The Revenant

1

HAL

Present Day

The plan was simple enough—bring the girls to the ancient Victorian, that Addams Family knock-off, scare the pants off them, be all there, there when the time was right, and then literally take the pants off them.

To set the mood, George freaked everyone out at the pizza joint, telling the story he'd concocted about the brutal and bloody murder that was supposed to have happened in the basement crawl-space, and how the owners had walled the body up inside it. As far as George's brother, Hal, was concerned, the story was so cheesy, he half expected it to end with a hook on a car door handle.

Much to Hal's surprise, the girls bought it. Sheila actually trembled as she locked her arm with Hal's and cozied up against his shoulder. Hal grinned. He and Sheila had been talking about going all the way for months. Maybe George's plan wasn't as half-baked as it sounded and tonight would be the night.

George and Hal and the girls arrived at the house just before midnight. George propped open a basement window and slid in. The girls were next, each of them helped down by Hal and ushered to safety by George once inside. Hal was last to descend. Dank must clouded his nose and he sneezed. There's mould down here somewhere, he said to no one in particular.

George clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. Don't be a wuss, he said. Hal turned to punch him back, but he'd already gone.

C'mon, Hal, Sheila said. She grabbed his arm and led him deeper into the darkened heart of the house.

Looky looky, George said. He slid a box out of his backpack.

Ooh! A Ouija board, Lisa squealed.

Let's play, said Sheila.

Does anyone have any silver on them? George asked.

One of the girls asked why.

It is a well-known fact that silver wards away the evil spirits. Go figure. George: warlock wannabe.

No one had any silver jewellery, but Sheila offered up a toonie. Will this work? she said. She passed it to Hal who flipped it onto the board. It’s partially silver-coloured.

In the absence of anything else... George said. He centred the coin on the board. They sat cross-legged, knees forming a small circle around it. What should we ask?

Ask about the murder, George, Lisa said. Ask if the victim is still here.

Forget that! Sheila said. "Ask if the murderer is still here."

I don’t know, George, Hal said.

Everybody stop, George said. I got it. Is there anybody here tonight with us? he asked. "We just want to talk to you. We don’t want to hurt you.

Is there an evil entity here? he asked.

George! Lisa said, sounding every bit as horrified as Hal felt.

"What? If we’re here, we might as well make it interesting.

Okay, George said. If there is anybody here, anybody at all, we ask that you come forward and speak with us.

The pointer on the board began to move. Cut that out, George, Lisa said.

Yeah, Hal confirmed. That’s not funny.

I’m not moving it, I swear, George said.

I swear, Hal, said Sheila, if it’s you...

It’s not me. Hal's voice quivered.

The pointer moved until the small window at its middle was centred around the word Hello on the corner of the board.

Hello, George responded. Thank you for speaking with us tonight.

I don’t like this, George, Hal said.

Yeah, Sheila said, not at all.

Anyone too chickenshit to stick around is free to leave. George shone his penlight on each person around the circle in turn. They stared back like deer in headlights, but no one made a move.

"All right then. We all agree to stay, so let’s shut up and get on with the program.

What is your name?

The pointer jerked its way hither and thither across the board, everyone chanting the letters as they centred in its window: M...A...L...C...H...U...S

What the... George said.

Quit it, guys, said Sheila.

The boys protested any involvement in a hoax.

Malchus? Hal said. Who the heck is Malchus?

The pointer began to move again. It centred on Z, then Y, then X, and so on, working its way backward through the alphabet.

What gives, George? one of the girls said.

George snickered and said, It’s not me.

...P...O...N...

I’m taking my fingers off the thing, Sheila said, and she did, but the pointer continued to move.

Not me, George said. I want to see what happens.

...C...B...A.

The pointer paused and then centred on the nine, then the eight, then the seven.

It’s counting down, Sheila said.

Counting down to what? asked Hal.

...two...one...zero.

There was another pause. The boys laughed nervously. A beam of light blazed from the window in the pointer and then everything changed.

Shelia was the first to notice the change. She heard flailing on the dusty cement. She reached out to Hal who was writhing in convulsions on the ground.

I need some light, she yelled as she laid her hands on Hal’s prostrate body. Someone complied.

Hal lay on the floor, board-stiff. His body spasmed periodically, as if in the throes of taser-fire. Perhaps more horrific, to the girls especially, was that he appeared to be foaming at the mouth.

Call 911! Sheila yelled.

Lisa unlocked her cell, but George stayed her hand.

What's wrong with you? Call 911! Shelia said again.

We can’t call 911. We’re trespassing. We’re not supposed to be here, George told them.

It’s okay, Hal, Sheila whispered, stroking his hair. It’s okay.

Hal’s body stopped jerking.

What happened? Shelia said with a sniffle. What’s wrong?

He stopped, said Lisa.

George felt for a pulse, and then for his breath, placing his cheek to Hal’s mouth. He’s still breathing. Maybe he’ll wake up soon.

Sheila nodded. She manoeuvred herself until Hal’s head rested on her lap. She continued to stroke his hair while Lisa used the flashlight app on her cell phone to keep Hal’s face and upper body lit.

