Adelaide Upset Page 7

  “You’ve been asking about David Smith?” I could just make out his silhouette in the dark. He was tall, the threat in his voice drifting out from nearly a foot over my head.

  I shook my head violently, knowing that a lie was my best option. This man had a conscience, and if he wasn’t certain of his plan, it would crumble.

  In one swift move I was jerked forward and back, my head cracking against the shed before I had time to react. It was harder than the first time and the metallic ringing from impact pulsed in time with my pain.

  He didn’t believe me, which meant he knew for certain that I’d been asking, and he knew who I was. Had Bill Shrader told him? No, I hadn’t given Bill my full name, only Samantha Phelps had that, and with it the means to find me. So who was this? Marks? I scrambled for answers, wondering how I could appeal to his sense of right and wrong.

  “You lie,” he said, his gruff voice sounding flat. “But it’ll be true soon enough. Tonight you’ll learn not to go asking questions.”

  He shifted again, reaching for something in the dark. I couldn’t see what he held, but it seemed to solidify his commitment, as if the deed were already done.

  I tried to pull away, launching myself sideways. His hand slid from my neck and for one moment I was free. In the next he grabbed my arm, pulling me to the ground so I was hunched next to him as he knelt down.

  I reached up with my free hand and pulled the cloth out of my mouth, throwing it to the dark.

  “Scream and I’ll break them all,” he warned, and I knew that he meant it. Could feel it, could feel that he almost hoped I would cause trouble. If I did it would relieve some of the niggling guilt.

  “Please,” I begged, trying to pull my wrist free. He had my arm twisted around in front of him, my chest flat against his back. He pressed my palm to the shed’s concrete foundation, and I jerked harder, a fox snared in a foot trap.

  “Spread your fingers or I’ll break more than one.”

  “Please, you’ve made your point. I’ll do whatever you say, just, please, don’t hurt me.” I was crying, shaking, and in that moment, I meant every word. Helplessness was unbearable, but the anticipation was worse, those few seconds before the hammer fell. Yes, I could see it, the outline visible, not the slender forked kind, but a thick club.

  He raised it. I jerked my fingers apart, still trying to pry my wrist free from his grip. “Smith!” I screamed at the last minute, an unintentional outburst, nothing but pure reaction. I wanted help. Smith always helped me. It was that simple.

  It was also a mistake. The man’s emotions suddenly shifted, he was no longer holding back, no longer guilty. Now he wanted to hurt me. Not for pleasure, not in a sadistic sort of way, but as if I were an annoying fly that needed to be dealt with, crushed. He jerked the hammer down and I shrieked, preparing for the strike.

  My arm was jerked forward, my weight pulled askew, and I heard the club hammer crack into the concrete as it missed its mark. Muffled noises, I couldn’t tell what was happening. Suddenly flood lights burst on, pouring down over the grass. I covered my eyes, shocked and squinting. The man who’d attacked me was facedown on the ground, Smith holding him in place. But even as I watched, Smith grew weak, his color draining to a dull lifeless gray before it slipped away altogether. He flickered, and then he was gone, an exhausted and shapeless mist. Having felt the suppressing weight disappear my attacker jerked upright, running for the tree line without a backwards glance.

  “Are you alright?” Tim asked, though it sounded more like alroy. He pulled me up, his hands patting me gently.

  “What are you doing? Get off.”

  He stopped his inspection, but continued to prop me up. “We should call the police. Did he hurt you?”

  I shook him off, furtively wiping the wetness from my cheeks. “No, I’m fine.”

  Missy’s jealousy preceded her. “What is it, Tim? Is everything okay?” she asked from the breezeway.

  Tim led me back to the motel as if I were broken, though he didn’t dare touch me, his hand hovering over the small of my back. Missy did her best not to glower. She was not happy to see his concern and attention, but she covered her feelings well, wearing her best ‘I’m worried’ face.

  “Someone attacked her, but he ran off when you switched on the light,” Tim explained to Missy. Turning to me, he said, “I thought I heard something, and it was a good thing I insisted on checking, too. Even if nothing happened and you’re okay, we still need to call the police.”

