The Complete Dark Conjuring Collection: The Dark Conjuring

The Complete Dark Conjuring Collection

Gothic Realms

J. Thorn

Copyright © [Year of First Publication] by [Author or Pen Name]

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Gothic Realms

The Dark Conjuring Bonus Content

Gothic Realms

The Dark Conjuring – A Novel

J. Thorn

Copyright © 2016 by J. Thorn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edited by

Rebecca T. Dickson

Kattie Pisarczyk

John L. Monk

Proofread by

Laurie Love

Chad Lutzke

Formerly published in the American Demon Hunter series.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1

February 26, 1971

Ancient sorcerers and shamans could raise the dead, but only a modern man of science could make them alive again. Dr. George Singleton was smarter, he did the research. The man believed he could apply the scientific method to the arcane texts, which would bring his fiancée back from the grave.

Singleton spent weeks sketching out the process in his notebook. He’d draw a map of the stars as they appeared on the night Mary died—a star chart. He would then recreate what he had called a death map on the wall of the university’s observatory. The building mystified him, beyond the massive lens and gears that pointed it at the most distant reaches of the galaxy. He understood its power but not the source of it—much like the spiritual energy flowing from the Egyptian pyramids. George considered himself lucky the observatory could open a portal to the land of the dead, and that it existed here, in the small town of Cleveland Heights.

From what he found in the research, the procedure for raising the dead—a summoning—was almost impossible to do beyond the first anniversary of the person’s death. The presence of friends and relatives of the deceased created a cosmic amplification that would help pry the portal open and let the dead through.

He’d found the historical narratives. Horus, Lazarus, Romulus—even Jesus. They all returned from the dark void of death. In many cases, the dead came back with their minds foggy and their bodies sluggish. But over time, they could re-enter this world and live the rest of their natural life the way it was supposed to be, spent aging with loved ones and friends.

But it wouldn’t happen that way. Singleton was about to learn what the ancients had known: Some fates are worse than death—best to leave them to their eternal rest.

He drew the equations on the wall in chalk beneath the observatory’s open dome. Fred and Martha Siszak stood in silence. Martha squeezed her husband’s hand and used the other to caress the underside of her pregnant belly. Fred looked at Singleton, his boss, and shook his head back and forth. The man had no friends or relatives he could ask here tonight. Only an employee and his wife.

The doctor convinced the Siszaks he could bring his deceased fiancée back from the grave using a combination of astronomy and black magic. All he had to do now was draw her star chart on the wall and read the incantations and they would be reunited.

We shouldn’t be doing this, Fred. This is not right.

Fred looked down into his wife’s face and nodded. He let go of Martha’s hand and smoothed the front of his blue, collared shirt with both hands before stepping toward George.

I think we should talk about this more. You asked us to come and pay respects to Mary, that we could help settle her spirit. But now I’m not sure what you’re doing or why we’re here.

George’s head spun around while his arm kept moving, fingers clutching the chalk that drew more mathematical equations on the wall.

"This is my research at my university. I won’t let a janitor and his wife tell me what to do."

This is not research. It’s sacrilegious. Evil.

George stopped writing. He spun and stood nose to nose with Fred while Martha stayed in the shadows.

Mary was my fiancée, goddammit. So you shut your mouth. If it was her, George said, his eyes moving to where Martha was standing, you’d want to do the same thing.

I would not—

Bullshit, Fred. Don’t lie to me.

Fred sighed and nodded.

George went back to the wall and his mystical equations while Martha appeared on Fred’s right.

I can’t stop him, Fred said to his wife. He’s going to bring her back.

Martha shook her head. Words couldn’t prevent what was about to happen. Fred walked to the door and grabbed the end of a baseball bat leaning against the trim. He gripped the Louisville Slugger with both hands, hoping it would be enough of a weapon to protect Martha from whatever was coming. Fred stood near the doorway while Dr. Singleton initiated the ritual.

From the stars we come and hence we shall return. Unite the living with the dead and save us from an eternity in the urn. George paused and then spoke once more. I give you the chart inscribed by the summoner.

A cold wind blew out the ceremonial candle as the floor vibrated with an unseen energy. A gray haze appeared above the opened dome ceiling of the observatory. The telescope protruded into the night sky like a fang. Fred, Martha and George watched as the haze coalesced into the form of a human. Within moments, Mary, Dr. George Singleton’s deceased fiancée, stood beneath the telescope at the top of the spiral staircase.

Singleton gasped. He walked toward the staircase and started to ascend when Fred stuck out his arm to stop him.

Wait, Fred said.

Martha stood fixed to the floor, her mouth hanging open. Mary walked down the spiral staircase, wearing the same white dress she wore in her casket. Her long, dark hair sat upon her shoulders and spilled down her back.

Singleton’s mouth moved, yet he did not speak. As Mary rounded the last spiral of the staircase, the hazy glow dissipated and she stepped to the floor, barefoot and corporeal.

Why did you do this, George?

The lights in the observatory flickered, making movements appear like an old movie on a broken projector. Martha stood one moment, but the next time Fred looked at his wife, she was crumpled to the floor in silent tears. Fred saw Mary and George speaking but he could not hear what they said.

Mary turned away from George and faced Fred, her eyes blackening and her lips turning up into a nefarious smile. Clumps of hair slid from her skull and fell to the floor. Fred took another look at Martha. He raised his arms as though he was buried beneath an icy avalanche.

She is my eternal love, George said.

Fred lunged forward, one hand on the bat and the other reaching for George. He grabbed the scrawny scientist by the arm and threw him against the wall, Singleton’s white coat now soiled with black smudges from Mary’s embrace.

The dead woman rose up and glared at Fred, her eyes red and her greasy skin pulsing as if her veins were about to explode. She began to chant indecipherable words, her hair now completely gone and her stomach bulging like a balloon. The white dress slid from her body and she hunched over, turning her head sideways. The demon grinned at Fred.

