The Haunted Mansion

Chapter 3: A Little Fear is Good

~~Zyvea POV~~

      "Pastor, what is going on and why do I feel like I just got dropped at the lunny bin?" His smile dissipates before speaking, "Zy, there's no reason to be apprehensive. I only intend to ask you some questions about your father and your..." His voice trails off again, and another smile breaks across my face realizing that Ostiarius would rather remain silent than voice an uncomfortable truth. "My delusions, Pastor? You can talk about them, as I did many times." I squint my eyes at him as we walk into the Sanctuary, trying to peer at what he is working so desperately to keep from his face.   

   The old cathedral greets me the same way it always has, with a deafening silence and a stillness that could come from something holy. I have always had and kept a relationship with God, just ostracized by those who feel I was less worthy of His presence. The long aisle stretching to the altar lays out before me and the Pastor like an open hand. "Zy, the investigator's in charge of your father's death have questions about your relationship with him." His statement might as well have been a backhand across the face, "Why would they question me? I just landed 2.5 hours ago." Before I could go on a rant something moves on my right at the very edge of my vision. I whip my head to the perceived movement only to see the front pews and the encroaching smoke from the church incense. "Are you well, Zyvea?" The worst has already happened(what is the worst? the pastor's look?), Pastor Ostiarius looks at me with his arms out and concern etching its way through his gaze. 

  "Yes sir, I just mistook the smoke for something...else. That's all." The fearful tension fades from me before asking, "If the police want to talk me, why did you ask to speak with me?" They say that black can't turn pale, but the Pastor's face looks like he got ashy instantaneously. I wander closer to the altar, as Ostiarius brings his hands up to rub his face. "Let's sit, I just want to know a few things about what he happened to confide in(consider deleting "in" or add "you") before his passing." We settle into the second pew with my back to (what I mistook for...? unclear)the mistook for my nightmares. "About 2 months before he died, Terrence would come to her about 3 times a week for confession. However, his so-called 'confessions' were mostly him begging for help." There's no way that he's serious. My father was a believer, that's true, but he never possessed the introspection necessary for confession. 

   "He seemed extremely disturbed that 'a deal done went sideways'." I swallow the lump developing in my throat, that wasn't as alarming. His dealings weren't exactly noble when scoring drugs, so maybe he failed to pay someone on time. Meeting the Pastor's gaze, "That doesn't sound too far fetched; however, I don't know anything about my father's dealers nor his associates." He lets out a cough, like choking on the next words before they can get out of his mouth. That same mouth forms a thin line before saying, "Zyvea, he came to me screaming and drunk about an hour before his recorded time of death. I was sitting in my quarters when I heard him nearly beating down the front doors. As soon as I opened them, he lunged at me half deranged, out of his mind."

~~Ostiarius POV (flashback) ~~

  The raindrops fell as big as stones, and hurt just as much. The front double doors of my church shuddered from the pounding from outside. In my fatigue, I couldn't tell if someone was knocking or if  the winds outside would snatch them from the hinges. I grabbed a candle from the pulpit, and start towards the ruckus. Unlatching the door, I couldn't tell if he'd jumped to me or if the whirlwinds pushed him inside. His hands grasp pierced (pierce? tense) through my arms, and his eyes were like dinner plates. "Please!! They are coming for me! Hide me Pastor, they coming to take me to tarnation!" The bottle that fell from his hands was 3/4 of the way gone, the remaining dark liquor spilling onto the pristine, white marble floors. 

