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Mischiefmakers: Dark Macabre Page 16
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Melissa frantically awakens again, a dream within a dream, her skin a clammy, pale white. Sitting straight up, she gazes around the room to find that it’s quiet and undisturbed. The animal figu- rines sit proudly on top of the wooden dresser, peering in different directions. The windows, undisturbed, remain closed and without cracks. The night sky looms just beyond these transpar- ent shields, and the shifting wind brushes against them. Melissa’s eyes are glazed. She feels the threat of tears. Wiping her face and mouth with a slow swipe, she maintains her expression of terror. The quick moving blades of the ceiling fan startle her. The swinging blades seem to dive toward her throat. Melissa lifts her gown, exposing her stomach and remembering the reptilian movements from her dream. Rubbing her belly fiercely, she cre- ates small streaks of sweat while taking a few shallow breaths. Melissa lies back slowly and begins breathing steadily. Closing her eyes, she slows the rapid rhythm of her heart before entering a restful sleep.
The next morning, Melissa rises cautiously from her sheets. She can’t remember the details of her nightmares, but she still feels the fright they instilled within her. Stepping out of the bed, she hears a very strange shuffling noise emanating from the attic just above her room. Walking toward the door, she hears the eerie shuffling once more. She steps closer, extending her hand to turn the white knob. Suddenly the noise takes on a different overtone. Melissa jerks backwards. For a moment, she stares at the ceiling, trying to follow the noise as her nerves settle. After a soothing exhale, she walks toward the door. Grasping the knob firmly, she gently turns, enters the hall, and walks to the attic door. The hall is quiet and well lit by the morning sun. Bright green leaves with their thick brown branches stroke the windows. The noise in the attic quiets as she reaches the door. Extending her hand once again, she reaches for the brass latch.
What is that noise? Melissa’s body trembles.
Unlatching the door, Morgan, without warning, opens it, allowing just enough space to pull his body through. Breathing heavily with a slight sweat, he blocks the door. Standing, wearing a T-shirt and boxing shorts, he stares at Melissa.
“Where are you headed?” His eyes look directly into Melissa’s eyes.
“The noise, it woke me up. What were you doin’ up there?”
“Nothin’, just doing some cleaning,” he says. With a soft smile he continues, “It can get awful dirty up there.”
“You’re sweating.” Melissa, concerned, strokes his face.
“Can get awful hot too,” he responds to the gentle stroke.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m finished. Let’s go downstairs and...and watch some TV.” Morgan guides the way downstairs. “How was your sleep?” he asks.
“Scary.”
“Scary?”
“Yeah, I had some nightmares,” Melissa answers as they step down the stairs.
“What kind?” Morgan asks, while wiping some of the perspira- tion off his face.
“I can’t remember. They just scared the hell out of me. I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Make sure you keep the baby in mind. You gotta get some... you hungry? I’ll cook something for you. All right?” Morgan con- tinues to perspire and seems anxious to get Melissa away from the attic.
“Sure, that’s fine, but funny.” Wearing a wide grin, Melissa taunts Morgan as they enter the kitchen.
“What’s so funny?”
“You! Not too long ago, you hated cooking. All you talked about were Wheaties.”
Morgan opens a few cabinets and begins gathering his cooking utensils.
“Well, we all have to change sometimes.”
Melissa begins rubbing her stomach with a worried expression. Morgan continues gathering the pot and pans.
“Do you think I need to go to the hospital, to check the baby?” Melissa asks casually. Morgan stops abruptly. With his back to her, he places his hands quietly upon the countertop. He turns slowly. “Why would you need to go to the hospital? The baby is perfect.” “But I’ve been feeling strange lately.”
“Look, I see pregnant women all the time. I have extensive training in emergency medicine.”
“You don’t think I need a doctor?” she asks, placing her full trust in Morgan’s professed expertise.
“Trust me. I’ve been doing this since college. Look, if it will make you feel better, I’ll call one of my doctor friends over to take a look at you.”
The phone rings. Morgan pauses, hesitant to answer.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” asks Melissa.
“Naw, let the voicemail get it.” Morgan turns and continues preparing breakfast.
Melissa, now sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, shoots a puzzled stare toward Morgan.
“Didn’t you teach after college?” she asks. Morgan turns quickly.
“Yeah, I taught first, that’s what I meant.”
Melissa looks downward and rubs her stomach again, feeling a slight natural movement.
5
The guard escorts the priest through the quiet corridor. The mildly lit hall is long, its spotlessly polished floor gleams under the florescent lights. Father Johns grips his Bible
tightly, holding it close to his heart. The guard walks with authority, wearing his white uniform and gold badge; his nightstick and his .45 revolver sit comfortably on his hip.
They pass steel door after steel door. Each with a small rectan- gular wire-filled window. “No one ever mentioned your arrival, Father,” states the armed guard.
“I will only be a few minutes. With the serious nature of her crime, you can understand she needs all the help she can get.”