I’m taking you all to Hell, where you belong.

Fred brought the baseball bat up and gripped it with both hands. He heard Martha sobbing in the corner, while George continued to mumble.

You summoned me. You brought me here, she said.

You cannot stay, Fred said.

The floorboards rattled as the demon that was Mary approached Fred. Saliva dripped from her mouth in slimy, green strands.

I’m here because you opened the portal. Others shall follow, she said.

George stood and piss dribbled down his leg. He ran a hand over his widow’s peak, removed his black rimmed glasses and tucked them into a worn pocket on the front of his lab coat. Fred waved the bat at George and forced words through the tiny gap in his front teeth.

That’s not your fiancée. We have to destroy that thing.

Mary turned her bulbous head to Fred, black eyes inside a hollow face, skin a sickly bluish-gray. With a mouth too tight to hold all of her thin, pointy teeth, she spat at Fred. Green mucus that smelled like an infected wound sizzled on the floor.

I’m going to feast on your unborn child.

Fred stepped forward and brought the baseball bat up behind his right ear. He swung as hard as he could. The Louisville Slugger struck Mary on the left ear hole. She stumbled and Fred raised the bat again when George stepped between them.

Don’t hit her.

That’s not Mary any more, Fred said.

George laughed and shook his head.

What the fuck do you know about her? She’s dead. Do you know what it feels like to lose the one you love more than yourself? George asked, pointing at Martha. You don’t because she’s standing right there, carrying your child.

Fred looked at George and then back to Mary. She sidled up to George and was now whispering in his ear, a forked tongue caressing George’s earlobes like a sultry lover.

That’s not Mary, Martha said.

George turned to look at her, a greasy smile on his face.

Shut up, Martha. You shut your fucking mouth.

Don’t talk to my wife that way, Fred said.

The demon before them stretched its neck and roared. Fred put his hands over his ears but George remained unmoved, as though his dead fiancée was singing a joyous melody.

You brought Mary back, but she has turned into a demon and must be destroyed. We’re not supposed to be able to bring our dead back. We’re not godless, Fred said.

God is nothing more than the ability to resurrect, George said. And I’ve done that tonight. This is Mary. Even if you can’t see that, I can.

Fred looked at Martha before speaking to George.

I’m sorry, George, but this has to be done.

Fred used the end of the bat to push George in the chest. George stumbled backward and fell to the ground. He screamed and held his clipboard up as if to use it as a shield. Fred turned around, reared back and took another swing at what was Mary. The bat struck the same spot as the previous blow and Mary fell into the wall.

Stop, George said, his voice cracking like glass. You’re hurting my Mary.

Martha wailed as Fred brought the bat back and struck Mary’s head over and over until nothing remained but a slimy pile of flesh at the top of its neck.

George buried his face in his hands. Martha stood and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Fred dropped the bat and embraced her.

A bright light opened on the opposite wall, filling the room and the dome overhead. George looked away from Mary’s remains at the light spilling into the room. The light yanked the feet of the headless creature, dragging the body into the portal that separated the world of the living from the world of the dead. Nothing but a dark, wet trail remained on the floor.

You killed her. She’s gone forever.

Fred kicked the bat into the darkness and put both arms around his wife. Before walking her to the door, he spoke to George.

You’ve done enough damage for one night. Close the dome before others find their way here.

You killed Mary, George said, wiping the tears from his face.

And mop this up, Fred said. "I’m a janitor, but I’m not your janitor."

Chapter 2

42 Years Later (December 13, 2013)

Icy rain pelted the casket, bouncing off the polished stainless steel like a bag of marbles. Hank stood next to his twelve-year-old son, keeping an arm around Corey as the priest droned on. He looked at the water landing on his patent leather shoes and the ice gathering around his foot, inches from the open grave.

Hank wanted nothing more than to have his wife’s killer stuffed into that hole. The drunk driver who took her life and destroyed their family was nothing but a murderer in Hank’s eyes.

We all loved, Michelle, the priest said. She was a wife, a mother, a friend, a daughter and a good soul. God has called her forth to be at his side.

Hank lifted his head and looked at his friends and family draped in black. They ringed the hole in the ground while standing in silent reverence. Corey tried to hide his face but Hank saw his son’s tears through the rain. He wanted Corey to cry out, to talk about his mother’s unexpected death. But that wouldn’t happen.

Corey was struck by lightning ten months before. The doctors couldn’t find a medical explanation for his lack of speech. It seemed as though Corey recovered physically, but the massive jolt of electricity damaged the boy’s brain in ways CT scans could not show. Hank read the stories about people getting struck by lightning. Most died, some recovered and a few were forever changed. Some even gained new mental abilities.

…now and forever, Amen.

Hank made the sign of the cross and pulled his son closer. Several people shifted and a few of the women walked to the casket and laid a single red rose on top. The fragrance cut through the rare December rain of Northeast Ohio and the red petals glistened against the silver shine of the casket.

I’m so sorry.

Hank saw Michelle’s friends approaching. Each came forward as though sliding on a frozen lake. With every passing condolence, Hank felt Corey twitch. His son didn’t cry out, didn’t move. He remained fixed to Hank’s hip with his face buried in his father's black leather coat.

Most of the mourners hugged Hank and several whispered kind words.

Hank nodded and smiled, occasionally feeling the warm, salty tears reaching the corner of his mouth. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and did everything he could to give Michelle’s friends and family reassurance. His smile told them he would honor her memory and take care of their son.

Lori was the first to console Hank. Michelle's best friend her entire life, she kept her auburn-brown hair tucked beneath her black hat. The wind chaffed Lori’s porcelain skin, bringing out rosy patches that helped to accentuate her green eyes. She gave Hank a hug before stepping aside to let the other mourners pay their respects.

