Memory and Bone

1986

A creaking floorboard woke him from a restless slumber, sending figments of dark dreams slithering into oblivion.

He gradually regained his bearings. Beside him, to his left, was the window facing the quiet street. Sheer drapes hung limply from their rod, muting the light from the moon and the streetlamp below.

He stared at the alarm clock on the bedside table just below the window, supposing the sound had really been the house settling on its foundation. It was foolish to worry. Children became frightened by these things, not him. The years of lying awake, calling for his mother to come save him from the creatures in the dark, had long since passed away.

Yet something still unsettled him. His bedroom felt almost alive, like a monster holding its breath. Dare he roll over and see its dripping teeth?

No, he chided himself. That wasn’t quite right. The only monster here was him. And yet…

He closed his eyes with the hope of drifting back to that world where the troubles of the daytime melted into afterthoughts.

But then a low voice said, Get him.

He lifted his head in alarm and, for the first time since waking, peered around the room. The requisite furnishings—dresser, desk, and locked gun cabinet—were just where they were supposed to be at the opposite end of the room, but half a dozen phantom-like figures had sprung into purposeful motion near the foot of his bed, some rushing toward the window and others toward the doorway, blocking his only possible routes of escape. Before he could respond to this invasion, he felt hands and a sharp twinge, like a bee sting, high on his left arm. He yelped and rolled onto his right side, only to see a seventh figure standing inches from his bedside, holding a small object that could only be a syringe. Two pinpricks of reflected light floated in the air: eyes.

How did you get in here? he croaked. It was the first logical question to ask. He already knew the why.

The phantoms had grown still again. Blood rushed through his veins, fear pushing his heart to the limit. Sour sweat oozed from his skin. Perhaps they wanted to stand in the dark, waiting in silence until he went mad.

He tried to sit up, to reason with them, but his body only flopped as if made of rubber. The figure next to him made a gesture with one featureless hand. Three of the others broke away from the rest, one joining the first figure and two coming around to the bed’s opposite side.

The gun cabinet across the room from him might as well have been in a different galaxy.

Without warning, four sets of arms grasped him and flipped him onto his stomach. His own arms were wrenched behind him, held in place with the wrists crossed.

He could hear the telltale rip of duct tape tearing from a roll.

The drugs from the syringe coursed through his veins, weakening him more and more with each passing second. He couldn’t stop the phantoms from binding him. Cloth was placed over his head—a sack?—and the phantoms wrapped more tape around his ankles before lifting him from the bed. His head banged against the wall as they jostled him down the stairs. He cried out to deaf ears.

A squeak, a gust of air. They were taking him outside! An engine idled nearby while a staticky radio played some Led Zeppelin song. A car door opened, and they shoved him onto a sticky, leather seat.

The phantoms climbed in beside him.

Doors slammed. Seatbelts clicked. Someone killed the radio. The car lurched, moving away from the curb.

Tears stung his eyes. This couldn’t be happening! It had to be a dream, a nightmare, his own imagination torturing him while he slept.

But one could not imagine the terror crippling him or the coarse fabric scratching his face, the throbbing in his head where he’d hit it on the wall.

He knew these feelings were real and that he would not end this night alive.

2010

Jessica Roman-Dell read the eviction notice twice, then stared across her apartment’s living room in a daze. Words like nonpayment and vacate the premises flitted through her head. Words she’d always associated with other less fortunate people. Not her.

She wasn’t entirely sure how things had come to this. Jessica had worked hard to carve out this space for herself. The apartment wasn’t fancy. It was just the right size to house her and her growing collection of ghost hunting equipment. Unfortunately, her bank account was not the right size to fund even that meager lifestyle. Hence the eviction notice.

Jessica picked up her cell phone and made a call.

Hello? came a woman’s curt voice.

Jessica coughed lightly. Linda? It’s Jessica.

The phone grew suspiciously quiet in her ear.

