Darkness Conjured Read online

  “He owns his rig and hauls retail merchandise for the big stores,” Luke scoffed, shook his head and went back to frying eggs.

  “Sure is nice looking,” Lizzy said softly. “The way he looks at you.”

  “Yeah, he’s real cute,” I said as Luke shot us a disapproving glance.

  Ken’s hair was light brown and his eyes were dark. He didn’t have a mustache or long hair like most of the guys my age. He was older, harder. He wore a charm around his neck. It was a tiny wooden figure—a primitive drummer, hands raised, seemingly attempting to strike his drum.

  “What does it mean?” I’d asked him.

  He smiled wide. “Got it in New Orleans. I have an apartment there—spend time there in between hauls.” He touched the charm. “Origination is Voodoo, but other religions use it. The drummer’s music is supposed to be a mediator between us humans and the Gods.”

  I bit my lip. “Voodoo?” I remembered what Lizzy thought she’d seen in his trailer. Maybe he was a dark magician; taking human sacrifices on his hauls. I took a step backwards.

  He chuckled. “It’s just a religion, Hon. Not bad like the movies make it out to be. Anyway, the painting on my truck was done in New Orleans, too. Copy of a painting by William Blake. English dude. Illustrated a bunch of bibles. I like to think the art keeps me safe on the highway.”

  “Oh,” I said as I handed him a menu. I remembered my sister Beth talking about William Blake when she was reading Paradise Lost for a college English class. She’d called Blake a visionary. I told myself that made it alright, but I swore the drummer’s eyes moved and a soft beat emanated from Ken’s charm when he brushed his hand against mine.

  “The Flight of Moloch,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That’s the name of the painting. Just came to me.”

  “Oh.”

  He gave me his order, “Eggs over easy, waffles and a large orange juice.”

  The charm spooked me. But I was tired that morning. I’d worked a double and black coffee had been my only nourishment.

  Ken’s words echoed in my head. “Not bad like the movies make it out to be.”

  I tried to find comfort in those words.

  My attraction to Ken didn’t fade, but we exchanged only small talk for a while; the weather, the war and how good Luke’s coffee tasted.

  I figured I was just another waitress he met on the road. Things changed one steamy August morning.

  He touched my hand as I poured his third cup of coffee. He leaned forward and asked softly, “Got a boyfriend, Meg?”

  “No.” I felt my face flush. The drum beat softly. Ken’s touch made me tingle.

  The other truckers teased me, told me I was cute and had great legs, but nobody ever made a direct hit on me. I’d never had a steady. Closest to a boyfriend was Alan Burle, a guy I’d known since high school—and despite the times we made it, we were more like friends than anything.

  Ken pulled his hand away and touched his coffee cup. “I’ve been hauling cross country for ten years. A guy gets tired. I need a break every now and then.”

  I just nodded, not sure how to react. I wondered if he sensed how inexperienced I was.

  “Well, maybe some Friday morning, after your shift is over, we can do something relaxing. I go down to the Carolinas after I leave here, but I can make arrangements—or I’ll make up the time somehow. What do you say?” His eyes twinkled.

  “I get off at eight.” I reached for his bill in my pocket, slipped it under the creamer.

  “Next Friday then?” He said.

  “Alright,” I said softly, backing away from the booth.

  He left me a twenty dollar tip that morning.

  I knew what he wanted, but I told myself, It’s the sixties. Free love is in and you aren’t getting any younger.

  I put Ken’s tip in a battered old bag on my closet floor. I hid generous tips there. Ken’s offering fattened my stash to around two hundred bucks.

  I managed to tuck away a little more over the next week. I worked harder than usual, hoping it would make the time pass, but the days crawled by slowly. Now I realize it would have been better if that Friday had never come.

  * * *

  The baby kicks as I lay back on my bed. I wonder who it’ll look like, if it’ll be a girl or boy.

  I close my eyes and the wooden drummer beats his fists against my belly. Its eyes are red, filled with hate and a red trailer truck zooms down the highway—twisting and turning down a dark road. The driver hums in time with the drum and he says, “One more day to New Orleans. Another load for Moloch.”

