I love my older brother.
Sometimes, I wish he’d died.
We were kids. I was only ten, and he was sixteen. He had just got his driver’s license, and we went everywhere in our town because we’d seen so little of it growing up.
Each night, Jack would make some excuse to take our family k-car - they don’t make them anymore - somewhere, and our parents would always go along with it. They knew we were just excited to explore this new freedom my brother had attained.
“Fine, but take Peter with you,” my mom would say. I could tell Jack was a bit irritated to have to bring me everywhere. I was his “luggage,” as he and his friends had so affectionately defined me. I could have made an excuse not to go, given him space, but I loved my brother.
If he was doing something, then it was worth doing, and I couldn’t stand to hear about it secondhand. I wanted to be there, sharing his cool experiences with his group of high school friends. I had no friends my own age. I guess I had no friends.
One such friend of Jack’s was Kyle, a goofy, intense guy who could never sit still. He always wanted to pick me up and spin me around. I hated it. Jack made him stop when he noticed my discomfort.
On what turned out to be our last drive around Bridal Veil Lake, we picked up Kyle. He was waiting on the porch in the rain and looked to be in a pissy mood. His discontent worsened when he saw me riding shotgun.
“Jack, really?” Kyle said. “You brought the kid?”
“Get in the back, Pete,” Jack said. I crawled between the front seats. I was happy to be there. I didn’t care where I sat. Kyle got into the car and slammed the door behind him.
“Drive,” he snapped.
“What’s your problem?” Jack asked as he backed out of the driveway.
“Nothing,” Kyle said. Didn’t seem like nothing. “Parents are being jerks again.” I didn’t understand then that Kyle’s parents were alcoholics and nasty drunks, and his homelife made ours look perfect by comparison.
“Sucks, dude,” Jack said. “You want to stay at our place tonight?”
Kyle didn’t answer. He stared out the window. “It’s that way.”
“The nunnery?”
“No, the 7-11,” Kyle snapped. “Yes, the f-cking nunnery. Where else?”
“You better cool it with the attitude,” Jack told him. “Or you can walk.”
What could Kyle say to that? Jack could kick him out anywhere, and then he’d have a sad walk back home in the rain. I liked that idea.
We drove for a while in silence until Kyle apologized. “Sorry man, this was supposed to be fun.”
“It’s no biggie,” Jack said. Our dad would say that too whenever we messed up.
“We’re going to the nuns?” I asked as the Reliant K-Car crossed the intersection of Ferry Street, where our old house used to be. Neither of them answered my question.
The neighborhood, as most know, has the special privilege of being located a few blocks from a psychiatric hospital and a closed down nunnery. The two institutions used to be associated with the other. Nuns were also nurses during the Korean War, treating veterans with PTSD.
The nunnery had been vacated abruptly in the 1970s, way before I was born, and while the Catholic Church still owned the land, they (the pope?) seemed to forget about it.
Castle-like walls on the grounds were torn apart by strands of strangling ivy. Trees that had been cared for became imbalanced and toppled before slowly dying in the mud. The big house (the convent?) where all the nuns used to live lost its white paint to the elements, and a big crucifix had been dragged from somewhere inside and thrown into the dried out fountain.
This was what I remembered of the nunnery before we moved. When we pulled onto the shoulder by the gate, the crucifix hadn’t moved in the intervening years.
“Right where I left it,” Kyle said to himself.
I’m not sure if he meant the crucifix or something else. Maybe I didn’t hear him right. The rain had intensified and created a racket on the windshield and roof.
“I didn’t bring my umbrella,” Jack said.
“I’ll buy you a whole raincoat after,” Kyle said.
“And you’re sure it’s not stealing?” Jack asked.
“How the hell is it stealing if nobody owns it?”
Kyle had apparently already visited the nunnery a few times to pillage items left behind. He’d sold a rug and some silverware to the pawn shop and made a few bucks.
But he wasn’t the only one with the same idea. On his second expedition, he’d heard some movements on the second floor and got freaked out enough to run. Any intelligent person would give up at that point and get a job. Kyle thought it better to rope Jack into the scheme.
Jack was big, tough, and calmly fierce if the situation called for violence. I’d seen him take down the DeRollo twins during an argument over baseball. They attacked him. So it wasn’t wrong that he’d defended himself with a baseball bat, and the twins ended up in the ER.
“There’s bound to be some good stuff in the basement,” Kyle said. “And the rain’s letting up. Let’s go.”
Jack turned to the backseat. “You should stay here, Pete. This won’t take long.”
“What? No way!”
“I’ll lock the doors,” Jack pleaded. “Lie down here. No one will see you.”
I shook my head. “Jack, no, I can’t. Someone will get me.”
Kyle chuckled until Jack shut his mouth with a glare.
“Okay, stay close and be quiet.”
It felt like a dream. Wet gravel crunched under my sneakers. I stepped in a deep puddle because I stared up at the dark windows, wondering if anyone or anything stared back.
