Tortured Soul

By Theresa Linden

A single woman thrown out of her family home. A terrifying specter that only she sees. A dark connection between his past and hers…After her father's tragic death and her mother's more recent passing, loss leaves an emptiness she can't fill. But now thirty-two-year-old Jeannie Lyons must leave her family home, the one place that lets her keep alive the memory of her parents. She moves into an old house on the edge of town, one too big for just her and her three-legged cat, but she soon gets the impression she's not alone. Her brother thinks she has an overactive imagination. Her sister-in-law thinks she needs counseling. The man her brother's been trying to set her up with is the only one who seems to believe her, but can she trust him? Having nowhere else to turn, she must face her inner demons and confront this soul from beyond the grave...

Set in modern times, this supernatural thriller is loosely based on the apparitions to Eugenie von der Leyen (1867-1929).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Fire Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393557883

Theresa Linden

Theresa Linden is the author of award-winning Catholic fiction that weaves the natural with the supernatural. Her faith inspires the belief that there is no greater adventure than the realities we can't see, the spiritual side of life. She hopes that her stories will spark her readers' imaginations and awaken them to the power of faith and grace. Her books include the Chasing Liberty dystopian trilogy, the West Brothers contemporary young adult series, Tortured Soul (a purgatory soul story), the Armor of God children's books, short stories in Image and Likeness: Literary Reflections on the Theology of the Body, and a story in each of the Catholic Teen Books Visible & Invisible anthologies. She is a member of the Catholic Writers Guild and CatholicTeenBooks.com. Her books can be found on Catholic Reads and Virtue Works Media. A wife, retired homeschooling mom, and Secular Franciscan, she resides in northeast Ohio with her family.

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COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2018 by Theresa Linden

All rights reserved . This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.

Scripture quotations are from The Catholic Edition of the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1965, 1966 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

http://theresalinden.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914980

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9976747-7-4

First Edition, Silver Fire Publishing 2019

Cover: Theresa Linden

Editor: Gingerman Editorial

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the Holy Souls in Purgatory. May they, who Our Lord loves so very much, never be forgotten.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, thank you, Dear Lord, for the inspiration for this story. I have always been deeply moved by the love of God, who has created a place for souls who still need to wipe a bit of mud off their feet before they step into the grandeur of our heavenly home. For many years now, I have wanted to write a purgatory story. I am glad the time has come. And thank you, Holy Souls, for praying for me during the entire process of this story. I hope this book inspires many to pray for you.

To my amazing critique partners and beta readers, Susan Peek, Leslea Wahl, and Carolyn Astfalk: you have helped with so many of my stories and even though this one is entirely different from the others, you jumped right in to give me your professional and creative insights, corrections, and suggestions. I am also thankful for the hard work of my editor from Gingerman Editorial.

A very special thank you to Susan Tassone. I am honored that you agreed to read this story and so happy to have the endorsement of the author and speaker many affectionally call The Purgatory Lady. It was important that I get it right in this story, so your endorsement serves as validation.

Finally, I truly appreciate the love and understanding of my family, who pick up the slack around the house while I am slaving away over a book. You are so very good to me.

"For no other foundation can anyone lay

than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ.

Now if any one builds on the foundation

with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw

–each man’s work will become manifest;

for the Day will disclose it,

because it will be revealed with fire,

and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done.

If the work which any man has built on the foundation survives, he will receive a reward.

If any man’s work is burned up, he will suffer loss,

though he himself will be saved,

but only as through fire."

~1 Corinthians 3:11-15 RSV-CE

PROLOGUE

U

naware that this was both the day and the hour, Fred Rake snatched a pack of windshield wiper blades from a shelf and thumped down the metal stairs. The smooth, sober notes of a trumpet filled the cozy service garage, Louis Armstrong’s La Vie en Rose dancing through Fred’s new sound system. He’d never liked to waste money, but this was worth it. All day long Fred moved to the melody of metal clanking, the zip of impact wrenches, and engines revving. Now the romantic tune transformed the greasy surroundings, clearing the air and giving a feeling of hope and newness to the banality of life.

Armstrong’s gravelly voice sang the first line. Hold me close and hold me fast . . .

