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othing can prepare one for the overwhelming horrors that I have witnessed these past several months—horrors so efficacious in power, the mere recollection of them should send me through bouts of cold sweat and heart palpitations. Yet, despite the ghastliness of their occurrences, and the generally sensitive nature of my disposition, I find myself strangely indifferent. An odd numbness pervades my body and soul almost to the point that I believe I have become immune to the grotesque chapters—of which I am about to recount—that would send any normal healthy man into the sheer depths of madness.
My descent into the black nadir of the human psyche began with neither a place nor a time, but with a person—a woman, to be more precise. A woman of such indescribable beauty mere words could not hope to do her justice. A woman of such emphatic innocence and purity she could awaken within any man’s soul an instinctual desire to protect and shield her against the corruption of the world. A woman whose body and soul reigned with such overpowering virtue, that the mere scent of her intoxicating aura could drive any man to his knees; groveling for an opportunity to bask in her soothing glow. How could such a voluptuous creature, you ask, ever bring forth in me feelings of fear and dread?
Beneath her numerous attributes and seemingly lively exterior lay deep within something stillborn . . . something inexpressibly distant and melancholy creating an invisible wall around her allowing familiarity almost impossible. It were as though she belonged to neither the land of the living nor the nether regions of the dead; hopelessly trapped in a listless purgatory, torn between her devotion to both, but never asserting her allegiance to neither. She was simply content to waiver between both planes, blissfully intervening back and forth as she desired.
I must admit this facet of her personality was one I found most attractive, yet in time would become most loathsome. For you see, the affliction as I have described above was little more than an impression . . . some mild quirk of personality; but in actuality a tangible force of constitution far from benign, producing within her a unique and decidedly morbid talent. A particular ability that most—myself including—would distinguish as a curse rather than blessing, which compelled in her the ghoulish habit of frequenting local cemeteries, loitering wistfully among tombs and headstones, and occasionally sleeping in dilapidated crypts along side the long since dead.
Ironically, it was within one such establishment that we met when I first arrived in Bishop’s Light, a quaint and lethargic little island community located in the southern most regions of the Jersey shore. Being newly acquainted to the town, and bereft of any kind of companionship, I was drawn to her presence as she sat amongst the tombstones, gingerly petting the tall grass below.
When I say that I was drawn to her, I do not mean some literary slight-of-hand to romantically embellish my narrative. I was actually motivated—no, compelled—to approach her. It were as if some unseen hand took hold of me like a chess piece . . . a pawn, perhaps . . . and strategically placed me next to her; a willing sacrifice for a queen. Needless to say, I did not resist it. I willingly surrendered to the compulsion within me and followed the invisible thread that led me to her.
As I approached her, the true beauty of her spirit intoxicated me like the bouquet of some well age vintage. There was indeed an enriching aura surrounding her that could only be characterized in mere words as otherworldly. Her face accentuated the embodiment of youthful charm, with her soft white skin untouched by impurity. Her long blonde hair billowed playfully in the salty breeze, its golden strands reflecting radiantly in the sunlight. Her comely and sensual body draped in a flowing white sundress, which caressed her breasts and torso like the heavenly goddess Helena herself.
I stood directly above her, looking down as she busied herself making a crown out of some flowers she had picked among the cemetery grounds; it took some time before she acknowledged my presence.
When she finally did look up at me, she smiled. Not some polite hospitable smile one gives to any stranger on the street, but a smile that was warm and inviting; a smile almost as if she knew me somehow and fully expected my arrival. I was instantly captivated by this precocious child sitting before me, no more than the age of nineteen, yet still as sensual underneath her innocence as any woman twice her age.
“Hello,” I said engagingly, “I’m new in town and don’t know my way around—”
“I know,” she responded, “My name is Claire.”
“My name is Peter Corey.”
She nodded and returned to her weaving. I boldly sat next to her; she did not seem to oppose it.