I got your letter, Jessica tried again. I…wondered if we could try to work this out.

We’ve already had this conversation, Jessica.

She scrunched her eyes shut. You said you’d be lenient since I lost my job.

That was four months ago! I haven’t seen a cent from you since then. I have bills of my own to pay, you know.

I’m not trying to make excuses. Jessica barely held back an unwanted wave of tears. I just haven’t been able to find another j⁠—

Then borrow the money from someone and pay them back later. If I don’t see your check within the next three days, you’re gone.

A click in Jessica’s ear told her the conversation was over.

She lowered the phone and stared toward the window without seeing it. This lull in her life was stretching on for much longer than she’d expected, and getting worse by the day. And it wasn’t like she could just walk up to her friends and ask for several thousand dollars; they barely got by as it was.

And her family? Forget about it.

Chewing on her lip, Jessica picked up her phone again and dialed another number. A man answered it on the second ring.

Hey, Jessica. What’s up?

She inhaled deeply and said, "Wayne? I have a huge favor to ask you."

Jessica was supposed to be packing that night, but she’d gotten a last-minute call on her cellphone from Ellen Shoushanian, who’d asked Jessica if she wanted to come investigate her house that evening for spooky things, as the older woman had put it.

Jessica, sitting in a cleared island amid a sea of her scattered belongings, looked from the mound of folded clothing she’d been piling into a box to the cat-shaped clock she had yet to unhook from the wall. It was five thirty.

I can be there at six, she had said.

Now it was nearing ten o’clock, and Jessica found herself praying for something interesting to start happening before she died of boredom in Ellen and Vince Shoushanian’s moldy basement.

Ellen’s words from hours earlier drifted through her thoughts.

Things are constantly moving around by themselves whenever Vince and I have gone out, she’d said to Jessica. Would you believe that I’ve found the remote in the back of the deep freeze three times? Vince swears he had nothing to do with it. But nothing’s as odd as the time we came home from church one morning and the spice rack was sitting in the middle of the stairs.

Jessica had considered asking them if early-onset dementia might be the culprit since ruling out natural phenomena was a part of every investigation, but she did have some tact. Plus, misplaced objects weren’t the only concerns in the Shoushanian household. Vince claimed to have seen the apparition of a young man on multiple occasions, and both he and Ellen swore they had heard lively conversations coming from empty rooms late at night.

The voices might have been loud radios in passing cars, but Jessica couldn’t pin an explanation to the apparition. Hopefully, she would encounter it tonight.

Jessica shivered. She shouldn’t have worn flip-flops on this outing. The day had been warm, like so many in October, but the dampness of the basement chilled her. A pipe dripped somewhere close by, making her think of water torture, and she yearned for a ghost to appear to distract her from the sound.

She picked up her thermal imaging camera and panned the room for the umpteenth time, looking for any anomalies in temperature which might indicate the presence of a spirit. The only yellow-orange heat signatures she could see on the tiny screen came from the water heater and some pipes branching off from it in different directions. She sighed and stared up at the cobwebby rafters.

If you’re really here, Jessica said, it would be great if you could come out and say hello.

Silence answered her, as it usually did. Investigations like this were frustrating, especially when she sat and sat and sat for half the night, without one single thing happening that could be ascribed to the spirits she longed to meet.

A cricket started chirping in the corner. Now that would wreak havoc on her recordings, dammit.

Are you just being shy? Jessica asked. "I used to be a little shy too, until I started working at a truck stop. You would not believe the bullshit I had to put up with, working there. I lasted there four years, but then the economy went down the toilet, and they said adios. Did you work somewhere when you were alive?"

More silence. She lifted the thermal imaging camera from her lap again and gave the room another sweep. Nada.

This was starting to look like one big waste of time, just like her mother had always told her. She supposed she could have stayed at home doing something more productive, like eating microwaveable burritos and watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 for the five hundredth time.

And packing. She really needed to get going with that before Landlady Linda threw all her things out onto the lawn.

