Seaforth Prison (The Haunted Book 3) Page 3

  That wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.

  “The book is all in Latin, and the pages…they were very old, nearly crumbling. It took me a long time to translate it word for word. It wasn’t just what the man who gave it to me said about the book, it was also the book itself. Every time I held it, every time my fingers brushed the dark leather cover, I could feel that it had power. I didn’t trust anyone to read it, so I had to learn Latin to translate it all by myself. This took time…lots of time. And without anyone else to look it over, I kept second guessing myself.”

  Ben took another gulp of coffee and resisted the urge to interrupt. He had no idea how this story of a book was going to help him understand what had happened to Quinn.

  “I know you have things to do, Ben,” Father said, as if reading his mind, “but have patience. Even as a much younger man, you struggled with the art of just waiting and watching. You’ll see that waiting and watching will serve you very well moving forward. Please, allow me to take my time.”

  Ben bit his lip and flexed his biceps involuntarily. He respected and trusted Father Callahan, but as the warden at Seaforth Prison, he just wasn’t used to being told what to do.

  Still, he swallowed his pride and waited for the man to continue.

  Patience…like the three minutes that Carson used to tear out Quinn’s eyes.

  “Inter vivos et mortuos tells only one story, a simple tale of a time where the land of the living and of the dead come close together—where they touch. As a man of the cloth, I am a believer of an eternal soul, as are you, Ben. And I used to believe in a heaven and a hell. But this book, this story, if you will, doesn’t describe heaven and hell as different places, but as the same place. And in this place, you are given a choice: to remain whole and burn, or throw yourself into the Sea, lose your self, and replenish the quiddity.”

  “The what?” Ben asked.

  “Quiddity.”

  The warden shook his head. He was beginning to think that bringing Father Callahan to Seaforth had been a bad idea. The man was speaking as if he had some sort of dementia, an affect.

  Heaven and hell as one place? Quiddity?

  What did he expect the man to do here, anyway? Especially if he wasn’t willing to tell him about Quinn.

  Father Callahan continued, more slowly this time.

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that this place…it used to be a one-way street. You go there, make your decision, and that’s it. But lately, things are changing. Things are becoming more fluid in this place. People are coming back. And if this gate opens, the things that will flood into our world…” He paused and looked off to one side again. “Well, these things will make Carson look like a teddy bear.”

  “Is it like the apocalypse? Something like that?” Ben asked softly.

  Father Callahan mulled this over for a moment.

  “Maybe…but, to be honest, I don’t know for certain. This book, this story, well, it isn’t exactly in tune with the tenets of Catholicism, as you can rightly tell. But, Ben, it should be taken very, very seriously. Some of the things I have seen and heard lately, about a woman in the swamp…”

  The man shook his head, his lined face sagging. When he spoke again, his voice was so low that Ben had to lean in close to make out the words.

  “There is something happening to our world, Ben. Something very, very wrong.”

  Despite being fairly certain that the man had started to lose it, the way the words came out of the old man’s mouth—with such conviction—chilled Ben’s blood.

  “What does this have to do with me, Father? What does it have to do with what happened here? With Carson?”

  He thought he saw the priest swallow hard.

  Was that…was that fear?

  Ben couldn’t be certain, but he thought that maybe it was. And this was more than enough to give Ben pause. Father Callahan could be blunt, straightforward, and honest to a fault, but one thing he never was was afraid.

  Except for now.

  The priest nodded slowly.

  “The place is called the Marrow, Ben, and the man in charge calls himself the Goat.”

  Chapter 5

  “Three…no, four quiddity.” Allan squinted hard through the lens, which he panned about the room. “No, three.”

  He lowered the camera.

  “Not sure, there is something strange going on with the fourth. But I know that less than nearly a year ago, there were three quiddity here, in this place. Strong ones, too. Ones that definitely left a mark.”

  Robert glanced quickly to Shelly and Cal. The former clearly wasn’t buying any of this. Cal, on the other, seemed rapt with interest.

  The check that Sean had given them had cashed without problem, and true to his word, Cal had started to exercise more regularly. Robert, on the other hand, was drinking more often, and the hour of his drink of choice—scotch, always scotch—kept creeping up earlier and earlier each day.

  And Shelly had no problem joining him. She had joined him in a lot of things lately.

  They hadn’t talked that much about what had happened in the Seventh Ward; all of them just wanted to put, and leave, that horrific night behind him. But Robert had caught Cal staring at the three burn marks on his leg several times, despite wearing pants as often as possible, and he knew that his friend wasn’t entirely done with quiddity or the Marrow.

  And it scared him—that look scared him.

  At first, Robert had tried to find Sean again, to demand answers to more questions, but the man didn’t seem to exist. It was rare in this day and age that absolutely no trace of a person could be found online, but this appeared to be the case with Sean.

  Leland…he’s your father…

  He had also searched for LBlack, but the man had gone dark. It couldn’t have been him anyway, just like he couldn’t be his father. He had a dad, and a mom, nice people who’d died in an accident a number of years back. And his father, Alex Watts, had never worn a jean jacket.

