Chapter 3
DARKNESS WAITS
Hailey Tarrant
“Your father was a good man, a good neighbor,” Molly tells me, with the top of her cane doing a small wobbly circle where she rests her trembling hand on it.
Gray and bent, she’s sixty-two next month, has lived here for years, and I’d better not hold any orgies because I’m fairly sure she watches everything that happens around here.
The telescope in their upstairs cutaway patio is a hint.
Luckily, I missed meeting her when I was running around wild as a teenager.
About the only thing she hasn’t informed me of is the name of the red tabby winding about her feet.
“He was a good father too.” I sigh. A familiar pain strikes my heart at this reminder of his death and absence from my life.
A hundred things do that, every single day.
My sigh makes a sad expression settle over Molly, and she reaches to squeeze my hand where it rests on the fence.
“I’m getting there, Molly. Recovering. Time heals. ”
“You might think that, darlin’, but the loss should be treasured. Don’t lose him by pushing your grief too far away. Cherish it.”
“I could never—” I heave out a sigh. Concentrating, hard, lets me suck down the swell of tears.
Life is pain, lately. Here’s me, used to partying in the streets and yelling “Fuck the world” off of cliffs at midnight at impromptu raves. Am I just getting too old for bravado? Is that what this is? Both your parents being gone makes the whole world seem old, dry, and lifeless.
“If you ever need someone to talk it through with, I’m here. So is Ron. When he’s not off fishing.”
“Thank you.” I run my hand over the arrow-shaped ends of the fence palings. I remember these. I once tried to walk the tops, pretending I was a stunt woman. The fence is on the verge of collapse in a couple of places, which matches the house. “I don’t plan on staying long.”
“You don’t? Well, I’m here, and you cannot have much in the pantry, so you’re welcome to join us at the table. Any time. Good neighborliness is a motto of mine and Ron’s.”
Six months past the funeral and this is my first visit since then to his house in Revenant. It’s my house, now. Has Justin has moved into the Carolina house? He wasn’t thinking of selling like I am.
“I just want some clarity on the accident, so I thought I’d ask the sheriff in town.
I know the insurance company was satisfied and the police, too.
Just…I need more.” I twist my mouth. I already talked to both a deputy and Sheriff Baxter.
The sheriff shrugged and said this was a nothing burger, which makes me hate that expression more than ever.
“Anyway, I shan’t be bothering you with the details, Molly. ”
“Oh! Please do. I might even have things to tell you.” She taps her nose. “Every bit of gossip, every move that’s suspicious, I get to knowing. I know things.”
“Suspicious…” I try not to widen my eyes and stare. I partially succeed. “I’m not that concerned. Only, he was so safety conscious. Whether he was boating or at work.”
Liar, I so fucking am concerned.
“Mmm-hmmm. I know.”
I know seems her signature saying. A wind whisks up the hill, stirring dust and making a chill creep over me. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I hug myself, hinting I need to go get warm. The town is a hundred yards below, in the hollow of the valley, and gets less of the winds.
Molly opens her mouth.
“And…” Her voice squeaks as she lifts her cane. She turns to waggle it toward the very white, neat, and tall buildings of the Revenant Institute, where they stand across the valley on the other side of town where all the industrial stuff happens.
We make bodies our business. The company motto…
logo? It trots out whenever I think of it.
Father worked there for much of his life and was always bringing home samples of whatever they made.
My worst memory of it is the tour dad took us on when we were kids.
An Egyptian mummy sat on display behind a glass case in the foyer.
Creepy as fuck. The company head was Lawrence Skinner.
That family has such an apt surname. He had a thing for the ancient Egyptians. His son, Clay, probably runs it now.
Clearly, Molly finds the chill enervating. Her eyes are sparkling and wide, and she inhales loudly then coughs. “Excuse me.” She launches into a longer spate of coughing.
“Are you okay?”
She nods.
I wait for her to stop, hoping this isn’t a sign of something serious.
I went to Revenant elementary, same as Clay, though later he went elsewhere for a fancier education.
Near the institute’s jutting towers, cuddled up to it but not terribly visible, lies the squat Large Hadron Collider building.
Most of the important LHC structures are underground.
To the left of that is, from memory, a furniture factory, a truck mechanic, then some engineering place.
Those might have changed since I left. The fishery is still there, off to the right and closer to the wharf.
Molly smiles and pats her chest.
“And?”
“I’ve heard things about that collider machine. Bad things.”
“Oh? The LHC? They’ve had one in Europe for decades.” With one raised eyebrow, I wait for whatever crackpot theory she has to spill. That Angels and Demons movie is probably to blame.
Honestly, I only have coffee, some water in bottles, breakfast cereal, a few odd packets of snacks, and one carton of milk in the house. And no electricity. It’s getting cold. If I ask, she will invite me to supper, though I was aiming to wallow in some misery tonight.
“When they turn it on you can feel it in your guts, like it’s warping the world, making not-right things happen. I swear I’ve seen creatures.”
Probably possums or similar. Shivering, I hug my shoulders. “Doesn’t it run all the time? I heard that.”
“It does, yes, but it has these peaks when the things may happen. And there’s more,” she continues.
I listen politely as she elaborates about will-o-the-wisps, luminescent fogs, and strange men with guns.
It makes for a good story, but there are no new details about how Father and Jonathan drowned, or why they’d tip their boat and get trapped underwater late in the evening on a cloudless, moonless night.
I assume that description is correct. It’s on the sheriff’s statement in the local paper, The Revenant Rag.
Only this morning, I found a copy with that article in the Revenant library. It’s a semi-serious paper that has somehow survived the rise of the internet. The masthead is a nice sketch of the institute, with a thank-you line beneath for their donations.