When the last of them removed the funeral flag from their car and drove through the cemetery gates, Hank and Corey remained standing at the edge of the grave site. Across from them, on the other side of the chasm, stood Michelle’s parents, Fred and Martha.

Fred’s eyes were slightly spread, but warm and inviting. His silver eyebrows reached across his forehead and his full head of hair was pushed back, as it had been for decades. Fred’s lips concealed all of his natural teeth, including the narrow gap between the front two. He wore the only black suit he owned, the one Hank remembered from his wedding and Corey’s baptism.

Martha stood beside Fred, as she had for more than four decades. She kept her hair short and tight, the red dye failing to keep the silver from streaking at her temples. Laugh lines and crow's feet hinted at her age, although her smile was as dazzling as the day it caught Fred’s attention.

Hank saw Michelle’s face in Martha’s and although they used to joke about Michelle turning into her mother, he thought it would have been a glorious sight to behold. Michelle’s charm was a genetic gift from her mother.

We should get Corey out of the rain. Maybe warm him up with a nice cup of hot chocolate.

The sound of his grandmother’s voice grabbed Corey’s attention. The boy straightened up, his curly hair wet and tangled. His face thinned as the tell-tale signs of puberty began to whittle away the pudginess of childhood. Corey’s lips hid rows of teeth too large for his mouth. The acne on his left cheek was inflamed. He was thin but wiry. The kinetic energy was bundled inside his muscles like a downed power line.

How about it? Fred asked Corey. Nobody can resist Grammy’s hot chocolate. Why do you think I’ve stuck with her all these years?

Hank smiled at Fred’s joke before he realized he was doing it. He quickly brought a hand up to his mouth, looking down at his wife’s open grave, embarrassed to be smiling at a funeral.

Sounds great, doesn’t it, Corey? Hank asked.

The boy looked up at his father, holding back the pain like a levee about to burst. Corey’s inability to speak did not hamper his ability to convey emotion. The look on his face made Hank want to crawl inside the casket with Michelle.

Corey nodded and stepped from beneath Hank’s shadow and into Martha’s, his breath visible in the winter air.

We’ll see you back at the house, Hank.

I’d like to say my final goodbyes, Corey. Want to talk to mom one last time, in private. Go with your grandparents and I’ll be home soon.

Fred turned with Martha on his arm. Corey stood on his grandmother’s right as the three of them walked toward the car. Hank watched as they moved through the headstones. The headlights flashed on Fred’s Buick as he used the remote key to unlock the doors. Hank stifled a giggle as he thought about Fred locking the car door at a funeral.

The old-timers are nothing but a bagful of idiosyncrasy and habit, he thought.

Hank wanted to stay in that thought. His mind began to list all of Fred’s weird habits. He thought about Fred’s compulsive grass cutting, how the man could not go two days during the summer without starting the mower. He also thought about Fred breaking out the snow shovel when those first light flakes fell.

But his mind did not indulge him for long. Thoughts of Michelle’s parents faded when Hank looked down. She was in the ground and that’s where she would be forever.

He stood alone as the rain intensified, blurring the landscape with a cold, wet blanket. The taillights of Fred’s Buick blinked as the old man tapped the brakes and turned on to Mayfield Road, leaving Hank with the faint smell of exhaust mingled with roses.

Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out a black hair band. Michelle liked it when he wore his shoulder length hair in a ponytail, so he thought he could at least do that much for her. He tied his hair back, exposing the creep of a widow’s peak and flashes of gray above his ears. He rubbed his goatee and blinked.

The crying made his normally brilliant blue eyes watery and bloodshot. He stepped back from the edge of the dirt, sighed and looked over his shoulder. He was alone, the last living soul in the home of the dead.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, honey.

His own words pierced his ears, feeling like broken glass inside of his head.

I, I just…

Hank coughed and shook his head.

I have to pull it together, right?

He waited for an answer that wouldn’t come.

I don’t even know what to do with Corey. I don’t know how he’s going to handle your death. I mean, he scribbles ‘milk’ on his notepad when he’s thirsty, but I can’t imagine what he’s going to write now…

Hank let the words trail off, aware he was close to blaming his dead wife for impeding his son’s recovery.

I’m going to miss you so much. The words sounded trite before Hank finished the sentence. I was never tempted. Not once. I know you liked to joke about the college girls throwing themselves at me, that I could have had my choice. But it was always you. I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I remember the way your dark hair fell on your shoulders and that devilish spark in your eye. I can still smell your hair and feel the soft, smooth skin of your thigh. I could never love another.

The cold front passed above Lake View Cemetery on its way east over Lake Erie. The water was not yet frozen, allowing the wind currents to scoop up moisture and drop it back to the ground in the form of sharp, frigid December rain. The ground had not yet had a chance to freeze and the rain kept it cold but soft. Hank smelled the soil and when he considered why it was fresh, his stomach clenched.

I’ll protect Corey. I’ll do whatever it takes to be the dad he needs. It won’t be the same without you, but I’ll do everything I can to help him get better.

Hank smiled.

Your dad locked the Buick during the funeral. You know they’ve had a recent rash of car-jackings in the cemetery.

A rumble of thunder moved through and Hank almost believed it was Michelle laughing at his joke.

I love Fred and Martha. They asked to bury you here, where you grew up. I didn’t hesitate. I’ll always respect them and they’ll always be part of Corey’s life. I know that’s hard with us in San Francisco, but as much as they can be part of his life, I’ll make sure of it.

The rain came down harder and the sky disappeared beneath a gray gauze of clouds, as though the gods lowered a wool blanket from the heavens. Hank couldn’t remember how long he stood there or when the funeral ended.

