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Display a printable version Hotter Than Hell
She grasped the handles of her walker, steadying herself, painfully making her way the few feet to the front door. The door was sturdy, bolstered by two dead bolt locks installed by her late husband Al. A nice place when they bought it back in 1950, but things were different now; the neighborhood had gone from the Taj Mahal to Tobacco Road. One group after another came and went, and she no longer knew, or cared to know, her neighbors. Kids and music and loud cars rumbled down the street, and at all hours kids knocked on doors selling drugs instead of Girl Scout cookies. Her home had turned into a fortress. The doorbell rang again as she fumbled to unlock the deadbolts. "Can't move any faster," she grumbled. If she didn't open it soon, he'd likely leave his card in the broken mailbox and go bounding off. These uncharitable thoughts propelled her arthritic fingers a little faster. Finally, the door swung open. Father Michael sailed into the living room. "Whew, it's another hot one out there! And how are we today?" his voice boomed. Her parakeet, Tweety, stirred slightly in its cage, too lethargic from the unrelenting heat to lift its head. "We're old and cranky," she said, not smiling. "Sit down." Abigail, all five feet of her, with a plain face and long white hair kept in a simple bun, came from ornery Yankee stock. Sixty years ago she'd converted in order to marry Al, but she was never really comfortable with Catholicism. She'd given up a hell of a lot to pick up and trail after that man. But it was too late for regrets now, and she wasn't the kind of person to waste time whining about the past. The present was tough enough. Already on the clock with himself, the last thing she wanted was to have the visit fly by without lodging her complaints. Or concerns, as she called them. Laying his Communion kit on the end table, he had the elements and prayer book out before she'd hobbled to the couch. She lowered herself onto the sofa, letting out a sigh of relief while the priest thumbed through the pages of his prayer book. "It's been a while since you've been to Mass," he said, sweat streaming down his large pale face. Everybody was laboring in this heat, even the young and sturdy. She stared at him glumly. "Well now, Father, do I look like I can make it to Mass the way I used to?" Handing her a church bulletin, he changed the subject before she could complain about lack of offers for a ride to church by the parishioners. "Yes, I can see it might be a problem, Abigail, but tell me, where are you in your spiritual journey? Have your sufferings brought you any closer to Christ?" Clever, thought Abigail, fanning herself with the bulletin. "I'm closer to my day of reckoning, that's for sure." He smiled. "We all are. Now, do you have any prayer concerns before we begin?" They passed a few moments that way, Abigail listing her concerns about how hard it was to be homebound, what with chronic bad health. Father Michael listened, nodded and murmured an occasional sympathetic sound, then they shared Communion. He sat back, took out a handkerchief, swabbed his brow, and regarded her carefully. "Abigail, I've heard you could use someone around here, and I was wondering if you'd let us help?" She stared at him suspiciously, mentally holding onto her wallet. "And how might you do that?" "There's a new family in the congregation in need of a place to stay for a few weeks while they get settled in the parish." One thin gray eyebrow arched as Abigail waited. Father Michael's words rushed forward. "A mother and her two young daughters need a place to stay, and they're willing to work in exchange for room and board. It's a chance for all parties involved to benefit from such an arrangement." "Where these people from?" "Hmm, Belize, I think," he said, quickly putting up his hand as if to stem any argument. "They've been here for a few years, English is very good, and I've heard from the agency referring them that they're honest. They only need a place to stay until September, then the mother wants to find a place closer to the school." He lowered his voice. "They're just like other immigrants, Abigail. They came here wanting a better life for themselves and their children." With a final flourish he added, "And they're good Catholics, Abigail. They come to Mass every Sunday." She squinted at him, annoyed that he'd play the guilt card. Guilt cards meant nothing in the hand dealt to her. "Where's Belize?" "Central America," he said, wiping more sweat from his forehead, trying to keep it from running into his eyes. "How much do I have to pay her?" "Nothing in cash ... just a roof over their heads, a bed beneath them and some food for their stomachs." The truth was, she could use some help. She hadn't been able to bathe since coming home two weeks ago from rehab after falling in her bathroom. The department of aging had sent around some lethargic workers who'd barely picked up a broom or washed a dish without her