"Deacon Ash"

Chapter 17: The Letter

I had awakened at exactly four-o-clock in the evening the following day on the living room couch, drained. Not so unexpected after I had power-drank up until the pre-dawn hours. I would have ended up sleep deprived anyway had I tried to get some shut eye, due to Deacon Ash's harassment. Each moment that I had almost succumbed to tiredness he had interrupted my pending REM state. He had reminded me that the nights belonged to him by knocks at the door, the whispering of my name from the shadows, or inanimate objects assaulting me.

Aching, I had gone to the kitchen and made a drink. As I observed the state of the kitchen, my memory had flashed to the previous night. I took long swigs from my glass, taking in the sight of the physical evidence that had been left behind by my lost battle for freedom; the large crucifix that had been bitten in half by powerful jaws, charred paw prints, and spotting on the hardwood floor from acidic saliva. The most obvious indicators of my defeat were the pain in my chest brought about through the lost ability to breathe steadily and the makeshift bandage on my hand.

I had wasted so much time sleeping away what ample time there was in the second day which did not bode well for me. I raced from the kitchen with my drink and was down in the basement in an instant. The trunk full of items was as I had left it the day before. I knelt down and probed through with my good hand. With the exception of the crucifixes, I had pulled out photo albums, bibles, and the bottles of holy water. I had emptied the entire chest and organized the contents into piles of like items.

I looked at the bottles of holy water, selecting the largest container. It was a clear, two-liter bottle that had holy water printed vertically in wide black permanent marker in my foster mother's hand-writing.

The photo albums surely wouldn't do the trick but they caught my attention nevertheless. I had set the bottle of holy water and my drink to the side and selected the one that stood out amongst the rest. It was a thick, heavy, leather bound book of pages and pages of photos. I thumbed through it, squinting under the dim light. Agitated, I found a more advantageous position and started over.

The first few pages were nothing more than basic black and white photos of people that I had never met. Disinterested, I turned the pages in haste until I had made it a quarter of the way through the album where I encountered black and white photos of my foster mother.

I immediately remembered seeing those pictures when I was a curious bright-eyed toddler, too young to discern that those images were of her in her adolescent years. The photos held her young, sharp features in place, revealing her long, thin nose and super high cheekbones. Every single one of the images captured her warm smile, reminiscent of when she took me in at seven years old, saving me from the orphan life.

The orphanage was all I had known up to meeting her. It had taken me quite some time to grow accustomed to my new environment. The large building with open bays, community bathroom, and soup kitchen had been replaced by a Victorian, providing me a single bed, bathroom privacy, and a kitchen with food that actually tasted good and made me understand that I had been denied a decent meal.

I had continued to turn the pages and as I did so, I began to see my foster mother's years pass. The black and white photos had upgraded to color, showing her aging process more clearly. Though older, her trademark smile had not been lost.

Then I began to see photos of me that she had snapped, easily recalling the days each had been taken. School, church, and Christmas pictures, all moments in time in which I had been impervious to her perceived craziness.

I had been working my way closer to the back of the album and I witnessed myself growing into a young man. It was then that I had also started to whole heartedly believe that my foster mother was somewhat off. She had made it a point to tell me of the necessity of her constant praying, the talks of demons, and comments about the presence of evil. The talks of God and faith always followed.

It wasn't long before I thought that she wasn't just off, but out-of-this-world crazy. I assumed that maybe age and the secluded town of Blackwood, Mississippi had driven her insane. In my teen years, I had made a command decision that as soon as I was able, I would leave home to avoid suffering the same fate. I never would have guessed that I would find myself in a prison that I once called home, adhering to a demon's set of rules who says the days are mine and the nights are his. My foster mother had not been ravaged by insanity after all.

Almost at the end of the album, I had come across photos that I had mailed my foster mother from Shreveport over the years. Some depicted my first few months after my departure, some of them of Amanda and I, others Micalah's baby pictures, or the three of us together.

The last few photos were of our visits to Blackwood. Amanda and my foster mother had always gotten along. They both shared the same love of God and family with the difference being that Amanda had not been as over board about it. I had kept their conversations and connection to a minimum to keep it that way. In my mind, my foster mother's religious behavior was contagious and I did not want Amanda to become infected. Our last visit was shortly after Micalah's third birthday right around the time my foster mother's health had taken a drastic turn for the worst.

I never learned what had been the cause of her sickness because she never visited the doctor for a diagnosis. I thought that perhaps that in her old age, she just wanted attention, someone to listen to her talks of praises and blessings. By default, I had been that ear. She'd call home and I'd only answer if I was in the mood, feeling tolerable of her rambling. When I did answer her phone calls, it had been strictly to make me feel good about myself. I had always made it a habit to find an opening in our dialogue to cease the talks and end the call. This ebb-and-flow had become the norm and went on for a few more years until I had received a call from the then unknown, Angelos, that she had passed. I felt more relief than loss. I figured it was better that she passed as opposed to continue living in madness.

I turned the few remaining pages of the photo album, fighting back the culpability that hampered my weak breathing. I saw photos that I hadn't recognized of my elderly foster mother, ill and no longer smiling. I had never seen the seriousness of her state until that moment, indicative of my absence from her life in pursuit of my own. I turned the pages quicker.

Finally, I had reached the last sleeve of the album. Where there should have been a photo was a white mailing envelope. I parted the sleeve and slid it free. I held it in such a way for the light to hit it at the right angle to read the writing scribbled on the outside of it. The ink was too light. I retreated to the kitchen with the envelope and bottle of holy water, polishing off my glass of liquor along the way.

I arrived at the kitchen table and sat down in my chair. Inquisitive, I had turned the envelope to reacquaint myself with the writing. My jaws locked tight when my eyes passed over the words. I read them twice to make sure that they didn't change, that what I was seeing was not some twisted illusion, fabricated by Deacon Ash. Like the writing on the bottle of holy water the words were in my foster mother's handwriting.

I had definitely decided another refill of liquor was required. I was dependent on it to get me through with what I was about to read.

A few swigs of my drink had transpired before I took the envelope in my hands. Before ripping it open, I read the outside once more, to ensure that my eyes hadn't deceived me. They read, Seth, beware of Deacon Ash.