Adrift on Ethereal Seas

Chapter 2

But hey, they dressed better than I did at that age.

Climbing into the back seat, I was greeted by two additional team members. Bartholomew Mortensen, aka Bart, was an enormous sweaty man with a stentorian voice whose ill-matched shirt and tie announced authority. He wore an expression of such self-importance one might have thought he killed bin Laden.

I stifled a smile wondering how many of his colleagues and subordinates nicknamed him "Barf" (or "Fart").

At the other end of the seat, forcing me to squeeze in between, was a frail, mildly pretty ingénue named Audrey Fletcher. On introduction she extended a flaccid hand in greeting, but said nothing. When none of the men paid her overt attention, I quickly dispelled the assumption that she was a girlfriend, although her flawless complexion, liquid blue eyes and neatly combed red hair tied in a pony tail certainly made her decent pickins.

As Winter put the van in reverse, we were startled by a pounding at the passenger's side door. Marguerite stood outside wearing her trademark look of disdain and holding my overnight valise and a heavy box containing our inflatable mattress. "You forgot these," she said, resting her weight on one leg and extending her hip every so slightly against the spring jacket that covered it. This, coupled with the highly complimentary late afternoon shadows, actually made her look hot.

Of all the times to get the urge, I thought.

Jason Tarpley jumped from the van, seized my cargo and summarily deposited it into the trunk. With that Marguerite pivoted and strolled languidly to the front door, waving her booty a little more than usual - or was I just imagining it? As our transportation pulled away, I watched the door close slowly and pondered the old girl's plans for the evening. I quickly rejected on-line dating consultation and bar hopping with friends and finally settled on our old faithful - network TV.

Bart spoke first, addressing me. "Audrey and I will be joining this vigil for the first time, as well. Do you know what you're in for?"

"We thought it best not to tell the Reverend anything more than what he knows already," Jason interrupted, "to preserve the integrity of the experience."

"Yes, of course," Bart muttered, as if to say I knew that.

I shot a glance at Audrey who responded with a shake of the head and a little knowing smile that no one else could see. It read amusement - no malice.

I smiled back.

We caught a window of diminished traffic on this late, unseasonably warm, March afternoon, between the rush of parents fetching their school kids and the weary commuters fleeing their nine to fives. With so many conveniences and the significant majority of my flock so close by the parsonage, I rarely ventured over to this side of town, which looked pretty much the same as our neighborhood.

When we turned the last corner onto Melanie Lane, I noted the familiar stately two-story dwellings on quarter-acre parcels, all seeming to elbow each other to create more breathing space. Only a few yards had trees, and none higher than the chimneys of their landlords. Brilliant sunlight reflected off the uniformly white facades, lending a certain brightness to the area, but failing to muffle a universal cry for exterior attention. Close inspection revealed several homes with cracked or rotting lattice work and window frames, worn and pitted wooden front stairs, and deeply streaked shingle roofs.

Suddenly, the sunlight took on a threatening quality, making me wonder if anyone called this Melanoma Lane.

We stopped in front of number seventy-four, the former home of the Lewis family.

For several seconds I stared at the place, stifling a sigh and futilely attempting to exorcise from my mind the terrible events on this very site last October.

Christ Winter handed me my luggage and I followed the other three up a short cement staircase to another flight on the front porch. With exaggerated gravity Bart produced a set of keys, but struggled with the lock until Jason provided unsolicited aid. Pushing the door open, he averted Mortenson's look of annoyance, and waited until the three of us entered before him, with Chris hustling up the stairs below.

The house smelled stale, but otherwise inoffensive - not that I expected ectoplasm or disembodied spirits to exude any particular aroma. In truth, I was struck by the ordinariness of the interior. The white walls revealed whiter rectangles where pictures once hung, and a grayish white wall-to-wall carpet covered all of the visible floor space. Directly opposite the front door a carpeted staircase ascended to a gloomy second floor bathed in shadows - only because the shades were drawn and windows tightly shut. As if reading my thoughts, Chris jogged up the stairs and proceeded to remedy that situation.

The rest of us made our way to the living room-dining area to the left of a narrow hallway, which led to the kitchen in back. I estimated the whole place offered about eleven hundred square feet of living space, for most of the people in our world a luxurious domicile, but a tight squeeze for a middle-class American family of four.

The living room contained three folding chairs and a portable table on which sat what appeared to be recording equipment. Little tripods with some kind of sensors mounted on them were placed at regular distances throughout the first floor and I guessed the second as well. Bedrolls and empty soft drink containers were the only other items in the room.

"That's our stuff," Bart announced with measured self-importance as if to emphasize his status as an official in this group. The others, including Chris who had now joined us, obviously struggled to maintain neutral expressions. I never quite figured what Bart's role was in all of this, but he clearly thought of himself as more indispensable than the others did.

"We don't have much to do but kill time until nightfall," Jason announced. "The action doesn't start until after midnight."

