Transmission: A Supernatural Thriller (11 page)

The sharp-dressed Reggie, who'd opted for a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, had to stifle a grin as he approached her. She looked rather eccentric, precisely like what he and his family would have referred to as a gypsy in days passed. The air around Mara was haunted by a thick, sweet-smelling perfume. He reached out, offering to shake, but she did not take his hand. She gave him a slight smile, very obviously a formality, and then held the shawl tightly while ambling out the door. “There is a small cafe around the corner. Shall we have some tea?”

“Certainly,” replied Reggie. He was going to offer to drive the two of them over, but Mara was shuffling along the cracked sidewalk towards their destination before he could say anything more.

A silent, five-minute walk saw the two of them stepping into a small, empty cafe. Mara, apparently a friend of the owner's, ordered two cups of hot tea in a language Reggie had never heard, and seated herself at a table near the front window. Looking out at the street, she waited for Reggie to join her. When the tea was delivered, she gave it a stir but didn't once take a sip.

“Thank you for the tea,” began Reggie, tasting it. It wasn't like any other tea he'd ever had; lemony, but with a spicy sort of kick. He didn't much like it, but took a pull from the tea cup now and then so as not to appear rude.

“Mr. Cash,” she said, straightening one of her earrings, “what is it you wish to know about my friend, Agnes?” Her eyes met his for an instant, and in them Reggie found a hardness like steel.

This was the kind of thing he'd have to go about discussing carefully. To share the wrong details up front, or worse, to spill his guts completely, would only make him look crazy. He held the tea cup in his hands and allowed the warmth to seep into his palms while searching for the right way to begin. “Some acquaintances of mine were recently made aware of Agnes' disappearance.”

She arched a thin, grey brow, leaning forward. Her pinched expression momentarily gave way as a bolt of something like excitement passed over her. “You mean to say you've found her?”

Reggie smiled. “No, no... it's like I told you over the phone. We haven't found her. But we... there were some things that led us to your posting. Certain coincidences that may be related to her, well...” He took a gulp of tea and tried to find the words.

Before he could continue however, Mara was wagging a long, crooked finger at him. The afternoon sun was caught in the gleam of one of her golden rings as she replied. “In this world, there are no coincidences.”

Reggie nodded. “Right... Well, I was just hoping to learn more about her. If I should find something out, I'd be happy to let you know, but at the moment, you see, I'm curious about how this relates to some other things...”

Mara studied him with a curious, firm expression, but didn't ask for an explanation. Reggie had already admitted that he didn't know anything about Agnes' whereabouts. She wasn't going to press the matter any further. “Agnes and I were like sisters,” she began. We used to share a house with a number of other Hungarian immigrants.” Then, with a touch of reticence, she added, “Though, Agnes moved out of there. She'd grown apart from the others, left suddenly, without warning.”

“I see.” Reggie couldn't think of anything else to say at this point. “Uh... when did she move out?”

“It must have been a bit over ten years ago now,” said Mara after a time. “The two of us moved out, in fact. We looked for a new place to live, but then... Agnes disappeared.” She appeared vaguely troubled as she recounted this, pursing her lips and toying with the edges of her shawl. “I can tell you the address of the house where we used to live, all of us, but I'm unsure it will help you. Why is it you wish to know about Agnes?” There was a glint of real curiosity in her eye.

Reggie wasn't sure how he could phrase his reply without sounding insane. “Well, I saw... I saw Agnes on a tape,” he started. “And something in that tape pointed me towards this shack out in Akeley, about three hours from here.”

Mara's eyes widened till the yellowed orbs looked like an owl's staring eyes. That she was keen to learn more about this was all too clear. “A tape?” she muttered. She repeated it a few more times, trying the word out like it didn't fit right. “A tape? A tape?” Then, settling back into her chair, she nodded. “Yes, go on. This shack. Where is it?”

Reggie pushed his tea cup aside. “I haven't got the address handy, and anyway, I don't want to get your hopes up. We didn't find anything there. But if I find something out in the future I'll be sure to let you know. If I could get the address to that house where the two of you lived with the other immigrants, that would be swell.”