nagging them. She'd finally told the social worker to stop sending anyone; they were more trouble than they were worth. "You vouch for these people?" "Of course!" he boomed. "And if it doesn't work out, we'll make other arrangements." She mulled the proposition over, Yankee thriftiness winning out in the end. "All right," she said. "We'll give it a try." He leaned forward and took one of her gnarled hands in his own. "You won't regret this," he intoned. Abigail let him clasp her hand for the few seconds he allotted to such gestures, and waited for him to say, "Let us pray," which he did. She dropped her head and let him implore God to rain down blessings upon her, then leapt to his feet, gathered up his kit, and headed for the door. "I can see myself out, don't you trouble yourself," he said, turning to make sure she was too far behind to block his exit. "'Bye now," he said, "and don't forget to offer up your sufferings," he said, making the sign of the cross in her direction. Humph, she thought, making her way over to lock the door behind him. We'll see about these aliens in my house, she thought, we'll just have to see. *** The next day Solange and her two daughters stood on Abigail's doorstep, a worn cardboard suitcase at their feet. They were accompanied by Ruth, a stout woman with hair so cemented with hair spray even the awful humidity couldn't wilt it. Abigail was almost blinded by the combination of bright sun and brighter clothing Solange was wearing, including a striped yellow scarf wrapped turban-style around her hair. A forty-ish, slightly overweight woman with warm brown eyes and caramel-colored skin, she looked strong enough, Abigail thought. "Well, you're here," Abigail said. Solange and the youngest girl smiled, while the older girl stared morosely from behind her mother. Abigail stepped back and let them in. Ruth rushed ahead and set the suitcase down in the middle of the front room. "My oh my, isn't it hot? Never thought I'd live to see so many days climb over a hundred," Ruth said, quickly taking in the worn carpet and tattered orange and brown afghan draped over rumpled sheets spread on the sofa; the musty smell that enveloped the house due to windows unopened in over twenty years. It was neat, but reeked of old furniture, old woodwork, old carpeting, old bodies. She wrinkled her forehead. "Abigail, have you been sleeping in here?" "Of course I have," Abigail snapped. "I closed the other rooms up. No reason to cool the whole damn house when this is the only cool room." "You'll have to open up the bedrooms for Solange and the girls." She stopped and looked at Abigail cautiously. "You were planning on that, weren't you?" "No, Ruth, I was going to make them sleep out back under the tree!" Abigail quipped. "Mama!" both girls yelped as they clung to their mother, who immediately shushed them. "She's just kidding, girls," Ruth said. "Right, Abigail?" Abigail thought for a moment about how she'd like to pan-fry Ruth, but decided against it. She smiled a thin smile. "Of course." "Let's see where their rooms are, then I'll be on my way," Ruth said, grabbing the suitcase and heading for the first bedroom. Ruth owned a bungalow just like Abigail's, and didn't need to be shown around. She swung open the bedroom doors and showed the family where they'd be sleeping, then came back and said to Abigail, "This is a wonderful thing you're doing. They'll be many blessings in store in Heaven for you." "I'd rather be rewarded now with a new set of knees right here, Ruth," Abigail said brusquely. Ruth sucked in her bottom lip, no doubt biting back a choice word or two. "Well, you call me if you need anything, hear?" She turned to Solange who'd been standing silently behind her. "You too, Solange, don't hesitate to call." Opening the front door, she staggered back, caught off-guard by a solid curtain of heat. She shaded her eyes against the burning sun. "My goodness, that's almost unbearable," she said, "you keep that air conditioner running. A person could die in this heat real easy, I swear they could just die." She stepped out onto the porch, then was lost in a white haze of impenetrable sunlight. Abigail and Solange stood looking at one another. Abigail's chest began to quicken as Solange sized her up in the uneasy silence. "Standing here is getting us nowhere," Abigail began, "I suppose you can tell me what your girls' names are." Solange pulled the older one close. "This here's Homesick. She's eleven, and this here's Trouble, she's eight." She grabbed the wrist of the younger one who tried to wrench herself away, moaning dramatically when she couldn't free herself. "Those are strange names, never heard such names. What're their real names?" "Them's their real names, Missus. Didn't name neither one of them for a few years, 'till their spirits started showing' themselves. Namin' too soon nuthing but a waste of time." Abigail thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. Maybe that's how they did things in Belize, maybe not. Both girls were attractive, with light