  I hear Divika mumbling soft chants. Sounds like she’s downstairs. I wonder if she’s exorcised the demons.

  I’m floating away. Deeper into a dream. Beyond the confines of reality and logic. Black clouds engulf me and dark wings beat as I rise upward. Gentle hands guide me away from the darkness, hold me as I descend.

  Now I’m sitting in the dining room. Mr. Greely is mopping the floor. He plunges his mop into his bucket. Water splashes onto windows, tables and chairs. It splatters everywhere, trickling from the ceiling and windows. It turns to silver and gold. Pours down on him like an ethereal rainstorm. Lights flicker around him. Red and bright orange.

  “Most important thing in this world is to make sure all souls get to Heaven, Meg. Lots don’t make it. Will you? Got to go now. One of them is close by.”

  His face is somber. Wings sprout from his back. He weeps as he floats upward.

  I’m awakened by a soft knock on my door.

  It opens slowly.

  Maureen Dugan, is standing there. Her hair is tousled and she’s wearing a man’s lumberjack shirt over faded jeans. There are dark circles under her eyes.

  “More bad dreams, Meg?” She asks. “Heard you talking in your sleep.”

  “I’m alright,” I tell her. I want her to close the door, go back to her rounds. She creeps me out almost as much as Marsha.

  She opens the door wider. “Maybe a hot cup of milk?”

  Anger begins to brew inside me. I wonder if angels once conjured in a darkened attic will come to my aid. I wish her away. “No thanks.”

  Mr. Greely is suddenly beside Maureen. His white hair seems to shimmer beneath the hall light. He’s dressed in a Nehru shirt and loose cotton pants. A string of red and orange beads hang around his neck. He reminds me of a vision I once saw when I took a hit of LSD with my sister Beth.

  He’s holding his bucket. I hear something slosh as he shifts it from one hand to another. “Leave the girl alone, Maureen. Let her sort out her dreams.” He shakes his head. He peers into the bucket and moves away. Soft footsteps pad down the hall.

  Maureen shrugs. “OK,” she says as she closes the door. I don’t hear her move away. I wonder if she’ll stand vigil outside my door all night and if she can see inside my head. Can she slip into my dreams?

  Somebody coughs and then I hear shuffling down the hall. I think she’s gone.

  I fight sleep now as I wonder if Ken thinks about me—if he dreams about what we did. My entire life began and ended the moment he got inside me.

  “…hauls retail for the big stores…” I hear Luke’s voice somewhere in the back of my mind and I wish Ken would try to find me—that he’ll save me in the end, but I realize I’ve got to do things myself. Nobody in this world is going to help. Nobody.

  3

  I open my eyes just as a door slams down the hall.

  My door is ajar.

  Mr. Greely is standing at the foot of my bed. The room is pitch black but for the white halo of light surrounding him. I wonder why he’s here and yet I have a vague sense that he’s watching over me.

  “What are you doing? “ I ask sleepily.

  He waves his right hand and then begins to speak. “Just checking on you. Making sure Maureen hasn’t been back to bother you.” He tips his head to one side. “You called me when you were little.”

  What the hell is he talking about? I ask myself.

 
; “I’m talking about you,” he says with a glint in his eyes. “There are angels in the world, Meg. If you hold your palms up you’ll feel the energy of your prayers. They’re in my heart.”

  This is another dream. Dreams are doorways to other dimensions. They unlock boxes where secrets lay hidden. This is happening for a reason. I do as Mr. Greely asks.

  I feel peace as I raise my arms and hold my palms out to him.

  “Are you really an angel?”

  He nods. “Sometimes the angels only need to hear a simple prayer. Childlike faith is a strength. You don’t need fancy robes and props.

  “Long time ago a man came up with puzzles, grids and devices so he could talk to us. Silly crap. We’ll come if you believe. Be careful though, sometimes dark things sneak in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am Metatron, Lord of Light.”

  “What the hell?”

  The room is dark now. Devoid of angelic light and misty morning dreams. I remember things Dad said about Metatron.