Suddenly, Hal opened his eyes. Sheila would later swear they glowed.

2

ZULU

Present Day

From his perch high up on the observation deck, Zulu owned the pulse of the city. Squatting on the deck floor he sharpened his senses. Eagle-eyed, wolf-nosed, bat-eared, he narrowed his essence until the smell from the restaurant, the tom-tom drumbeat from the bar, the buzz of the voices around him, the whistle of the wind, fell by the wayside and he was alone.

He centered on her face. He tried to remember the shape of her eyes, the cut of her brow, the bow of her lips, the curve of her nose.

He focused on her scent. Not the modern day, artificial, floral-musk mix of perfume or soap, but something more preternatural, visceral.

It had worked once before, earlier in the year, before the snow. He had been atop 10 Dundas East, overlooking Dundas Square, when he was sure he'd found her, found Alma. The resemblance—the triangular face, the square jaw, the pointy nose, the round eyes—was uncanny. Only the hair differed from the picture in his mind's eye. Back when Alma had promised to be his wife, her hair had been darker, wavier, softer. The time he'd found her in the city, her hair was lighter, shorter, straight. Hair style aside, it was Alma, of that he felt sure.

He’d scurried from his roost atop the glass and steel structure to the concrete square below and across the street. He'd sharpened his senses then too, concentrated on them, calling upon them to perform so he might find her, and be with his beloved, to no avail.

How long Zulu stood in the rough centre of the square, tuning out everyone and everything around him, calling out to Alma, his beloved Alma, with every fibre of his being, he knew not, but at the end of it, as night came upon him, the familiar sense of loss washed over him and he knew, once more, she was gone.

3

MALCHUS

Present Day

Malchus opened his eyes. He was in a dark room. People were standing around him.

He sat up and surveyed his surroundings. There was a single light in the room held by one of two young women with them. Where am I? he asked.

You’re okay, Hal, the boy, the only other person in the room, said as he crouched beside him. Look, we gotta go. The lights, the noise...someone may have called the cops.

Malchus set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. You have not answered my question. Where am I?

The girl, formerly kneeling beside him, stood and said, We’re in the basement, remember? Of that old house. She was pretty enough, he supposed. Her sandy hair curled around her heart-shaped face as a halo, rendering her high, pointed cheekbones and cherubim nose angelic.

"That is not sufficient information. Where in the world am I?"

Are you okay, Hal? the cherub asked.

Answer me, boy, Malchus said. He focused his mind on the boy still crouching in front of him, willing him to answer, strengthening his hold on the boy’s shoulder as he did.

The boy shrunk a little under his grasp, but said, Toronto...Canada...North America, in a near robotic voice, eyes widening, pupils growing.

Malchus turned to the cherub and said, What do they call you, my pretty one?

Hal, are you sure you’re okay? Sheila asked.

Malchus traced the arch of her cheek with the knuckle of his forefinger. Once more he focused his will and repeated, What do they call you?

Sh...Sheila, Shelia answered apprehensively.

Sheila, Malchus repeated. Not his choice of a pretty name to be sure, but it would do. Come with me, Sheila. There is work to be done.

The others in the room set out to follow, but Malchus focused his will once more and instructed them to wait no less than thirty minutes before leaving.

My pretty, Malchus said. He took Sheila's hand and led her up the stairs, through the house, and out the front door.

4

MORGAN

Present Day

The Seer opened his eyes.

Something wasn’t right.

He looked at the bedside clock: close to one.

The Seer lay in bed staring into the darkness. He focused his mind to see ahead.

He saw a young man barely old enough to grow hair on his chest, dark hair, darker eyes, tall and thin. He had a young woman at his side, and another boy, practically identical in size and complexion to the first, but for the eyes. The second boy’s eyes were lighter, both in colour and in deed.

He recognized the second boy as his charge, Zulu. The girl seemed strangely familiar, but he could not quite put a finger on from where. The first boy seemed oddly familiar as well, though Morgan felt sure their paths had never crossed.

Still, there was something about that one...

He was old, Morgan reflected, and getting older by the day. His mind wasn't as sharp as it once was. He should remember things like this—whom he'd met, whom he'd known—but his memory seemed to grow cloudier with each rise of the sun.

His vision told him the paths of the three young'uns would intersect at some point in the near future, though under what circumstance and to what end was not revealed to him.

The Seer breathed deeply as he stared out into the darkness. Colours began to eddy and swirl in his vision and then Morgan Dappleford, aka the Seer, sunk into a deep sleep.

5

MALCHUS

Present Day

Malchus awoke to the sound of white noise, not unlike the soft pound of waves against the beach on a summer’s eve. He resisted the urge to shield his eyes from the flickering box on the table across the room. From his time spent imprisoned in what he and those condemned to the same fate knew as The Great Beyond, Malchus learned the box was something called a television. In the times he was able to project his consciousness from the heights and depths of The Great Beyond he was able to witness war, famine, and suffering in the flicker of that damn box, was able to witness the evil inflicted by man upon man, and he was pleased. Malchus relished each and every time he was able to eavesdrop on the world, because each and every time he did, he was assured the time of his rebirth was fast approaching.