Ripping open the pack, scuffing across the cement floor to Mrs. Harcourt’s Malibu, he sang along. The magic spell you cast . . . His voice scraped out through a gritty throat, the result of a hard day’s work in the dusty garage. He couldn’t wait to get home and crack open a beer, to feel that ice cold gold roll down his throat. As soon as he finished this one job, he’d head for home.

Feeling the aches and pains that came with a forty-five-year-old body accustomed to daily physical work, Fred leaned over the hood of the silver Malibu and raised one of the wipers. He pressed a cracked, blackened thumb to a tab on the end of the wiper arm, slid the blade assembly off, and tossed it to the floor.

As he grabbed a new one, the squeak of a car pulling up and the heavy thump of rap music broke through the melody. His son Jay. Probably up to no good.

Fred glanced over his shoulder at the clock above the customer door, then he remembered the battery had died two days ago. A bead of sweat dripped off the end of his nose. He wiped it on the sleeve of his work shirt, inhaling a whiff of grease, and finished installing the second wiper blade assembly.

The car door slammed but the offensive music still blasted, the lyrics making Fred cringe and grit his teeth. Why did people write songs like that? They did nothing to build a person up. Only provoked anger and hostility.

His back complained as he stooped to pick up the old wiper assemblies, two greasy rags, and the tools he’d used on the Malibu. Mrs. Harcourt would be glad to learn her car was ready, but it was probably too late to call her tonight. She was a good woman, always helping out in the community . . . reminded him of Regis, the old man who’d once given Fred a chance.

The customer door swung open, the shopkeeper’s bell ringing. Fred’s seventeen-year-old son Jay sauntered into the garage, grinning. Hey, Dad, what’cha doing?

What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m working, something you need to learn how to do. He shouldn’t have snapped but their argument from last night had weaseled into his mind. Jay’s sense of entitlement and increasing rudeness rubbed him raw.

Wiping the grease from the wrenches he’d picked up, Fred shuffled to the old metal toolbox on the workbench against the back wall. He’d finish off the pizza when he got home and put on a movie. He had started watching Double Indemnity last night but fell asleep on the couch fifteen minutes into it, even though he really liked Fred MacMurray.

La Vie en Rose ended and Jay’s rap music filled the void between Louis Armstrong songs.

Why you gotta listen to that music? And why so loud? You think the whole neighborhood wants to hear it? Fred tossed the wrenches into the toolbox and locked it.

The next Louis Armstrong song On the Sunny Side of the Street began, Armstrong’s rough and throaty voice competing with the arrogant tone of the rapper.

Better than the crap you’re listening to. Jay leaned against Mrs. Harcourt’s shiny silver car and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans.

Fred grabbed an orange extension cord from the floor and wound it around his arm while he tried to determine the color of Jay’s pants. Dark red? They were dumb looking anyway, all tight around his calves. Made him look girly . . . though they did match his faded tank top, dingy red stripes and splotches meant as an insult to the American flag. The kid always wanted to show off his muscles, sinewy things. Real work could give him a solid build. The kid needed to learn responsibility. Eh, maybe he was going through a phase. He’d grow out of it sooner or later.

Do you even know what time it is? Jay said.

No, why don’t you tell me? Battery died in my clock. He threw a glance to indicate the old clock over the customer door, the kind they hung in schools and government buildings. One hand pointed straight up, the other down. Six o’clock.

It’s, like, midnight. Jay pivoted on one foot to face Fred, leaning a hip on the car. He chewed his bottom lip. The look in his eyes said he wanted something. Thought you’d be home by now.

You waiting for me to make you dinner? Fred chuckled. The kid knew how to open a can or throw something in the microwave as well as he did. That’s all Fred felt up to most nights. Sometimes he made more of an effort and brought home ground beef and spaghetti sauce, maybe a head of lettuce and Italian dressing. But the dishes never got washed, so it turned into more of a pain than it was worth.

There’s pizza in the fridge. Fred wished he hadn’t said that. He’d wanted that pizza for himself. But the kid had to eat something.

Jay laughed and shook the dark stringy hair out of his face. He always wore it long, hanging over his eyes. Probably spent more time on it than a girl spent on her hair. Pizza’s gone. I already ate it. Listen, I need to borrow some money.