  He doesn’t come to you unless something heavy is about to go down. Not unless you’re special and what you’re about to do affects a lot of people.

  I called him a few times, but he never came. I guess I’m not that special.

  I rub sleep from my eyes and realize Mr. Greely is just a man. I was only dreaming. My prayers won’t be answered.

  * * *

  Another dusting of snow covers the ground this morning, filling in places where Davika poured her steaming liquid. There are ice cycles hanging on windows and traffic is crawling by the Amelia Leech Home.

  Several other girls are in the dining room eating breakfast. Their gazes are sad, distant. They eat cereal and scrambled eggs like normal people, but there’s nothing normal about a girl down and out on her luck.

  Marsha Walker struts around the room. She studies each table and every girl. It’s as though she’s making notes in her head.

  Mr. Greely is tossing dirty napkins, paper plates and cups into a plastic bag. He stops at my table. His white hair is tied back with a red bandana. He’s wearing torn jeans and a baggy denim jacket.

  He’s next to me now. “Good morning, Meg. Hope you slept OK last night. Be careful because the floor will be slippery for a while. Don’t want you, or any of the others, slipping and falling.” He smiles and then waves his hand—just like in my dream. I watch him move away.

  He leans over and whispers something to Linda Sinelli who is sitting at the next table with Lacey Wright. Linda giggles and her face flushes. She’s fourteen. She’s eight months pregnant. Her Dad promised her a new puppy once the baby is born and then given up for adoption.

  Both girls watch Mr. Greely drag his plastic bag out of the dining room and over the threshold to the kitchen. He rounds the corner.

  I decide to join Linda and Lacey. I want to know what they’re talking about. I pick up my tray. I feel Marsha’s gaze on me as I slip into the chair beside Linda. Both girls are chatting softly.

  Mr. Greely always leaves a lasting impression, it seems.

  “He’s so cute. Reminds me of my Great Uncle El,” says Lacey Wright. She’s seventeen, blonde and was a popular cheerleader at the local high school. Her voice is monotone as she speaks to Linda. “Got to get this over with.” She touches her belly. “I’m worried about stretch marks. I’d die if I can’t fit into my school clothes!”

  Linda nods absently and then bites her lip. “I wonder if I’ll think about my baby a long time from now.” Tears glisten in her eyes. “I saw something scary last night. Not sure if I’m just losing it.”

  “I try not to let the stories about this house bother me. I’ve heard a lot.” Lacey’s eyes give her away, despite her outward demeanor. She touches Linda’s arm. “Why? What happened last night?”

  Linda’s eyes dart to Patrick Lamont, the home’s director. He’s standing by the window. Arms folded. He looks lost in thought. He never says much. He’s like a phantom, thin and pale, floating from room to room in perpetual silence.

  “I think Irene, Marsha and Maureen are really in charge. He signs releases and makes sure the bills get paid, but that’s about it,” Linda says softly.

  She looks to Marsha who now stands in the archway separating the kitchen from the dining room. Her face is unnaturally white this morning. Marsha nods slightly at Linda. Their eyes lock for a moment and Linda shivers a bit when Marsha smiles, revealing yellowed teeth. Once more Marsha’s gaze moves from girl to girl.

  Now Linda looks my way. She smiles at me weakly and motions for me to move closer. She does the same with Lacey.

  Linda looks to Marsha once more and then she speaks. Almost in a whisper. “The windows. Most times nobody can open them, but I try all the time. I tried last night and my window opened real easy. I left it that way because it was stuffy. I woke up around three this morning. I heard somebody breathing. I saw a little girl at my window. She was hanging off the ledge with one hand. At first I thought she was trying to break in, but then I realized there was something wrong, that whoever—or whatever—I saw wasn’t human. She was pale. There was sooty stuff on her face and hand. She looked sick. Her eyes were really weird. She was wearing something white. A dress, I think. The sleeves were dirty and there was a burn hole on the shoulder. She opened her mouth and smoke came out. Then she just faded away.”

  “Just a dream,” says Lacey.

