,” a
brusque voice said.

“Mr. Kingbird?
Hello?” Tony peered around the door timidly, not sure what to
expect. He didn’t have much field experience in the way of case
work, much less dropping in on complete strangers unannounced.

“Yeah I’m here.
C’mon in, I won’t bite,” Elias replied.

Tony walked in; he saw
the tall man had his back to him, submersed in the disembowelment of
the deer carcass before him. A beagle sat at the man’s feet with
its tail wagging excitedly.

Tony introduced
himself, and went to shake the man’s hand.

“Maybe next time,”
Elias turned and looked down at wet blood on his hand. The man’s
face was weathered but not unkind; he had high cheekbones and deep
smile-lines in the creases of his eyes. Jet black hair fell halfway
down his back in a braid. Old blood stained the sleeves of his fur
lined parka. “I think I know why you’re here, but I can’t help
you,” He turned back to his work.

Tony wasn’t sure if
someone tipped Elias off, or if the guilt got to the man. “Listen,
it’s not my intention to send her back to you, I’m just looking
for some information. There was an incident last night, and she hurt
herself pretty badly. We are just looking for some insight on how to
help her—we don’t even know her name,”

“Her name is
Angeni—there is no helping her. She had been lost to us long ago.”

Tony found pain in his
face. “She is your grandmother?”

“Was told to be my
great grandmother, over one-hundred and thirty years old.” Elias
took off his gloves and wiped his hands on an old rag. He pulled out
a hand rolled cigarette from an inside pocket of his parka. When lit,
it introduced the sweet smell of fresh tobacco into the stale
smelling barn. “Darkness within keeps her alive. It feeds her flesh
from the minds of the vulnerable.”

“I’m not sure I
follow.”

“As a young woman,
Angeni was said to be gifted with a far reaching mind and a strong
connection to the old spirits. One day she received word that her
husband died in an accident, and she became grief stricken, her mind
began to bend.” Elias took a hard pull form his cigarette. His
slightly downcast expression turned into a full grimace. “An
Englishman fooled her into leaving her family on the reservation for
Lily Dale. It’s the Spiritualist community northwest of here. She
returned to her family corrupted in mind, body, and spirit.”

“I haven’t had any
exposure to psychics or the spirit world. Excuse me if I seem
skeptical . . . I have to ask, what made you drop her off at the
nursing home like that?”

“I’m sorry, but I
didn’t leave her at your facility.”

“The police have
footage of your car leaving the Silver Creek facility on the night
they found Angeni there. How do you think I found you?” Tony’s
Sicilian temper began to rise, frustrated by Kingbird’s vague
answers. Too many times had he seen the elder folk at Oak Leaf
neglected by their descendants. A trend that seemed to be pervading
every culture, even those rooted in a heavy tradition of respect for
elders.

“Someone broke into
my house and took her out. Whoever did it took my car and returned it
the next day—it may sound like bullshit, but it is the truth,”
Elias said.

“I’m not gonna
argue the point about your story sounding like bullshit, but let me
digress, I didn’t come out here to berate you either way. I came to
get information about Angeni, so we can understand what we are
dealing with—from a
medical
standpoint,” Tony looked Elias directly in the eyes, exposing his
anger.

“I understand your
frustration, but if you enjoy your vision, I suggest you shrink them
eyes back down.” Elias’s excited presence made Tony feel like a
two year old having a temper tantrum. “My family kept great
grandmother secluded on our land for over a century, at our own
expense. I am the last of my bloodline; she’s destroyed everyone in
my family. So, Mr. Delgado, from a medical standpoint I’d say you
are dealing with a parasite beyond your comprehension. She will turn
your facility inside out.

Normally
families in these types of abandonment situations are apathetic,
thinking that their elders lived a long life and now it’s time for
their disposal. There is something else at play here.
“How
did she hurt your family?”

“When I was little,
Angeni lived with my grandfather in this house—I was always scared
to come over here; the look and smell of her terrified me. My
grandfather, Angeni’s only son, showed me an old photograph of her
as a pretty young woman . . . I didn’t believe him,” Elias’s
even tone began to waver. “Grandfather was strong, but over time he
grew old and weary. His defenses broke down . . . He drank laundry
detergent and drowned in his own vomit.”

“And you blame Angeni
for that. Perhaps your grandfather had dementia—”

“Let me finish,”
Elias said. “Upon my grandfather’s death, my parents took charge
of her. Shortly after, I saw with my own eyes the life being drained
from them, in a slow trickle. They knew something pulled them down
through Angeni. They tried to purify her through various methods:
traditional healers, herbs, and potions worked for years. But in the
end, the darkness prevailed. I lived in Buffalo at the time and came
to visit for a weekend. I found my parents dead in their bedroom,
both shot to the head. I peeled the revolver from my father’s
hands.”

“I’m sorry to hear
about your parents,” Tony said. “No doubt a difficult thing to
deal with, but I don’t see how their deaths can be linked to your
great grandmother.”

“You people are
always skeptical, and sometimes for good reason. Now, you need to
believe. It could mean your life.”