“Jack,” I said, “I’m scared. I don’t want to go in.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. Kyle opened the door slowly and turned on his flashlight. The end of the beam showed an empty hallway and a set of stairs leading to the second floor.
Kyle went inside.
Jack guided me forward and knelt down to say, “Stay in front of me, where I can see you, okay? I’m sorry for bringing you here. I know it seems spooky, but it’s just an old building. If there’s anyone here, they’re homeless, trying to stay warm and dry. They won’t bother us.” He turned on his flashlight and handed it to me.
I felt a little better after his pep talk. It was dark and smelled like a church mixed with dirt, but that was all. Or so it seemed.
In his usual impatient, agitated way, Kyle went ahead, making a ruckus as he opened drawers in an adjacent kitchen and swearing when he found nothing of value. He appeared in the hallway and grasped a doorknob sticking out of the wall I had failed to notice.
“This is the basement,” he said, “but it’s locked.” As soon as he said “locked, “ the practically seamless door swung open, which was cause for more swearing. Kyle had been counting on the lock because he thought it meant the basement and its imagined loot were untouched.
“No point now,” Jack said. He laid a hand on my shoulder and started turning me around.
“Whoa, wait,” Kyle said. “Can we at least look?”
Jack hesitated, and I remember distinctly how he gripped my shoulders and crouched slightly to look me in the eye. “What do you think, Pete?”
I thought we never should have come here. What I said, however, was that we should look. I didn’t want to be “luggage” anymore. Jack giving me the power to choose felt like an opportunity.
“Yes, nice,” Kyle said. He gave me a high five and rustled my hair. “This kid’s getting cool.”
It was the nicest thing he ever said to me.
Jack smirked. “He’s always been cool. You’re just slow.”
The chuckle from Kyle was forced. He looked momentarily stung by the barb. I think it was then I began to realize how important my brother’s approval was to Kyle.
“Come on,” Jack said. “We’re wasting time.”
I opened the door. The nervous energy returned to Kyle. He was like a dog excited for a walk. My flashlight illuminated rough stone steps, worn smooth with the passage of a thousand feet. The walls were similar, though rougher, and there were hooks supporting oil lamps because no electricity had been extended to this part of the building.
“Creepy,” I said.
“Yup,” Jack agreed.
“Come on.” Kyle took the lead again, and we descended the cylindrical shaft to a shockingly wide and long corridor. The arches in the ceiling, the floors, the walls were all constructed with red bricks shedding their mortar. Someday, the weight of the house above would crush this tunnel. I hoped it wasn’t today.
“What is this place?” Jack asked.
Kyle shrugged.
“It’s like a dungeon,” I said, “look at the -“
The tiny barred window on one of six identical doors I’d been pointing at changed. There’d been some movement there like dirty fingers retracting into a cell.
“What is it?” my brother asked me.
I continued to shine the light on the tiny window, but the sound of a shuffling footstep further along the corridor snatched my attention.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?”
“Nope,” Kyle added quickly. He didn’t look scared or was working hard to seem like it. There were three cell doors, evenly divided on the sides of the corridors. At the furthest end there stood a heavier door, blockaded with boards nailed to the frame.
“It’s a passage to the hospital,” Jack concluded. “The nuns must have done some work here.” He didn’t add that the work in question was funerary. I found that out later and far too late. Not that knowing in this moment would have changed the outcome.
Like the idiot he was, Kyle went to the big door at the end and tried to pry a board away.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked him. “That probably leads to the hospital.”
“Right,” Kyle said. The board popped off. Soaked and termite infested wood crumbled in his hands. “So it isn’t in use anymore. Maybe it was used for storage for a while.”
He didn’t say if he meant the nuns or the current hospital staff across the street. Taking things from them would certainly be stealing.
And Jack wasn’t interested. “Hey, Kyle, man, we’re not stealing from the hospital.”
“Of course not,” Kyle said too slowly for my liking. “I meant the nuns. Maybe the nuns left something.”
“Why would anyone leave something valuable behind a nailed up door?” I asked.
“Ever hear of buried treasure, Pete?” Kyle snapped. “Besides, like you said, we should look. Come on, it’s fun.”
It was gross and dirty. I didn’t move and continued to look at the cells flanking our position in the corridor. There were piles of rubbish underneath a moldy workbench near the bottom of the steps. I encouraged us to search there first, but they were too committed to tearing off the planks.
That’s when I heard the murmurs of a prayer.
“Guys,” I said. But they were focused on the door.
The voice continued in frantic whispers. “Please… beg you… Michael… do not abandon…”
I thought someone was in one of the cells and that they might be afraid of us. If I were homeless, I’d probably stay in an abandoned place and be afraid all the time about somebody wanting to hurt me too.
“It’s okay,” I said, still unsure where the scared voice came from. “We’re not out to hurt anybody.”
Kyle pulled the last plank off the door around that moment.
“Guys,” I tried again, but they were talking about what to do next. The door still wouldn’t open. Kyle wanted to kick it down. Jack thought they should think about it first.