“Well, that’s certainly true, Father. Here it is.” The guard pulls his mass of jingling keys from his belt. Taking a few serious breaths, he looks down at the priest. “Are you sure you want to go in there alone?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The guard finds the correct key, then glares into the room through the tiny window. He unlocks the door. It squeals open. Father Johns glares into the bright, white padded cell. Stepping in, he sees a brown complexioned woman bound in a straight jacket with white pants. Father Johns approaches cautiously, attempting to look into her face. Her eyes drift to the side; they quiver in a dreamy stare. Her lips are cracked, and her teeth are covered with a thin, yellowing film. Undisturbed by the opening of the door or the priest, she lies motionless. Like a statue, she never blinks. Her black braided hair extends from her broken hairline as it and her brown skin contrast the white background. The priest stops just beyond her bare feet as he kneels down to her level.
“Miss Charles? Miss Deborah Charles?”
The woman doesn’t budge, still staring to one side. Father Johns pauses for a few moments, awaiting a response.
“I know you can hear me, please.” Father Johns squats, still holding his Bible close to his heart. “Do you remember that night at the hospital?”
Her seemingly unbreakable trance is shattered, her thoughts brushed with a forgotten memory. Her eyes shift slowly in the direction of the priest. Her dry lips strain to open. She speaks as if for the first time in a while. With a very soft tone, her voice breaks the still air.
“You’ve seen her?”
“No, but I’ve heard a lot about her. I was hoping you could help me.”
“No one believed us,” Nurse Charles remembers. “Tracey went crazy trying to convince them of what we saw. She felt it would be easier just to jump out of a window.”
Within her mind, Nurse Charles pictures Nurse Tracey falling to the earth from the hospital window. She sees Nurse Tracey’s head explode from the forceful impact, her blood quickly leaking out onto the sweltering pavement. Shutting her eyes tightly, ridding herself of that eerie recollection, she continues.
“All the hospital papers just disappeared. All the records just vanished. It was like she wasn’t even there.” Deborah becomes deathly quiet.
“I need to know what you saw. How did you escape?” Father Joh
ns asks in a low tone.
Deborah turns once more, still maintaining her low, scratchy voice.
“I heard the devil, he spoke through that girl. Voice of the Beast...or the Beast himself was in that room.” Deborah feels a nervous tremble sweep her body. “The room changed, and in a blink of an eye, the room was transformed, into an unforgettable place. I saw the ice of hell and blood everywhere. Those doctors were butchered. Fire came from the ceiling, after us. I saw the wall open up like...like a doorway to another universe.” Deborah looks directly into the priest’s eyes, touching his soul. “You want to know what else I saw, Father?”
“Yes,” he replies nervously.
“I saw the end of life...as we know it, Father. The ultimate evil stands at the gate, prepared to enter our world. I saw the gateway... Father, that’s what I saw.” Her voice quiets. Her eyes flutter, then become still.
“How did you and the other nurse escape? Did you find a weak- ness?” His low tone is tinged with a demanding inflection. “How did you escape?”
With a slow blink and the fall of a solemn tear, Deborah speaks, looking away from the priest.
“How did I survive...is that what you mean, Father? Faith. Once I expressed my unconditional love for my Savior, I was embraced. The Beast’s attempt to steal my life was not possible, I was protected. I still am...don’t you see him, Father?” Deborah’s eyes wan- der to an empty corner of the room, and an angel with his wings spread suddenly appears. With a faint nod, he reassures her that she is indeed safe. Father Johns turns only to see an empty room, then looks back as Deborah speaks. “Escape...Father?” Her eyes fix on him. “I didn’t escape...their voices are in my head, I haven’t slept in months. They know where I am, and they will try to get me...but as I said, I am...protected.” Her voice fades.
“What about the other nurse, how did she...survive?”
“I embraced her. My armor of faith protected her.”
“My faith is without question,” says Father Johns as he squeezes his Bible tightly.
“I hope so, Father, for all our sakes.” Deborah closes her eyes gently, turning back into herself, humming.
Father Johns stands up from his squatting position and steps backwards, toward the polished steel door. Turning around, he raises his fist and knocks on the metal door to alert the guard. Suddenly, Deborah speaks once more.
“Father!”
Father Johns turns quickly.
“Yes, Miss Charles?”
“Beware, Father. There is something else occupying her soul, and it’s getting stronger every day. I can feel it, I hear their voices. Souls require strength and will rip what they need from Man’s essence,” she says, her voice weakening. Father Johns looks at her, wanting to thank her, but silently turns back toward the door.
The key unlatching the door echoes throughout the padded cell. The door squeals open, and Father Johns exits.
Deborah continues to sit in the corner, motionless, glaring off to the side.
“Well, Father, were you able to save her soul?” the guard asks jokingly, shutting the heavy door.
Father Johns peers back through the rectangular window and answers the guard without looking in his direction.
“Actually, it isn’t her soul that needs salvation.”
“Then why did you visit her?” he asks, fingering his gun.
With a long deep breath, Father Johns answers.
“To try and save a few billion other souls.” Father Johns turns from the door and quietly walks down the hall. His hard-bottomed shoes clank like old wooden clogs. The sound ricochets off the walls with a deafening echo.