Did you have family? Jessica asked the hypothetical ghost. Mine are real winners. I mean, my sister’s cool, and my dad is all right but pretty absentminded. But my parents really shouldn’t have had children. They didn’t call me on my last birthday. I turned twenty-one on New Year’s Day. I guess they might have been sleeping in, or something. A birthday card containing a check for twenty dollars had arrived in the mail from them a week later, signed only by her father. She used the money to buy more frozen burritos and counted out the remaining change to put in her gasoline fund.

Can you tell me what your name is? she continued.

If the ghost replied, she couldn’t hear it.

My name’s Jessica Roman-Dell. It’s a weird last name, I know. Nobody really knows how it ended up hyphenated like that. I had a great-aunt who was big into genealogy, but she’s gone now.

She waited five more minutes for a response yet heard nothing aside from dripping and chirping. With any luck, the digital voice recorder she’d set on the floor had picked up some kind of ghostly dialogue that had been below her hearing threshold.

Jessica rose from the uncomfortable chair and went upstairs to see if she’d have better luck in the kitchen. At least it would be warmer, and there would be no leaking plumbing or obnoxious crickets to distract her.

She struggled to see, ascending the dark stairwell into the living room. A candle had been left burning in the adjoining kitchen, and the light from its feeble flame cast eerie shadows over the walls.

Both Shoushanians had left to spend the night at their daughter’s house so they wouldn’t interfere with the investigation. Now, though, she wished she had an actual human to talk to.

I’ve got a couple friends, Jessica said to the air. I haven’t known them for too long, but they’re fun to hang around. They don’t ever want to tag along with me on nights like this, though.

Wayne Thompson frequently used the excuse that the sight of him might frighten away any self-respecting spirits, and his younger cousin Sidney Miller had her own very understandable reasons for keeping away from the dead.

Jessica switched on her night vision camera, set it to record, and placed it on the kitchen table, then retreated several steps so she’d appear in the frame. Hey, folks, it’s Jessica Roman-Dell, your Friendly Neighborhood Ghost Hunter. I’m currently investigating a seventy-year-old house here in southern Ohio, but I’m not having a lot of luck tonight. What’s new, right?

The candle on the table made a loud pop, and Jessica jumped, then smiled sheepishly at the camera.

No word on if anyone has ever died here; the owners just don’t know one way or the other, she went on.

A soft, muted squeak echoed from the second floor.

"What was that?" Jessica snatched up the night vision camera and tiptoed to the staircase, where the noise was louder but still barely more perceptible than a whisper. She took the stairs one at a time, taking care not to make too much noise, lest she frighten whatever caused it.

Jessica arrived in a short hallway that had a hardwood floor. A door on the right stood ajar, and a thin ribbon of silvery light spilled from the gap.

The squeaking came from that room. Before she could chicken out and go running back downstairs—which would surely disappoint her ninety-seven YouTube subscribers—she pushed the door open the rest of the way and went inside.

Jessica’s emotions made a split-second metamorphosis from anticipation to embarrassment. In a cage beneath the window, a hamster raced merrily on his exercise wheel, having the time of his life.

I think, she said to the camera, I’m going to call it a night.

Wayne Thompson sat at the wrought iron patio table on his deck, frowning at the spreadsheet displayed on his laptop screen, when the squeak of a door and soft footsteps made him look up.

His cousin Sidney Miller stood in the warm glow of the porchlight, where a swarm of moths swirled in a mindless frenzy. The single bulb brought out the shine in her red hair, which she’d tied back into a bun and adorned with a pair of black chopsticks crisscrossing in an X-shape. Wayne’s own hair was as dark as fresh coffee. They might have been related, but they hardly resembled each other at all.

Sidney stepped away from the moth cloud, slid a Camel Menthol cigarette from its box, and stuck it between her teeth, then patted the pockets of her black skinny jeans. Do you have a lighter?

