Unclean Spirit (11 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

              “What in the world!?”  Lukas nearly pissed himself when he spotted the yellow eyes glaring at him.  Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished.  “Stupid storm has me spooked!” 

              “Holy narancsíz!  Not good sign!”  Mag said aloud, referring to the eyes that shone form the truck’s bed.  

              It wasn’t raining in Van Horn yet but the storm was moving in from the West.  Lillie was worried about Lukas and anxiously awaited his call telling her he had made it safely to El Paso. 

              Mag had called Saul earlier from the El Paso airport to let him know that he was on his way.   While he awaited Mag’s arrival, Saul attempted to contact Dr. Gomez but the impending storm was apparently already having an effect on the phone-lines and Saul couldn’t get through to El Paso.

              Charlie, knowing that the storm would soon hit, tended to the animals and closed up the house.   He had been so busy with his responsibilities he hadn’t noticed that the photograph of Paul, Tamara, Starr, Patsy, and Marybeth that normally sat on the coffee table in the family-room had fallen and left shattered glass fragments all around. 

              Cooter circled round and round creating a comfortable nest in his blanket.   He settled in and waited for the storm to strike.  

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

              Typical of El Paso’s monsoon season, the lightening, thunder, and rain that had assailed the town had moved quickly on to terrorize some other region of Texas.   The rain had offered at least a temporary respite from the heat that was welcome by all.  

              Starr, Patsy, and Marybeth had tended to Penelope, freshened up a bit, and were now having a late lunch at a small Mexican restaurant.   The eatery was typical:   Walls adorned by velvet paintings of bullfighters, bowls of garishly painted plastic fruit and vegetables, vinyl booths with tape covering numerous tears and splits, delectable food.  Starr’s enchiladas, covered in sour cream, were a far-cry from those served up in Dallas; Marybeth’s gorditas were both greasy and crisp, just the way she liked them; Patsy’s chili rellenos were stuffed with delectable asadero cheese.   The ladies had needed some good old Mexican comfort food and the little restaurant had provided them with precisely that.  

              “You know, Starr, Marybeth and I were thinking about going home tomorrow.   We really aren’t needed here and Charlie could probably use some help back at the ranch.”

              As much as Starr loved having Marybeth and Patsy with her, she had to agree with what Patsy said.  

              “Yeah, I guess you’re right.  I witch you could talk Mom into going back with you, she’s got to be wasted.” 

              “No way would she leave your dead,” offered Marybeth.

              “I know,” admitted Starr, “but why don’t you guys at least suggest it to her?   I can stay with Dad and Mom knows I would call her immediately if any problem arose.”

              “We’ll give it a shot,” said Patsy, “but we all know what her answer will be.”

              While Starr, Patsy, and Marybeth were discussing their plans relative to Tamara, the storm that had left El Paso continued to molest the portion of the Interstate that Mag and Lukas were traversing.   Since the rain was moving East, toward Van Horn, Lukas would soon be rid of it; Mag would continue to be encased by it.  

              The closer Mag got to Van Horn, the more he began to dread what he would find there.   Magyar Gehrke was no slave to fear.   In point of fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he had been truly frightened; he thought back now to one of those times.  

              He had been visiting the site of Borley Rectory in Essex County, Britain.  Dubbed “England’s Most Haunted House,” Borley Rectory had been the location of reputed supernatural occurrences.   Although the rectory itself had been destroyed as the result of a fire in 1939, the grounds upon which it had been erected were not allowed to go to waste and were presently inhabited by less infamous buildings.  

              It is quite possible that Borley Rectory had been constructed upon earth that held the remains of persons who had died in the plague epidemics of the 1340’s Mag believed that to be true and posited that the land, not the structure that once stood there, was responsible for the unexplained events that had transpired there.  

              Mag had heard and read about the “hauntings” experienced by the Bull family who lived in the rectory from 1863 to 1927:   Unremitting coldness; rapping, banging, and crashing noises; the sound of footsteps; apparitions, with and without heads, and, of course, the nun.  