Borrow some money? I gave you all my money last Friday. What’d you do in return? Do any chores? Wash dishes, do the laundry, clean anything around the house?

I just need a twenty.

When you gonna help me out around here? He hung the extension cord on the pegboard and set the air impact wrench on a shelf. He debated turning the CD off, but his favorite song began.

Stars shining bright above you . . .

I don’t know what you do all day, Fred said, but kids your age work summer jobs instead of bumming around and wasting their parents’ money. If I had some help, I wouldn’t be here until midnight.

It’s just twenty dollars. Jay dipped his head and smiled, something of the sweet little boy of his past coming out. Come on, Dad. I’ll help you out around here tomorrow. You can teach me to change oil or something. A smirk and a condescending look flashed across his face.

Like you’ve never said that before. Fred snorted, grabbed a greasy rag from the workbench and tossed it on a pile of greasy rags in the corner. He needed to send them to the cleaning service and get more before he ran out. Jay could always do that.

I mean it this time. Jay straightened and sauntered closer, coming to stand directly under a fluorescent light. His smile faded. His pupils appeared larger than usual, two black bottomless pits encircled by the hint of blue irises. Blue like his mother’s.

What’s twenty dollars? Jay said.

Maybe nothing to you. You take it for granted, but I work hard for every penny I earn.

You work in a garage. Jay kicked a box overflowing with empty oil containers, knocking several of them to the concrete floor.

Indignation shot through Fred. Clean that up, you little twit. I’m tired of the disrespect. And turn that rap music off. He jerked an arm out, pointing at the big garage door. The low boom of the base made him want to explode.

Give me the money and I’ll go. I got somewhere to be.

It’s midnight. Go home. We’ll talk about how you can earn money tomorrow. He grabbed a clean rag and squeezed hand cleaner onto it, its citrusy smell making him want to sneeze.

"I’ll earn money when I’m an adult. I’ll get a real job."

Fred’s upper lip curled, the insult riling him more than it should’ve. He scrubbed his hands vigorously with the wet cloth. I know how you feel about my job, but at least I work. You see these hands? He turned a hand up and shoved it at Jay.

Jay winced and jerked back as if he thought Fred meant to hit him.

Fred recoiled. A memory flitted through his mind . . . His father drew back a fist, rage contorting his face. The impact came sudden and hard.

The ugliness, the pain . . . Fred would never strike his son. Never.

He’d only wanted to show him the battle scars on his hands. Calluses and grime embedded in cracks and under his fingernails proved all his hard work. He could’ve grown up a failure. His father had thrown him out when he was fifteen. He’d dropped out of school. But Regis, an old mechanic with black hands and a kind heart—God rest his soul—had given him a place to stay right here in this garage. He’d encouraged him to get his GED, and he’d taught him a trade. Fred wished he could pass on the favor to his own son, but the boy couldn’t care less.

Fred tossed the cleaning rag to the pile and dug his keys from a front pocket. You’re seventeen and barely lift a finger to do anything for yourself. You expect to have everything handed to you.

His gaze connected with Jay’s. The dilated pupils, the heavy eyelids . . . The kid was high. Again. Where the hell did he get the drugs?

Jay drew closer and blocked his path, the hard expression on his face chilling Fred and tempting him to turn away. It pained him to see such hatred in his son’s eyes. Since the boy’s mother had run off fifteen years ago, they had only each other.

I don’t have time to argue with you, Jay said. Give me the money or I’ll take it.

Fred shook his head and huffed, disgusted. Was this the boy he raised?

Jay slipped past Fred and tugged the bottom drawer of the biggest toolbox, rattling the tools inside. Where’s the key?

Facing him, heart breaking, Fred forced himself to say what he should’ve said when he first realized it. Jay, you got a drug problem, and I’m not supporting it.

Jay slammed the toolbox, the muscles in his sinewy arm rippling. My only problem is you. Give me the key. He must’ve known Fred kept a wad of money in the bottom drawer.

You know I’d do anything for you. I’m always on your side. It was true, too. All through junior high and high school, Fred had gone up to school and given the teachers a piece of his mind. They never gave his boy a chance up at St. Anthony’s. Always accusing Jay of starting trouble. What about the other kids involved? Seemed like only his kid got disciplined. Takes two to fight.