  So Robert resigned himself to just sitting and waiting, drinking every day to help him forget about his daughter’s voice, the faces in the fire.

  He even tried to forget about the sand, the waves.

  And that had worked surprisingly well.

  Until Allan had knocked on the door a few minutes ago.

  “They leave a mark? A trail of some sort?” Robert asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  Allan nodded.

  “Yeah, most of the time—it depends. The longer the spirits stay here, the longer their mark stays.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Allan shrugged.

  “That’s something I thought you could help me with.”

  “Let me ask you something, Allan,” Cal interjected. “Have you ever seen a spirit—?”

  “Fuck, stop calling it spirit,” Shelly spat.

  Cal gave her a look.

  “Fine,” he said slowly. “Quiddity…quid? Can we call them fucking quid, Your Highness?”

  Shelly took a step forward, and Robert held up his hands.

  “What the hell is going on with you guys? Just keep it together. Jesus.”

  Shelly’s expression turned sour, but she didn’t offer a retort; progress, for her.

  Cal turned back to Allan.

  “Have you ever found quiddity using your camera that you can’t see with your eyes?”

  Allan looked at him like he had some sort of mental deficiency.

  “Yes—of course. Abut 50/50, actually. Most of the time it’s after car accidents and other horrible things.”

  Robert took a sip of the scotch in his hand.

  “What does this all have to do with us, Allan?”

  “I want to help. I managed to send my parents on their way to the other side a decade ago, but I’m not really sure how I did it. And my god, they were grateful. I just want to help, is all.”

  Robert chewed the inside of his lip. He had tried hard to forget about this whole world and its implications.
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br />   But if this boy…if he and his strange cameras could offer a true way back, a way to get Amy back, then maybe…

  Robert shook his head.

  It’s not possible. Sean’s gone. The rest is…the rest is just a bad dream. Amy’s gone. Your life is here.

  “Allan,” he said after a heavy sigh. “Thanks for coming, for showing us your gear. It really is fascinating, but I think you got the wrong impression about us—misinterpreted what I posted online.”

  Robert stood, and Allan’s face drooped.

  “Woah, wait a second—” Cal got to his feet as well. He indicated himself, Robert, and Shelly with a circular gesture. “We should talk about this, guys. Maybe—”

  Robert shook his head.

  “No, I’m done talking.”

  He held out his hand for Allan to shake it, and the boy tentatively extended his own.

  “Robbo? This isn’t—”

  Robert shook Allan’s hand and indicated that he should head to the door. Shelly followed closely behind the young man.

  “No, Cal,” Robert said sternly. “That’s over—it’s over. I don’t know what happened to you back then, with your friend, but we’re not dwelling in that world anymore.”

  Cal threw his hands up.

  “My friend? What the fuck do you know about my friend?”

  Robert was taken aback by his friend’s sudden aggression. This wasn’t the Cal that he knew, the goofy, good-natured but blunt as hell conspiracy theorist.

  This was someone else.

  “Nothing, but we’re done—”

  Cal’s eyes went wide.

  “Done? Done? Who died and made you king? What made you so fucking special, Robbo?”

  A sudden pain in Robert’s calf caused him to grimace and he nearly buckled.

  “Fuck,” he swore, bending over to massage his lower leg.

  “That makes you special? Why don’t you fucking tell us the truth about what happened to you in the Ward, Robbo, about how you got those scars?” He took another step forward. “While you’re at it, why don’t you tell Shelly about what Sean told you? Huh? Yeah, that’s right, I heard what he said to you on the porch. You think I’m an idiot? You think—”

  “That’s enough, Cal!” Robert shouted.

  “Why? Who—?”

  And that was it; Robert lost it.

  “It’s my fucking house, so it’s my fucking rules. You don’t like it, Cal? Then maybe you should find another place to live. Go, get the fuck out.”

  Cal’s eyes narrowed and he pointed a finger at Robert’s chest.

  “Your house? Your house? If it weren’t for me and Shelly here, you’d be rotting in the Marrow. Fuck, we saved your ass at Pinedale, too, lest you forget that as well? So it’s your place? Why? Because your name is on the deed because Sean Sommers somehow gets it signed by a dead woman? Well, fuck this.”

  Robert was taken aback by his friend’s sudden intense anger. He turned and saw Allan staring at them both, eyes wide.

  “Shelly, see Allan out, okay?”

  The woman obliged by coming up behind Allan and nudging him forward.

  “Time to go, li’l guy,” she said softly. “Mommy and Daddy are fighting again.”

  “No, you know what?” Cal said, drawing Robert’s gaze back. “Fuck this—you want me out? Then I’ll go. I don’t even want to stay here.”

  He finished his beer then blew by Robert, almost knocking into him in the process.

  “C’mon, Allan. I’ll see you out.”

  “Cal—”

  Cal turned his back and grabbed Allan roughly by the arm. Then he held up his middle finger to Robert.

  “Fuck you, Robert—fuck you with your secrets and lies and holier than thou utter bullshit.”

  And then he left with Allan, leaving Robert to stand there, his mouth agape.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Chapter 6

  Warden Ben Tristen exhaled slowly, then rubbed his eyes. The lighting inside the chapel was poor, and dusk seeped through the single stained-glass window above the altar. As he stared at the Jesus on the cross made of colored glass, he wondered if Father Callahan was just confused, senile even.