              Known as the Catholic Sister of Mercy, this nun took to gazing into the rectory’s windows and gliding about the garden.   It is said that her facial expression never varied, that she always looked grief-stricken.   Although she seemed tangible, the Sister had the ability to instantly disappear before one’s very eyes! 

              After the Bull family, numerous tenants occupied the rectory and weathered their own strange incidents.   There were, of course, the odd sounds and apparitions but there were also occasions of actual physical harm from unseen forces; stones falling from the air and written messages materializing on the walls. 

              Finally, fire claimed the rectory, but not its mystique.   Persons who visited the ruins were battered by stones, thrown to the ground by unseen hands, and pursued by heavy footsteps.  

              The rectory ruins were removed in 1944, but he small stable cottage that had been situated adjacent to the rectory remained standing and quite intact.   It was this cottage that had drawn Mag to the village of Borley. 

              Needless to say, the cottage occupant refused to have anything to do with Mag or his desire to psychically explore the dwelling.   Although tremendously disappointed, Mag understood why the occupant, and indeed the entire village, would prefer to let sleeping dogs lie.   And, as it turned out, Mag had not needed to enter the cottage at all because he saw the Catholic Sister of Mercy his first evening in Essex.

              Not wanting his sojourn at Borley to be a total bust, Mag had visited the still-operational church that had brought numerous ministers to Borley Rectory.   The church, which sat on the opposite side of the road from the stable cottage, was simply a church-nothing more, nothing less.  

              As Mag had exited the religious building and walked toward the road, he was literally overcome by a profound awareness of melancholy and anguish.   He did not understand why, but tears had begun to fall from his eye and through those tears he had seen what was unmistakenly the figure of a nun.   The figure was neither transparent nor amorphous, she was just like any other living being, except for the fact that her feet did not quite touch the ground.   Even with her eyes closed, the nun’s face registered such deep torment that Mag had felt as though his heart would break.   Then the figure opened its mouth to speak and Meg knew that he was not hearing the nun’s voice… such a voice was too vile, too harsh, too alien, to be emanating from anything remotely human.   “SHE IS OURS, ONLY ONE OF MANY!”   And then the form opened its eyelids to reveal deep, black, empty space.   Mag had remained rooted to his spot, unable to move, barely able to breathe.   Then, without warning or ceremony, the figure had vanished. 

              Mag had begun to sweat profusely as he reminisced about his trip to Borley.   He had never told anyone about the episode, perhaps because he thought if he talked about it he would unwittingly summon the “nun,” and he for sure didn’t want to meet up with her again!   Actually, it wasn’t encountering the Sister again that terrified Mag.   After all, it didn’t take an exorcist to figure out that the nun’s soul was controlled by a demonic spirit.   Mag hoped to hell there weren’t any spirits of the occult in Van Horn.  

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

             
By the time he arrived in El Paso, Lukas was not only worn out but also feeling a bit queasy.   He attributed his upset stomach to the tension of driving in the storm, that, and the potato chips, candy bars, and sodas he had consumed while sitting out the storm.    He stopped for gas, called Lillie, bought a box of Alka-Seltzer, and headed for the hospital.  

              No one even broached the subject of Tamara’s returning to Van Horn, not after hearing about Paul’s leg wound.   Patsy and Marybeth didn’t know what to think; Starr was horrified by what she was thinking.   She didn’t for a moment believe that her father’s injuries had been self-inflicted, but she almost wished that they had been.  

              “Starr?” Paul wanted to know what was on his daughter’s mind.  

              “I don’t know what’s going on, Dad.   I’ve gone over it time after time in my head and the best I can come up with is a laundry list of what’s transpired:   One, you’re working on the pulpit when you start to feel strange so you decide to go upstairs.   But you don’t make it out of the basement because you fall, or are pushed, down the steps.   Interestingly, about the same time that you fall, I wake up after feeling as though I am falling.  Shortly thereafter, I have a vision of you and notice a crack in my breakfront’s mirror, on its right side, same side you hit your head.  You said something hit you in the chest.   Could that have been a symptom of a heart attack?   Sure.  