“What about your time
caring for her? Did she try to manipulate you in any way?”

“Not me, my
wife—Meni. We took care of great grandmother the best we could.
Still, she latched onto Meni’s weakness. You see, Meni was barren,
once we came back to this land, she started having dreams of her son
that never was. She would tell me he looked like her father and
wanted to be a fighter pilot in the Navy. The dreams broke her
spirit, and she fell into a deep depression. While I slept, she went
into the bathroom and wrapped her belt around her neck. I woke up and
the bathroom door was heavy, so heavy—I found her dangling there.”

The Camry’s
dashboard clock read 4:37 a.m. when Rick drove onto the Rainbow
Bridge, en route to Canada. The only reason for anybody to cross the
Canadian border this early is to get an early start at the Casino on
Clifton Hill. If customs pried further, Rick planned to give them a
sob story about how he broke off his engagement with his fiancé and
wanted a vacation to cheer himself up.

After the
conversation with the Jane at Oak Leaf, Rick cleaned up. A foul
smelling man, wearing bloodstained blue jeans and a smallish bed robe
would raise unwanted suspicions at the border, so he made use of the
24 hour gym keycard he kept in his center consol. Luckily, inside
there was only an elder man walking briskly on a treadmill, fixated
on the latest broadcast of
Sports
Center
. Rick snuck in unnoticed, snatched track pants and
a sweat shirt from the lost and found bin, and made way for the
locker room. He tore off his filthy clothes and quickly rinsed off in
the shower, utilizing the soap dispenser on the wall to lather up his
arms and chest. Filth spiraled down the drain. In a matter of minutes
he cleansed, dressed, and got on the road again, almost a new man.

Rick pulled up to the
customs booth and handed the officer his passport.

“Citizenship?”
asked the red eyed man behind the booth window.

“US”, Rick said.

“Where are you coming
from?” Red eyes looked up from Rick’s passport to verify the
picture.

“My apartment in
Williamsville.” Rick feigned a smile and polite tone. He glanced in
his rearview mirror and saw another customs officer typing in into a
handheld computer. He was looking directly at his license plate.
Then, the blood pulsated in his head.
Did
they find the girl in the motel room
?
The Jane said the woman lives, but what if she’s wrong?

“What business do you
have in Canada?” asked the officer.

“I-I’m gonna get an
early start at the Casino.” He could now hear his blood thump.

“Ahh, the early bird
gets the worm.” The officer smiled. “Are you bringing over
anything?”

“Just cash.”

The officer in the
booth put his finger on his earpiece and glanced towards the man with
the tablet. “Good luck.” From the booth’s window, he handed
Rick back his passport.

“Excuse me?”

“At the Casino.”

“Yes of course, thank
you.” Rick pulled forward into Canada and headed towards the falls.
He had been over to the Canada more times than he could count, but he
had never seen the streets so desolate. The shops and attractions
surrounding the Canadian falls superseded the subjugated American
side. Rick blamed this on New York City liberals, which to him,
sucked the life blood and dollars out of all initiatives outside NYC
to feed all the worms in the Big Apple.

But Rick wasn’t
visiting Canada to sightsee; he was there to stop a woman from
committing suicide. The Jane said the woman from the motel would be
on foot, walking in the direction of the fall’s crest, where the
Niagara River drops into oblivion. This location grew quite notorious
for the untold suicides attempted there each year. The locals
sardonically dubbed the point, “The Trapdoor”.

The Trapdoor also had
its fair share of accidents. Most recently, Rick recalled an Indian
exchange student fell over the guardrail while posing for a picture.
Apparently, she was straddling the rail and lost her balance. The
authorities seldom recovered remains of the fallen—the Indian girl
was no exception.

The hope that Rick hadn’t killed
another person trumped his apprehension and disbelief of the entire
predicament. He had to see the woman himself to know for certain. And
there was this Russell creature that was said to be inside, using the
woman. The being’s existence was maddening in itself. To dwell on
it was self-defeating.

Rick left the Camry
in a desolate parking garage, crossed the street, and walked under an
archway, into the park that overlooked the falls. He was about a
half-a-mile from The Trapdoor, where the woman headed to jump.

How
do I wake her up?
Rick ran down the path that led to the
fall’s precipice; he must have looked almost normal in the athletic
gear lifted from the 24 hour gym.

The wind blew a thick
plastic bag out of an overfilled trashcan towards Rick. He stopped
and stuffed it into his pocket.
Simple
enough to work and maybe the woman will return to her senses.

A buzz, which sounded
like a remote control car, sounded from the main road. The whine grew
louder and echoed in the silence of the park. Rick looked towards the
main drag for the source; he saw a vagrant riding an oversized
electric wheelchair, parallel to his path. Then, the wheelchair
disappeared into a line of pine trees, 50 yards ahead. Rick pressed
on.

The cataract drew
closer. It frothed with white water, looking like a giant curtain of
wool. Rick could see the observation deck that overlooked The
Trapdoor. Then he saw a shrouded figure emerge from some shrubbery in
the opposite direction. He crept towards the trees, confident he went
unseen.