Wanna do something for me? Give me the frickin’ money. Jay’s arm slithered around Fred. He slipped his hand into Fred’s back pocket.

A surge of adrenaline made Fred’s hands shoot out and latch onto Jay’s bare arms. He shoved him, regretting it instantly. You need to go home. I can tell you’re high. What’re you on? You know that stuff can kill you.

Jay laughed as he staggered back. "You’re such a loser. My friend’s dad is, like, a lawyer, makes all kinds of money, gives Seth money every week. Every single week. And Mason’s dad works for the city and makes more money than you. His glassy eyes shifted. Or you just waste it on things like that." He glared at Fred’s new sound system.

Get your tail home now. I’m tired of your attitude, Fred shouted. A bead of sweat rolled down his back. His face burned, probably from his blood pressure spiking. He’d forgotten to take his Norvasc today.

In the next instant, Jay lunged and swung his fist.

Stunned by the blackness in his son’s eyes—the eyes of his father—Fred didn’t move, didn’t breathe as his son’s fist ripped across his chin with a jolt of pain. He staggered to the side and the garage tilted. Shock prevented him from throwing his arms out as he lost his balance. His back and head cracked hard onto the cement floor.

Dad gripped his arms and shoved, slamming him against the wall. The smell of cigarettes and whiskey. Blood red eyes.

Eyes blazing and hair in his face, Jay pounced. His knee landed hard on Fred’s abdomen.

Fred grunted. The air shot from his lungs. He struggled to drag in a breath.

I’m tired of your mouth, always back-talking me. Dad’s fist came again.

Jay swung again. Curses spewed from his mouth and rage twisted his face.

Sick with fear, Fred threw his arms up, blocking one swing but not the next. Pain seared his eye, his cheek, his jaw . . . his heart. An eternity of hatred, harsh words, and blows stormed down on him.

Then the assault stopped, but the stinging, throbbing pain prevented Fred from moving.

He couldn’t hear the rap music, thank God. A break between songs? Maybe an ad had come on. Louis Armstrong still belted it out, his gritty voice loud and clear, imbuing Fred’s mind with emotion. All of me, why not take all of me? Can’t you see, I’m no good without you . . .

Keys jangled. Shadows fell. Footfalls. Jay stomping to the workbench on the back wall? The toolbox banged. More footfalls. The shopkeeper’s bell ringing. Then darkness and a door slamming.

Your goodbye left me with eyes that cry. How can I go on without you . . . ?

Fred struggled to suck in a breath . . . but . . . couldn’t. Was this it? Had he taken his last breath? Fear shuddered through him. No, not yet.

Can’t you see, I’m no good . . .

He slipped from consciousness and drifted into the unknown.

CHAPTER 1

W

hispered voices drifted from the dining room, tempting Jeannie to look. Her brother, Erwin, and his wife, Trella, carried on a private conversation. Everyone had been talking about the local man who’d been murdered not long ago, but the hushed voices and fleeting glances in Jeannie’s direction made this discussion seem more personal to the family. Were they talking about her or Danita?

Thirty-two-year-old Jeannie Lyons sat cross-legged on a plush rug in the middle of the living room, braiding her eight-year-old niece’s hair. Her head turned an inch, a slight loss in the battle for self-control. Her gaze caught something else and her skin prickled. Something shifted in the shadows down the hallway.

What’s the matter, Auntie Jeannie? Danita jerked her head to one side. Did you see something?

Jeannie tightened her grip on Danita’s locks of hair, refocusing on the matter at hand. What? No, what’s to see? Danita had an overactive imagination and everything frightened her. And her younger brother had no compassion.

The whispering ceased. Then started up again, a bit louder. While Erwin’s mumbles remained a mystery, Jeannie caught a few of Trella’s words: . . . our family . . . your responsibility . . . And then . . . your sister.

Jeannie stiffened. She forced her eyes to remain fixed on her work. She would not let them turn toward the dining room.

A gust of wind rattled the living room shutters, drawing Jeannie’s gaze to the big bay window. A dozen brown leaves swirled past. Heavy gray clouds subdued the morning sunlight, giving a surreal quality to the leaf-littered front yard and the colonials across the empty street. Jeannie appreciated the beauty of their Upstate New York neighborhood, but her gaze latched onto the reflection of Erwin and Trella. Though she kept her voice down, Trella gestured wildly. Trella was angry.