skin, hazel brown eyes and wavy long hair. Homesick had golden highlights sprinkled throughout her hair, budding breasts and sleepy eyes that made her look as if she'd just crawled out of bed. The men in the neighborhood would sure be following that one home, Abigail thought. Trouble, skinny as a rail and throbbing with nervous energy, was almost blond, impish as hell. She jumped from foot to foot, staring wide-eyed at Abigail. "Where's their daddy? Back in Belize?" "They got different daddies, Missus. The only thing their daddies shared was amnesia soon as they learned they was on the way." She stroked the girls' hair protectively, and kissed them. "But they won't get in the way, Missus. We all know how to cook and clean. And we'll make you a home, soon enough, you won't believe how quick we make this a good home." She snapped her fingers and smiled. "I hope so," Abigail muttered as she started back to the sofa, minding the uneasy feeling crawling along her skin. First off, it was no good having four females in one house; secondly, don't trust anyone who didn't speak the good King's English. She turned and lowered herself down on the sofa, fatigued from the unrelenting heat. She looked up, and all three smiled with hooded eyes. *** The first two days moved along slowly. Already unbearably hot outside, it was getting hotter. The old were quietly perishing, unable to hold onto their souls as they rocked in chairs in front of useless fans. The sick were perishing, their wills to live pried away from under the tubes and machines keeping them alive. The young were perishing too, foolishly playing ball and jogging, sweating away not only their futures but their nows, collapsing in parks and along the lakefront, cool water just beyond their reach. Inside the brick bungalow, the girls immediately adopted Tweety, and walked around with him sitting on their shoulders. Solange quickly familiarized herself with the house and Abigail's routine. On the third day Solange made what she called her specialty dish, spending hours in the kitchen. "What is this?" Abigail said, sniffing the fragrant stew in the dish placed before her. "Rice and beans," Solange said proudly, "my specialty." "Can't eat it, and don't make it again," Abigail said sharply. "Can't eat it?" Solange said, eyes wide with disappointment. "Won't eat it. Anyway, it's too hot to eat, why do you want to stand at a hot stove all afternoon?" "What would you like for me to fix instead?" Solange asked, deftly picking up the plate and re-distributing the contents to her girls' dishes. They dug into it with gusto. "A tomato sandwich, with butter smeared on the inside of each slice of bread." The girls looked at each other, barely suppressing a laugh. Solange shot a warning glance at them. "Yes, Missus, I'll fix it for you right now." Solange rose and disappeared into the kitchen and prepared the sandwich, while Abigail watched her work. There was a sensual fluidity about Solange's movements absent in most women. The soft, loose, bright clothes she wore looked comfortable, and her hair was always covered with a matching scarf. Her wrists jingled with thin gold bracelets, and impossibly long earrings hung from elongated ear lobes. Mostly she walked around the house barefoot, which disturbed Abigail no end. She always knew where Trouble was; she skittered around the house like a kitten, popping up from behind doors and running up and down the basement steps. Homesick was as good as her name. Abigail heard her whining occasionally about wanting to go home. The only other noise out of her was when she hummed under her breath. The girls seemed to have nothing but white clothes, and they too went barefoot. When their hair was down, loose and flowing, they were beautiful, until they turned and looked at you. Abigail felt numbness settle in her mind when they stared at her. The unease she felt earlier was beginning to grow, but their behavior hadn't warranted any suspicion. The food issue settled, Abigail ate her sandwich, then went back to the living room with a glass of iced tea. Outside, the heat index had been rising steadily for the past 72 hours, and the air conditioner had been running for days, along with the overhead fan. Still, it was not enough, and the four found themselves once again in the living room, the only cool room in the house. "Lord, it's hot," Solange said, fanning herself with her hand, bracelets jingling. "Doesn't it get hot in Belize?" Abigail asked. "It surely does, but we have breezes at night that cool down the earth. In these big cities, all this cement covers everything up. The earth can't breath without air. The city, she can't heal herself." Looking over at the oak credenza, Abigail had a jolt when she saw that the statue of the Virgin Mary had a few items at its base that weren't there before. "What's over there by the statue?" Solange stopped fanning and smiled. "A few little things. Since we're going to be stayin' with you awhile, I didn't think you'd mind ... " "What things?" Abigail asked sharply. "A dish of