Feeble As Frail: Part 5

This is part 5 of my serialized short story. Sorry for the longer delay, but I have been working furiously to get it. Sometimes my edit loop never ends because I am never quite satisfied. Read the earlier parts if you would like:

part 1 .
part 2.
part 3.
part 4.

February 1927

There was no good reason why the telephone ought to be ringing. Arthur didn’t remember falling asleep, but he found himself on the couch where Ethel, his fiance, had been. The last thing he remembered was giving his dying mother a drink of water and talking to a strange clay colored girl across the street. She had said the Drifter was coming. Arthur stood and saw the girl’s unkempt house through the window. Not a dream. He hadn’t held much hope for that anyway. The phone was still ringing. He found Ethel in the kitchen, where she was struggling to lift her pregnant body from a table stacked with pulp crime fiction magazines.

“Please, Ethel. Sit.” said Arthur. “It can’t be for us. There are ten other homes on the party line.”

“I’m surprised your mother even has a phone.” said Ethel, not bothering to sit.

“Dorothy insisted.” he paused. “Damn, I guess that is our ring.”

After the operator put the caller on the line, Arthur heard his sister’s voice. She was out of breath.

“I’m coming over, Arty. Randall is bringing me.”

Arthur glanced at the Normandy chime clock on the shelf. It read four in the morning, but the clock was slow and it was probably four thirty. Ethel asked him who was on the phone and he pointed at the magazine pile. The one on top pictured a woman nearly falling out of her dress as a shadow hand loomed over her. A look of mild panic crossed Ethel’s face.

“Dorothy? Now?” she said.

The line had gone quiet and Arthur said, “Dotty? Dotty?” with no response. He hung up and turned to his fiance. “She’s coming here. Your cousin is bringing her in his cab.”

“Now how is Randall at her beck and call?”

Arthur shook his head. He pointed at the pulps, saying,“You like those?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She snatched the issue from the top and held Dorothy’s revealing likeness in front of her face. “How does it feel to see your sister posed like this?”

“I try not to read them.”

“Uh huh.” said Ethel. “They aren’t for me either, but I like this one writer. Philip Moore.”

“See any by Charlie Finn?”

“What, with his detective that always shoots straight, drinks hard, and chases the girls? It’s a man’s dream, I guess. Philip Moore knows how to write from a woman’s eyes. It’s not like bad things don’t happen to the girls, but at least they have feelings about it.”

Arthur laughed. “I’m not fan of Charlie Finn either. Trust me. He and Dotty were married for six or seven months. The artist that draws her introduced them, but Charlie ran off with this other girl. Her father owned the magazine. Charlie has big plans for himself, whether they include Dotty or not.”

“In that case, I hate him too. You know I don’t like Dorothy, but what did she ever do to him?”

A knock resounded and Randall called out from behind the door. Arthur opened it and Randall came in with Dorothy. The latter was as well trimmed as usual, despite the early hour and her apparent haste. She wore a long coat with fur lapels and a woolen roll brim hat over long curls, an intentional departure from the tight hair and cloche hat popular among her peers.

“Charlie’s dead.” she said.

Ethel’s eyes grew wide and Randall said, “Yeah, the cheat’s dead. Wait until you hear the rest of the story.” He went to the table and pulled out a chair. “Ethel, why aren’t you sitting?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.” said Arthur. “Dotty, are you in trouble?”

“I shouldn’t be, considering he offed himself.” She removed her overcoat and tossed it on the rack by the door. “I’m not saying I didn’t have anything to do with it. I have such a way of getting inside a man’s skull.” She smiled and shook her head, shivering with the thrill of victory. “By the end he was visiting the police daily to complain about the people he thought were after him. They all think he’s screwy so what question should there be when they find him?”

“Remind me not to cross your path.” said Ethel.

Dorothy put two hands on the other woman, who was nearly a head shorter than her, and said, “Honey… if all good boy Charlie Finn did was cheat on me, I would’ve spent my time on better things. But I should’ve seen that Philip Moore would bring him back my way.” When she released Ethel and turned to Arthur, her brother gave her a questioning look. She went on, “I figured you’d already know I was Philip Moore.”