“Tell me,” I inquired with more assurance than I’d normally found within myself, “what is such a beautifully captivating creature as yourself doing in such a dreary place as this?”
“Oh, I don’t find it dreary at all,” she discreetly replied, “I find this place rather peaceful.”
“Well, what I mean to say,” I recanted clumsily, “Most people generally find cemeteries depressing . . . painful reminders of our own mortality.”
“I am not afraid of death, Mr. Corey,” she declared, “I am surrounded by it everyday.”
For a time we sat, I watching her as she finished her flowery crown. I can truly say that at that moment I knew that I was in love with her. As ridiculous a statement as it must sound, no other explanation could account for my lack of retreat from what would occur next.
“Is that crown for something in particular?” I playfully asked.
“Yes, it is for my fiend,” Claire answered, “she’s sitting over there.”
I looked around at the desolate grounds surrounding us, finding only tombstones and the occasional tree our only company.
“What friend?” I asked, “I see no one else here but us.”
“She’s right over there sitting on that stone.”
My eyes veered off in the direction that Claire motioned, but saw only an empty stone occupied by no one.
“Surely you’re playing some joke on me,” I said nervously, “I can still see no one.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Claire said with as smile as she stood up to her feet, “That’s because my friend is not alive.”
I sat stunned as she walked over to the empty stone and placed the flower crown on top of it.
“She died of pneumonia when she was only six,” Claire explained, “She gets very lonely . . . there aren’t any children here to play with. Never really are in these places. So I come everyday just to give her some company.”
“You mean . . . paying your respects?”
“No, I talk to them,” she fired back defiantly, “and they talk back to me. Actually, they mainly do the talking. The spirits . . . they are just looking for somebody to listening to them, I suppose. I don’t mind . . . I’m happy to do them the service.”
“I don’t understand”
“I don’t suppose you ever will,” she pondered, “But, in time you might . . .”
“How?” I asked her, “How can you communicate with the dead?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
She stood there thinking for quite sometime. I could tell that she seemed just as perplexed as I in granting a reasonable explanation for the phenomena. Finally, she just smiled and shrugged off the notion.
“The spirits . . . they like to wander with me,” she surmised, “If only for a little while . . .”
Any man of sane mind and faculty would have seized the opportunity to vacate without a second thought towards the tactlessness of his action. Yet, as I said before, I was drawn to her . . . already a victim of her beauty and charms. I loved her with every sense of my being. I could not leave her, no matter the offensive. I was her ardent servant, eagerly at the disposal of her every will.
I followed her back to her house, a large and gothic beach estate on the northern tip of the island overlooking the Bishop Lighthouse, which wearily presides over the Atlantic.
I promptly took up residency as her lover, but only in mind . . . that much I know—her soul belonging solely to the dead.
It was a strange relationship we shared together in that house by the sea; platonic in nature, though I strived for more. Although she shared with me all of her most intimate thoughts and secrets like a true lover, Claire refused to reciprocate my love for her in any physical manner, shying away from the slightest touch. When I approached her of this peculiar behavior, she would only answer me back with that my love for her was only fleeting and that in time I would grow distance from her. No amount of argument on my part would persuade otherwise, and I happily concede; for to be allowed to share in her company was an adequate prize.
The intricacies of her abnormal talent I would learn full well over time. Truth be told, Claire could indeed communicate with the spirits of souls long since dead. Her extrasensory perception was most impressive and extensive, able to hold court with any number of spirits at a given time from any distance. She could perform magnificent feats of telepathy, sending objects hovering across one end of the room to the other at will. She also could perform acts of sight, successfully able to predict the next day’s weather or announce events not yet happened with alarming accuracy. All this she would credit to her spirit “friends” whom constantly surrounded her day after day.