shredded coconut, some sea shells, a feather from the bird. Back in Belize we'd honor her by ... " Abigail cut her off. "Here we don't, not that way." "I didn't think you'd mind..." "Well, I do mind. Get rid of them!" Abigail snapped. With narrowed eyes, Solange rose, murmuring under her breath. She walked over to the statue and removed the items, her face impassive. Returning to the kitchen, Abigail heard the garbage can lid open and slam shut. It was bad enough she had to keep the damn statue around in case a neighbor dropped in, like nosy Ruth. She'd be double damned if Solange would be rearranging her house. Solange returned and sat down, shadowed by the girls who draped themselves on the armchair where she sat. Homesick started humming a tune, barely discernible over the steady whine of the wall unit and the rhythmic swishing of the fan. An uneasy silence settled over the hot room as the two women stared at each other, sizing each other up. Abigail sipped on the glass of iced tea, enjoying its icy coldness. Just before the glass slipped from her hand onto the carpet, she realized Homesick had stopped humming, and all three circled her as she slipped beneath the crashing waves of the drugged tea. *** Struggling back to consciousness, immobilized by a terrible weight, Abigail stared through blurred eyes. From a far distance the jingling of bracelets accompanied bare feet padding dance steps in a circle. Some ritual was being played out; there were foreign spirits in her home and she was paralyzed, held down by an invisible yet palpable force. She wasn't exactly helpless. Willing herself out from under it, she surprised even herself. It'd been a long time since she'd met anyone who'd wished her harm. In a weakened state she felt more of a nuisance than an adversary to this witch and her two spawn, swirling like dervishes in her living room. Slowly she climbed up from her trance, back to reality, back to the afghan scratching against her paper-thin skin, back to the stickiness of the spilled drink on her lap and fingers. Back, back, she came. She sat up. The singing stopped. The three turned and stared at her with surprise, but no fear. "Did you have a nice nap?" Solange asked. The room smelled like wax and burning tallow, and it was harder than ever to breathe. "It was a fine nap," Abigail replied, voice clearer than her head, "a damn fine nap." Homesick, a sullen expression on her face, blew out the candles, and resumed her place on the arm of the chair. Tweety perched on Trouble's shoulder, petting him with her forefinger. "What the hell was that?" Abigail asked. "What was what?" "The dancing and singing." Solange's cinnamon-colored eyes were wide and bright. "What dancing and singing?" "Don't give me that! I'm not stupid!" Solange leaned forward, voice colder than the weak air coming from the air conditioner. "Are you sure you weren't dreaming?" "Damn right I wasn't dreaming. Now, what was it?" Solange leaned back and stroked her girls' arms, caution in her words but still unafraid. "Santeria, Missus. This is our religion. It's the same religion you practice, only in Belize we add a few things that remind us of our old gods." Santeria. Abigail had heard of it, all right: wasn't anything more than paganism parading around in Christian clothes. "Is it voodoo?" Voodoo she knew about it; it had been around a long time. It was impossible to keep up with these new religions. "No! Missus, vodoun is something else, something terrible; zombies, witch doctors and spirits and things coming from the evil of the mind. No, Santeria is the worship of the saints, only done our way - the old way. Santeria harms no one." Wiping hands on her dress, Abigail didn't believe her for a minute. "I see," she said. "And Father Michael knows about this?" "No, Missus, the church, she doesn't approve. The church, she doesn't understand." Humph. Abigail empathized with that. "You brought it, didn't you?" "Brought what, Missus?" The words were drawn out, as if she were warning her to back off, now. "The heat." The two stared at each other in stony silence. Finally, Solange spoke. "So, you know who, what, I am." "Let's just say I guessed." "You guessed!" Solange threw her head back and laughed. "Makes no difference, you will die." "What about the heat why did you bring it?" Solange shrugged. "Because I could." Abigail clucked her tongue. "No other reason? No big debt to settle, no revenge to be had just because you could?" "That's right, old woman." Solange leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes. "Ah, poor old lady, get with the times those that can do and will." Abigail leaned forward as well. "And what satisfaction could you possibly have for coming to this city, my city?" Solange laughed. "You bore me with your questions. I'm young and you are old and feeble. Your city is old in years, but young in ill fortune. I thought it might be a challenge to bring this city to its knees." Scorn dripped from her every word. "It's almost too easy; there are no worthy adversaries here. Not like the