That bit of info didn't sit too well with me, since I can rarely keep my eyes open past eleven p.m. As if reading my thoughts Jason added, "But don't try to stay awake. It's best that you follow your regular sleep regimen, if possible.

The sun seemed to plummet into the earth over the next hour, and a brightly lit day succumbed to a thorough moonless dark. The vanished sense of security that only daytime can bring, coupled with the unfamiliar surroundings and their terrible history summoned a dread I had never felt before.

And I didn't believe in ghosts.

Before running out for pizza, Chris activated and tested his recording equipment and then knelt beside me to explain something. "The rules in vigils of this type are no spicy foods before bedtime - because they tend to foment unusual dreams - and no alcoholic beverage for the same reason. Sorry, Rev."

Did I look like that much of a lush? I admit to tipping a few on occasion, but I am by no means a nightly imbiber. I promised to study that image in the mirror a little closer and adjust any features that might convey an unsavory lifestyle.

And foment? Who says foment anymore?

Plain pizza, artificially sweetened caffeine-free soda, gin rummy and hearts, banal conversation dominated by Bart about a myriad of failures in other places like this - and no TV. These hellish things alone could have given me nightmares. Only the proximity of Audrey Fletcher sitting beside me on the foot of my inflated king-sized mattress, which provided our card table, made the evening mildly interesting. Unfortunately, she won almost every game with a very silent off-putting smugness, thus draining any interest in the young pup - not that I would have responded to an invitation if it came.

After two hours of this, we played one last game for the ownership of God - won by Audrey, of course, and minutes later I pitched forward onto the mattress in deep sleep.

It proved to be a short nap.

The front door slammed savagely, sending shock waves through the house, and a slurred voice from less than twelve feet away sliced the dimness. My immediate thought was that Bart had excused himself for the evening, unable or unwilling to adopt the disciplines of his compatriots, and was now making his boisterous return. But Bart was over by the wall, propped on an elbow - wide-eyed. Near him, Chris rocked back and forth on his bedroll, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face buried in his thighs. Jason had fallen back against the wall beneath the front window, wearing a look of abject terror. Audrey lay prone by the instrument table, covering her mouth with her hands, either to camouflage her fear, stifle her whimpers - or both.

"LACEY! YOU w***e! WE'RE FINISHED!" the voice screamed - from right over there! by the front door!

But all I saw was empty space!

"I know what you've been up to - and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"

Click-click.

What was that sound? I knew I'd heard it before, but with no visuals I couldn't place it right way. Then, when memory retrieved a description of that awful night, it came to me. Mike Lewis had c****d a rifle, sent a hollow point bullet into the firing chamber and taken the first steps to the second floor.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! His heavy feet and sagging body pounded the stairs. One-two-three - all the way up to twelve where he stepped onto the landing. And yet to us the noise from the top was as loud as the bottom.

"LACEY, YOU b***h! I"VE HAD ENOUGH!"

A door swung open and crashed violently off an inner wall. A little girl began to sob. Another, slightly older, cried out in a trembling voice, "Daddy, what's wrong!? Don't hurt Mommy, PLEASE!"

"LACEY, GOD DA . . ."

"Michael! Get a hold of yourself! You're drunk! You don't want to hurt your family!" With superhuman courage and only the slightest tremor in her voice, Lacey Lewis engaged in the final debate of her life, the one to save her children - all while looking down the barrel of a high-powered rifle. "Michael, I never cheated on you . . ."

"YOU'RE LYING! I KNOW IT!"

"Michael, I love you more than my own life, you and Charlie and Cyndi . . . I would never do anything to lose that! You must believe . . ."

"ENOUGH TALKING! YOU THINK I'M A FOOL? There's no way a woman like you would stay with a failure like me. You have to be cheating on me!"

"I'm not, Michael," Lacey's voice wavered. "I swear to God!"

"You swear to God? You'd take the name of God in vain?!"

"No, Michael, please . . ."

BANG! The gun shot deafened us, as if it had been discharged right by our ears.

Something fell against the door - probably Mike, because Lacey was found in bed.

CLICK-CLICK.

Five, six more uneven steps. Another door squeaks open.

"No, Daddy. Please, Daddy. Don't . . .!"

BANG! This time the faint sound of an empty shell hitting the floor.

CLICK-CLICK. Now we hear a man sniffing, choking back tears. He slides along the hallway wall and pushes open one last door.

"Hi, Daddy," a little girl croaks. "I love you, Daddy."

BANG!

Michael Lewis breaks down in utter grief. "Now I know we'll be together forever," he sobs.

CLICK-CLICK. BANG! A loud thump - and then silence.

Throughout this horrid ordeal, we all remained frozen like statues. Then, suddenly it hit me that there were casualties upstairs. I leapt to me feet, but was promptly intercepted by Chris and Jason. "What are you doing?" I cried. "They might still be alive!" I tried to force my way passed, but they were too strong, too young.