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NOTE: These stories are
intended for a mature audience.

Prodigal
A "Vorare" story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start from the beginning of the Vorare Series

Nothing he had experienced had terrified Gordon so much as standing once again upon his mother's porch. The urge to vomit was nearly as strong as it had been that Christmas Eve, two years ago, supporting himself against a statue as his body purged itself of forbidden flesh.

There was no sign at his feet of the struggle which had taken place - no marks or scratches on the varnished wood, no telltale spatter of spittle or blood to show that a man had had his life choked out of him in the place where he now stood. The fa?e of normalcy was ... unbearable. The idea that someone could die, that a soul could be sold and a mockery made of human life without leaving behind so much as a ripple upon the surface of a creek simply heightened the tension and fear which held his hand from the buzzer, kept him from confronting the only family he remembered and showing her that he was still alive - and that his life had put her in mortal danger.

Hesitation was the enemy. Who could say whether the Ghouls had been instructed to phone in a report, to tell the others all they had seen and done? Every minute he paused was a minute closer to damnation. With one last breath he pressed the doorbell.

The man who opened the door was older, with thick white hair and a beard turning to ivory around his thick lips. "Yes?"

Gordon paused only a moment. "Is Carol home?"

"Why, yes." The man's eyes traveled from Gordon's face to his feet. "May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Gordon. I'm her son."

A scream pierced the air, and Carol Velander stepped from behind the man to throw herself into Gordon's arms. The embrace shocked him, forced his body to tense, and for the briefest of moments he felt the edges of his wound curl back as if in response to some terrible threat. He fought back the urge to throw her aside, to run - had it been so long since another human being had been so close, without the threat of death in their arms?

He put his arms around his mother and buried his forehead into his neck, willing himself to shed tears that would not come - that could no longer come.

"Mom."

"Gordon, Gordon, Gordon ... I prayed, I prayed so hard. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus, thank you. Gordon."

"We have to get inside," he said, pulling away firmly. "Come on. Go in."

Carol seized his hands as she stepped back, unwilling to relinquish the contact they held, as if afraid he would melt once more into memory without the touch of flesh on flesh. The man stepped back to allow them through, and closed the door once Gordon was within.

"You don't look like Gordon Velander," he said, pointing to the side table next to the door. It held a framed photograph of Gordon, fuller in the face, round-shouldered, smiling as if he had not a care in the world. Flowers sat in vases to either side of the picture, and a nightlight burned beneath the table, a beacon to bring the prodigal home.

The mirror to the side proved the man's words. Gordon was thin now, terribly so; made up of angles and knotted muscles. His hair was long and thinning, his face lined with months of mingled terror and deprivation. Even having cleaned up in the diner bathroom, once Agam had left his side, he had to admit that he bore no great resemblance to the boy he had been, or to the woman who had borne him.

"I've been gone for two years next month. And they've been hard." He locked eyes with the older man. "I don't think I know you."

"It's Gordon," said his mother firmly. "I know. This is Ben Harris, Gordon. He's been visiting."

More than visiting, Gordon thought, and wondered just how this new wrinkle would affect his plans. "Hello, Mister Harris. Maybe you could let me speak to my mother a few minutes. Alone."

"I don't think ..."

"Ben." Carol's voice was sharp. "Make yourself some coffee. I'm telling you this is my son. I know. And I'll be fine."

Ben shook his head, and moved toward the kitchen. Gordon closed the door firmly behind him and led his mother into the living room.

"What's happened to you?" She kept touching him, and it became no more comfortable for him as time passed. His ally was writhing beneath his shirtsleeves as she ran a hand up and down his arm, cradling his face with the other hand. He took both of her hands in his own and sat her down.

"Mom, listen. I'm in real trouble."

"Is it drugs?"

His mouth jerked. "No. It isn't. I've done nothing wrong myself, but someone's gotten the wrong idea. I've been running the whole time I've been gone."

"Why couldn't you even call?"