“He doesn’t read the magazine.” said Ethel. “I had a notion Mr. Moore was really a woman.”

“You always were a little more perceptive than my brother. That’s nothing against you, Arty. I love you, but your powers are more physical. It’s why I need you now, and Randall. Mentally, psychically, I’m the strongest of the three of us… hell, I drove a man to suicide without saying a word to him. I scare myself sometimes. But I’m stronger when the circle of three is together, and that is what I need.”

“Slow down.” said Arthur. “For the sake of your slow brother, at least. Philip Moore?”

“Charlie found out.” said Randall.

“You knew about this?” said Ethel.

“Well I just heard it from Dotty myself, but she has trouble cutting to the chase. She’s a better writer than Charlie, and she started getting more fan mail. If you knew Charlie you’d know that’s something he wasn’t taking lying down. Since he was seeing the owner’s daughter, he had the goods to figure out who Philip really was.”

“Randall, how do you know Charlie?” said Ethel.

“So Charlie got me fired.” said Dorothy, just as Randall was opening his mouth. “And he’s been doing his best to keep me from ever writing again, or modelling for that matter. You have to understand there was no other way. Don’t worry…” She flung her palms in the air. “My fingerprints aren’t anywhere near the bastard.”

“So why the rush Dotty?” said Arthur.

“Charlie had money.” said Randall. He parked his rear on the table, pushing the stack of magazines over. “He stole it from his lady friend’s father. How do you like that?”

Dorothy grimaced. “If I’d known, I would’ve gotten that out of him first. It’s only after he was driving down to the marsh that I found out. Randall was good enough to take me there, by the river bank in front of Cobbler’s Snacks, but I couldn’t get to Charlie.”

Randall grinned. “It’s hard to avoid such talk of cash.”

“Do you have a death wish?” said Ethel.

“Wait. How did you learn of this money?” said Arthur.

“There was someone else down there.” Dorothy took a deep breath. “Not the cops. I saw this big car. It almost looked like a hearse, but it’s dark out so I don’t know. And there was a huge man, bigger than Arthur, stooped over Charlie’s car. I didn’t stick around, but chances are Charlie’s dead one way or another. That means we have one shot to find out where he put the money.”

Ethel’s mix of amusement and confusion changed to one of genuine horror. “No.” she said, finally sitting in that chair. “Arthur, no. You said you were done with this occult stuff.”

“It doesn’t matter.” said Arthur. “She doesn’t know how to contact the dead. Moma never taught her.”

“I can contact the dead just fine.” said Dorothy. “But they won’t speak to me. And Moma will teach me before she dies. That is what’s with the rush. Well, that and the hearse driver, if I’m honest.” She chuckled. “Brother, we are talking about so much money. Enough to get whatever you want.” She directed a downward glance at Ethel. “No matter who you are.”

“Right.” said Ethel. “If anyone found a lady like me with more than a dollar, they’d go looking for the man I took it from.”

“Arty, we’ve got to talk to Moma.”

The brother and sister walked to their mother’s room and stopped short at the entrance. A few hours before, her bed covers had so thoroughly enveloped her that she might have disappeared within them. Now she was sitting up, her legs and back meeting at a perfect right angle, as though she were made of two planks nailed together. She was positioned in the middle of the mattress and all of her covers were piled on the floor, along with her night clothes. The pair faced their mother, a withered thing composed of skin the texture and color of dead horsehide and staring into the distance with eyes so wide her lids must have flown off with everything else.

“She’s coming!” shouted the old woman.

“I’m not interested in your melodrama, Moma.” said Dorothy. “It’s time I learned your conjuring routine.”

“The Drifter is coming for me.”

“That would mean something to me if you ever explained what the Drifter was.”

“I…” her face turned so those lidless eyes stared at her son. “Arthur…”

“No.” said Dorothy. “Not Arty. Not this time. You have such a grip on him that he hauled his pregnant wife over here…”

“She’s no wife!”