Mara remained silent for a time before finally calling over to the woman working behind the counter. A short while later, the cafe employee came by with a pen and paper, and Mara hastily scrawled an address on the slip, handing it over to him. “That is the place,” she said simply. “Please let me know if you find anything. I am no longer on speaking terms with those that stay there; I'm not even sure that they still live there, in fact. If you find Agnes, please contact me.”

Reggie nodded, tucking the slip of paper away in his wallet. “Sure, no problem.”

Donning a thin smile, Mara leaned forward and held out her hand. “Would you like me to read your palm?”

Reggie chuckled uncomfortably. He was thinking of some polite way to refuse when Mara suddenly reached out and grasped his hand, baring his palm.

One of Mara's long fingers traced the lines running against his flesh. She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then began to nod. “Oh, yes,” she said, again and again. “It's just as I thought.”

Reggie, growing a bit nervous, squirmed in his seat. “What is it?”

When Mara finally let go of his hand and stood up, the motive behind her toothy grin was hard to discern. “You are destined to facilitate something great. You are on the trail to a great discovery, Mr. Cash.” With that, Mara began shuffling out of the cafe. The door closed behind her and a faint chime sounded. Reggie remained seated, watching her creep past the window and around the corner from whence they'd come. He didn't feel, just then, that he could stand up. Staring down at his palm in the sunlight he could still feel her touch on his skin. Touching the warm tea cup did nothing to banish the clamminess that now claimed him. The skin itched. Wiping his hand off on his jacket, Reggie stood up, left a couple of singles on the table and nodded at the woman working the counter.

Stepping outside, Reggie quickly walked around the corner, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the strange Mara Antall as she returned home.

She was nowhere in sight, however.

***

Reggie wrestled for some time with the idea of paying the house a visit. A house full of Hungarian immigrants who'd had a falling out with Agnes more than ten years ago: What good would it do for him to visit such a place, to speak with such folk? He doubted he'd learn anything useful, and even Mara hadn't been sure whether anyone still lived there.

Ultimately led by his curiosity however, Reggie found himself driving out to the house some hours later. The temperature outside was dropping and snow seemed a frigid certainty. Clutching at his woolen coat, Reggie parked the LeSabre along the curb of a narrow street and scanned the row of dilapidated old houses whose tenants glared out at him from behind mottled curtains. His gaze settled on the blue, two-story house at the street's corner. The lawn was overgrown and a laundry line overburdened with long-abandoned garments dipped and fluttered in the empty driveway. From inside came the scarcest impressions of light however, and Reggie started towards it. On closer inspection, a trail of smoke wormed its way out of the blackened chimney.

Holding his jacket closed and shoving the slip of paper into his pocket, Reggie walked across the lawn, up the uneven concrete steps and to the front door. He reached out and knocked, unsure of who might answer his calls. There was no way for him to know who was living in the house; there was no name on the mailbox, nothing he could go by. For all he knew it was full of squatters. He hoped the immigrants still lived there, that they would be able to tell him some things about Agnes Pasztor, though the longer he waited on the stoop the more foolish he felt for coming out there to begin with.

His knocking was eventually answered by a stocky middle-aged woman. Her face was a collection of creases, and her burly frame bristled at the sight of him. Apparently, she was much averse to company. The woman lingered in the doorway, scowling, and said not a word.

It was up to Reggie to break the ice. Donning the warmest smile he could manage, he nodded. “Hello, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm looking for a group of people who used to live in this house; people, I'm told, who used to be friends of a woman by the name of Agnes Pasztor?”

The bulk of his opening spiel was unnecessary; it was only at the mention of Agnes that the woman showed any evidence of comprehension. But when she did react, appearing not a little startled by the utterance of that name, her face went a shade whiter. “Agnes?” she said, her breath failing her like she'd been punched in the doughy gut. “Who send you?” she continued, raising her eyes to meet his and almost seeming to jab at him with her stubby nose. “Who?”

Reggie hesitated. “I was... I was just wondering if Agnes lived here,” was all he could think to say. The very mention of her name had been sufficient to upset this woman; he knew he'd gain nothing by being forthright. Playing dumb and pretending like he thought Agnes still lived there was his safest bet.