  I leaned down to grab my purse; I’d dropped it in the breezeway. Missy watched, still jealous, her ugly envy aimed my way, but she also felt bad for me too, which was a first.

  I would quickly put her mind to ease. “It was a prank,” I lied. “An old boyfriend. Threatened me as a joke, he wants his CD’s back, that’s all.”

  “Then why’d he have these?” Tim asked, holding up the cloth gag and hammer. He didn’t believe me for a second. I had to give Tim proper credit, he was more than just a pretty face.

  I shrugged. “Beats me. Call the police if you want, but they’ll just get ticked when they find out it was all a misunderstanding. Plus, it’ll make Sterling’s look bad.” I would have added: And it’ll get me in trouble with Ben, but then Missy would have been sure to call the police first thing.

  “It just goes to show that you’re a poor judge of character, Adelaide. I would never date someone like that, who made light of something so serious—”

  “Yes, whatever,” I said, cutting off the long and sanctimonious speech Missy was gearing up for. “I’m going home.”

  But I didn’t go home, I went to Luke’s. I didn’t tell him about the incident, because then I’d have to explain about the ghosts. But he sensed something was off, which of course surprised me. For someone so emotionally stunted, he was surprisingly attuned to me and mine. He didn’t kiss me or let his hands go roaming like they usually did when we got into bed, just pulled me close and held me there. And when I woke up the next morning he hadn’t moved, a warm body walled up behind me. Lucas was early to rise, usually at his body shop in Brunswick long before I even stirred, but today he had waited. We ate breakfast together, and for the first time, while scraping the eggs off my plate, I seriously considered telling Lucas my secrets. The empathy, the ghosts, how would it feel with nothing hidden between us?

  * * *

  Lucas followed me over the fence, waiting as I checked my house to make sure nothing was amiss. I was trying to be careful but not paranoid. So when Luke offered to stay with me a bit longer I kissed him, but sent him on his way. I didn’t think I was in any immediate danger. My attacker had made his point, broken fingers or not, I was treading on dangerous ground. Though truthfully, I had no intention of backing off. But as the devil didn’t know that, I was safe until I made my next move, or so I hoped.

  All morning long I put together a puzzle, hunching over the coffee table as I shuffled pieces around. The completed image would be a basket of kittens, not original, but disgustingly cute. Lucas had bought it for me. He made a habit of picking them up whenever he did some shopping, but he never presented them as gifts, just casually left them around my house. I loved puzzles because unlike Luke’s TV, which I chose to watch when I wanted to tune out, they kept my hands busy but not my brain. So as the picture came together, so did my thoughts concerning last night’s attack.

  I knew it was bad to make assumptions, but even so, I was pretty sure my attacker had been that Marks character. Bill had talked to him, so he knew I was after information about Smith’s disappearance, and he could easily have figured out my real name by merely asking Samantha. So if Marks had murdered his supposed ‘close’ friend, I just needed to figure out why. Which left me with only two options: ask Stephen’s mother or ask Bill Shrader. Having been around when Smith went toes up, both of them would know more about his relationship with Marks. But whatever I did, I couldn’t tip my hand before I was sure of the outcome.

  I finished the kitten puzzle but was
none the wiser on how to proceed. I really, really didn’t want to approach Stephen’s mother, but speaking to Bill was the more dangerous avenue. I’d just sleep on it, but in the meantime I had a few chores to take care of. First things first—I needed to buy pepper spray. I also needed to hold a ‘thank you for saving me again’ séance to strengthen Smith back up. Maybe I could weasel some information out of him while I was at it. But mostly I needed to keep reading Demidov’s diary. I couldn’t hold on to it forever, and I wanted to know... I needed to know if he ever came to terms with his ability.