I, myself, would venture to discredit these powers as mere parlor tricks if it were not for one other facet of her clairvoyance I’d witness more times than I would have likened. At times, and unpredictably, Claire could take on the personalities and traits of the spirits, as though she were possessed. She claimed it was sometimes necessary for the spirits to enter her body and use it as a tool to accomplish some unfinished task or business that would keep them in a resting in peace. When she would have one of these episodes—her own terminology for the phenomena—she was completely at the mercy of the spirits, unable to control herself or be held responsible for her actions. Sometimes her body could contort to such extremes that no other human being could hope to replicate without causing significant harm to their person or could speak in languages she claimed she could not speak beforehand, much less understand. After every episode, she would return back to her normal self almost unaware of what had just occurred.
Again, I would easily dismiss these episodes as counterfeit—or at least some form of dementia—if I had not witness the episodes myself, first hand.
The first time one of these episodes took place was while we conversed over a candlelit dinner. One minute we were laughing over some now forgotten anecdote when suddenly she became deathly silent and stared motionlessly forward. Before I could inquire what was wrong, Claire’s head dropped forward, hitting with such horrifying force that the table shook violently beneath my hand which rested upon its surface.
I was dumbfounded—I did not know what I should do. I sat there helpless for what felt like an eternity; staring into her lifeless eyes. She was like some shell of a person, empty and hollow, as if her flesh were peeled off like a peanut and discarded as waste.
Suddenly, her eyes rolled back into her head, exposing only the whites. Her body leaped back up in her seat; in her hands she grasped a large knife. In terror I watch as she thrust the knife into the wood of the table and hacked seemingly inattentive. Her head wobbled slowly for side to side, like a deranged puppet on a string. She began to speak in a low and rasping tone that was inhuman. Her words were mostly unintelligible, but what little I could discern sounded like some kind of nautical language. After sometime, she awoke from the trance and seemed confused by the appearance of the knife in her hand. Looking down, carved on the table from her hand, was the word Judecca with a single slash through it.
I confess this episode alone would not have convinced me otherwise if it were not for the news of a merchant liner having sunk days later two miles off the shores of Bishop’s Light. A terrible tragedy, with the ship’s captain heavily under the influence of whiskey, misreading his coordinates and crashing headlong into the shallow depths of the ocean, populated with jagged rocks that ripped into the steel body of the ship effortlessly. Those unlucky enough not to have drowned immediately were at the mercy of the hungry sharks that circled the wreckage. The next morning, no survivors were found aboard the nearly submerged vessel, which bore the name Judecca! I would never again doubt Claire’s extrasensory talents.
Over the ensuing weeks, my love for Claire would know no bounds. However, despite my clear and honest intentions, Claire was still reticent in reciprocating my love. No consummation would ever take place, and at times I sensed Claire’s feelings for me were often condescending. At times she could be very open and loving, only to shy away from my touch the next. The constant intrusions from the spirit world did not help matters either, seemingly creating an invisible wall between us, allowing intimacy near impossible. For awhile, she would become someone else—almost unrecognizable at times—then, they would leave and she would return to normal. These gaps in between episodes were becoming less frequent as time went on.
My frustration level rose to new heights as I could sense Claire slipping further and further away into to spirit world. At times, it was as though she were not of living altogether. Often, I would find her sitting on the beach and staring off into the ocean, whispering to some unseen companion; when my presence was felt, she would stop and pretend as though she were alone. I was becoming more and more afraid. Afraid of the unseen netherworld that only Claire could see and touch; afraid of the spirits that surrounded her and me constantly; afraid of Claire slipping away from this world into theirs and I unable to do anything to prevent it.
But mostly, I believe I was becoming afraid of Claire—more directly, that which could be hiding inside of her. Up until this point, the spirits and episodes were merely an annoyance, like some uninvited guests inviting themselves and staying the night. This would all soon change.
Sensing me resentment towards her talents, Claire was becoming more and more adept at concealing the episodes from me. However, I could always sense something inside of her—something not right. My thoughts began to drift into paranoia as the days wore on; was Claire’s of her powers merely her way of protecting me from their horrors and was she conspiring with the spirits against me. Again, my initial reaction any under normal constraints would have been to runaway, to bide Claire and her accursed spirit family good radiance, yet I could do neither. I could not find inside myself to leave her; I could not rid within me my want for . . . my desire to be in her company.