I think I should be going. Martha probably has three cups of hot chocolate inside of Corey already and he’ll no doubt be having a full-course meal of donuts if I don’t get back soon.

More thunder rolled above the Garfield Monument in the middle of the cemetery. The wind pushed the rain sideways and Hank let it hit his face. He embraced the tears, taking comfort they were washed away by the rain. He didn’t want to leave his wife in grief, even if she was not able to see him.

I guess this is goodbye. When Corey and I come to visit your folks, I’m sure we’ll stop by, but it won’t be the same. Hank squatted and reached down to touch the casket. It felt hard and cold. I love you.

Hank stood, his chest burning and the rain pelting his head and shoulders. He took one last look at his wife’s gravesite and spoke again.

Goodbye.

Chapter 3

How long has he been asleep?

Martha smiled as she rocked in her chair. She held both hands up to the gas fireplace and nodded at Hank standing in the hallway.

Since Fred turned on the fireplace. You put a cold kid in front of a warm fireplace, you get a sleeper every time.

Hank grinned at Martha and pulled at the towel around his neck. The water dripped from the end of his ponytail, but Hank felt better after changing into a T-shirt and sweatpants. Empty, but better.

I don’t know what I’d do without you and Fred.

Martha waved a hand in the air as if to shoo a pesky gnat at a summer picnic.

No, I mean it. Ever since the lightning struck Corey, we’ve been…

You don’t have to say it, Martha said. We know.

Hank sat back on the couch. He looked around the living room and saw his wife’s face everywhere. Fred and Martha wanted their turn-of-the-century home to be as original as possible. When they first moved into the house in the mid-1960s, Fred spent evenings and weekends stripping the paint from the crown molding and restoring it. The Siszaks loved the elegance of the Rust Belt wealth, even though the neighborhood itself no longer sparkled with old, industrial money.

They kept pictures of their children and grandchildren in ornate and matching frames, some hanging over the mantle and others dangling above couches fashionable when Kennedy was still in the White House. Hank’s eye was drawn to Michelle’s face no matter where he looked. He shook his head and turned back to face Martha.

You and Fred have helped us more than I can ever say. With Michelle gone, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Fred walked from the dining room, through the open doorway and into the living room.

Can you give us a minute, Martha? Fred asked with a mug in one hand, steam rising upward and obscuring his swollen eyes.

I’m going to get Corey into bed, Martha said.

She set her cup on the end table, got out of her rocker and walked to the couch. She tapped Corey on the shoulder and the boy shivered. Without saying a word, Martha helped him up and guided him toward the steps and the upstairs bedrooms. Although it was still early evening, the storm clouds squeezed the remaining daylight from the skies.

Fred sat in his favorite chair, across the coffee table from Hank.

She’ll get him situated, Fred said.

Hank nodded.

How are you doing?

Hank shrugged, unable to conjure words.

You’re a good man, Hank. We knew that the day our daughter brought you home. We know how much you loved her, what a great father you are. We love you like our own child.

Hank closed his eyes. He squirmed and was tempted to ask Fred about the last time he changed his oil or how the Browns’ playoff chances were looking this year.

Please, Fred, he said.

No. I know it's not easy for two men to be having this conversation.

Hank laughed and then shook his head.

What I mean is we love you, son. You treated our daughter like a queen and you’re a great father. You’re loving, attentive and you make a good living. I don’t know exactly what a college math professor does all day, but they pay you handsomely for it.

I teach and I write, Hank said, knowing Fred wasn’t really asking for an answer. The last time I saw her, I…I don’t know how to say this.

Fred waited.

The last time we were together, I was kind of an asshole.

What do you mean? Fred asked.

I said some things. She was bitching about the leaky faucet in the kitchen, the one I let go for weeks, and she said she was going to call a plumber. She knew it would cost at least a hundred dollars for him to come out and another hundred to fix it and she knew that would anger me. I went all passive-aggressive on her and said ‘whatever’ and that’s the last time I saw her alive.

That doesn’t matter, Fred said.

It does to me. I never got the chance to tell her I loved her, to tell her how much she meant to me. The last thing I said to my wife was ‘whatever.’

Why don’t you transfer from San Francisco to Cleveland?

Hank sighed and shook his head. It's not that easy. We have the house, Corey’s therapy, my job…

You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you could derive a formula for all of that. Martha and I could help with Corey. The Cleveland Clinic is phenomenal. We’d find a new therapist for Corey and I know some of the maintenance guys at Case Western Reserve University.

I appreciate the offer, Hank said, but they’re shoveling dirt on Michelle’s grave right now.

Hank stood. His head swirled as the grief and exhaustion took its toll. He reached out to steady himself by grabbing the top of the couch and waited for the vertigo to pass before speaking again.

Let me think about it. I’ve got a department report coming up and I’ve got to finish out the semester.

Fair enough, Fred said. You let me know what you need.

What I need is my wife, another chance to say goodbye.

You’re not thinking straight. Your pain has you all twisted up inside. Michelle is gone and you can’t get her back. Trust me. I know it ain’t worth it.

Hank stopped and looked at Fred. The old man looked down. What do you mean? Hank asked.

Nothing. You should go to bed.

Hank turned and put a hand on the railing. He started walking up the stairs, stopped and turned to face Fred. The man’s face appeared to be melting as the light from the fireplace washed over it. Hank knew the old man was hiding something.

Chapter 4

8 Months Later (August 3, 2014)

Although it would take longer, Hank knew the train ride from San Francisco to Cleveland would be easier on Corey than flying. After the lightning strike, his ears were more sensitive and the change in altitude was painful. The moving company arranged to have their truck arrive in Cleveland a day after the train. Hank decided having Corey’s grandparents nearby would be worth the move back to Cleveland.