   The more I looked at his face, I couldn't tell if it was the rain or if he'd been crying. "You have to help me! Please, I swear I didn't know what I signed myself to!"  He began to sob as I held him. "Terrance, you must breathe. I don't understand what you're talking about!" Terrance picked up the now empty bottle of whiskey from the floor, and threw it toward the altar. It was a drunken man's pitch, hitting the front 3 pews instead. "You should've protected me! At least warned me about what he could look like! I didn't know, SAVE ME!" He screamed so hard at the from crucifix  I thought I might fall from the wall. For a few moments was the resounding silence of the Lord, which I've always found peaceful, but for Terrance seemed like worse answer possible. "Warned you of what, Terrance?" I slowly approached him like a rabid animal, "Just come with me and talk, we can work it out, Terrance." I reach out to touch his shoulder, but recoiled from me. "Ain't nothin' to be worked out." He sudden calmness scaring even me. 

    The tears were still falling from his eyes as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Keep up with yourself, Pastor. I'll see you from the other side of the line." From his pants, he pulled out a $100 bill shoved his hand into mine before drunkenly careening into the night. "Terrance!" I yelled over the storm, but the dark of the storm ate up his frame before I could get past the first steeple. 

~~Zyvea POV~~

   I guess it's my turn to be pale now. Pastor's recollection has fully taken all the air from my lungs. 'Was he rolling or was he a man who knew his end was coming by his own unsuspecting hand?' I stand abruptly, desperately needing to be as far from this as possible, but he stands with me. "Zyvea, I must know did you father have any involvement in things...unclean?" I gawk at him, "How the hell would I know? He was never around me when he was using, which was always." I have had enough of this. He should've know better than to use me for his own petty admonishment. My eyes dart for the door, 'Who was he to use his proximity to me to make himself feel better about my father's death?'

  "Wait! I didn't mean to be so selfish! I only meant that if he was, it is likely to pass through the lineage, because the dark kingdom does not allow death to end a curse." I halt at the center of the isle, slowly turning around to the Pastor. His breath heaves from running behind me, and he holds his hands out in front of himself. "I only seek to ensure that whatever plagued your father does not seek to claim you too." I stare at him perplexed, wondering if the vapors from the weekly mass smoke had finally caught up with him. "What your father said that night made it all make sense. The terrors, the nightmares, the delusions....your father had them too." I close the gap between us, slapping a fiery red handprint across his left cheek. 

"YOU KNEW?!" Every piece of rage that swelters beneath the surface of my skin, charges at him without relent. "How dare you let me suffer! Every moment you let me think that I was loosing my fucking mind, and you could've put me out of my misery!" I can't fight back the tears, they're coming and there's nothing I can do to stop it. This man does not deserve my tears, especially not after all the years of letting people make me the town Boo Radley Jr. Clutching his reddening cheek, his watery eyes gaze back at me. "Zyvea, truly I meant no harm! At first, I thought that perhaps schizophrenia was a part of your bloodline, and I repeatedly asked your mother to get you the help you need. She always cut down the mere idea, but I know now that it's much deeper than that."

    Taking my hand, Ostiarius began to lead me closer toward the front doors. "The congregation will be here in about 10 minutes for afternoon service, but come back at around 8. I've been digging at what your father may have done, and what it might mean for you." I didn't have time to force him to tell me now as some church elders started to file in through the door. How could he expect me to continue throughout my day as though he hadn't dropped a megaton bomb directly on my head. My late father was afflicted with a version of the terrible visions and dysphoria as me, and the old pastor that stood at the held of those ready to bully was well aware and did nothing. 

   My hands shake violently by the time I walk down the street to Belaire Park. The same orange swing set greets me like a forgotten imaginary friend. Padding over to the familiar seat, I attempt to catch my breath. I let my head fall back, noting the bleakness of the day. Dark, vicious clouds paint irregular spirals that tease the scent of rain onto me. The first drop touches the gravel of the playground before being enthralled by countless others. It was odd, but I let myself be in the midst of the downpour. It felt like a cathartic release of all the pent up trauma, pain, abandonment, and fear that have made themselves the chiral point for who I think I am. For about an hour, I let myself wallow in the deluge of water before I gather myself gently and proceed to walk toward the one place that could shed any light on what's going on. That forsaken place, my father's house.