Wayne had lit a citronella candle, warding off any mosquitoes that might still be hanging around this time of year, and left the Bic lighter lying on the table next to it. He tossed it to her, and Sidney snatched it from the air one-handed.

What’s that face for? she asked once the tip of the cigarette glowed orange. A curl of smoke rose into the night air.

You know those are going to kill you, he replied, trying not to cough.

She shrugged and stared thoughtfully toward the dark yard. They’d had this discussion before, of course, and had reached a similar non-conclusion.

Wayne did have bigger problems to worry about right now. He returned his attention to the computer screen, where his financial situation was laid bare in a grid of columns and rows. Can I talk to you for a minute? he asked.

She rolled her eyes at him. I’m not going anywhere. What’s up?

Wayne ran a hand through his hair. You know how hard I try to budget things around here, right?

Of course. I’m only allowed to use one napkin during dinner and one square of paper if I pee.

His eyebrows rose.

I’m kidding, Wayne. So, what’s the bad news?

He let out the sigh he’d been holding in since he’d run the numbers. Everything just keeps costing more and more money. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d given me the raise they’d promised…Would you be okay with paying me an extra fifty a month? It would help cover some of it.

Sidney remained silent. She crossed the deck and leaned against the wooden railing. I’ll see what I can do.

If you can’t come up with the money, you could try giving up your death sticks. You’re going to give me black lung disease if this keeps up much longer.

She threw him a sneer. Asshole.

Bitch.

They grinned at each other, but only for a moment. It felt strange and almost sacrilegious to be smiling again…though it had been over a year now, so why shouldn’t they try?

Seriously, though, he said. Let me know if it’s too much trouble, and we can work something else out.

I understand. Sidney exhaled a noxious nicotine haze. If I have to, I’ll start using half a square of toilet paper.

Using the table for support, Wayne pulled himself to his feet. The shift in position made his calves chafe beneath his black and blue flame-patterned ankle-foot orthotics. On that note, he said, I’m going in.

Wayne limped across the deck to the back door. His way of walking was often referred to as a scissors gait, a term that made him envision himself as a giant, anthropomorphic pair of shears. Wayne Scissorlegs. The horror!

After depositing the computer on a clean section of the Formica countertop, Wayne shuffled over to the refrigerator and grabbed a Mike’s Hard Lemonade out of one of the crisper drawers. He pried off the cap and took a long, satisfying gulp. Alcohol might not have fixed any of his problems, but it sure made him feel a little better about them.

He heard the squeak-click of the back door opening and closing a few minutes later. Sidney strode into the kitchen and threw her cigarette butt into the corner wastebasket.

I thought Jessica was coming over tonight, Sidney said. "We were going to watch Corpse Bride again."

She didn’t tell you? She’s packing.

Sidney frowned. For what?

Wayne took another sip from the glass bottle. She’s being evicted from her apartment.

Aww, that sucks. She’s not moving back in with her parents, is she?

Um, no. She’s staying here.

Sidney’s eyes grew round. "You didn’t…"

You’re friends with her too. What’s the problem?

We don’t have any extra bedrooms! Unless you were going to move all your gym equipment to the basement?

Your room is pretty big. We’ll make do.

Sidney folded her arms. Look, I like Jessica. But you might have consulted me before assigning me a roommate who spends most of her free time talking to dead people. What if she accidentally conjures the Cincinnati Strangler in my bedroom, or something?

I didn’t have a lot of time to mull it over. She was being kicked out in three days. And besides, this is only a temporary arrangement.

If you say so.

Wayne finished the Mike’s and set the bottle in the sink. Besides, he said. I know my house isn’t haunted. Everything is going to be fine.

A cascade of leaves drifted from towering oaks and settled around the granite markers documenting the birth and death dates of those moldering six feet below.

Though Jerry Madison once marveled at the beauty autumn brought to the world, it no longer interested him. This fall looked the same as the previous one, which looked just like the one before it. It was as if time progressed in a circle, repeating itself over and over again without end.