old cities in the east with their believing priests, the covens along west coast, the shamans in deserts and the hill country of the mountain ridges. This has been child's play; I'll be moving on soon, but not before it gets a taste of a hot wind coming in from the ancient Americas." The four settled into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by occasional chirping from Tweety's cage. "Put on the TV, I want to see the weather forecast for tomorrow." Solange turned on the TV. The forecast was the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow: hot, hot, hot. Abigail looked up at the ceiling and felt it inching down on her, the heat pressing in like a slow-moving elevator that had come undone. She was trapped. *** Abigail dozed on and off in front of the TV, knowing she'd never sleep another wink with this demon in the house. It would be all too easy for them to stage her death. Then Solange and her girls would find a way to keep the house for a while before they moved on. When morning light began filtering in, Abigail's neck was stiff from trying to keep in an upright position all night. Night had done nothing to ease the miserable heat, and Abigail's dress was soaked with sweat along the collar, sopping wet between her breasts, under her arms, even between her legs. Solange and the girls were nowhere in sight. Abigail shook her head, clearing her thoughts. There was something wrong. She must have fallen asleep, after all. She struggled to her feet, and stood helplessly in the middle of the living room, trying to figure out the change in her familiar landscape. Deciding the dryer was the lighter piece, she took a deep breath and concentrated on the old incantations. They came hard at first, all jumbled up with images of Catholic saints and other such nonsense. Her thin arms rose up as she literally pushed away the foreign images, and replaced them with other, much more ancient images: the moon, deep running water, caverns that led to the bowels of the earth. Down, down she sank into the past, her past, until she connected with the dark power she'd walked away from decades ago. Soon a light crept over her wrinkled face, and smoothed the skin so that her face shone and body trembled. Her eyes rolled back, and a flush spread across her cheeks. She stood motionless until the light permeated every inch of her body, and nothing moved in the basement but dust motes riding the waves of heat. By the time she arrived the bus terminal and bought a ticket, the temperature had risen to106 degrees, not counting the humidity index. It was July 13, 1995, the hottest day in Chicago's history. People were dying sitting upright in their chairs, their ghosts slipping from their throats like the last spectral notes squeezed out of old instruments. At the airport terminal, she watched a TV monitor showing clips of hospital emergency rooms trying to cope with hundreds of corpses rolling in under white sheets. Officials were advising people to take care of themselves, check on neighbors, while in the background the mortuary boys rolled along one body after another in a grisly scene. The ozone layer had captured the fumes of a million cars and straddled the city like a cat suffocating a baby. Chicago, like all cities with cancerous lungs, couldn't throw the heat off. It had hunkered down over the city and suffocated hundreds of people. There was no escape. By the time it was over, more than five hundred people would die. Oh yes, and three more.
Story by Mischa Sagan, Copyright 2008 |
| Last updated on 5/14/2008 9:37:12 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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Abigail was peering through the blinds when she saw Father Michael's car pull up. The priest stepped gingerly over crumbling cement steps bringing her Communion, a pinched look saying he'd rather be out playing golf, even on this scorching day. Chicago was in the grip of a strange heat wave, the likes of which it hadn't been seen in centuries. Every morning started out in the '90s, working its way to the hundreds by mid-day. People were dying in droves, and there was no end in sight. 
Mischa Sagan is a native of Chicago where she lives, holding a regular job by day while writing horror and fantasy by night. Blogless by choice, she's married to a man who tolerates her total addiction to the History Channel, has two grown children with various and sundry offspring, no living pets but lots of debt, as befitting a writer of her stature. She has an M. Div. and several strange life journeys behind her, including teaching in an asylum. She's an active member of the Online Writer's Workshop for Science Fiction and Fantasy, which allows her imagination to go into deep and disturbing places, cheered on by fellow writers. Because of such encouragement, she's actually completed a vampire novel in an era when clearly zombies are the current fashion. This is her life. While "Hotter Than Hell" is her first published short story, another will be forthcoming soon in "All Hallows."