“…here… come here…” another voice said quietly, and this time I knew which cell it came from.
“Hello?”
“…I’m in here…” It sounded like a man whispering. “Help me. I’m here. Come.”
“Guys,” I said loudly, and unfortunately, at the same time Kyle started laying the boot to the passageway door. I moved closer to Jack. We exchanged a look. He was sweaty and afraid.
“There’s somebody in a cell,” I said to him.
He didn’t understand. “What?”
Kyle’s foot plunged through the rotten door. Immediately, a current of smelly air was freed to caress our faces, our bodies.
“There’s somebody -“
Jack reached for Kyle too late. His dumb friend rammed his body into the remnants of the door, and instead of stopping him, Jack tripped and fell on top of Kyle. That is why I was the only one to see.
Ahead, a gently curving ramp ascended, and against a painted wall came the shadow of what I can only describe as a king. His silhouette wore a tall and ornately evil crown, and he laughed as the shadows of several, leashed dogs tugged him down the ramp.
The shadows, however, were all that appeared. Nobody came down that ramp. Only the laughter and the heavy breathing of the dogs continued.
Jack scrambled backward off his friend, and Kyle crawled out of the tunnel doorway. There was nothing to be seen there. Yet, I knew. They did too despite their eventual denials. Something evil lurked ahead, and it had seen us.
Leashes slapped the floor as if dropped and padded feet and claws scrambled for purchase on the smooth concrete. The dogs had been let go. It sounded like it; the tunnel still appeared empty.
“Run!” a female voice shouted from one of the cells. “Run! Runnnnnnn!!!” Her screams rang in my ears.
I don’t know who ran first or how I ended up at the door at the top of the basement stairs. When my hands couldn’t turn the knob, my legs gave up. The invisible horror pursued us.
Jack raged against the basement exit. Strong arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me and turned. Kyle was screaming in my ear.
“Jack!” I called.
He turned around and saw that Kyle had picked me up as a human shield.
“Jack,” I pleaded.
He just watched as Kyle threw me at the growls climbing the stairs. I hit the landing and felt their teeth sink into my flesh. The animals tore away skin and feasted on muscle. I was still alive when they pierced my stomach. When would I die? The pain made me wish for death.
Terrored screams from below, from the cells, suddenly faded. The ordeal was ending. Only one pained howl remained: Mine.
“Pete, Peter, Pete,” Jack said over and over.
The basement doorway was open now, and Kyle walked through it. Jack picked up whatever was left of me and placed what had to be a mangled corpse in the backseat.
“Dad,” I said, “will be mad about the blood.”
Confusion entered Jack’s concern. “What blood, Pete? There’s no blood. You’re fine.”
He went to the driver’s seat and started the car. Kyle wouldn’t look at us.
“Sorry,” he said before exiting the car at his house. “Sorry, Pete. I’m sorry you fell. I tried to catch you.” It was a lie. I didn’t have the will to deny it.
By the time we got home, I realized there really wasn’t any blood and no physical injuries at all. I got out of the car and followed Jack inside. Our parents watched TV in the living room while we ate neapolitan ice cream in the kitchen. It seemed very normal until Jack put me in bed and stretched out in his. We shared a room.
“You okay, Pete?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “But what happened there?”
He stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”
That was the last we spoke of the nunnery. Jack stopped driving for fun. I stopped hanging out with him. I didn’t see Kyle again until a decade later; I was waiting for an order at a burger place, and a completely hairless man walked in. I didn’t recognize him as Kyle until I was on my way home. I don’t know why he lost all his hair. I don’t care.
My brother and I grew apart fast. He hadn’t tried to stop Kyle. None of us should have broken into the nunnery.
I never forgot the feeling of being torn apart by dogs. I’d only seen their shadows cast on the wall of the tunnel in waking life. In my nightmares, they were huge mutts with bloodied maws.
The Dark King remained a shadow in both worlds, revealing nothing more of himself but cruel laughter on the wrong side of midnight. I try so hard to sleep, but it’s not much better to meet him in the dream. It might be worse.
Jack had been in university a few years by the time I reached high school and gained access to drugs and alcohol. While his life took off into career and family and prosperity, mine declined. I never finished high school, became addicted, and struggled to make a connection with anyone.
Eventually, my parents and Jack ceased contact altogether. I am alone but never enough. His shadow follows. Sometimes, I can smell his dogs. Nothing short of total substance based annihilation of my mind provides temporary reprieve.
I tried therapy, but the experts call my experience a delusion and put me on strong antipsychotic meds that don’t help. I went to a priest, but he kicked me out and said I should see a doctor. Rehab didn’t work, obviously.
So I’m writing to you.
Maybe you can help.
At least, you care enough to have read this far.
The nunnery isn’t hard to find.
I think I have to go back. Most of whatever I am is still there. The dogs want the rest. The king is indifferent, so long as I suffer. I’m tired. There’s comfort in giving in and giving up.
I’ll be waiting in one of the cells with the others. They know. They’ll understand. I hate you, Jack. I miss my brother.