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Chapter 49
— Into the Caldron —
Heat, unrefined and deep-rooted, smelling of sloughing flesh and the ancient swamp, whomped Lucy’s face the instant she cracked open the door.
She buried her face in her sleeve and listened. She heard nothing from Whit, but the sounds of a haunting were everywhere. The moans and clanks of old pipes, the whispers of radiators, the chattering of shutters.
She stepped into the kitchen, shuffling to dampen her crossing. The floor creaked behind her and she spun, sucking in air, bracing for what waited. The others had followed her in.
“Wait here,” she whispered. “It might go better if he doesn’t see us together. Maybe he won’t think we’re ganging up.”
They nodded, except Marco, who said, “but we are ganging up.”
She ignored him and pushed on.
Partway down the hall, she heard a crash, like glass breaking. Then another. She followed the noise to the bedroom and cracked opened the door.
The room was huge and yellow, probably painted a long time ago because the colours were faded, no longer sunny. Against the wall next to the door, Lucy noted piles of boxes overfilled with office supplies, mops, buckets, batteries still in their packages, books, tools and kitchen utensils. Most boxes were too full to close.
She poked the door wider and noticed more boxes stacked under the window on the other side of the room. An old bed frame sat diagonally in the corner, awkward and off centre. It had side railings, a mattress but no bedding. This room was for storage, not sleeping.
Whit grinned, sitting like a grotesque, knees to chest, on the edge of the bed.
The room was bright. Lucy blinked, shielded her eyes and stepped forward, picking her way around shattered glass.
“Let the carnival begin. Lucy, the Old Trout of Lake Charity has arrived. Futures foretold, dangers conjured.” Whit stood up at the foot of the bed.
“Hey Whit. What’s all this about?” Lucy said, trying to sound like it was any other day.
He laughed and Lucy pulled up in the centre of the room. That annoying staccato heh-heh, heh-heh. It was Frank’s laugh.
She leaned her head lower for a better look. Whit appeared pale, sweaty, but she imagined her complexion wasn’t too far off of sweaty pork either. The room was a sauna. She saw no shadows, no swirling shapes or entwined phantoms. There was only Whit, stewing alone under the hot lights.
She exhaled. Poor guy. Childhood abuse. Horrible trauma. Do you ever move on from something like that? Add to that, a broken marriage, children extracted from his life. Then to be shamed out of his own restaurants and shut out of the family orchard business. He lost everything he thought he was.
Whit twisted his neck to get a better look into Lucy’s face.
“Take a good look. Come closer. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it can’t be. But it is. I’m here to tell you I’m back. Frank Kappens alive again and I’ve got questions for you.”
Lucy strode forward. She’d take that challenge. She stopped close enough to smell the vomit on him, resisted the urge to wretch. She searched around him and through him and still saw no hint of possessing spirits.
“I’ve got questions for you too, but you go first,” she said.
Whit-Frank shifted uncomfortably, bumped her, and moved back. Definitely a Frank move, Lucy thought.
“I suppose they called you,” Whit-Frank said, nodding in the direction of the others in the kitchen.
“Can you blame them? You’re acting like an ass and they’re worried. I’m worried. We want to get you some help.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”
Lucy shrugged. “Fine. You tell me then. What is all this about?” She paused for a few heartbeats. “Whit.”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s me, Frank. I’m living in Whit’s house now, and you’ll have to deal with it.”
Whit-Frank strolled past Lucy, inspecting. He moved around and behind her.
“Yes, it’s really me and I’m going to make you face up to what you’ve done.”
Lucy sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She wanted to call Whit out on this bullshit, but she wasn’t sure that was the right path. She wanted to bring Whit out, not chase him away.
Whit-Frank continued. “You cast me off like I was nothing but a slug on your lettuce. The great team we could have made. We could have had thousands of followers together. Who knows how big we could have been with camps and missions spread outcross the country. You, the seer and healer; me, the man in the streets calling in the flock. I could have built your trashy little trailer park cult into something huge. But you threw me out like a piece of garbage.”
Whit-Frank’s voice grew whiney and he started to gasp as though short of breath.
“You fucking snooty bitch. You’d rather kill our baby than have to talk to me. Do you have any idea how much that hurt? You don’t, of course, because you don’t feel anything.”
Lucy stretched her fingers and hands in front of her. She’d had enough.
“Sorry big fella, but that abortion had nothing to do with you.” Whit or Frank or whoever. He’s being an asshole, she thought.
She started to chant. At one point, she lunged in close to him and pressed the centre of his forehead.
He laughed. “Heh-heh, heh-heh”
The space around Whit-Frank appeared clear, but Lucy carried on the song anyway, not testing for spirits but to study Whit-Frank’s reaction.
The knot is loosed,
yet the passage is closed.
You are dead, never to arrive again.
A wasted, invisible thing.
Unremembered.
Committed to nothingness
without bottom.
To time without end.
Lucy repeated the chant, one, twice and after the third time, Whit-Frank blustered.
“But I am already here. You’re too late. I have already arrived.”
Lucy smiled. “You’re not what you think you are. You’re not Frank. You’re Whit Alma and you’ve had a very hard time of it. It’s no wonder you’re ill.”
Whit-Frank screeched, grabbed an old coffee mug from a box and threw it against the wall. “Don’t dismiss me. I won’t let you throw me away again, you heartless bitch. I’ve come back from a place far deeper than you’ve ever dared.”
“I do dismiss you. Now fuck off and cut it out. Police will arrive soon and an ambulance is going to come to take us all into Gold Rush where we can sleep for three glorious days and take time to just breathe. Then we’ll talk.”
“You refuse to believe anyone has the power except you.” Foam squeezed out from between Whit-Frank’s lips.
Lucy waved dismissively. “If it makes you feel like a champ to believe you’re gifted, fine. Now let’s stop this shit so we can leave. I want to go home.”
“No, no.” Whit-Frank’s face turned red and he pounded on the edge of the bed frame. “Ask me a question about Frank and I’ll show you.”
“I’m not playing your game,” Lucy said.
“OK, then I’ll show you something that will blow your mind. It will prove I’m Frank. I’ll show you something and then you’ll have to believe in me.”
Whit-Frank pushed her roughly aside and opened the door. “You coming?”
* * *
Bonus material
Check out back stories to the characters in the novel Three Lives of Jury (Mud Valley) at the link below.
The Underworld Vents also contains short stories of alternative/historical fiction with The Wagon People series.
Check out the new additions with the Tynoffer Common series, absurdist flash fiction in bits of letters, bulletins and bureaucratic paranormal madness.
