David Morrell: Black Evening

I'm afraid for you. I had planned to bring you out here soon. I think you're ready. I think you'd be receptive. I think that this place would give you joy.

My final compassionate act on your behalf is to give you this compound. I hope that it will ease your suffering and provide you with solace, with peace. You'll know what I mean if you're truly receptive, if you're as sensitive as I believe you are.

Grady nodded, stood, wiped his tears, kissed his fingers, placed them over the glass that enclosed the urns, and left the mausoleum, careful to lock its door behind him.

The compound was enshrouded again, this time by a cloud of dust that Grady's cruiser raised coming up the lane. He stopped the car, waited for the dust to clear, and wasn't at all surprised to see Brian and Betsy, their twin daughters, the other children, the young men who died in Vietnam, and the five couples who'd been killed in the accident.

Indeed he'd expected to see them, grateful that his hopes had not been disappointed. Some were in the pool. Others sat in redwood chairs beside the water. Others grilled steaks on the barbecue.

They were talking, laughing, and this time, even from inside the cruiser, Grady could hear them, not just the splashes but their voices, their mirth, even the spatter of grease that dripped from the steaks onto the smoking coals in the barbecue.

That had puzzled him: why he'd been able to hear the strokes of the swimmer but not the conversations of the ghosts whom he – but not Clauson – had seen this morning.

Now, though, he understood. It took a while to make contact. You had to acquire sensitivity. You had to become – how had Ben put it in his letter? – receptive. Each time you encountered them, they became more real until…

Grady reached for the paper bag beside him and got out of the cruiser. He unlocked the chainlink fence and approached the compound, smiling.

"Hi, Brian. Hello there, Betsy."

They didn't acknowledge him.

Well, that'll come, Grady thought. No problem. I just have to get more receptive.

He chose an empty chair by the swimming pool and settled into it, stretching out his legs, relaxing. It was evening. The sun was nearly down behind the mountains. The compound was bathed in a soothing crimson glow. The young man he'd first encountered, the potential champion swimmer who'd died in Vietnam, kept doing his laps. A delighted man and woman, gray-haired, in their sixties, kept blurting encouragement to him.

Grady turned again to Brian and Betsy over by the barbecue. "Hey, how have you been? It's good to see you."

This time, Brian and Betsy responded, looking in his direction.

Yeah, all it takes is receptivity, Grady thought.

"Hi, Ben. Glad you could make it," Brian said.

"Me, too." Grady reached inside his paper bag and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Untwisting its cap, he looked around for a glass, didn't find one, shrugged, and raised the bottle to his lips. He tilted his head back, feeling the year-long tension in his neck begin to dissipate. After the heat of the day, the evening was pleasantly cool. He tilted the bottle to his lips again and swallowed with satisfaction.

Receptivity, he thought. Yeah, that's the secret. All I have to do is be sensitive.

But as he drank and smiled and waited, the miracle that he'd come for didn't happen. He kept looking around, struggling to maintain his calm. Helen and John. Where were they? They're supposed to be here.

They have to be!

He swallowed more bourbon. "Hey, Brian?"

"What is it, Ben?"

"My wife and son. Where are they?"

"I'm afraid they can't be here yet," Brian said.

"Why not?" Grady frowned.

"There's something you have to do first."

"I don't understand."

"Think about it."

"I don't know what you mean. Help me, Brian."

"Think about the shrine."

And then everything was clear. "Thank you, Brian."

Grady set down the bottle, stood, and left the swimming pool, walking toward the shrine. Inside, candles were lit. He passed the church pew in the sanctuary and reverently studied the photographs above the mantel, the pictures that grief-destroyed parents had hung there, the heart-breaking images of the eight dead children.

Is that all it takes? Grady thought. Is that all I need to do?

He removed his wallet from his trousers, opened it, caressed the photographs of Helen and John that he always carried with him, and removed them from their protective, transparent, plastic sleeves. After kissing them, he set them on the mantel.

Now? he wondered, his heart pounding. Now ?

But Brian and Betsy don't have their photographs up here, he thought. The couples who were killed in the accident, their photographs aren't here, either.

Maybe, though, Grady wondered. Maybe if you've been here long enough, it isn't necessary to put up photographs.

On the other hand, the children. They never had the chance to come here. They died before Brian built the shrine. For them, the photographs were necessary, just as photographs were necessary for…

Heart pounding faster, Grady turned and left the shrine, hurrying back to the swimming pool. He felt terrified that his loneliness wouldn't be broken, but at once he saw Helen and John waiting for him, and his chest hurt unbearably. Helen was holding out her arms. John was jumping up and down with excitement.

Grady ran.

Reached them.

Embraced them.

And felt his arms go through them just as their arms and bodies went through him.

"No!" he wailed. "I need to touch you!"

Then he realized. He had to give them time. In a little while, he'd be able to hold them. He spun to face them.

"I love you, Ben," Helen said.

Tears streamed down Grady's face.

"Dad, I've missed you," John said.

"And I love both of you, and I've missed you so much that – " Grady's voice broke. He sobbed harder. "It's so good to – "

Grady reached for them again, and this time, as his arms went through them, he felt as if he'd reached through a cloud. The sensation was subtle but unmistakably physical. It was happening. They'd soon be -

Grady's knees felt weak.

"Sweetheart, you'd better sit down," Helen said.

Grady nodded. "Yes. The strain's been… I think I could use a rest."

As he walked with his wife and son toward the swimming pool, Brian, Betsy, and the others nodded with approval.

"Dad, the kids in the pool are having so much fun. Can I take a swim?"

"Absolutely. Anything you want, son. Your mother and I will watch."

Grady sat in his chair by the pool. Helen sat close beside him, stroking his arm. The sensation was stronger. Soon. Soon he'd be able to hold her.

Betsy called to him, "Ben, would you like a steak?"

"Not right now, thanks. I'm not hungry. Maybe later."

"Any time. All you have to do is ask."

"I appreciate that, Betsy."

"Maybe another drink would improve your appetite."

"I bet it would." Grady raised the bottle to his lips. Helen stroked his arm, and now her touch was almost solid. John dove into the pool.

"Together," Helen said.

"Yes," Grady said. "At last."

It became the most wonderful evening of his life. In a while, Helen's touch was totally firm. Grady was able to hold her, to hug her, to kiss her. And John.

When the sun disappeared, a full moon lit the darkness, illuminating the festive specters.

There was just one problem. Before Grady had driven to the compound from the mausoleum, he'd made several stops in town. One had been to the liquor store. Another had been to the courthouse, to find out who'd owned the land that Brian had purchased to build the compound. Grady had hoped to be able to question whoever had owned the land and to find out if there was anything unusual about this area, anything – even an old campfire story – that might provide a hint, the start of an explanation for this miracle.