Of late, I felt a new presence inside of Claire; something wholly different than that of what I’d seen before. This spirit did not make itself known directly like all others. This presence liked to stay hidden inside her . . . observing you might say. Despite its best efforts to conceal itself, the spirit’s impression still translated through Claire in subtle ways. Her behavior was becoming more volatile and agitated, easy to snap at the slightest provocation. Her pure, sweet, and overall loving demeanor was becoming tarnished by the vile and corrupt phantom within. An intense anger seemed to consume her, sometimes filling the room with a foul stench almost unbearable to ignore.
More and more often, she would withdraw herself from me, secreting away to some corner or crawlspace in the house for hours on end . . . whispering, and sometimes, even giggling to herself. I also observed a growing obsession with her and the Bishop Lighthouse, which stood only a couple hundred yards from the house. She stared at it for hours fervently, her eyes always following it no matter where she was in the house.
Most disturbing of all were mass bruises and cuts that seemed to appear out of thin air all over her arms and neck; deep swelling abrasions imprinted on her flesh in the shape of human hands. When questioned, Claire would laugh them off to her recent clumsiness. Nevertheless, I held no doubt that the unholy spirit inside her was responsible.
I must concede, at this point in our relationship, I was at my wit’s end. Completely helpless, I could only watch as the thing inside destroyed her and poisoned our love. But what could I do? I loved her. I could not leave her . . . ever.
I awoke one night, deep within the early hours of the morning, to find Claire absent from our bed. A deep fear grew inside my gut and I leaped from bed. The wind howled outside as I crept down the hall and down the staircase leading into the parlor. To my relief, I found Claire standing in front of a freshly lit flame in the fireplace. However, a chill soon ran down my spine as I realized it was no longer Claire in front of me.
The thing, feeling my presence, quickly turned to face me. The long strands of Claire’s blonde hair obscured her face, but still revealed a small-depraved grin. In her hands was a poker, its point glowing red with heat.
“Claire, sweetheart?” I said softly while cautiously approaching her, “Come to bed . . . it’s much too late.”
“Too late, indeed,” replied a voice inside Claire. It was not a natural voice, low and vile, yet still feminine.
“Claire, please—”
“Why don’t you love me, Charlie?” The spirit spat back at me. “Why am I not good enough for you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I replied.
The spirit began to sob heavily, falling to its knees and bowing its head down to the floor. For a moment, I watched and listened to the repulsive wails issuing forth from Claire’s throat. Finally, I approached the being, attempting maybe to console it in order to get Claire back. Before I could reach it, the thing held the poker up to me and its cries turned to vile laughter.
“I know why,” it spoke to me, slowly getting up to its feet, “It’s because of that whore, isn’t it?”
“Claire?” I implored, “I know you are inside of there. Fight back. Come back to me.”
“You can’t have her . . . so you take it out on me,” the spirit continued to accuse while continuing to jab the hot poker threateningly at me, “you beat me and punish me because you desire her! Don’t you, Charlie!!!”
“I’m not Charlie—”
“SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP!!!” it squealed back in a high-pitched squawk.
I stood motionless in fear. The thing looked down at the poker and smiled devilishly.
“I know what you want,” it said, “You want me to give this poker, don’t you? You want to hit me with it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To inflict more pain on me . . . it gives you pleasure to see me in pain, doesn’t it?”
“No—please . . .”
“If this is the only way for me to please you . . . then maybe I should give you what you want.”
Before I could react, the spirit placed the smoldering end of the poker on the bare flesh of Claire’s forearm. An ear piercing shrill issued forth from Claire’s throat as her flesh scorched from the hot iron.
Immediately, I ripped the poker away and she fainted into my arms. I dressed the horrid wound as best I could and carried back her into bed. She slept sounded; I could say little the same for myself.