  * * *

  It is said that before the conception of Earth there was a war in Heaven. Two factions in opposition of opinion led to the creation of demonkind. The larger group accepted the plan chosen by the Creator, but a third of the host broke apart, leaving to follow their alluring leader. They were content to reside in a realm apart, for a time. I was never a religious man. And while my own abilities give proof of something more, they also made me question everything with a cynical twist. I tend to wonder at the point of it all? I still do not know, but this theory of demonkind is supported in truth. For their very origin shows itself in their inherent nature. Unlike those who stayed in Heaven, demons never received a body, and they have no tie to the physical world. As the Earth turns, demonkind does watch, no longer resigned to their realm, but trapped, unable to experience life and the simple pleasure of sensation that it offers. The lack of it drives them, their one deepest desire. I knew nothing of this for a time, only what little Raulriechmydl chose to share, those half-truths and clever implied lies. He came to me after I cast a door through the veil. Days had passed, each weighing heavier than the last. I knew I had done something irrevocable, and I waited to learn of it, growing fearful, and perhaps even a little obsessed. But in the end it was my impatience that betrayed me, until at last I called his name again, letting it tip off my tongue. He arrived in pomp, a chimera of human parts, trying to shape his spirit into a familiar form to which I might relate. But he’d never had a body, his spirit not bound to eyes, ears, nose and mouth, nor feet or hands, and his imitation was ghastly. It quivered, new, and changing as Raulriechmydl created the image of his spirit’s projection. His eyes bulged outward, barely contained by straining, taut lids before they sank back again, two pits in his malformed face to watch me from. He came and went for some time, imbedding himself in my life and routine, appearing when it pleased him and disappearing when it did not. I was still suffering the loss of my mother, young, at the brink of adulthood, and I was far too trusting. He controlled me through my ignorance, manipulating me with ease, ruling my fears and in doing so, my actions. But he pushed too far, frightening me until I went searching for answers of my own. That is how I came to learn of Luitger Fuerst. I looked for someone like me, someone cursed. At first I searched the world, and when that failed I searched its history. Saints offered little insight, and though many were to have seen demons I found no knowledge from those encounters with which to arm myself. Was it providence that made me stumble upon Luitger Fuerst? I couldn’t say. He was just a man with a troubled past, a German whose life spanned the first half of the twentieth century. His history was well kept by his descendants, genealogists who cultivated their family tree. His grandson shared his pictures and journals, placing them into my hands like they were treasure. In one afternoon I learned more about demons than in the years I spent with Raulriechmydl as my forced companion. Like me Luitger Fuerst had been singled out, cursed with the ability to hear a demon’s call through his dreams. We had tread the same path, speaking a name, issuing an invitation, opening a hole, a doorway through the veil. But he’d been older than I, and not as easily deceived. He’d dismissed his demon at once, calling it by name before he sent it off. The demon was at its caster’s whim, an apparition unable to inflict harm on its surroundings. But it wasn’t entirely powerless, it had knowledge, knowledge of the ages, and it cut deals, made promises, and whispered soft temptations to get what it wanted—sensation. Having watched us through the veil since the beginning of time, together the demons knew all of our secrets. They knew how to cultivate wealth and success; they’d watched men grow rich in every time and culture. They knew how to seduce and exploit, having learned the frailty of human nature. They cut to the heart of one’s soul, offering up the secret desire within, but always at a price. Entering into a covenant with a demon was to be bound, though only the demon was forced to follow through with its promise. A man could break his word, but in doing so he gave the demon power to collect back what it’d given. If the demon had given knowledge, then it could take it back, choosing to erase the memory, or if it was the demon’s desire, cut off the man’s head instead. The means were open to interpretation, and therefore, deadly. After reading the journals of Luitger Fuerst, the first thing I did was seek out a private space, calling Raulriechmydl’s name. He was angry, never had I summoned him to me, and he knew instantly that I’d had learned the truth. I dismissed him, intending to never speak his name again. But Luitger made me curious. Word of his visions had eventually spread and he had been admitted to an asylum for the greater part of his life. He never stopped dealing with demons in all of that time, not even when he was later considered an ‘undesirable’ and shipped off. His grandson believed he was crazy, his writing mad, thinking Luitger’s mind simply broke after his early traumatic experience. I thought he might be right. I believed that Luitger spoke with demons, but I thought he was crazy to continue with it for all those years. The irony was that I would follow in his footsteps.