“Moma, shut your flapping trap. This creepshow act might have thrilled your audiences, but I have no patience. Arty has a baby on the way, a new life that has a chance of not being a waste of flesh like her grandmother. Now I’m here and you’re done ordering him around. If you say another goddamn word to him, I’ll find this Drifter, stuff your rotten soul in a box, and air mail it right over. I will get you your last wish, whatever it is, but you’re going to tell me how to conjure.”

This lecture actually induced a glimmer of remorse and hurt on that wrecked face. She had kept all those magazines, after all. Maybe a small part of her felt something more than anger or disappointment for her daughter. Maybe even some part was proud of this new found strength.

The old woman pointed to the double doored armoire. Dorothy opened the side without the mirror and revealed a chest of drawers. The top drawer made the sound of rattling glass when she opened it. Arthur came over and saw that it was full of hourglasses. Several of them contained dark liquid.

“What is this?” said Dorothy.

“All my pain.” said Moma. “Get an empty one. And the card deck.”

Dorothy fetched an empty glass and opened the next drawer down. On top of a pile of clothes sat a box labeled “Etteilla Tarot” in ornate script along the top. Beneath this was a brightly colored Egyptian drawing featuring a man with the head of a long beaked bird, which itself stood atop the words “Book of Thoth”. Dorothy brought the two items back to the bedside.

She and Arthur stood next to the nightstand, with its empty water glass and newspaper. There was a third object now that hadn’t been there the last time Arthur was in this room. At some point the woman had retrieved her Betz Company tincture of opium. A bent steel spoon rested on top of it. Moma had always claimed she’d taken it for her pain, both physical and mental, but to the children it never seemed to do her any good. The bottle was empty and the pain looked strong as ever.

Dorothy fanned the cards out on the bare mattress. Moma plucked out three. The first she gave to her daughter. It was the Wheel of Fortune. Beneath the wheel was the word “Praemonitus”. The second she gave to Arthur. It was the Chariot.

“Give this to your friend.” she said, handing him Justice. “Now Dorothy, I’ll give you what you want and you will give me what I want.”

Dorothy turned to Arthur and told him to leave. Arthur took the two tarot cards and progressed towards the front room, at which point Ethel called to him and he ran over, thinking she was in trouble. Instead, he found her and Randall standing at the window. Arthur wondered if the children had reappeared.

Instead, what he saw was an ornate hearse motoring up the street at a processional pace. Though it was a gasoline vehicle, it was shaped like the grand horsedrawn carriage of a fine lady from his mother’s generation. A black angel stood on each corner, their broad wings arching over the windows. A coffin with brass pallbearer rails sat on a bed of red velvet within. Two lanterns hung from the front of the carriage. A bench at the top, where the coachman would’ve sat, featured a steering wheel instead of reigns. Behind the wheel sat a massive creature wearing a formal woolen overcoat and top hat. The hearse stopped before the front door and the driver dismounted.

“Is that the Drifter?” said Arthur.

“No.” came Dorothy’s voice from behind them. “That is Grosvenor, her driver. The Drifter is in the back.”

Arthur noticed the change in Dorothy’s demeanor. Her words seemed slower and more careful, and her footfall heavier. Somehow he knew that Moma was dead. When his sister approached, he saw a heavy shape hanging low in one of her dress pockets. He could only assume it was the hourglass.

“I know where the money is.” she said. “Pack your bags.”

She opened the door at the kitchen. The others gasped as the giant man entered the house. The stepping of his boot soles on the stairs made them creak and whine as if he weighed a thousand pounds. The same complaint came from the floorboards inside. He turned down the hall.

“What is happening?” said Ethel. “Who is he? What is the Drifter?”

“She’s not going to get what she wants tonight.” said Dorothy. “Arthur, do you have your things? Get a blanket for Ethel. It’s cold out.”

The four gathered Arthur and Ethel’s scant baggage and shuffled to the street, where Randall’s cab was parked near the hearse. Ethel tried not to look at it as the men helped her into the front passenger seat.

“We’re leaving her in the house?” said Arthur.

“There’s nothing more inside.” said his sister.

