Michael Devaney - The Elisha Pool

Owen was too stunned to speak. He studied his grandpa’s young face looking for hint of a lie or some residual signs of insanity. He got neither. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I only wanted to stay because YOU needed to stay. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through the last couple of days?”

There was a pause while Owen waited for his grandpa’s rebuttal. There was none, which frustrated Owen even more.

“Well, since you’ve got such important business to attend to that you’d strand me in a foreign county, what are you doing now?” Owen probed.

“Cleaning house,” Stephenson said. “You’re free to come in and visit if you’d like.”

“Cleaning house?” Owen asked, completely flabbergasted. “A few days ago, you were given a new lease on life and in the wake of that excitement you’re at home cleaning house?”

“I thought it would be a nice gesture to have the house clean for your grandma when she comes home.”

Owen didn’t immediately respond. He couldn’t. He was utterly dumbfounded. Instead, he stood motionless and gawked at his grandpa in a slack-jawed stupor. He’s insane. He really is insane.

“Grandpa…Grandma is NOT coming home. You need to stop with this nonsense right now.”

Stephenson tilted his head sideways like a puzzled puppy and smiled. It was a condescending smile. “I appreciate your concern, son, but she is coming home, and soon. And when she does, I want everything to be perfect.”

“Grandpa…” Owen started, but Stephenson held up his hand to stop him from speaking. “I have a lot of work to do and a short time to do it in, so I really need to get back to it. I’ll call you soon and we can plan a surprise family homecoming for your grandma. Okay?”

Owen tried to speak again, with no better luck. Concern for his grandpa was growing paramount.

“I really must go now. I’ll be in touch soon,” Stephenson said, gently pushing the door closed.

“Grandpa, wait!” was all Owen could manage before the door closed in his face.

Stephenson watched the sunset from his bay kitchen window. When complete darkness finally came, he eagerly pulled the Monkey’s Paw from his pocket and plopped down in his recliner.

From the comfort and safety of his home he bowed his head and held the Monkey’s Paw up into the air with his right hand. It was a clear exhibition of both awe and reverence. His actions mimicked a religious rite as though he were presenting a sacrifice to a deity or offering a ransom for his soul. With his penance paid, he lifted his head and opened his eyes then uttered his unholy request, “I wish for a Healing Pool to be created in the location of my purchased burial plot in the cemetery across the street.”

There was a brief, eerie silence as if all the sounds of the world had suddenly been muted.

Then it began.

A brooding storm turned the firmament angry. The sky, slow at first, began to churn and writhe against itself. As the building tempest gained momentum, a fierce, howling wind gave way to violent lightning strikes in all directions. The jagged bolts networked across the sky’s landscape as if mimicking a frozen windshield doused with scalding water. When the strikes had run their course, the black sky glowed purple then quickly transitioned into a mixture of burnt orange and red; the color of an infected, festering sore. Then came the rain and the earth began to groan from deep within its belly. The vibrations caused the ground to rumble and shake. The natural world, it seemed, was at odds with Stephenson’s request. As the storm intensified, Stephenson grimaced and applied a death grip to both arms of his recliner. He then squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. His claw-like grip on the recliner turned his knuckles white.

Stephenson’s burial site and the immediate area inside the cemetery was even more menacing. A miniature tornado formed over the small plot of land and spun wildly down into the ground like a wobbling corkscrew. The formerly green grass covering the ground turned black, then died and evaporated away. The penetrating water spout flung debris in every direction until it had fully corrupted its target. The creeping bugs residing underneath fled to escape the cursed soil. The remaining dirt turned to a charcoal colored mud then gave way to a blood thick, sulfurous smelling liquid. The liquid gurgled and bubbled up from the bottom of the pit to overtake the hole before erupting into a small-scale volcano spewing black fluid high into the air.

The entire event was over just as quickly as it had begun.

When the grumbling sky stopped complaining, Stephenson opened his eyes and let go his grip on the recliner.

It’s done! I have to go and see!

Stephenson leapt from the chair and jerked open his front door. The sky was still a Kaleidoscope of colors, but the rain and wind had ceased entirely. He stepped out onto his driveway for a closer look at the neighborhood. It looked as though this latest storm had his neighbor’s reacting in their usual behavior: all huddled in their basements or bathtubs in duck-and-cover mode. Stephenson glanced across the street toward the cemetery then bolted in a dead out run. If he could get himself high enough up the cemetery’s front gate, he had designs on climbing over the top. When he got to within a few feet of the gate he extended his arms high above his head and jumped. He looked like an NBA Power Forward going up for a rebound. It was a perfectly timed leap. His skillful effort landed him three-quarters of the way up the iron gate. From there he grabbed the closest horizontal bar and started climbing. When he made it to the top of the gate, he swung his legs over the rail, one after the other, then held tight with his hands and, in one fluid motion, slid his upper body over the top. From there he lowered his weight and hung vertical a few moments to catch his breath. With the hard work done, he let go of his grip and dropped, rolling safely onto the ground.

When he reached his burial plot and saw the gleaming waters of his newly created pool rocking in the moonlight, he raised his face toward the heavens and raised both hands high above his head. His pose brought to mind a prizefighter just awarded a win. The water’s foul, black color was indiscernible in the darkness. Aside from the hideous smell, which he naively attributed to being a normal part of the process, Stephenson had no reason to suspect anything was amiss with his pool.

What his view from above ground didn’t show, however, was that some of the corrupt, black liquid had already begun leeching its way into the adjoining ground and into his wife’s coffin.

Finn and Andria took the first stand-by flight available out of Manaus and suffered through another cramped plane ride home. It was a long flight and while Finn tossed and turned in his seat struggling to sleep, Andria entertained herself with a book of collected short stories she’d picked up at the airport, entitled, 20 thCentury Ghosts , by Joe Hill.

As soon as the plane touched down in Boston, Finn dialed Andrew’s number hoping for an update. No luck. He got voice mail.

“No answer,” Finn said, while he pressed the disconnect button.

“Well, that’s bothersome,” Andria said.

“Yes,” Finn said. “But no matter. We have no other choice but to get to the car and head for the office. I’ll try reaching him again when we’re on the road.”

They had just anchored their seatbelts and pulled away from the parking deck when Finn’s cell phone rang. His face lit up with relief when he saw Andrew’s name displayed across the top.

“Hello,” Finn said, anxiously.