Hank decided to let Corey sleep and see if he could grab a coffee in the dining car. The boy couldn’t go anywhere on a train rumbling through the desert and Hank would be back in their sleeping car before he even woke up.

Hank pushed the button on the door and waited for it to slide to the right. He stepped between the train cars, feeling the Nevada heat rise as though from an asphalt parking lot on a summer day, and continued into the dining car. The door slammed behind him and the train's air conditioning unit hissed and rattled as it struggled to regain the temperature. He sat at the first table, the white Formica glowing beneath fluorescent lights. He knew they wouldn't be serving at 2:30 in the morning, but Hank didn't care. He turned to gaze at the Nevada desert sliding by at seventy miles per hour when he heard the door open, sending another puff of hot air into the train's dining car.

May I?

Hank looked over his left shoulder as the woman stepped past and turned to face him near the opposite side of the booth. She wore a shawl and bifocals hung from a chain around her neck. Her hair sat in a silvery bun on top of her head with renegade wisps dancing like curls of smoke. The train shifted as it hit a seam in the track and the woman gripped the top of the seat, her glasses bouncing upon her huge bosom. Hank was about to stand and extend his hand when the train hitched back in the other direction, pitching the woman into the booth. She landed on the plastic seat with a soft thump.

I never get used to this no matter how many trips I take.

Hank smiled and the woman smiled back.

I hope I'm not interrupting you? she said. It came out as a question.

No, not at all. I couldn't sleep.

First time on a train? she asked.

Yes, Hank said, watching as she shifted her balance in response to the train’s motion. I'm guessing you've ridden the rails before.

The woman chortled and leaned back into the booth.

I used to work for them, back in the late sixties, right around the time the government took over.

Hank wasn't sure what she was talking about, but he let her continue. He smelled an odd mix of muscle ointment and cinnamon.

I'm guessing we're still in Nevada? Hank asked.

Until morning, at least, she said. We'll probably be asleep when we pass through Salt Lake City.

Not if it's anytime soon.

You are correct. They'll be asleep, she said, waving her left arm at the cars tethered behind the dining car. It'll be dark for us. We won't see the Great Salt Lake, regardless.

Although it was his first night on the train, Hank was accustomed to the small talk passengers made to get through the long trip. He spent most of the day in the sleeper car with Corey, each of them gazing at the golden California landscape beyond the tracks. But during meals and walks, they met enough people to understand the etiquette of train travel—small talk and banal chit-chat was expected of the passengers.

Where you headed? Hank asked.

New York. I'm visiting my son and his family in Rochester.

My boy and I are moving to Cleveland. He has a disability that makes driving or flying out of the question.

Hank hated the explanation worse than the pandering comments, but he figured saying it this way would allow them to move past it and discuss other banal topics.

I know.

Hank cocked his head. The mental script he prepared was now useless.

Huh?

I've seen you with the boy. You were over there during lunch, two booths from me. He's handsome.

Right. I mean, thanks.

The woman laughed again. I didn't mean to startle you.

It's late, Hank said. I'm not my sharpest right now.

How's he doing? she asked.

The doctors aren't sure he'll make a full recovery. They don't think he'll ever speak again. He was struck by lightning.

I'm sorry, she said. But I meant, how is he doing on the train ride?

Hank sat back, exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. He shook his head and put both hands on the table.

My name is Hank, he said.

Estelle, she said, grasping his hand. Nice to meet you.

Don't take this the wrong way, Estelle, but you remind me of my grandmother.

I hear that often, although I'll bet half of this train reminds you of your grandmother. We senior citizens love the rails.

Estelle smiled and waited for Hank to speak next.

Corey. My son's name is Corey and yes, he's loving the train. I'm sure he misses his mother.

Ah, Estelle said. That is the shadow I see upon you.

Hank looked into her eyes and felt a tug at his chest.

You have nothing to fear from me. I have the sight. Not a psychic, that’s different. Let’s just say I can see and understand the feelings of others, those who are willing to share that with me.

Estelle still had his hand in hers.

I should be getting back to the sleeper car to check on Corey.

He's sleeping, she said.

Hank looked around the empty dining car. A passenger walked down the aisle behind them toward the bathrooms. The lights flickered as the train took a curve, gently pushing them against the window-side of the table.

How do you—?

Not important, Hank. Forget how. Look at me. Do you feel threatened or do you feel love?

He stared into Estelle's eyes and felt a surging love, like the warmth of a campfire on a cool autumn evening. There, she said. Now you have your answer.

I miss her. He misses her.

Hank shook his head. He couldn't believe the words were coming and yet Estelle nodded in understanding.

We all go when we're ready. When you hear people say, 'but they were so young,' it’s a misunderstanding. We all go when the master spirit calls us. Not a minute sooner.

That doesn't help us, the ones left behind.

No, it doesn't, she said. But this isn't about us.

It's not fair for Corey.

Don't lie to yourself. The pain you feel is not entirely on your son's behalf.

Hank looked around the dining car and saw the dry, empty coffee pots sitting on the burners. It would be at least three hours before the crew turned them on again.

I want her back.

As you should, Estelle said. Longing is natural and part of the grieving process. Michelle knows that.

His deceased wife's name shook Hank harder than the seams in the track. He shivered and rubbed his forehead.

How did you—?

No, she said. Forget the how, okay?

Hank nodded.

I know you feel as though her departure was premature, unjustified, maybe even criminal.

It was. The guy who hit her went to jail. Hanged himself there.

Which has nothing to do with you, Corey or Michelle, and everything to do with him. He'll enter the reversion, rest assured.

Hank looked at Estelle, not understanding what she meant. Before he could ask, she spoke again.

That is his concern, not yours. It is your guilt that troubles me, gives me doubt about whether you'll be able to handle what is coming your way.

The last thing I said to her… Hank trailed off, the memory too painful.

