Darkness Conjured by Sandy DeLuca Read Free Book Online Page A

He runs a hand through his hair.
    “I don’t want to stay here. It’s a bad place. You can’t make me stay.”
    I expect an argument and deep rage, but my father remains calm. Too calm as he
tells me, “There are lots of bad places. Lots of dark things. Sometimes you think you’re doing the right thing. Offering yourself to the light, but it blasphemy. It’s a lie and that lie gets you in the end.”
    He rises.
    “I’m keeping the baby, Daddy.”
    He smiles at me, but his eyes are vacant, as though his soul—his vibrant persona—has deserted him. “I’m not sure how it’ll all end up, but you pray, kiddo?”
    “I’m not sitting around praying.”
    His smile chills me this time. I notice there’s blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His teeth are tinged with something
brown. “Talk to the angels, not like I did, but just talk. Maybe they’ll help. Just maybe...” He reaches into his pocket, removes car keys. “I used to carry around cards. Platonic symbols painted on cardboard. I thought
they were magic. I don’t think angels want to make it that complicated.”
    At that moment Mr. Greely enters the hall. He doesn’t speak, just nods at my father, winks at me and then makes his way up the
stairs.
    My father watches until the old man is out of sight. and then speaks again. “Bye, Meg.”
    “Daddy, my prayers don’t get answered.”
    “If you look hard enough you’ll see angels. I want to believe my girl will see them.”
    Now I’m convinced my Dad has lost it. “Angels can’t get in here.”
    “They’re closer than you think.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “Then we’re all doomed, aren’t we, Meg?” He bows his head, slips  his hands in his pockets and leaves me.
    I hear Marsha laugh as my Dad slams the door. I know I won’t see him again. He’s on his way to Hell and he just came here to tell me goodbye.
    Alone now.
    Always alone.

    *     *     *

    I’m sitting on a faded brown sofa in the upstairs den. My feet are propped on a
lopsided coffee table. A small TV sits on a worn wooden stand. The volume is
turned down. The news is on. Grainy scenes from Viet Nam flash before me. There’s several overstuffed chairs scattered around the large room. There are windows
to the right and left. Small watercolor paintings of flowers and birds hang on
the walls. There’s a payphone in between. I tried calling Ken on it a few times. No answer.
    I hear somebody running in the hall. A door slams in the distance. The furnace
kicks in. I swear something floated past the windows.
    The running sounds are closer. I see a shadow stretch across the threshold, a
low sinister laugh and heavy breathing. I grip the edge of the sofa.
    I touch my belly and feel the baby move as Flora bursts through the door. Relief
fills me, but fear is etched across Flora’s face. Her cranberry maternity top hangs to her knees. She’s wearing bright pink stretch pants underneath, white sneakers and her hair is
tied back with a tie dyed scarf. She joins me on the sofa; sitting down heavily
and then crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes dart to the door and then
at me.
    “I put the board back where I found it,” she tells me. “I heard something in the library—a girl—she was saying, ‘Help me, help.’”
    “Probably Marcy Long busting your balls.” Wind beats against the windows. I shiver
    “They locked Marcy in her room. Sedated her. I overhead Marsha telling Irene
Dugan that Marcy got out of control. They found three more knives in her room.”
    I feel a pang of sympathy for Marcy, but I feel worse for Flora. She’s shaking. Her face is wet and red from crying.
    I hug her and she tells me, “I’m so scared.”
    “Calm down. Don’t let this place get to you,” I tell her.
    Flora jumps when the phone rings.
    I rise from my seat, make my way towards it. I think of Marcy Long alone in her
room, perhaps surrounded by ghost girls.
    The ringing seems to grow more menacing as I draw