"I didn't ... sometimes I couldn't," he said, thinking on the Farm. "And sometimes I was nowhere near a phone, but mostly it was because I didn't want them to know where you were."

She considered him closely. "You're lying," she said.

"Yes," he admitted, "and I'm sorry." His mouth jerked again, though he still held her hands close. "I should know better, but there's so much I've forgotten. They knew where you lived but weren't interested in you, only in me."

She was silent, watching his face, moving her fingers in his grasp to caress his roughened hands.

"Things changed," he said, "and now they've been watching the house. I'm afraid for you, mom, and that's why I've come back. It's too dangerous for you to stay here any longer. You need to come away with me, at least for a little while."

She remained silent for a moment, then suddenly burst into tears. He knew what was expected of him but could not put his arms around her, could do nothing but stand and feel the writhing of his ally in the face of this confusion.

The kitchen door opened and Ben Harris came forward. He didn't try to loosen their hands, but sat on the sofa and put one arm around Carol, placing his other hand on her shoulder. His eyes were on her and her alone, and he remained silent in the face of these tears, offering the comfort her son could no longer give.

For five long minutes the tears came, turning from great gasping sobs to dry and ragged breaths. Ben offered a box of tissues, and Gordon felt himself drop her hands to allow her freedom of movement. When he did so, she first took the tissue, then patted Ben's leg in gratitude.

"I was so afraid, Gordon. I've been so afraid, both for you and for myself, since you vanished. That girl you were with ..."

"Sylvie."

"She vanished, too. Did you know that?"

"I did."

"Is she with you?"

"No. Not for a long time."

"I worried that whatever had happened to you would come back to roost. I was sick over you, and then sick over fear, and then finally just sick, but I never stopped praying you would come home, no matter what you led back in your wake."

The wound tightened, and for a moment Gordon hated the thing beneath his skin again, hated the fact that he had not been left to die in peace. He saw the face of the Farmer, of George, of Agam and Marcus, and hated life itself; not for what it had done to him but for what it had done to this white-haired woman who sat before him.

"And here you are. And the first thing you can say to me is that we have to leave home or we're in terrible danger, and that I should come with you, and look at you. Look at you. I don't know for a minute what you've been living on or what you've been running from but do you really think for a moment that I could survive it?"

"I'm not asking you to ..."

"Then what are you asking me?"

Gordon took a deep breath. "I have papers. False ones, that they can't trace. I just need you to relocate for a little while and stay hidden while I go away again."

Ben spoke up. "False papers?"

"Forgeries."

"She can't do that." His voice was quiet but firm.

"I'm not asking you."

"But I'm telling you. It's out of the question, and I'm calling the police."

"You can't do that."

"You can't stop me."

"I can," said Gordon, and his voice was dead. "Believe me."

They stood frozen a moment, the old couple's breathing the only sound in the room. When Carol spoke, it was with a question.

"Would you?"

Gordon knew the rest of the question, and shook his head. "No. No, I guess not.

"So I guess that's another big problem, because my leaving here ahead of the police isn't going to keep you safe - either of you, Mister Harris, if you're spending as much time here as I think; and yet I can't stay here under this roof and try to protect you both if I think you're going to be calling the police the minute my back is turned."

"Why are you so worried about the police?"

"Because the people who are looking for me might be tied into them. I don't know that for a fact but I can't afford to discount that notion."

"This isn't Fairfield County," snorted Ben. "The folks here are honest and you know it."

"A lot of things I knew when I left have been proven wrong."

"Then we need to talk," said Carol suddenly. Her voice was strong once more, and when she stood she nodded toward the kitchen. "I'm going to make sandwiches and more coffee, and we can sit down and work this out, but nobody's going to call anybody or go anywhere until this whole thing is settled. That's how we've always worked things out, and that's not about to change."

"I'm not ... hungry," said Gordon.

Her glance was sharp. "Then you can just talk, honey. But we're sitting down to talk regardless."

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2007