That isn't the last thing. Yes, it was the last thing to leave your mouth and enter her ears, but it is not the last communication between the two of you. That is eternal. There is no first and there is no last. It just is.

He wanted to hear about Estelle's grandkids or her bunions or her book club back home. He craved conversation about anything but his dead wife, yet he knew the woman was trying to help him. Hank swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth like it was powerful medicine.

Do you know why I'm here? she asked.

You're going to Rochester to see your son.

Estelle shook her head and leaned back with a shallow smile.

I'm here to warn you. I'm here to tell you not to mess with what the universal powers have made, the existence they created. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.

Corey. It's about Corey.

That's not true and you should stop telling yourself that. It's about you as well. You miss Michelle. That desire is natural. Even the guilt is natural. Acting upon it in a way that violates spirit is not. Remember that.

The train's whistle bellowed. Hank looked out the window to see a purple band of light glowing on the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevadas.

It'll be morning soon, Hank said.

There's plenty of darkness before the light, Estelle said.

I need to use the restroom.

Hank pulled his hand from Estelle's and felt his equilibrium return. Whatever connection they had was now broken. He stumbled past Estelle and toward the bathroom in the adjoining car. Hank stepped into the bathroom, urinated and walked back to the dining car. It was empty and Hank was not surprised. He shook his head and wondered how many more conversations he would forget before he sought a shrink.

As he passed the booth where he was sitting with Estelle, Hank paused. The train rumbled around a corner, forcing him back into the booth. Sitting between the napkin dispenser and the salt shaker was a piece of folded paper. He grabbed it and read the shaky handwriting inside.

Let her go.

Chapter 5

1 Week Later (August 20, 2014)

The truck's air conditioning surged through the dashboard, although the steering wheel was as hot as an iron skillet handle. Hank put his sunglasses on and felt the steel rims burning into his forehead. The morning coffee sat like a lake of acid in the pit of his stomach. He glanced into the rearview mirror at his son in the backseat. Corey was old enough to ride in the front, yet he always climbed into the back.

Pap says the clinic has the best doctors in the country. Of course, he worked maintenance there his entire life, so I’m not sure how much I’d believe his propaganda.

Hank looked at the road to see the traffic light ahead turn red before throwing a weak smile at Corey through the mirror. The boy was staring out the window, squinting from the powerful glare of an August sunrise. He wore a tangled mess of bed head along with a brown and orange T-shirt in support of the city’s football team.

Everything okay, Corey?

Corey looked at Hank through the mirror and returned an equally half-hearted grin.

Pap will pick you up when the session is over. I’m heading over to the campus to meet with the chair of the department. There’s a good chance they’ll hire me this fall.

The light turned green. Hank glanced both ways and moved through the intersection. The engine in the old Dodge Dakota rattled and the cool air coming through the vents smelled like old French fries and antifreeze. The tires slid on acceleration and Hank knew he'd have to replace them before winter arrived.

He crossed the intersection of Coventry and Mayfield roads with Lake View Cemetery coming up on his right. The trees stood behind the wrought iron fence like sentinels, their branches pulled toward the earth by the weight of their leaves, soon to drop and leave bare, spindly arms. The stone tower of an unknown tomb burst through the blue sky like a lone, shining obelisk of pearl. The gates were open as they always were during business hours. People walked or jogged along the sidewalk.

Hank turned right and headed down the hill and into Little Italy. The week before, the streets were filled with the aromas of homemade tomato sauce, Italian pastries and expensive cigars. The cafes and restaurants opened their doors to fill the neighborhood with the sound of laughter and Frank Sinatra. The street festival of the Feast of the Assumption was held every August. Now thoughts would be of clambakes and football season. Several school children entered the crosswalk on their way to school at Holy Rosary Church in the north end of Little Italy. Hank watched them skipping and laughing at each other, overjoyed with the first few weeks of school.

As the truck approached Euclid Avenue and the heart of University Circle, Hank turned left. The college kids were still sleeping, leaving a handful of hospital employees waiting for the bus, all of them wearing the same aqua scrubs. He continued down Euclid and turned right into the visitor parking lot of the Cleveland Clinic. He stopped before pushing the button on the parking lot gate.

If I drop you off at the main door, can you get to Dr. Singleton’s office?

Corey unbuckled his seat belt and nodded.

Third floor, suite 306. Right? You have to sign the clipboard and remain in the waiting room until they call you.

Corey rolled his eyes.

I know you know, Hank said. I’m just being a dad.

Corey nodded, opened the door and pointed at the main doors. Hank rocked the power window switch on the passenger side several times until the cranky motor forced the glass free. The window came down with a dry wheeze and Corey hunched over to look back inside the truck.

I’ll tell Pap to wait for you outside the main door. You got my credit card for the co-pay, right?

Corey nodded.

Great. I’ll see you at dinner tonight. Have a good session.

Corey turned away from the truck and Hank hit the horn. It reverberated off the building’s concrete walls and Corey stumbled before turning back around. The passenger side window was still open and Hank yelled through it.

I love you, son.

Corey waved as the automatic glass doors opened, then he stepped inside. Hank sighed and pulled the truck back into traffic toward Case Western Reserve University.

Hank glanced at the Cleveland Clinic as he proceeded down Euclid Avenue back toward Cleveland Heights. He imagined Corey in an office deep within the labyrinthine corridors. Hank envisioned Corey sitting in a chair with wires and monitors attached to his head while a team of doctors with glasses and bad hair scurried around him, taking notes and speaking to each other in code.

Fucking stop it, Hank said to no one.

He turned the radio on and looked back to the road in front of him. He had to tell himself to quit letting the anxiety take control. When that didn’t work, he resorted to loud, brash heavy metal. Hank punched the radio presets and realized nothing on the dial would satisfy his craving, so he hit the CD button and hoped he left something heavy inside. A sledgehammer of distortion filled the cab of the truck followed by the undecipherable screams above the thundering double-bass.