Jeannie redirected her attention back to the braid, determined to ignore distractions.

I don’t wanna paint a skull on my face. Danita tossed the folded white dress from her lap and pushed it away with her chubby bare foot. Colorful embroidered flowers decorated the neckline. Her mother had sewn it for her last year for the Day of the Dead celebration, and it still fit.

Why don’t we paint pretty flowers around your eyes instead? Jeannie kept her voice low, not wanting Trella, Danita’s mother, to hear. Again, she gave in to the desire to look.

Dressed in a blue traditional Mexican dress, Trella Lyons stood in the dining room arranging a mound of fruit on the hutch for the Day of the Dead celebration. Every year she made an ofrenda, an altar with pictures of her deceased relatives, candles, bouquets of marigolds and bright red cock’s combs, and mounds of food. Then she placed little sugar skulls and skull candles in every empty space.

Danita’s six-year-old brother, Gabriel, loved it—he loved anything ghastly—and two-year-old Devi didn’t mind. But Danita avoided the dining room as much as possible until the display came down. She would probably not carry on the tradition in her adult life.

Trella’s family came from deep in Mexico. They believed the gates of heaven opened at midnight on October 31st, allowing the spirits of deceased children to visit their families for twenty-four hours. Trella waited for today, November 2nd, when the spirits of the adults came down. Whether she actually believed this or just enjoyed the tradition, she typically spent the day telling stories about her grandparents and other relatives and eating their favorite foods.

How her brother tolerated Trella’s zeal for this day, Jeannie had never understood. Somewhat stiff and controlling, and with a cynical sense of humor, he couldn’t be more German.

Jeannie enjoyed the day, especially when the conversation turned to her relatives that had passed on. Laughing, sharing stories, crying . . . the joy of remembering tempered the pain she carried with her. She would not forget. She would not let her parents slip from her life.

Erwin sat at the dining room table, watching his wife work and mumbling something. Trella whispered something in reply, gesturing with a sugar skull in her hand. Erwin rubbed his hand over his face, the way he did when Trella complained about something for the umpteenth time.

What are you going to wear for Halloween? Danita turned her head, jerking a lock of hair from Jeannie’s hand.

Oh, I haven’t decided. Jeannie gathered more hair and crossed it over. I never get to wear my traditional gowns. Maybe I’ll wear one of those. She loved her grandmother’s gown, a long white dress with lace on the bodice and full silky sleeves.

I’d like to wear one. If I were tall like you.

Maybe when you’re older.

If Mama will let me.

Jeannie and Danita giggled together.

I’m sure she would, Jeannie said, but maybe not on the Day of the Dead.

Danita smiled at Jeannie for a long moment, her uneven upper lip lifting higher on the scarred side.

Jeannie’s heart ached a bit. Oh, the suffering the child had undergone because of her cleft lip. As a baby she’d needed an artificial palate to keep liquids from going into her nostrils. And she’d needed a specialized nipple that Trella, who’d wanted to breast feed, had resented. Even with the tubes in her eardrums, Danita had suffered frequent ear infections and the threat of hearing loss. At six months she’d undergone the surgery that left a thick scar and uneven upper lip. And she’d recently had a bone graft to support the upper jaw structure. The procedure had left her sore and sullen for days. In her teenage years, she would need plastic surgery to remove or at least reduce the ugly scar.

A hundred times Jeannie had wished she could take the suffering from her. She couldn’t bear to see anyone suffering, not even a stranger. During Danita’s operations, Jeannie had seen other children with deformities too, many in terrible pain, and it broke her heart. She couldn’t count the times she’d begged God, tried bargaining with him, tried making a trade: let her suffer but heal the child.

I’ll talk to her, Erwin said, getting up from the table.

Jeannie snapped from her thoughts and glanced. Then she smirked, certain now that she’d been the topic of conversation. She wrapped a rubber band around the end of the braid, tucked the end, and admired her work. Your hair looks lovely.

Thanks! Happiness in her big brown eyes, Danita ran a finger along the braid.

A crashing sound came from the