  What about Jesus? God and all that?

  Allegories, Ben; allegories for the Marrow, the Goat, the Sea.

  It befuddled him that a man such as Callahan—a priest, no less—had abandoned his faith for another. But it was not for him to question, he supposed.

  Ben squinted at the window, and realized that it was the only one in the entire prison that wasn’t covered in bars. Then he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Seaforth Prison was located on an island more than twenty miles from land. Even if one of the inmates was to escape, they couldn’t go anywhere.

  Lightning suddenly ripped through the sky, illuminating the crown of thorns on Jesus’s head.

  “So…what now?” he said after a long pause.

  Father Callahan surprised him by rising to his feet.

  “I need to go see the inmate—to see Carson,” he said simply.

  Ben eyed his old friend suspiciously. He was crooked, his spine curved like a withered branch. His eyes were a frosty white from cataracts, and his skin was like leather left in the sun for far too long.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Father.”

  “Are you worried about me?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Not just you, Father. I’m worried about anyone going in there…you saw what Carson did to Quinn. He’s going to be alone for a long, long time.”

  It was definitely a mistake bringing Callahan here, he realized.

  Go see Carson? He is definitely off his rocker.

  No way. No fucking way.

  Father Callahan seemed to mull this over for a moment.

  “This is bigger than me, Ben. Besides, I’m old; my time on this earth is nearly spent. It won’t matter what happens to me.”

  Ben stood and put a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you, Father. I can barely—” He took a hitched breath. “I shouldn’t have let anything happen to Quinn, and I won’t let anything happen to any of the others.”

  Father grimaced.

  “Ben? I don’t think—”

  Again, the warden shook his head.

  “I want to thank you for coming out here, Father. Your presence, if nothing else, has made me feel more comfortable. And the story…thank you for sharing. One day soon we’ll have a scotch and talk more about it—what was it? Between the living and the dead? Yeah, we’ll have a good, long chat. But for now, I think it’s best if you headed back to the mainland. I need to figure out how to get Quinn’s body off the island.”

  Father Callahan reached for his cane and wrapped his gnarled hand around the handle. He took a step, with Ben’s guidance, but then he stopped abruptly.

  “Ben, why is it that you really called me here?”

  Ben looked at his friend and hesitated.

  “It wasn’t just be to show me a video of your friend, Quinn, was it? I mean, I’m no psychologist, just an old, frail priest.”

  The warden kept tight-lipped. The way the priest was behaving, the borderline blasphemous things he was saying, it would do neither of them any good to mention what he had seen.

  A smile suddenly broke on the man’s lined face.

  “You saw him, didn’t you? You saw the man after he died.”

  A vision of Quinn, clutching his face as he ran into the mess hall, passed through his mind and Ben shuddered.

  “Ben, please, I must see Carson. If you saw your friend, then things are worse than I thought. Things are accelerating. We—I—need to stop it.”

  Another pause.

  “Ben, please.”

  “Suppose I believe this, Father, everything that you are saying, and suppose that I did see my friend’s spirit. How is talking to Carson going to help? What are you going to do? How could you possi
bly stop him?”

  “The man…the man who gave me the book, he made me a Guardian, Ben. A Guardian of the Marrow. I can stop Carson. It’s in the Inter vivos et mortuos; the rift can be closed, but only by one of us. And only before it’s fully open.”

  Ben squinted hard.

  Guardian.

  The stories were just getting more fantastical the longer he spoke to the priest. His friend. His friend who clearly needed help. He wished he could just take Father Callahan to speak to Carson, show him that the man was just a run-of-the-mill psychopath, one that oddly said similar shit to what he was saying now, and let him realize that there was no secret portal to another world in Cell Block E.

  Sure, there was death and evil, of that Ben had no doubt. Only it came in the form of a despicable human named Carson Ford.

  “No,” he said simply. “I’m going to get you off the island, Father.”

  The man bowed his head, as if finally accepting his fate. But he wasn’t done yet; not quite.

  “What about the spirit of your friend, Ben? The one you saw after he died?”

  Ben shook his head.

  “Wasn’t real, it was just stress. Now, please—”

  “Your friend isn’t the only dead here, Ben. I saw several others when I arrived by boat. I fear that this place—that this prison—has a very important role to play in this rift between worlds. Which is why I must speak to Carson.”

  Ben shook his head again.

  The priest was just so certain, so convinced of his own words, that it was infectious. Flexing his biceps, Ben reverted back to his safe place. The place that he understood. The role that he had occupied for nearly two decades.

  Ben Tristen was the warden of Seaforth Prison, and nothing was going to happen to anyone else while he was in charge.

  “No,” he said sternly. “I’m sorry, Father, but I can’t let you see Carson. Again, I thank you for coming, but I must insist that you head back to the mainland now. I will arrange for the boat to pick you up.”

  Lightning suddenly illuminated the room again, and Ben’s eyes shot to the stained-glass window.

  The rain is coming.

  He gently guided the priest toward the door.