The university needed to staff several courses and Hank had taught long enough to understand how the game was played. He would accept the job and be paid well below the going rate. In return, he’d get a shot at tenure. He had references from his department chair at San Francisco State which would almost guarantee him a spot on the Case Western Reserve faculty.

He would say what needed to be said in the preliminary interview to diffuse the social awkwardness that seemed to trail his wife’s accidental death. Hank would try his best to make light of the situation or place it into a fabricated distant past to put people at ease. Each time he did, he felt a little piece of his heart break off. But there was no way to navigate that landscape. Death made people uncomfortable, uneasy and scared. Michelle was dead, yet Hank felt as though he was death’s ambassador, greeting people and their own insecurities about the inevitable.

Hank went through the motions of the interview process, saying what the university administrators expected him to say. He shook the department chair’s hand and walked to the parking lot where his truck sat in the far corner. He got in and drove through the gate and on to Euclid Avenue.

The sun rose higher, baking the dashboard of the truck and forcing Hank to turn the AC to max. People pedaled by on bicycles with beads of sweat dripping from their bodies. Hank felt a grumble in his stomach and the traffic light in front of Jorge’s Burritos turned red, tempting him further. Hank screamed along with the music while tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. He was hungry and he could feel the beginnings of a headache blossoming behind his eyes, but the meal would have to wait. He was thinking about the lightning strike that almost killed his son and robbed Corey of the ability to speak. Hank wondered what the bacteria and microorganisms were doing to his wife’s decaying body now six feet in the ground.

The light turned green and Hank slammed the accelerator, leaving Jorge’s in the rearview. He turned the music down and then off. The thoughts came rushing back. He drove through Little Italy and the only thing on his mind was a visual depiction of his wife’s flayed skull, her jaw open in a scream, the same one caused by the drunk driver who took her life. He came to the light at the top of the hill and glanced to his left at the gated entrance to Lake View Cemetery.

Hank looked at the dashboard clock. 12:37. He had already finished at Case Western Reserve University and Corey would not be home for another four hours. He turned left and drove the Dodge through the gates of Lake View Cemetery and into a city built for the dead.

The grass was moist, an underground sprinkler system preventing the grounds from turning brittle and brown like most suburban lawns in late August. The tombstones stretched into the distance in a haphazard pattern, while the trees huddled above them. The hazy, thin clouds cleared enough to show Hank the razor sharp line where Lake Erie met the beach, several miles from the cemetery that bore its name. Hank pulled his truck to the side of the asphalt path, stepped out and looked around. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and rubbed the hair of his salt and pepper goatee. No one was around as far as Hank could see, although he thought he heard heavy machinery in the distance.

Gravediggers ain’t what they used to be. Back in the day, they did it with a shovel, not a backhoe.

He smiled, but his own joke wasn’t enough to lighten the heaviness he felt behind the gate. The cemetery was carved from another universe, suffocating, as if it existed at the bottom of a deep swimming pool. Despite the stifling August air, Hank felt the skin on his arms prickle and he shivered. He thought of all of the horror novelists he read. King, Koontz, Mayberry. He imagined them standing on the same ridge with the same view and wondered what they would make of it.

Just a place to store the dead, he said. Nothing more except in the movies.

Hank felt compelled to walk deeper into the cemetery, in the opposite direction of Michelle’s grave. The wind changed and now pushed at his back, encouraging him to go deeper. He looked at his truck and heard the engine block pinging as the compressor dripped moisture to the asphalt where it sizzled like bacon. Several gulls flew overhead, shadows chasing them on the ground.

He left the Dakota atop the hill as he descended into the graveyard and down the winding path where the oldest burial sites remained. He passed two picnic tables covered by pigeons and their droppings. Hank wrinkled his forehead, trying to imagine the appropriate social graces involved with a picnic in the middle of a cemetery. He came around a bend where the cemetery flattened out and the residential homes of East Cleveland stood against the stone fence surrounding Lake View Cemetery. The fountain in the middle of the pond shot water ten feet into the air and ducks swam beneath it. Hank looked to his left and saw three tombs built into the side of the hill. He approached the one in the middle.

Ivy crawled around the iron gate and over the entranceway, guarding the tomb. The name Brainard was carved in relief within the arch above. Behind the gate, the entranceway was filled with brick, the mortar bright white even though the granite itself was weathered and dark. Hank reached out through the gate and touched it. The brick was cold and lifeless even in the August heat. Hank wasn’t a mason, but he couldn’t imagine why the mortar would be so pristine when the brick it held together wasn’t.

What the fuck am I doing here? he asked.

Hank pulled his hand back, releasing whatever mental control the tomb had on him.

He walked backward and looked at the tomb on each side of Brainard. They also had the entranceway bricked up, but with lines of mortar as white as polished teeth. Hank felt a vibration on his left thigh. He reached into his pants pocket to grab his phone. He saw Fred’s smiling face on the display.

Hey, Fred.

Hi, Hank. Listen. I’m going to grab Corey a bite to eat. Are you going to be home soon?

I was just on my way to grab some lunch, Hank said.

The pause felt longer than it should have been and Hank thought the call disconnected until Fred spoke again.

It's almost four, buddy. I was talking about dinner.

Fred followed the comment with a forced chuckle. Yeah, yeah. I know, Hank said. Dinner. Right.

You okay? You sound flustered.

I’m fine. Thanks for calling. I appreciate the offer. I need to meet with HR here at Case and then I’ll be home. The freight train rumbling behind the cemetery hit its horn, exposing Hank’s lie.

No problem, Fred said. I’ll see you back at the house.