He stood a distance back from the crowd of mourners gathered in the cemetery that morning. All he could really see were the backs of people’s heads. A gray-haired minister stood next to the casket at the front of the congregation, reciting prayers for the newly deceased. The man paused every few lines to deliver somewhat un-pious bouts of ragged coughing.

A mother and her young son stood about five yards away from Jerry. The woman’s head was bowed, but the toddler stared out at the headstones with an expression of childlike curiosity, his baby-blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. He caught sight of Jerry and smiled in the way the truly innocent do.

Startled, Jerry took a step backward.

The boy giggled. Funny man!

Shh! His mother bent down and scolded her son in a whisper. What did Mommy say about not talking?

But he scared of me! Look, someone hurt his hand. The boy stared at the inflamed cut on the back of Jerry’s hand, where Abigail had thrown a knife at his face long ago and he’d held his hand up to protect himself.

Shit. Jerry raked his mind for more pleasant matters to contemplate so what the kid had seen would go away. Fortunately, he hadn’t been thinking about the other thing, too, because the kid surely would have gone into hysterics. Though it might have made an interesting diversion from the normal tedium.

Jeremy, be quiet. The woman scooped up her son and held him on her hip, glancing in Jerry’s direction with suspicion in her eyes. You crazy kid. She lowered her head in reverence once more.

Jeremy peeked around her shoulder and made a goofy face at Jerry, who suddenly felt a wave of anger. Why should the boy keep looking at him, of all people? It was just like it had always been. They just couldn’t leave him alone. The faces. Always watching. Always mocking.

Jerry’s fists clenched at his sides. He concentrated on that, and the boy began screaming, tears running in rivulets down his rosy cheeks. His flustered mother broke away from the crowd, toting a wailing Jeremy off toward the parking lot, the sound dwindling in the distance like a fading siren.

Jerry rubbed his neck. Good riddance.

The ceremony ended a short while later. The grieving family and their kin hugged each other and bade their farewells. The parking lot soon emptied of vehicles, and in solitude, Jerry watched three burly young men shovel dirt back into the grave. The men said little to each other while they worked. They’d probably done this a hundred times and thought nothing of it.

The men finally completed their job and left. Jerry sat down on one of the cemetery benches and gazed unseeingly at the woods surrounding the graveyard. He should leave here, find some other place to lurk about in. But where? Everywhere was nowhere, and nowhere was everywhere. Nothing mattered or would ever matter again.

He didn’t know if he should be sad or angry or bitter. Sometimes, he was all three, and sometimes, he was none at all. On rare occasions, he would even think of something pleasant he’d forgotten about long ago, and a spark of joy would light up his whole being, but then he would remember.

It was an endless cycle of emotions. Bitterness felt the worst. It would consume him, like acid dissolving an old coin. They had done this to him. If they hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here at all.

If he could get back at them…

He couldn’t take it anymore. Something had to change. But what could he, Jerry Madison, do?

Jerry buried his face in his hands and wept, wishing he could find a way to end his life so the pain of existing would go away forever.

Which, of course, was impossible. Jerry Madison was already dead.

Jessica staggered out of bed, wincing as she stood up. The clock had changed over to midnight the moment she’d pulled into her apartment’s parking lot after leaving the Shoushanian place. She’d spent the next hour and a half sorting the rest of her things and piling them into cardboard produce boxes she’d swiped from behind Eleanor Market earlier in the week.

Now, bleary-eyed and exhausted after a night that had been too short, she wished she could brew a pot of coffee—but like everything else, the coffee maker and canister of grounds were boxed up and ready to go to their new home.

She wished she felt ready to go.

Jessica went into the bathroom and stood at the sink, examining the dark circles that had appeared under her eyes. Such skin blemishes were a tolerable side effect of the late, uneventful hours Sidney had despised about ghost hunting.

Jessica, she’d say, "I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but