We part ways, with Molly wandering back to her house and me to mine.
I pause at the front door and lift my head to study the facade with the peeling white paint.
I’m reluctant to go inside. It’s both familiar and foreign with Father not here, a skeleton of his past—a disjointed messy skeleton.
After my mother died, he grew messier every time I visited.
The downstairs hallway is stacked with files and printouts.
I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to bring the institute research home, so what was he printing? Why do that when a computer happily stores a hundred thousand times as much info? I should check them out and read some.
On opening the door and seeing the slumping towers of paper beckoning, daring me to handle them, I’m inclined to give in and burn whatever looks like stuff from the Revenant Institute.
Molly’s talk about strange luminescent creatures lends the house a spookier aspect. The last text Dad sent me, the day before he died, echoes the theme.
You might see a story about me and Revenant. I saw something and it blew up into something crazy. Love you. I will leave you the house here.
Though vague, that was super suspicious considering what happened next, and Molly would agree with me. Leave you the house. Was he thinking he might die?
The cops dismissed the message after checking with the institute administrators and staff. He wasn’t written up as having done anything out of the ordinary. Nobody had any arguments or problems with him. Dad was pretty friendly to everyone. No story has surfaced.
“It’s probably cookie recipes,” I mutter as I negotiate the paper stacks on my way to the stairs leading to the second story.
The milk will be off by morning.
I detour to grab it, a bowl of cereal, spoon, and a bottle of water then realize I have only one more bottle after this.
I can’t shower or wash. Though I’ve organized for the power and water to be turned on, it doesn’t happen until tomorrow.
If I stay, I have to keep paying. It’s a waste if I don’t stay.
Stay or not? I’m no detective. Do I really believe Dad was murdered because he saw ‘something’? I don’t know, but I suspect it might be the case. It’s a stupid theory, but my heart says something bad went down here. I’m way too tired to think more about this tonight.
I guess I was wrong about not thinking.
Rugged up in a hooded parka, leggings, and boots, I sit on the balcony looking out over the darkening valley, chewing on possibles and cold, over-sweetened muesli and milk.
If I stand, I can see the lights winding along Jordan Street below, until Jordan reaches Revenant and merges into the lights outlining the town’s shape.
It’s mostly house lights and shop signs down there, plus the small industrial district to the left at the rear.
This used to be home, and the past has left its mark on me.
I should leave tomorrow. Should find a real estate agent, organize them to sell the house, then leave.
This ache in my chest that drags me down will only power up if I hang around here.
The house is steeped in Father’s life and my childhood, but it’s his death that sticks to me like a black, loathsome glue.
Wrong or right about what happened to him, I’m no detective. Could I employ one? I guess I could.
They returned the boat after all the forensics and investigating were done, and it lies on trestles in the back yard. The white shape reminds me of a coffin.
The wind picks up, flips the hood off my head. I don’t bother moving it back into place.
I go forward to squat then sit at the edge of the balcony, wriggling to slip my legs beneath the railing and dangle them over the empty space.
Idly, I swing them, thinking of what to do.
The railing timbers are cold under my palms where I grip them like a prisoner staring out through the bars of their cell.
I have no job to return to. Bartending work dried up, though if I try, I could find more. Besides, the money from the will is enough to keep me going for years if I want to waste it sitting on my ass and being morose. I wish I didn’t have it.
I really, really wish I did not have it.
Silent tears trail down my face.
Go? Or stay and play detective? I maybe, kinda, want to stay. I need to know why he was killed, if he was. I need this to get on with my own life. Shattered and alone, I lean my forehead into the railing bars.
Are these called bars? I could google it but no. Of all the things to worry about, it’s not railing terminology.
I need a sign. Stay or go. Forget everything my father did, throw away any meaning or worth he had. His life would mean nothing. No. Make that his death would mean nothing. His life, his successes, those remain.
Do I move on like some goddamned useless bug?
“Apologies to the bugs,” I whisper.
I squint at the night sky and wait for a falling star. Even a screaming possum falling from a tree will do at this point.
Something nudges my elbow, and I yelp then decide anything that soft and furry cannot be all that scary. It begins to purr.
“Ohmigod, you’re a cat.” Not Molly’s. This is a whole new cat.
My eyes have adjusted well enough to see it’s a white cat with a black splodge between ears and eyes shaped like a…
I cock my head. Like a squiggly octopus?
Chuckling, heart lifting, I reach down and smooth my hand over the curves of its head.
The purr deepens, and the cat nudges me to encourage another pat. “Aren’t you a sweetie.”
It’s so white the moonlight haloes its furry outline with the faintest blue.
Damn, I have no cat food.
I pull up my legs to sit cross-legged.
“Are you a sign? I don’t think you fell from the sky like a comet or a falling star? Hailey’s comet?” I snort lightly.
It crawls onto my lap, turns and curls up as if happy to find a friend. A warm friend. I’m probably only a convenient heater.
Still, I am smiling. Every pat I deliver warms my heart. It’s a good trade. Guess I am staying. At least until I find out where my falling star-cat lives.
“What’s your name? Comet seems average. Kraken? Squiggle? You probably already have one?”
He, or it, doesn’t answer.
I’m still here, thinking, being a bed for a warm cat, when a subtle noise then a soft voice from the back yard makes me rise, place the cat on the floor, and pad over to the right on my knitted socks with the wolf ears.
They keep my feet warm and were Dad’s last Christmas present.
I lean out, just far enough to see the back entrance. There is almost no light in that area.
Is this a thief, below? Who would want to steal from this house?
The floor doesn’t creak under me, which I am thankful for.