Gateway - Mother

CHAPTER ONE - MOTHER



Solitude, the first raindrops splash on carved stone, tombstones, rows and rows of tombstones. Marcus Evans rises from the earth; brushing off grass and dust from his pants. The broken glass urn, containing a paltry few withered flowers, falls on its side, blown over by a gust of wind from the coming storm. Marcus reaches down with manicured hands, righting the sorry looking memoriam. Guilt and shame warred inside his soul. The grave, dug over two weeks ago, belonged to his Mother, today was his first visit.
Twenty years, twenty bloody years! and now I look down on your grave. Why Mother? Why did you abandon me? Why no contact? The words rattled round Marcus' mind, driving stinging tears to his eyes. The rain increased now, flattening his spiked, black hair to his skull. Marcus blinked tears and rainfall from his deep brown eyes, rain ran down high cheek-bones, cascading from his narrow, pointed chin to drench the front of his navy suit. Marcus never noticed, his mind elsewhere.

Memories, his weak, thin Mother standing holding his hand outside a massive brick building. Her frail, unconvincing smile, as she let go of his hand. A black-clad priest gripping his shoulders, babbling something into his face. His Mother's back, as she walks away, not even a goodbye, or a kiss blown on the wind. The years, long years, of beatings, bullying in the boy's school. The relief, as he walked out those great wooden doors, free!

A rumble of thunder snaps Marcus back to reality. Gasping, as the cold rain hits home, Marcus tosses the bunch of flowers onto the sodden earth, their stems mangled by his tight grip. Turning, the rain hits him full force in the face, Marcus pulls up the collar of the suit, scant protection against the maelstrom. Walking down the rain slicked path, the trees give up the last of their leaves to the howling wind, a brown and yellow snowstorm. Marcus opens the cast-iron gates, which show their rebellion with a loud creak, and walks off into the tempest.

In his plain apartment, Marcus towels his hair, stripped to the waist, his bones ache from the icy rain. The suit drips water onto the threadbare carpet from its hanger on the back of the door. The kettle starts its shrill whistle, as steam streams from its spout. Tossing the damp towel aside, Marcus switches off the gas, before filling a mug of coffee, the kettle's whistle dies a prolonged death. A phone rings shrilly, competing with the stirring spoon within the mug. Irritated, Marcus snatches the receiver.

"Hello, Marcus Evans here!" he snaps.

"Jesus! Bite my head off, why doncha," a female voice replies down the line.

"Jessie! Jessie, I'm sorry, it's been a bitch of a day. I didn't mean to snap, baby."

"I take it, you went to your Mother's grave..." Jessie's voice trails off.

"Yeah, yeah, I went. It seemed so... I dunno...There was a broken glass urn with fucking shitty withered flowers. Fuck...it seemed so lonely... final," Marcus sighed.

"Guess she hadn't many friends, I'm sorry, lover. You felling OK?" her tone was level, soothing.

"Yeah, I'm all right. I need you," Marcus pleaded.
"Love to help honey, but I'm in Texas. You know I won't be back in New York till Saturday."

"I know, just miss you."

"I miss you too, lover. Keep out of trouble till Saturday, I gotta go," the line clicks dead Jessie's end.

"I will," Marcus said to no one.

Marcus slammed down the receiver, at first he admired Jessie's independent spirit, now it rankled. "Sorry for interfering in your career," he muttered. Reaching for the cup of coffee, Marcus took a dip slug. The dark liquid spewed from his mouth on the work top; the cup landed in the sink with a crash. Cold, the goddamn coffee gone cold. What a fuck up of a day. Good fuckin night. Switching off the lights, Marcus slunk to the bedroom, glad to see the back of his day from Hell.

The sounds of the city seeped in the window, car horns, drunken ranting, planes flying overhead and sirens. Marcus stands at the window looking out over the orange glow spreading out below, a pimp argued with one of his girls at a street intersection, probably turned a trick behind his back, Marcus grinned, lighting a cigarette. The blue smoke whirled around his head, before streaming out the window and joining the rest of the haze that hung in the night air. Marcus leaned on the window ledge, the sharp edge digging into his elbows, and drank in the noise of the city. Taking a last, long drag on the filter, Marcus flicks the smoldering tip out the window; watching it fall to the drying pavement. Closing the window, Marcus flops his lean frame down on the covers and drifts off to sleep.

From the haze of a half-dream, Marcus hears a far away voice, low at first, rising with every call. Plaintive and weary the voice invades his dream, rushing round his head, snapping him awake. Lying on his stomach, Marcus twists his head to look around the darkened room, nothing. Hands rub bleary eyes, his body shifts, turning on the covers, pain shots over his hips as he sits upright, damp pants cling at his legs, Marcus sighs, running a hand through ruffled hair.

"Marrrcuss," a tired voice echoes round the room.

His hands grip the cover, as his breath sticks in his throat. "Listen! Whoever you are? I ain't got no money, so fuck off you junkie." He tried to make his voice sound aggressive, it came out in a shrill whine.

""Help me son, your Mother needs you," the voice seemed to come from under the bed.

Marcus retreated to the head of the bed, pushing the cushions out before him as a barrier. "Listen you sick fuck, I've just been to my Mother's grave today. Now get the Hell out of my apartment. I've got a gun," he lied.

An ethereal glow emitted from end of the bed, grayish light, neither bright nor clean. The light grew, flooding over the floor like blood from a wound; Marcus retreated further, till his back rested on the cold plaster of the wall. A bony fingered hand crept over the foot of the bed, gripping the veneered wood. An arm followed, dragging a wild haired head behind, a painfully thin face peered over the edge, a narrow tongue licked desiccated lips, sunken eyes glinted in the street lights flowing from the window, eyes like his own, his Mother's eyes.