Okay, Hank said and hung up.

He shook his head and checked the time on his phone. Hank put it back in his pocket, took one last look at the Brainard crypt and turned to walk back up the hill to his truck. The tomb had been drawing him near but Hank did not know why.

Chapter 6

I can be there around five.

Hank nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see him.

I appreciate it, Lori. I won’t take but an hour of your time.

Hank, please. How long have we known each other?

Too long, he said.

Exactly, you smart ass. Too long. So shut up, have another Great Lakes beer and I’ll see you in about thirty minutes. I’ve got to pick the kids up and swing past the pharmacy and then I’ll be there.

I know why Michelle loved you like a sister.

Stop, Hank. Drink your beer.

He set his phone down on the bar and smiled. The Winking Lizard was one of their favorite places. Hank and Michelle made it their regular date night, back before cell phones were around to pull you out of any moment. A lone gentlemen sat at one end of the bar and Hank was at the other. He looked at the Cleveland sports memorabilia on the walls and realized most of it went up after he moved to California.

Michelle won’t ever get to see the new stuff, he thought. Then was immediately angry at himself and decided Lori was right: A Great Lakes Summer Ale would help him cope.

Twenty minutes passed like seconds. His beer sat untouched on the bar, moisture running down the sides like a melting Popsicle. He felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned around to see Lori pulling out the barstool next to him. Her auburn-brown hair fell to the top of a slender neck and her cheeks blushed from the heat outside. Lori’s high cheekbones and piercing green eyes made her the envy of every mom in the PTA. She managed to stay slim and hid her wrinkles better than most women her age. She placed her purse on top of the bar and swung sideways on to the stool, smiling at Hank.

How are you? she asked.

Hank waved a hand in the air and shrugged.

Time heals all—

Stop, Hank said, interrupting. You weren’t seriously going to say that to me.

It was Lori’s turn to shrug. She gave the bartender a nod and he walked over.

Vodka tonic.

The bartender turned to fix her drink.

Damn, Hank said.

I don’t get out much. On my own. Quit busting my balls about hard liquor and tell me what’s up with you.

You’ll think I’m insane.

I was Michelle’s best friend her entire life. I know you almost as well as she did. What the fuck do you care what I think of you?

The bartender slid the glass in front of Lori. She gave Hank a devilish grin before raising it in a silent toast.

Okay. I get it, Hank said.

Get what?

The fact that you want me to trust you. You know I do.

That’s not it at all. I want you to quit being coy and tell me why you’re sitting at the Winking Lizard by yourself, during the week, in the middle of the afternoon. And then decide to call your deceased wife’s best friend.

Lori cringed and immediately spoke again, as if fearing the words were more abrasive than she intended. You were the most spectacular couple I’ve ever known. No cheating, no animosity. Did you two ever have a fight?

Hank took a swig of beer, hoping the bottle would conceal the mixture of pride and pain rippling over his face.

Sorry, Lori said. I’m not good with this grieving shit. You know she was my best friend. I miss her, too.

This isn’t about Michelle, Hank said.

Lori tilted her head sideways and huffed.

It's not, Hank said.

She leaned back and waited for Hank to explain.

Something with Corey, he said.

Is he okay? Lori said.

Yes. No. I don’t know.

The bartender appeared and pointed at Hank’s bottle of beer. Hank shook his head and waited for the bartender to walk away.

He’s not right.

He was struck by lightning, Hank. He almost died.

That’s not what I mean, he said. I think he knows stuff he shouldn’t.

What makes you say that? Lori asked.

A hunch. A feeling.

Whoa. What are you talking about?

He can see things that aren’t in the same room. He knows stuff he shouldn’t. Stuff he couldn’t possibly know, Hank said.

"You mean he can feel things? Like he has extra senses? Lori smiled and then leaned in further, her voice low and soft. Your son has ESP?"

ESP? Hank asked. Who uses that term any more?

Whatever, Lori said. You telling me he’s psychic or something?

There are case studies that—

There we go. I knew you’d bring this back to an academic exercise.

What do you know about ‘non-local consciousnesses’? he asked, ignoring her comment.

Nothing. But I know enough about you to realize I’m about to get educated.

Hank smiled and for the first time since Michelle’s death, he felt somewhat comfortable in the presence of a woman.

Let’s grab a booth.

Hank spent ten minutes explaining how he found the studies online, while Lori finished her vodka. She resisted the temptation for another, believing the story she was about to hear would be more entertaining than a drink. She knew Hank since college and discovered he was one of the most genuine, altruistic people she ever met. If it hadn’t been for a silly bet, it might have been her walking down the aisle to him after grad school instead of Michelle. Lori brushed the thought aside.

The studies said the key was ‘intentioned focused awareness.’ You can achieve it with meditation, yoga, martial arts, prayer, whatever. The idea is it's a skill we all have but some are better at using it than others. The possibility of tapping into this trait falls along a normal bell curve over the general population.

In layman’s terms, please. I’m not a professor in your department.

Hank nodded and took a swig of beer before continuing.

Have you seen The Matrix?

Duh, Lori said. Keanu Reeves? Are you kidding me? Yes, I’ve seen it.

Well, it's like that. People that have this power, this perception, they see things like a daydream.

Lori waited.

Sometimes, a traumatic experience triggers a heightened awareness of non-local consciousness that then lasts for an entire lifetime.

Like getting struck by lightning, Lori said.

Exactly, Hank said. It's not psychic or paranormal in the Hollywood-sense. It's more about another level of consciousness.

The hippie shit you don’t believe in.

Hear me out, please, Hank said.

Lori leaned in, tuning out the bar and her vibrating phone.

"There are two ways this awareness can manifest itself. The first is called ‘non-local perception.’ This is when people know shit they shouldn’t. Like, if I asked you where Dominic is right