Read Online The Sound of Building Coffins by Louis Maistros - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis Maistros
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nothing, the child falling once more into rigid catatonia, eyelids fallen shut again; rapid eye movement returning with fresh vigor.
Lips, a straight thin line, betraying neither emotion nor reason.
Beauregard Church stood motionless, silent.
Morningstar offered a hand to the mother. “Stand up, Mother. So that you may watch your child be saved.”
On wobbly knees, Anabella Carolla took the preacher’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. She at once recognized the small heart-shaped birthmark below the middle finger of her husband’s disembodied hand. “ My ’Tonio. ” She reached out to touch his pale index finger. Morningstar held her trembling hand back, his voice kind but firm:
“ Shhhh. No. It will be all right. This is your husband’s gift to your son.” Then, after a brief pause: “He knew. Your husband knew. It will be all right now.”
The child’s breathing had become increasingly labored. Jack ran a finger across the smooth rail of the crib, looked down and in, whispered matter-of-factly and without expression,“ Babaku .” A word for nameless African demons.
“ No, Jack,” responded Morningstar. “This is no pagan demon. A Christian one. And it has a name.” As little Dominick’s chest struggled to expand for air, the severed hand appeared to tremble of its own accord.
“ The Christian demon has a name,” repeated Morningstar. This time for his own benefit, a reaffirmation of things witnessed in dreams.
Dominick’s chest stopped rising for air.
It was now clear that the autonomous movement of the hand was not illusion. A gentle massage of the child’s chest. A caress from a dead father. Anabella Carolla wiped her eyes, allowing them to widen in terror or hope. Marshall Trumbo stepped directly behind her, sensing she may faint, ready for her fall.
Trumbo spoke up. “The name of the demon, Father?”
Morningstar looked at him blank-faced. “Knowing the name would do you no good, son. No good at all.”
The preacher focused his attention back to the child—who had suddenly begun thrashing violently against the barred walls of the crib. Head and feet taking turns whipping up then down, a blind see-saw. Rhythmically. Beating against the loose fabric of the thin mattress:
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
The rhythm’s reprise erased whatever lingering doubt Morningstar may have reserved. He spoke to those in the room:
“ It is the demon himself who needs to be saved tonight. Without the demon’s redemption, the boy is lost. And so are we all.”
“ Lookit the hand,” said Typhus in a whisper. “I don’t like it.”
The movement of the hand had picked up in speed, fingers kneading the taut skin of the boy’s chest frantically—pushing through skin. No, not pushing through—sinking in . The flesh of the dead man’s fingers was melting into and joining the flesh of the child. Fusing.
Anabella Carolla prayed something in Sicilian between lips barely parted, her hands flattening over her face, fingers spread just enough to allow herself fragmented witness, teetering on exhausted legs. Trumbo stood behind with his hands gently brushing her waist. Ready, once more, for her fall.
Morningstar faced the mother, laid a shaking hand on her shoulder. An imploring whisper: “Please, Mother. Leave God out of this. This business ain’t none of His. God has His own troubles to tend. His own house to clean. Let Him be.” Defying Morningstar’s instruction, Anabella Carolla only prayed louder.
In the crib, a change had begun.
“ This isn’t right,” said Morningstar. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Ain’t the way I dreamt it.”
Dominick’s body had begun a visible transformation:
rebirthing
Arms pressed to sides, legs pressed together. Ears receding, mouth stretching wide, eyes separating, nose flattening. The red welts that had risen behind the ears had turned to slit-shaped holes, sucking in a tortured, thin stream of air. Whistling.
rebirthing
Diphtheria
Lips, a straight thin line, betraying neither emotion nor reason.
Beauregard Church stood motionless, silent.
Morningstar offered a hand to the mother. “Stand up, Mother. So that you may watch your child be saved.”
On wobbly knees, Anabella Carolla took the preacher’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. She at once recognized the small heart-shaped birthmark below the middle finger of her husband’s disembodied hand. “ My ’Tonio. ” She reached out to touch his pale index finger. Morningstar held her trembling hand back, his voice kind but firm:
“ Shhhh. No. It will be all right. This is your husband’s gift to your son.” Then, after a brief pause: “He knew. Your husband knew. It will be all right now.”
The child’s breathing had become increasingly labored. Jack ran a finger across the smooth rail of the crib, looked down and in, whispered matter-of-factly and without expression,“ Babaku .” A word for nameless African demons.
“ No, Jack,” responded Morningstar. “This is no pagan demon. A Christian one. And it has a name.” As little Dominick’s chest struggled to expand for air, the severed hand appeared to tremble of its own accord.
“ The Christian demon has a name,” repeated Morningstar. This time for his own benefit, a reaffirmation of things witnessed in dreams.
Dominick’s chest stopped rising for air.
It was now clear that the autonomous movement of the hand was not illusion. A gentle massage of the child’s chest. A caress from a dead father. Anabella Carolla wiped her eyes, allowing them to widen in terror or hope. Marshall Trumbo stepped directly behind her, sensing she may faint, ready for her fall.
Trumbo spoke up. “The name of the demon, Father?”
Morningstar looked at him blank-faced. “Knowing the name would do you no good, son. No good at all.”
The preacher focused his attention back to the child—who had suddenly begun thrashing violently against the barred walls of the crib. Head and feet taking turns whipping up then down, a blind see-saw. Rhythmically. Beating against the loose fabric of the thin mattress:
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
The rhythm’s reprise erased whatever lingering doubt Morningstar may have reserved. He spoke to those in the room:
“ It is the demon himself who needs to be saved tonight. Without the demon’s redemption, the boy is lost. And so are we all.”
“ Lookit the hand,” said Typhus in a whisper. “I don’t like it.”
The movement of the hand had picked up in speed, fingers kneading the taut skin of the boy’s chest frantically—pushing through skin. No, not pushing through—sinking in . The flesh of the dead man’s fingers was melting into and joining the flesh of the child. Fusing.
Anabella Carolla prayed something in Sicilian between lips barely parted, her hands flattening over her face, fingers spread just enough to allow herself fragmented witness, teetering on exhausted legs. Trumbo stood behind with his hands gently brushing her waist. Ready, once more, for her fall.
Morningstar faced the mother, laid a shaking hand on her shoulder. An imploring whisper: “Please, Mother. Leave God out of this. This business ain’t none of His. God has His own troubles to tend. His own house to clean. Let Him be.” Defying Morningstar’s instruction, Anabella Carolla only prayed louder.
In the crib, a change had begun.
“ This isn’t right,” said Morningstar. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Ain’t the way I dreamt it.”
Dominick’s body had begun a visible transformation:
rebirthing
Arms pressed to sides, legs pressed together. Ears receding, mouth stretching wide, eyes separating, nose flattening. The red welts that had risen behind the ears had turned to slit-shaped holes, sucking in a tortured, thin stream of air. Whistling.
rebirthing
Diphtheria
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