A moment later, Grosvenor returned. The driver’s face had assumed a saddened expression. Before climbing back to his seat, he paused. He stared across the street. Arthur now saw that the property had changed. A perfectly proportioned cottage stood where the ramshackle building had been before. A neat row of evergreens extended from either side and wrapped around the back, like a board fence.

Grosvenor cocked his head to one side, his tall hat tipping at a sharp angle. Somehow he also knew that there was something wrong with what he was looking at. He was expecting something else. Unable to find whatever it was he was after, the big man mounted the hearse and drove away.

“Arty.” said Dorothy. “Come with me.”

“Where are you going?” said Ethel.

“Stay here. Randall, start the car.”

Dorothy lead her brother across the street to the white cottage. They slipped between two of the trees. Once secluded, Dorothy pulled the object out of her pocket. It was indeed the hourglass, though now it was full of the same fluid that had been in the others.

“Moma told me to take it to the man across the street.” She said. “Then we’re off to get the money.”

They heard a muffled cry. When the two emerged from the line of trees, they saw a tidy yard and a row of five cast iron chairs near the house. Three were empty. In one sat the girl Arthur had spoken to earlier and in the other sat the boy who had consumed the liquid in the hourglass from the shed.

A workbench stood in the farthest edge of the yard. Another line of trees obscured it from the moonlight, but Arthur could make out a skinny figure with its back turned to him and wearing a long coat with tails. Though it was some sort of man, he was so slight he looked like he could've been made of sticks.

Mounds of what looked like clay chunks rested on either side of the bench. Children’s clothes were piled nearby. Stuck into some of the clay chunks were bits of teeth fashioned from porcelain.

The tall man was working at the bench. Arthur saw two legs sticking out on one side, but no head on the other. A sickening squishing sound came from the bench as the workman’s shoulders moved to and fro. Then he raised a hand with a chunk of clay in it. He tossed the chunk on the ground and shook his hand to dispatch the smaller bits from his fingers. He proceeded to pull apart the lower half of the body.

Once his workspace was clear, the thin man raised a hand without turning around. The boy in the chair exchanged nervous glances with the girl and stood. He gave her a hug.

“Good bye.” she said.

The boy took measured paces towards the bench. He climbed on to the altar and stared into whatever face was on the other side of that narrow and spindly body.

“Our father…” said the boy. “Do I have to?”

The workman replied with a voice that was high pitched and soft. He almost cooed gently when he spoke, but there was a distance in his tone. To Arthur it sounded like the voice of a creature that was wandering in the haze of some kind of drug, believing it was caring for another living thing but unable to see what it was really doing. Like a sleepwalker bathing her precious kittens in acid.

“It is better if the Drifter does not come to you.” he said.

The boy opened his mouth and a sound came out, but his father slipped a hand inside and stopped the words. He kept pushing until the mouth opened wider. Then the man ripped his hand out, pulling half the face away. He threw the lump of clay on the ground with the rest.

“From dust to dust.” he sang.

“He’s killing those poor children.” said Dorothy.

Arthur knew that when she saw the boy and the girl, she saw herself and Arty. It didn’t matter to her what these strange creatures were. Dorothy had seen a lot on her own, and God knew what had happened while she was alone with their mother. Arthur looked at Dotty’s face and saw a woman who knew suffering, a woman enraged by one thinking creature abusing another - whether the victim was herself, her brother, or a little earthenware girl.

She dashed out from the trees and grabbed the child’s hand. The two ran back and Arthur noticed that the thumbprint was still there on the girl’s forehead. From the corner of her glassy eye dropped a tear, more gelatinous and dark than a human tear, but very much the same in any way that mattered. He realized it was the liquid from the hourglasses, the jars of pain.

“This is my fault.” whispered Dorothy. “I lead that thing here, even if it did pass by. Arthur, you carry her. She’s coming with us.”

He did so and they hurried back to the street, back to the car and Randall and Ethel. Now there were five.

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If you want more, then you are in luck. I hear from good sources that the next part is imminent. In the meantime, don’t let me stop your little fingers from upvoting, commenting, or resteeming. If you’ve lost interest, I would appreciate any time you could spare telling me why. Thank you!