              “Two, during surgery your heart stops and inexplicably restarts of its own accord.   Another indicator of cardiac damage?   Of course.   Coincidently, that probably happens while I’m busy ‘seeing’ you on the plane. 

              “Three, you develop blisters on your hands that spontaneously heal themselves.   A reaction to stress?   Possibly, but why did I feel such pain while holding your hand?

              “Four, your heart rate and blood pressure go sky-high and you grab a nurse by the throat.   Yet more evidence of cardiac problems?   Perhaps.

              “Five, I think I see a black cat poised on a showerhead and then-something I hadn’t told you about – I observe a black shape hovering over you.  

              “Six, you ‘dream’ about a black figure that threatens to claim you by pulling you, by the leg, into the depths of a ‘sea of suet.’  When you awaken, your leg has been severely wounded.   What’s the explanation for the one?”   Starr pauses, but no one speaks.  

              “As I see it,” Starr continues, “there are common threads that run throughout these events:   Harm to you, Dad, and psychic messages to me.   Frankly, Dad, I don’t believe that you physical problems have a biological origin.   I strongly suspect that you are being tormented by something that transcends our reality and I don’t have a clue what it might be or how we can fight it.”

              The room was quiet as Paul, Tamara, Marybeth, and Patsy let Starr’s words sink in.   It was Paul who finally spoke.  

              “Well, then, I say we start doing some research because I agree with Starr.   Too many extraordinary things have happened for me to blindly accept a medical explanation for each and every one of them.   I don’t know what’s going on either, but I sure as hell intend to find out!   As soon as Dr. Gomez is sure my heart and head are okay, we’re out of here.   If we’re going to get to the source of all of this…we’ll find it back at the ranch.”  

CHAPTER FORTY

The Fourth Night

             
It was early evening by the time the storm hit Van Horn.   Having been unable to get a call through to Dr. Gomez, Saul had closed up shop and gone home for the day.   Ever since Mag had called him from the airport in El Paso, Saul had been anxiously awaiting his arrival and busied himself now with preparing the spare room.   The windows in the small room shook with each clap of thunder and the room’s corners were illuminated by each flash of lightening.   Saul didn’t feel like being melodramatic, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the storm was some sort of bad omen. 

              Because of the dark skies and pouring rain, Saul turned the lights on in the house.   There, he thought, no boogeyman lurking behind the furniture!   That thought brought a smile to Saul’s face and he walked into the kitchen to prepare a hot meal for himself and Mag.   He just missed seeing the yellow eyes that shone outside the living room window.  

              Dinner was nearly ready when Saul heard the banging on the door and the voice that accompanied it.  

              “Open goddamn door!   Is raining cats and frogs out here!”  

              Mag had arrived.

              The friends embraced, then Saul corrected, “Cats and dogs, Mag, not cats and frogs!”  

              “Frogs, dogs!  Who cares?   It can rain one, can rain other!  Now, give me big brandy.”

              Saul felt comforted by Mag’s bigger-than-life presence and the familiarity of his demeanor.  Some things changed; Mag did not.   Mag reserved his chit-chat for rich women and parlor talk so, as he inhaled his brandy, he cut to the chase.  

              “Pneuma akatharta.”

              “Excuse me?”

              “Pneuma akatharta—unclean spirit.”

              “And…?”

              “And is somewhere close.”

              Charlie sat on the front porch with Cooter and Jim Beam and watched the rain.   It had been raining the day Francine had packed up their daughter and left.   Charlie didn’t miss his ex; on the contrary, he considered himself well-rid of her.   As far as Charlie was concerned, his ex-wife was a lunatic in search of a cheap sanitarium.   But his feelings about his daughter were diametrically opposed to those regarding his ex.   She had been six years old when Francine had absconded with her.   Needles to say, Francine had poisoned the child’s mind over the years because she refused to even acknowledge her father’s letters.   Although he didn’t let it show in word or deed, his daughter’s rejection of him hurt very deeply. 

              “Best not to ponder on it, Cooter.”  

              Cooter looked up at his pal as though in tacit agreement.

              Charlie rocked and drank his whiskey—Cooter dozed and dreamed of fat, white rabbits.  

              The force in the basement summoned its minions.