“No,” spat the woman. “No, no, Agnes does
not
live in this house,” she began, smoothing out her grey-black hair and muttering what Reggie took to be a quiet prayer. “Agnes, a witch. She is shunned from here.”

A witch? What was that supposed to mean? Reggie cracked a smile, cocking his head to the side. “She doesn't live here anymore, then?”

The woman shook her head fervently.

“Do you know where I can find her?” Reggie was regretting this visit. Still, the woman's reaction to talk of Agnes, her claim that Agnes was a “witch”, drew his curiosity. “And what do you mean, that she's a witch?”

The woman reached out and took hold of Reggie's arm, pulling him inside. Her eyes were locked onto his, her long eyelashes quivering. Taking a quick glance out into the street, she shut the door behind them and cradled her arms. “Who send you?” she asked again.

The house was smaller on the inside than it'd appeared from the street. In the little foyer, which was connected to a dingy kitchen, the only light they had to see by issued from a number of kerosine lanterns staggered about the counters. Three of the stove's burners were burdened with large pots, each of which bubbled with liquids whose scents he couldn't place. Deeper into the abode he heard the shuffling of other feet, hushed speech, and finally glimpsed a few nervous pairs of eyes leering from around the corner.

How was he to answer the woman's question? Should he have said that Mara Antall had sent him? He hesitated to mention the name of his informant only because he feared the woman's reaction to Mara's name would be equally severe. He was here, in the house where Agnes and Mara had once lived with the other immigrants, and stood to learn a bit about their pasts. The last thing he needed was to get thrown out. “No one sent me,” he lied. “I just heard rumors that she used to live here, with the other Hungarians. Is that not the case?”

The woman looked up at him, muttering something under her breath. Even if Reggie had heard there would have been no deciphering it. “More than ten years,” she began, “Agnes leave this house.” Raising a crooked finger over her head, she pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs, her room.”

“She lived upstairs?” asked Reggie.

“She still live up there,” replied the woman.

Reggie felt his chest tightening. The warm air in the space seemed to momentarily grow chill. Agnes Pasztor still lived in this house? “She's here, now?”

The woman started through the kitchen, into the living room, whose windows were covered in thick, dusty draperies, and led him to the stairwell. As they went, other figures darted out of view. The house's other tenants, no doubt. Without another word she began to climb, and Reggie followed behind her with a growing sense of dread welling in his gut. Was the woman just messing with him? Hadn't she said that Agnes had left ten years ago, been shunned for being a “witch”? So, what was this about, then? Holding onto the handrail, Reggie wondered if he was truly about to meet Agnes Pasztor in the flesh.

The very thought made him want to run.

The upstairs was unlit, and a gloomy darkness enveloped the hallway. There were five doors, all of them closed. From one or two of the rooms could be heard muffled speech and movement. The woman's destination was apparently the room at the end of the hall, which she stopped outside of. The stocky guide paused at the door and seemed unwilling to go any further. In fact, as Reggie arrived at her side he noticed that she made a conscious effort to look away from the door. “Agnes' room,” she said, motioning weakly at the door.

Reggie wet his lips. The heavy wooden door was possessed of a thick, brassy knob. He stood before it, then glanced down at the woman at his side. “Agnes is inside?”

The woman didn't answer him outright, but turned her head slightly and frowned. “Agnes leave ten years ago,” she began, “but since she leave, no one go in room. Sometime, in the night, we hear noise inside. It is
desecrate
.”

The woman's English was rough, but Reggie understood well enough. He gulped, his throat seizing around a bolus of nerves. He wanted to speak, to ask more questions, but was at a loss.

The woman motioned at the door with a toss of her head. She was allowing him to go inside, to explore this space that she and her housemates apparently considered
desecrated
.

“Is it locked?” managed Reggie, appraising the knob.

The woman shook her head. “No need. No one go inside; everyone know not to enter.” With that, the woman started back towards the stairs. She was apparently happy to let Reggie explore on his own. The permission he'd been granted was a curious thing; under any other circumstances, he'd have been thrown out of a stranger's house. That he was left alone to search the room now was unbelievable. It was almost as if Agnes Pasztor's name was some kind of code-word, something that lent him legitimacy or made him trustworthy in the eyes of the tenants.