It was painful clear Claire’s unusual talents were consuming her, swallowing her whole. She was no longer in control, and I feared I might lose if I did not act fast.
The next morning, I again found her staring ardently at the lighthouse. I approached her, determined to convince her resist her ghostly acquaintance.
“That’s where she wants me to go,” Claire spoke dreamily before I could.
“Who?” I implored, “Who wants you to?”
“Brenda,” she answered, “The spirit that wanders with me now. She wants me to go up into the lighthouse. She wants me to see.”
“What does she want you to see?”
Claire turned to me, her eyes filled with tears. She fell into my arms and I willingly embraced her. It was the closest I had ever felt to her.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered to me, “I don’t want to go . . . so much pain . . . so much pain . . .”
“Than, don’t follow her”
“But she’ll make me . . . she screams in my head over and over. She won’t rest until I do. She says I’ll find the answer up there. But, I know what I’ll find.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Death,” she declared.
I beseeched her to fight against the spirit—to ignore it until finally it gave up and went away. Claire agreed with me and promised that she would resist. I then kissed her on the lips, but Claire pushed me away. She claimed that Brenda was listening and ran inside the house.
The next couple of days was decidedly more peaceful and lacked any intrusion from the malevolent Brenda. Claire was returning back to her normal state, laughing and caring . . . tender and warm. I could feel the divide between us thinning. I felt more close to her in those few days then I had when we first met.
Unfortunately, it would prove short-lived.
The fateful night occurred while we both sat in the parlor before a roaring fire. I comfortably read from a book underneath candlelight while Claire knitted away with her needles and yarn. Looking up from the book, I discovered Claire staring off into the fire, her knitting lying motionlessly on her lap. I inquired what was wrong, but she shrugged me off casually claiming that she had become cold and needed to fetch her sweater. Reassured, I returned to my book as Claire left the room.
I regretfully admit some time passed without me observing Claire’s continued absence; I was too immersed in my reading. I soon, however, began to feel a slight chill, which I immediately attributed to an old drafty house. Suddenly, I began to notice the corner of the pages in my book fluttering. Looking up, I saw the flames from the candles dancing fervently, almost extinguishing under the growing breeze. The cold chill returned, piercing through my flesh with tremendous authority. I called out to Claire back received no reply. I turned around to find the French doors leading out onto the beach wide open and Claire nowhere to be found.
I leaped from my seat and ran out of the house. Through the moonlight, I spied the dark figure of Claire wrapped in a black cloak running towards the pine-wooded path which lead directly to the lighthouse.
Panicked, I called out to her. She stopped and looked back at me while a smile, then ran into the pine.
I quickly followed into the wooded labyrinth of sandy trails. In the darkness, I became lost within winding pathways. I called out to her again, but the loud howling winds drowned me out as if purposely. My legs were tiring from the loose hold of the sand beneath me, but still I pressed on until finally I found the exit from the woods.
A hundred yards ahead of me loomed Bishop’s Lighthouse, a dreary and imposing goliath of a structure with its light circling atop its crowned head like the yellow eye of Cyclops surveying the barren land that surveyed it with indifference. A feeling of dread overwhelmed me as I stood before, apprehensive to step further. There was a dense atmosphere which clung to the white and red painted brick of the lighthouse, almost warning all those that wished to enter to pay heed; only misfortune could come to pass within its circular edifice.
Again, I spied Claire ahead of me snapping out of my temporary paralysis. Once again, she stopped at the entrance of the lighthouse and looked back at me with a grin. And again, she negligently ignored my pleas and entered. It was as though she were playing some game with me.
Finally reaching the entrance of the lighthouse, I stared exhaustedly at the spirally staircase leading to the top. I could hear Claire’s hurried steps echoing upwards. Again, I called out to her, but getting no vocal reply. I followed her footsteps up the staircase. My legs were burning, but I could not stop; I had to reach Claire—I had to protect her!