  Chapter 11

  I was on my back, legs tucked up to the side, my body broken but relaxed. Numb. Things were muffled down here, the bird’s song a distant trill, the light filtering below, barely a trickle. It felt like a womb, the earth’s womb. From down here I watched the circle of sky, bright blue with trees sprinkled around the edges, their leaves waving down at me.

  Eventually my eyes began to wander, drifting around the cylinder of dirt from where I lay trapped at the bottom. Roots crept out, looking like little clumps of tangled hair. I could still see my finger marks, slashed lines in the moist red clay. I’d gone rabid, flinging myself up, clawing at the walls around me. Dirt had rained down, dry crumbs of it, ripped roots, chunks of slippery wet clay, handfuls pulled from my prison. I couldn’t get a grip, and all the while I’d screamed myself silent, voice reduced to a sandpaper whisper. I should have waited, waited for my family. They came, trucking through, calling for me, but I’d used myself up. I couldn’t move and the only sound that issued forth was a dry, muffled hiss.

  I was still numb after they were long gone. I’d spent all my anger, and couldn’t even spare a little of my earlier bitterness at how close I’d come to rescue. Just numb. But as I watched the clouds drift by over my portal of light, I let my mind flow away with them, thoughts pouring over sentimental memories.

  My family owned a large parcel of land in Alabama and it stretched over a hundred acres. The Graves’ property had been passed down through my father’s side, at one time a farm, though now the only crops it contained grew in a modest garden. My great-grandfather Graves had lived in a white manor-style home, with hip roof and thick chimneys. The house had long since been condemned, doors and windows boarded over, seemingly lost in the vast property, just one among the numerous forgotten out buildings from long ago. My siblings and I loved to explore these places, finding little treasures along the way. I liked to collect the chipped pottery with patterns, sometimes colored glass.

  My mother was always harping at us for sneaking around the old properties, warning of asbestos and ironically, rotten boards, though it hadn’t been the floor that got me. Who could have guessed the old manor had a well? I must have walked around that house a hundred times, a thousand... but one too many.

  With my body numb to the pain, my anger stayed away. I thought of happy times, my large family, my even larger extended family, reciting names in my brain, picturing faces.

  “Adelaide,”
someone hissed.

  My knee involuntarily twitched at the sound, my eyes skirting around the dark.

  “You’re covered in dirt, my little peach. Dirt and my essence. Did Anastas give you that? Clever fellow, you’re wearing him too.”

  The sound was wrong, like an echo, like it drifted down to me in waves, carried in by static. My body continued to twitch in response, with fear? Adrenaline? I studied the dirt, the darkness, but there was nothing in it with me.

  “I warned you. You can’t escape me. But don’t be frightened, I’ll take on the face of your brother when we meet, then you won’t miss him.”

  Slap.

  I woke up with a stinging face. Disoriented in the dark, it took a moment for the nightmare to fade. “Smith, you asshole,” I muttered, still groggy as I switched on the light. The lamp was bright; I had to squint through its assault to find my ghost. He looked awful. Sunk low, hovering just over the floor he was a cheerless puddle of white that faded in and out as if he were about to disappear. He’d used up all his remaining strength to slap me awake, and after rescuing me the day before he hadn’t much to spare. The remnants of my anger fizzled away. “We’ll do a séance tomorrow to fatten you up. Meet me in the office after Stephen leaves to do rounds.”

  I quickly forgot about Smith after that, immersed in my search for footwear. “Where the hell are my shoes?” I shouted. “I just need one pair!” Eventually I gave up and stomped down the stairs. It was the middle of the night, I was tired, and that nightmare had done a number on me. I would never have read the diary this morning if I’d known that Lucas was going to stay late at the garage. But he’d be home by now, he had to be. I was so desperate to see him that I’d given up on shoes altogether and was walking over barefoot.