Fallen Stones (3 page)

Many months earlier, he had manage to resist the spirit's commandments, but after countless hours of relentless torment, sleep deprivation, weight loss and declining health, he found he had to either bend to the will of his long-dead grandfather or be driven mad by the ghost's taunting. Now, since what he hoped would be the creature's final demand had been met, Washburn prayed the spirit would be satisfied, would return to whatever corner of Hell it had arisen from and would leave him at peace.

Washburn often wondered why he simply hadn't just cut his losses and run away early on in the conflict, rather than staying and continuing to fight a losing battle against the specter at the sacrifice of his fortune and his
health. But such was not his way. Anyone who knew Emerson Washburn understood the man would never give up a fight until he or his adversary were either unconscious or dead. Like the legendary John Henry battling against modern mechanization, Washburn never gave in to an enemy.
 

But there was more to his remaining on the property than simple stubbornness and willpower.  Unknown to Washburn, there was force controlling his destiny, which was keeping him in the game, and making him believe it was all his own idea. He was being controlled and manipulated at a point far below the flesh, far below even the cellular level. His very soul was lost and was being controlled not just by the ghost of his grandfather but by another spirit in the house; that of his grandmother, Marie. They had set into motion a plan, which had to be carried out at the exact time and place of their designation and which would not only affect him, but also another unsuspecting group of Livingston decedents.

The apparition looming before him had a face a white as chalk, and its blood red eyes were sunken deep into dark-rimmed sockets. If Washburn had looked at his own sickly reflection in the surrounding mirrors, he would have been shocked at how his countenance was almost as deplorable as the long dead being before him. The creature's once fine garments were soiled and smelled as musty as a tomb. What must have once been the man's white linen shirt now hung askew was yellowed and covered with blood and filth. Washburn knew the reason the specter appeared to be much younger than Washburn's own sixty-three years, was because of the couple's early death.

Washburn sat stock still in the rapidly chilling bath water, feeling especially vulnerable in his nakedness. He was having second thoughts about reading the agreement from the confines of the tub, even though the spirit had demanded it. Then again it was not as if he had either a choice or the willpower any longer to oppose the specter's orders. After months of anguish, he knew it was futile to resist the commands of his tormenter. He started to wonder if perhaps he actually was losing his mind or if he might have already gone mad several months earlier. He no longer understood his own actions, nor could he seem to be able to control them.

The image began to emerge from the mirror, slowly floating through the air, finally hovering near the document, which rested on the marble floor. With a wave of its ghostly hand, the pages of the document quickly flipped open, and turned rapidly until the thing found what it was looking for. It stared down at the document on the floor for a moment and a look of satisfaction spread over its withered dead face. It had seen what it needed to see; the circle finally was about to be closed. What had happened before was destined to happen once again, and he would see to it.

Washburn had not taken his eyes off of the specter and with caution said “Dwight… Grandfather… I… I have done… what you requested… I have named her as my heir… the one you said... will you now please go and leave me be?” The creature did not speak but simply floated and stared blankly at the man.

Washburn asked once again, “What more can you possibly want from me? I have done as you ordered... I always do what you wish …I have left all of my property, all of my money and all of my earthly possessions to a niece I have never even met... isn't that what you requested? Isn't that enough? Please, I beg of you... I am a sick and tormented soul... Go now and leave me in peace.”

But the image did not fade, did not leave nor did it melt back into the glass as Washburn had hoped against all hope. Instead, it stared silently at Washburn. It did not speak, nor did it convey any message through its typical mysterious telepathic means, which it had used on previous occasion. Instead it simply stood and stared expressionlessly at Washburn, as if uncertain of, or deciding what its next move would be.

No, Washburn did not quite believe that to be true. He knew the creature had a plan; it always had a plan, and Washburn was certain the ghost was moving events in the direction necessary to carry out that specific plan. This time surely the situation would be no different although he feared it might not end well for him.

Then the translucent image began to dissolve before Washburn's eyes, breaking down into a mass of millions of tiny glowing, sparkling particles. It had never done any such transformation in his presence before. The sight transfixed Washburn. A moment later, the cloud of luminous white iridescent specks floated over toward Washburn and surrounded his head like a throng of flying insects. Next the collection began to grip tightly against his skull and slowly absorbed themselves through his pores, into his body. Washburn sat motionless in the tub, his eyes glazing over as if in a trance. He was clearly no longer in control of his actions. Then like a mindless robot, he slowly reached his right arm down over the side of the tub, grasping the handle of the straight razor firmly.

Sitting upright in the bathtub, Washburn, or the creature that now inhabited his body, looked down at the blade of the razor, glimmering in the candlelight. Then he took special notice to the blood red candle wax dripping down the sides of the bathtub and a sly smile appeared on his lips.  Calmly looking down at his chest, the man methodically began cutting a series of diagonal wounds into his flesh, making a number of “V” shapes. The point of each "V" was located where the two diagonal lines met at the center of his chest. Washburn neither flinched nor cried out in pain even though he felt the burning, sizzling agony as if every nerve ending in his body was explode. Instead, he sat calmly as the blood streamed down from one "V" to the next like thick, muddy water running over a terraced hillside, before it began to turn the bathwater a hideous shade of crimson. He looked upward, seeming somewhat strangely amused at how the newly sliced furrows in his chest matched the patterns of the wood surrounding the walls of his spa.

Next, he made a series of incisions across his face, his forehead and cheeks before reaching up and slicing off his left ear, which fell into the water with a moist sickening plopping sound. He then made a number of deep incisions across his left arm and wrist allowing the arm to hang limply in the bloody water. As the spirit felt Washburn's body becoming weak with blood loss, the phantom reached down into the water where it systematically began to hack at Washburn's testicals and penis, castrating them from his body, allowing them to float almost comically in the ruby water like some sick, perverse bath toys.