Reaching the top, I found Claire dangling over the railing, the black cloak around her neck billowing in the wind. The high tide waves from the sea crashed severely against the large jagged rocks that waited below us. I pleaded with her to take my hand, but she denied me.
She turned to me and once more grinned maniacally. Her grip from the bars loosened and she began to fall forward and willingly. With one final burst of energy, I leaped forward catching her in my arms and pulled her to safety. Falling backwards, I could feel the spirit relinquishing control back to Claire. We lay on the metal flooring of the balcony for awhile, I clutching her protectively.
“Now I know what Brenda wanted,” Claire proclaimed, “She didn’t want to hurt me. She just wanted me to listen to her. She wanted me to feel her pain . . . the pain of being unloved and abused. She wanted me to know what drove her to commit suicide.”
“Will she leave you alone now?” I asked hopefully.
“Not until she is at peace,” she answered.
Claire rose to her feet and led me back to the edge railing. She pointed down to the rocks below.
“That is where she is now,” Claire announced, “she won’t be at peace until she is properly laid to rest.”
When the low tide returned, Claire and I searched the rocks below the area in which we stood. Wedged deeply between two of the black rocks were the skeletal remains of a woman—at least that which had not washed away with the tide.
Collecting the remains, Claire brought them back to her cemetery. There, with the aid of a lantern, I dug a deep hole in the soil and placed the bones within. Covering them up, Claire said a brief pray. Once the remains were fully buried, Claire wedged a flat stone into the earth mocking a proper headstone and scratched the name Brenda onto it. Finally, she lovingly placed some freshly picked flowers onto the disturbed mound of dirt.
“Is it over?” I asked wearily.
She nodded.
“Let us go home now,” I declared.
Claire turned to me and looked into to my eyes questionably.
“Dear, Peter,” she said tenderly, “don’t you realize? You are already home.”
Sensing my confusion, Claire took the lantern and shined it towards another tombstone at our feet. To my horror, the name on the tombstone read Peter Corey!
Dear God!
My knees weakened from under me and I collapsed to the ground. With her hands, Claire lifted my head up towards her.
“Come . . .” she said with a tender smile, “come wander with me . . . .” |
Agnes tapped the side of the cat food can with her fork and a bevy of feline critter emerged from out of every orifice of the house; circling around her legs and crying with shrilled hungry. She dumped the food into several bowls and watched as the cats fought with one another to eat their fill. There were so many of them, forever growing in numbers . . . she hardly knew how to keep track of them anymore.
She sighed deeply with satisfaction—it would take more than a simply bump on the head to do this old girl in, she thought.
She shuffled through the cramped hallways, making sure all her little trifles and treasures were neatly back in their respective homes again, just the way that she liked them to be.
She was content to live alone in this house—no use changing the way things are in her age. She had all the companionship she would ever need right here: she had here cats, her precious trifles and treasures, and also that thing that lived within the clutter.
God knows how it ever got there, and damn if she knew how it grew so big, but it was there nonetheless and wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. Besides, it wasn’t much trouble and sometimes came quite handy; sometimes she hardly knew it was there at all. It kept alive mainly on old scraps and left over cat food—sometimes indulging itself on the occasional cat, much to Agnes’ disliking. But there were so many cats, she could probably do with one less from time to time.
Of course, it also indulged itself on the occasional unscrupulous relative that would happen by, expecting to take advantage of a feeble, old woman and steal all her money.
Fools—she thought—there was no money here; at least, not enough to make such a fuss over. True, she still didn’t believe in banks, but she was not a stupid woman. She invested it all in something that she did . . . her trifles and treasures.
Besides, they all seemed to keep the thing well fed and content. It was quite now; it was always groggy after a big meal.
Yes—she was content to live just the way as she always had and, somehow, she could sense that the creature under the clutter was as content as she was to keep things as they were. No sense in disturbing things unnecessarily.
Yes . . . she thought to herself as she sat in her favorite rocking chair . . . life was good! |
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