And now it was upon him.

Malchus breathed. It was good to breathe again, to have lungs, a body. He was relieved to discover that all of his senses had survived the rebirth as well.

Malchus smelled musk. Sweat. Lilacs.

Perfume.

He felt downy hair tingle against his cheek.

The girl. What did she call herself again?

Oh, yes—Sheila.

The girl stirred. Malchus propped himself up on one arm and looked around.

Long green woollen shag on the floor. Enough wooden panelling to deforest an entire acre. Squeaky springs beneath a sheath of manmade cloth they called microfibre.

Where was he?

He breathed again tuning out the smell of the girl, Sheila.

He smelled dampness. The body he wore shivered from the cold.

Footsteps approached.

Malchus gently lowered the head of his new body onto the couch cushion and played asleep.

Sheila? a woman’s voice called. The stairs creaked as the woman began her descent. Sheila? Are you down there?

The girl sighed and sat up. Mom?

"There you are!

Your bed wasn’t slept in last night. I was worried.

Malchus sat up. The resemblance between the angelic face from last night and that of the woman on the stairs was striking.

Oh, hi, Hal, the woman said. I wasn’t expecting you to be here at this hour.

Mom! The girl, suddenly awake, bolted to her feet. I swear, Mom, we fell asleep in front of the television. Nothing happened! She made a sweeping motion outward with both hands.

The woman on the stairs removed a small terrycloth towel from her shoulder and wiped her hands on it. She smiled. I know, she said, sweetly. I trust you. Her brows knit together and her voice warned, "More importantly, I trust Hal.

Now, both of you: get upstairs, get washed up, and come to breakfast. The woman turned and exited back up the stairs.

Sorry about that, the girl said. She smiled and her face waxed cherubic.

Your mother cares deeply for you, Malchus said, voice sounding mousey, almost pre-pubescent. He used to have a grand set of vocal chords before his first body died. His voice boomed respect, commanded attention. He cleared his throat.

Duh, the girl said. Malchus drank in the elixir of her laugh.

Come, she said drawing him up by the wrist. I smell pancakes.

6

MORGAN

1878

Morgan and Malchus Dappleford were born identical twins, sons of Mary and Michael Dappleford. From a very young age it was clear the two boys were as different as two sides of a coin. Morgan was mischievous and Mary couldn’t let him out of her sight, especially once he had begun to take his first tentative steps around the cabin.

When he was four, Mary left him and his brother for no more than five minutes to draw water from the well. When she returned, she found Morgan poking the coals in the pot bellied stove they’d installed the year before. Fearing for his safety, she cried out his name. Hearing the anguish in his mother’s voice Morgan spun toward her too quickly, lost his balance, and seared his arm on the stove door. Dr. Algernon was called to dress the wound, but Morgan would have a scar midway down his forearm for the rest of his life for his mischief.

When next the doctor and his mother left him alone with his brother, Malchus snickered. Idiot, he said. I told you not to play with the fire.

Morgan ran across the room as fast as his legs would carry him and punched his brother in the shoulder with all his might. Rather than cry—which would have satisfied Morgan immensely—Malchus turned his head and grinned, which frightened Morgan to no end, and he skulked back to his corner of the room.

When they were six, the twins began to attend the little schoolhouse in town. They grew quickly tired of the townspeople gawping and pointing at them as if they were geeks in a circus sideshow. They desperately hoped the novelty of their being would wear off soon.

During morning recess the first day, Morgan attacked a boy when he deigned to ask of the particulars of their routines, down to the number of burps and farts each of them made in the course of a day. Morgan was angry at the boy’s persistence and at Malchus’s playing along with the tyke, answering each and every question he asked ad absurdum. When he could stand it no more, Morgan doffed the boy on the back of the head. The boy ran in tears to the teacher who made Morgan sit in the corner. Because he was new, she withheld the cap this time, but if he persisted, all would know he was being a dunce in school.

Morgan seethed the entire afternoon, vowing never to return to the Hell mouth that was the school. But he did return. The next day. At his parents’ insistence. Too young to till the fields, the boys needed something to occupy their days, and so school it was.

Once he settled into his surroundings Morgan got quite good at cooperating with the other children, if not in his studies. Yang to his yin, Malchus began to shine in his studies which alienated him further from the other children. Malchus methodically tended to his studies, each and every evening, by lamplight. When his eyes began to fail as the result of reading in the near dark, his parents wasted no time having Dr. Algernon fit him for a pair of spectacles so his studying could continue unabated.

When Morgan turned thirteen and began to fill out, the dreams began. They seemed folly at first, entertaining tales of those he knew, engaged in activities that would drop them in the hands of danger, or worse. The first time he'd correlated his dreams with premonitions was the livery cab stable fire in the fall of his thirteenth year. He’d dreamt of a large fire that used hay and wood from the structure as tinder to grow, until it enveloped three horses and the cab driver. In his dream he watched as the smouldering hay grew to hellish proportion, watched the horses, eyes wide with fright, bucking and kicking as the hair on their haunches singed. He heard the animals