The glowing mass of glittering elements slowly left Washburn's body and within a few seconds, the specter was once again standing next to the tub looking down at the bloody carnage it had left behind. The ghost, which had once been Dwight Livingston, floated calmly toward the mirror wall and once again was quickly absorbed into whatever horrible world existed beyond the glass.

Washburn's eyes suddenly opened, filled with shock, pain and terror upon the realization of the irreparable damage, which had been inflicted on his now dying body. Too weak to help himself, unable to move, the ravaged man moaned and cried with agony as the last of his lifeblood flowed into the tub.

Seconds before his body finally shut down, he noticed something or someone watching him from one of the other mirror walls. It appeared to be the image of two young boys, their faces hovering in the glass. Washburn could see no bodies, just floating faces. Although he had never seen the pair before, they looked familiar to Washburn. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of he and his younger brother Nathan as little boys. The one boy looked to be about six years old while the other was perhaps a year or two younger. Then, because of the extensive research he had conducted he suddenly realized who they were.

The two did not seem to have the same sort of evil countenance as the spirit of Dwight Livingston, but instead appeared to be filled with sorrow. There was an almost angelic aura about the pair as they watched with a look of grief as the last few moments of Emerson Washburn's life fade from his mutilated body. Soon the image faded from his sight as did all vision.

Washburn lie dead in the bloody cauldron his head tilted to the right against the back of the tub, his right arm dangling limply over the over side of the tub, resembling the familiar pose in the famous painting "The Death Of Marat" by Jacques-Louis David. The bloody straight razor had fallen to the floor and the tips of his fingers rested against the face of his cell phone, which lay near his last will and testament. Suddenly the phone sprang to life and began automatically dialing a number. After a series of rings, a man's deep voice answered. After several minutes in which the faint echoes of a conversation could be barely heard, the phone went dead.

As Washburn's spirit left his body, it was quickly pulled as if by some unseen magnetic force into the still undulating glass. Then the surface of the mirror returned to its normal appearance, and the room was once again silent. Inside the mirror, the emaciated, naked genital-less image of Emerson Washburn appeared looking distraught, beaten, tormented; yet sadly accepting of his fate.

The floating faces of the two young boys looked on from the adjacent mirror wall as they slowly shook their heads as if in sad resignation. A sudden cold wind swept through the room as all of the candles were extinguished and the room was plummeted into total darkness. A slight glow appeared at the center of the wall of mirrors and wild maniacal laughter echoed through the pitch-black space.

 

Chapter 1

 

The young woman sat at her kitchen table bewildered, staring down at the sealed envelope she held tightly in her trembling hands. She assumed the mysterious packet contained an important letter of some sort, and she was quite certain it would not be any typical letter. It had arrived as a certified, registered letter, requiring her signature before acceptance. Never in her life had Stephanie needed to sign for a letter, nor had she ever been required to confirm her identity by showing the postman her driver's license. It was all very new and quite disconcerting for her.  She felt a strange hollow sensation deep in the pit of her stomach, as if to suggest any such letter could not possibly be good news.  

She tried to think of any bills, which she might have forgotten to pay recently. Perhaps she had inadvertently forgotten to send a check for some important invoice for several months in a row, and now that particular account may have gone delinquent and had been turned over to a collection agency. She wondered if that could be possible. She didn't believe so, as she was quite fastidious about her record keeping and bill paying. No, she was quite certain this had nothing to do with any late bill payment.

She looked apprehensively at the return address, twisting her longish brown hair in circles, as was her habit. The name printed in an ornate, pretentious calligraphic gold script read, “H. Mason Armstrong, Attorney At Law”. Stephanie's lips moved silently as she read the name over and over to herself, one of those childhood practices which she had never been able to overcome. "H. Mason Armstrong, Attorney At Law", she finally said aloud. Yes, this definitely seemed like quite a pretentious name indeed.

Stephanie always had a negative prejudice toward anyone who used the initial of their first name and then used their middle name as their actual name. For Stephanie, it was to suggest the name Mason Armstrong was a powerful moniker for a lawyer, whereas the owner might feel his first name, which could be Harold, or Henry or something along those lines, was not strong enough for a man so grand and in such a prestigious position.  Most people would not have even given any consideration to such an thought, but Stephanie always seemed to notice things like that; she always believed she could tell when people were "putting on the dog" as her mother used to call it.

The address for the law firm was in the town of Ashton, Pennsylvania in Schuylkill County.  She could not imagine what an attorney from Schuylkill County could possibly want with her. Stephanie was not overly familiar with that part of the state, having been born and raised in western Berks County some fifty-plus miles south of Ashton. The only times she had been in the county was as she passed through it when heading north for one reason or another, and those occasions had been few and far between. Once again she looked down at the ornate lettering of the return address and was convinced this lawyer was most definitely "putting on the dog", trying to appear as if he were some big-time, big city law firm, when in fact he was more likely simply a small time storefront solicitor from a small coal region town.

Stephanie was familiar with the names of many of the small towns and cities in Schuylkill County from reading various articles in the local Berks County newspaper. She knew of the city of Yuengsville, because that was one of the larger cities in the county and where the county courthouse was located. It was also the home of America's oldest brewery. She knew of the town of Ashton, which was located some fifteen or twenty miles north of Yuengsville. She recalled Ashton had a tourist attraction, a coal mine called the Miner's Tunnel where visitors could ride in coal cars over a mile down under the ground inside what was once a working coal mine. She had been meaning to take her family up there soon before Jeremy was too old and too "cool" to appreciate it, but just hadn't been able to find the time. Perhaps they could get there this year over the summer.