The guard stops behind his desk with a puzzled stare and locks his keys back onto his black patent leather belt.
6
M
elissa smiles as the open car window allows the summer night’s breeze to comb swiftly through her hair. “Thank you for taking me out to eat,” Melissa says, looking over at Morgan.
“Don’t thank me, it was your idea.”
“I just needed to get out of that house. I do nothing but read
all day, watch the soap operas, or work in the garden. I needed a change.”
credit to: www.tomituri.hu “You shouldn’t do anything. That’s precious cargo you’re carrying.” Morgan throws a glaring stare.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Morgan breaks his trance.
“Sorry, I was just daydreaming. Didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s okay. Where are we going?”
“This Japanese restaurant called the Red Dragon. The food is excellent. Here, it’s coming up on the right.”
Melissa turns to look out her window. The Red Dragon’s walls are constructed with Japanese style architecture, a deep maroon accented with golden Japanese characters. She notices the roof ’s tiny individual shingles that end in tiny spear-like points. She is taken by the entrance, guarded by two magnificent golden dragons carefully placed on each side of the door.
Melissa approaches the entrance with a feeling of uneasiness as the statues she admired moments ago cast a venomous glare. Their empty eyes follow her cautious steps across their threshold. They appear to move. The dragon that hovers above slithers; its split tongue leaves Melissa with a wet streak across her face and neck. Suddenly they are back as statues. Her anxiety calms as soon as soon as she enters the dining area.
The interior is warm and tasteful. The smell of teriyaki and stirfried vegetables is thick.
“Smoking or non-smoking?” a Japanese man asks.
“Non-smoking,” Melissa answers. The short, stout man escorts the couple through the candle-lit dining area.
Melissa views the other couples and families as they enjoy their delicious delicacies. She can’t remember the last time she has ever been in such an elegant restaurant without having to beg for scraps. Reminiscing about her past life brings on powerful, depressing memories of her beloved friend Sarah.
Lost within thoughts of her former life, Melissa just gazes around the room; she hardly notices she has been seated.
“Are you all right?” asks Morgan.
“I’m fine, just thinking.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I was just thinking about my past and how things have changed for me.”
A familiar voice radiates from the opposite side of the partition. The voice, deep and scratchy, sends frightening chills up her spine. Her eyes grow wide, her heart begins to race. Her anxiety soon turns to anger. She still does not recognize the voice but knows it is emanating from an enemy. Melissa peers through the tiny openings within the partition.
“Someone you know?” asks Morgan.
Melissa’s temperature begins to rise steadily. Her blood feels as though it’s burning out of control. She sees him, sitting, enjoying some jumbo shrimp with a woman half his age. As he lifts his hand to take another swallow of soup, Melissa notices the distinctive mark of a wedding band recently removed. At first, she is unsure why this man angers her, then her memory returns with clarity.
Get yourself a job and stop soaking up all the welfare money! You make me sick!
His voice within her head begins echoing one particular phrase. Melissa’s mood quickly elevates to the realm of pure rage. Your friend died screwing around. Your friend died screwing around. Suddenly Detective Peterson turns slowly and looks in Melissa’s direction. As if he recognizes her, he peers at her with a sinister stare. His mouth wrenches into an evil expression. Melissa stares back with the intensity of a gunfighter about to take aim. Her blood races through her body, her heart pulsating. Anger fills her body beyond any level she has ever experienced.
“You’re still around, you homeless shit? How’s your friend, still dead? The bitch deserved to die,” he says with a slight chuckle.
The detective’s words are deep and malefic. His grin displays decaying teeth.
The room is submerged within a deadly calm; everyone seems to disappear except for Melissa
and the detective. He speaks once more, “What the hell are doing in here? You’re nothing but a homeless whore. You know you wanted Harry, you asked for it!” Melissa’s body trembles with rage. She grabs her stomach with both hands. Her unborn child begins to stir. She feels a power- ful evil radiating from within her, from within her unborn child. Abruptly, Melissa turns toward a child’s voice.
“He should die.” There, sitting in Morgan’s chair, is a young girl with long jet-black hair. The child, seemingly innocent and defenseless, stares for a few moments, then speaks again, “Kill him, Mother.” The child’s voice is an eerie calm with no display of emotions. Melissa glares back at the overweight man who continues to stare in her direction while he shovels shrimp into his mouth.
Melissa allows the evil to surge through her body, no longer trying to suppress it. The intensity of the wickedness fills her empty soul and burns from within. The partition that once separated them is suddenly gone, and Melissa stands. As she glares at the detective, he chokes; clasping his hands tightly around his throat, he begins gasping for air. His eyes bulge from their sockets as their vessels fill with blood. His tongue, tainted with particles of food, whisks around his wide-open mouth. Without warning, bursts of food begin to surge from his throat, spewing onto the walls and table. He stands, still grasping his throat, then falls to the floor. His body jerks violently as it tries desperately to find oxygen.
“Melissa!” shouts Morgan.
Everyone in the restaurant returns, the mindless chatter con- tinues as if never interrupted. It is as if she had temporarily left reality and has now returned.
“What are you staring at?” asks Morgan.