"Mother?" Marcus's voice squeaked, through a dry throat.

"Son! help me, please?" the now standing apparition said.

Rage overtook fear. "Help you? After you left me in that hellhole? After you abandoned me?'

The wraith winced, moving slightly backwards from the bed. "I couldn't cope, son. Things got outta hand. I'm so sorry, but please. I'm in Hell, Marcus, Hell. I don't deserve this. Come and save me."

Marcus grabbed the nearest cushion, holding it over his ears. "It's a dream, this whole episode is a nightmare. I'll wake up, now," Marcus removed the cushion, the gray form of his Mother looked on, her face pleading.

"It's no dream son, hel..." the entity wavered mid-sentence and disappeared.

Silence, even the sounds of the world outside disappeared, Marcus's ears thrummed to the beating of his heart; tendrils of gray mist wavered about the room. Clutching a cushion to his chest, Marcus shivered, as the sounds of the outside city floated back to his ears. He sat clutching the cushion for hours, until sleep overcame his sense of dread.

Rain battering at the window pane woke him, the sluggish light of dawn poked in, gray and lifeless in the lashing rain. Marcus shivered, the events of last night fresh in his mind. Tossing the cushion to the floor, he slowly crept down the bed and spied over the edge, nothing, no marks, no slime, no trace. Jesus! I gotta see a shrink, I'm cracking up. Daintily his foot makes the floor, a quick beat of the heart and he jumps, landing near the window. Turning, Marcus faces the room, empty, bar himself. Grinning sardonically, he heads for the door, time for coffee, then work.

Marcus avoided eye contact on the way to work, every face he looked at morphed into his Mother's. He knew every scuff mark on his shoe by the time he left the subway. Work went no better, even on his computer screen his Mother's ghostly visage swam, finally he cracked. Feigning illness, he took a cab home and closed the blinds. Ill at ease, the sleeping tablets drifted him off in a stupor.

Darkness, Marcus groped for the bedside lamp, a click, light flooded his vision, hurting his eyes. His mind swam in a haze, mouth dry. Staggering to the door, Marcus stumbles into the small kitchen, switches on the gas and places the kettle to boil. The red light of the answering machine blinks angrily in the corner, four work-mates wondering if he was all right, none from Jessie, Great to know she's thinking of me. The kettle whistles. Marcus downs the last of the coffee, before rinsing the dregs from the bottom. He watches the mini whirlpool make its way down the plug-hole.

"Help me, son. Their coming, their coming," his mother's voice wails from beneath the plug-hole.

Flailing backwards, Marcus fall across the sofa to land on the floor. The wail grows in intensity, resounding off the walls. Tears stream down his face, agony and remorse fill his body. The wailing continues into the night.

Black bags sit beneath his tired eyes, as a shaking hand holds the razor to a pale cheek. A hiss of pain, the razor bounces off the ceramic wash-basin, rattling round the bottom in a chaotic dance. Marcus turns his jaw to the mirror, inspecting the damage. Thin, watery blood spreads out in a web, tendrils drift upward, a transfixed Marcus stares, as the blood spells out 'HELP ME' on his stubble. After an hour of violent scrubbing at the offending cut, Marcus wearily dresses, heading out, somewhere, anywhere? The world seemed a dark and lonely place.

Traipsing round the streets for awhile, Marcus stops by a bookstore, why he didn't know. Entering, the smell hits, musty old books, leather. A haze of dust hangs suspended in the air and old timber shelving creaks under the oppressive weight of books. An old balding gent sits behind the impressive oak counter, perusing an ancient tome bound in leather, he looks up and smiles at Marcus, before placing the heavy book down.

"Come in, browse awhile, feast your eyes on the knowledge accumulated over centuries," his velvety tones resonate round the store.

"Thanks," Marcus said, hesitantly. "You got anything on getting rid of ghost Mothers," The joke sounds weak.

The store-keeper's eyebrows raise, slightly. "Ghost Mothers, you say. "Try down there," the man said, in earnest.

Marcus, feeling foolish at his attempt at conversation, shuffles between tables laden with aged books, most written in Latin by the looks of the covers. Finally, he reaches where the owner pointed. A mound of books, each stack atop the other are placed on two bow legged chairs, he can't decide which is older, the books, or the chairs. Distressed and a little out of his league, Marcus scans the covers of the books on top. With a shake of his head, he heads for the exit, shoving his hands into his black, leather coat pockets.

"Couldn't find anything?" the owner's voice calls after him.

"Nah!" Marcus answers, without turning.

"Come here, for a moment. If you would?" the owner pleads.

Marcus turns, taking his hands from the coat's pockets, and spreading them out at his sides. "I haven't taken anything."

"Oh! I know sir, there's not a book that would fit in your pockets, anyway," he grins.

"True," Marcus concedes, with a soft chuckle and ambles back to the counter.

"If your serious about ghosts, Mothers, or otherwise. I suggest you contact this man," the old store-owner hands over a dog-eared business card.

Marcus turns the once, cream coloured card in his hand.

Dr. Terence Woldwood
Professor
of
the
occult.
Contact- The Birch House
718-435-785

"Thanks, but I was just kidding."

The owners hand grasps Marcus by the wrist. "Take it! You never know?"

Marcus winces at the old man's strength, the blood drains from his right hand. "Ok, thanks I will. Can't hurt, can it?"

"No, it can't hurt," the store owner said, a smile playing on his thin lips.

Outside, Marcus rubs at his wrist, trying to get a little life back into the hand. Noticing a trash-can, he makes to throw away the card. The dirty paper sits on his palm, grimacing, Marcus shoves the piece of paper down deep into a pocket and walks off down the street.