  “They seem so real sometimes,” I say softly.

  Linda shakes her head. “It wasn’t a dream. I got up after that. The window was down. Sealed. I pulled the curtains shut. I laid awake all night. I was so scared.” Linda’s eyes dart to Marsha. Watching us...as always.

  “She can’t hear you. She’s just a creepy old whore,” Lacey tells Linda.

  I nod in agreement thinking of what I’d seen when I passed her office.

  Linda sighs and then begins to speak again. “I got out of bed when it started getting light. I heard traffic on the street and somebody singing down the hall. I opened the curtains. That’s when I noticed sooty finger marks on the ledge. I know that girl—that thing— was real and she was as dead as my grandma buried at Saint Anne’s cemetery.”

  * * *

  On that Friday I called my father on the payphone by the restrooms at Luke’s. It was early morning, but I knew he’d be awake. I knew he hadn’t sleep since he’d brought me to Luke’s around midnight. I dared not try lying to him in person. It’d be easier over the phone. There’d be no accusing stares.

  I told my father I was hanging out with some girls from work after my shift ended. I didn’t need him to come get me. His voice was gruff. “You be careful. Well, maybe I get back to my own business early for once.” He sighed. “Try to be home by lunch. Your mother’s making the potato salad that you like.”

  He sounded harsher than usual and I wondered if he’d lost money playing cards during those sleepless hours. My father bitched about heating the house in winter, raising three daughters and the price of groceries, but thought nothing of gambling.

  I thought back to a time when I was a little girl. I was a light sleeper and a rainstorm woke me on this particular night. It was around one in the morning. Voices blended with thunder and water sloshed as a car passed on the street. I rubbed my eyes, sat up and lifted my shade. Two men stood on the walk, seemingly in deep conversation. Thick fog blanketed the landscape, making it difficult to see.

  The men shook hands and parted as torrents of rain battered against my window. Not until I heard the front door open and then slam shut did I realize one of the men had been my father.

  I heard him climb the stairs and a few minutes later open and close Beth’s door. Next was Jen’s and before I knew it he was standing in my doorway.

  “Not asleep yet?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  He moved farther into my room and then sat at the foot of my bed. His words were slurred. His face flush from drink and cold. “I know we have words sometimes, Meg, but your Daddy’s favorite.”


  He rose, moved to the side of the bed and then pulled down the covers. He lifted me. Kissed my cheek. “Got to show you something,” he said almost tenderly.

  I felt safe in those arms as he carried me up the attic stairs, into the musty place where old furniture, covered with plastic, was assembled in a corner. Outdated clothes hung on racks and toys were stored in cardboard boxes. It had been a while since I’d been there with him. I wondered why he chose to bring me there again.

  My father set me down and turned on the overhead light. “I still come here. It never stopped. Never showed your sisters. Never will.”

  I sat in an overstuffed chair with faded upholstery and cigarette burns on the headrest. Daddy sat on the arm and talked to me as rain struck windows. I don’t remember much more, just listening to his voice and drifting off to sleep. He must have carried me back downstairs later because I awoke in my bed, my stuffed bear on my pillow and a bar of my favorite chocolate on the nightstand.

  I felt a pang of guilt on that August morning, years later, when I first lied to my father. For a moment I wished he’d lift me and carry me away to his secret place, talk to me until I slipped into slumber. But that moment passed when my father whispered something deep, low and unintelligible, I thought about that handshake as I pressed the phone’s receiver to my ear. I wondered what kind of wager he’d struck and how much money was riding on it.

  “Is Ma right there with you? Or is somebody else there, Daddy?” I asked once my father’s whispers ceased.

  “Nobody. Hear what I said?” Dad’s voice was louder now. “Just try to be home in time for lunch.”

  “Sure, Daddy,” I said and then hung up. I pushed open the door to the restroom. I’d already changed, put on makeup and did my hair. I wanted to look perfect, so I went to the sink, laid down my bag and removed things I needed. I combed my hair and put on more mascara. I was making sure my long strawberry strands hung straight and smooth down my back when Lizzy came in.