Forevermore Ch. 02

The Surface Pro came to life and she clicked to bring up a browser window. "Anything you want to know, you just ask Google," Belinda told him with a few clicks. She handed the tablet over to him and his handsome face was illuminated by the light. Pale and pensive, it was a creased, worried face, careworn and thoughtful. It was a young man's face with an old man's burden and it made it impossible to tell how old he was. Did age even matter once time had stopped?

Belinda could tell that she might as well be a million miles away as he clicked and moved his fingers over the screen. It was truly genius at work. Her lover was farther away now than she'd ever felt him. His mind was a blur as he drank down every word.

While Edgar learned about the world outside these walls, Belinda had decided that she needed to learn more about what was happening within them.

***

The Fells Point library had first opened in 1886. It was a beautiful, old stone structure with arched windows and a trussed roof. The age of the place seemed about right for Belinda's purposes. She tossed the cigarette behind her and pushed her pink Gucci sunglasses up on her head before she went inside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the window and immediately put up her collar.

That better be the shitty light, Belinda curled her lip at the image in the glass. Hopefully, it was the midday glare on dirty glass that had created an optical illusion that left her like this. Otherwise she was almost as much of a ghoul as her lover.

The library had an Edgar Allan Poe display and Belinda smiled as she ran her fingers over the familiar titles. The spine of "Murders in the Rue Morgue" was split down the center and the cover of "The Masque of the Red Death" was cracked. The books were slowly decaying and dying even as their master, the madman who had penned the tales, had come back to life.

The library had propped up a cardboard cutout of Poe in the center of the display. Jesus, Belinda giggled, it wasn't a dead ringer but there were definitely some similarities. The wild, black hair, the crinkled forehead, even his paper familiar was careworn and concerned. He appeared to be burdened and drawn and Belinda had seen those creases on her Edgar's face. The black paper eyes were dull, they couldn't hold the fiery light that shone in the real eyes. Those gray pools that peered into her soul.

A raven was perched on the paper Edgar's shoulder. That was a hoot. Belinda imagined that the real Edgar was a tad too frightening for the bird to take to him so casually. "Is there anything I can help you with, miss?" a gray haired woman asked Belinda. Her voice was soft and she smelled like donuts and Belinda knew that she'd like her just based on the scent.

"Nice display," Belinda nodded at the books.

"Thank you," the woman smiled. "Every year, about this time, I try to make sure that I do something for him. You know, he died here."

Yeah, yeah, tell it to the man who had choked her on his dick this morning, Belinda thought with a smirk. "I heard. They say that he had his last drink at The Horse," Belinda nodded.

"That's what they say at the bar anyway," the librarian said as she put her glasses on the tip of her nose. "Are you a Poe fan?"

God, was she ever. She always had been but now, her body ached with her lust for him. "Yeah, ever since I was in middle school. He was always one of my favorite authors." Belinda wondered if that wasn't one more reason why it was all in her head. She could imagine the head shrinker from rehab as he scribbled the notes. Just in case it wasn't her imagination though, she had come to gather some information. "Do you have any books on ghosts?" Belinda wondered.

"Yes, of course, my dear," the librarian beckoned with a finger. "Right over here."

The woman's donut scent wafted up and mixed with the scent of old books. It was better than the bourbon smell that Belinda usually craved. It was strange, here she was completely sober, not a drop to drink. She wasn't even sick, no headache, not the slightest bit of withdrawal. Here Belinda's hand was steady and all the lines were solid and yet, she'd never doubted her sanity more.

"This is the paranormal section," the librarian pointed to several shelves. "Ghosts are in here but so is telekinesis, clairvoyance and demon possession. Sort of a whole soup to nuts kind of thing."

Nuts was right, Belinda thought as she nodded.

"I'll leave you to it then," the gray haired woman smiled and disappeared around the corner as silently as she'd appeared.

Belinda scrolled with her finger along spines and read titles like "Life with the Afterlife" and "Dreadful Places." She emptied the whole shelf and brought the teetering stack of books to a cubicle in the back.

She loved to be surrounded by books. Old books that smelled like time with slightly damp paper were her preference. If she could smoke in here, Belinda would never leave.

The stories were predictable, Belinda thought after she scanned through pages quickly. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for really. She read about haunted houses and shadowy figures that hovered in familiar places. Ghosts tended to linger in sad places with sad stories. There was nothing about ghosts that spoke to you through walls or wrote on mirrors. There was nothing about ghosts that took over bodies or solidified into a new person.

Nothing about ghosts that made love to you.

Belinda picked up a book titled, "The Uninvited" and flipped through the pages. A folded piece of paper fell from between somewhere inside and landed on Belinda's lap. Another fun thing about reading old library books was the chance to get a piece of someone's life that they'd tucked away. She unfolded the paper and laid it on the desktop.

"Four Degrees of Demonic Possession"

Possession doesn't happen overnight. It's a process, and it always requires an open door: playing with Ouija boards, attending or conducting séances, even going on a ghost hunt with friends. No matter how innocent one's intentions, dark spirits can take advantage of such opportunities. In his 1990 book "An Exorcist Tells His Story," Father Gabriele Amorth, chief exorcist of Rome who passed away Sept. 16 at the age of 91, identified the following stages of demonic activity:

1. Infestation. This is "haunted house" type stuff: footsteps, voices, apparitions, furniture or other objects moving without human agency, odors with no discernible source. Rather than directly affecting people, infestations affect only property, objects, or even animals.

2. Oppression. Activity steps up with physical attacks, sleep disturbances including regular nightmares, frequent and severe illnesses, major depression or anxiety, severe financial or employment problems, and relationship troubles. While these things happen in the normal course of life, all of them happening at once or in rapid succession could be a sign of demonic presence.

3. Obsession. As the name implies, at this stage the afflicted person has a hard time functioning, being constantly preoccupied with thoughts of the demonic activity commandeering his or her life, and frequently with thoughts of suicide as well. Sleep becomes nearly impossible.

All three of these stages can be addressed by a competent deliverance minister. However, the last stage is reserved for official exorcists...

4. Possession. Contrary to popular belief, possession is not demons entering a person's body and taking over his or her soul. A person's free will is never removed, only severely compromised. In possession, a person is so physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually broken down by going through the other three stages that demonic spirits are able to seize occasional control over that person's actions.

Telltale signs of possession include superhuman strength, speaking in a language the victim doesn't know, inordinate aversion to holy objects, knowledge of events or facts the victim could not possibly know, and according to Diocese of San Jose exorcist Gary Thomas (whose story was made famous in the book and movie "The Rite"), changes in facial features.

Telltale signs do not include 360 degree head spins."

Belinda shrieked and pushed her chair away from the tabletop and clutched her chest. No, it's not a heart attack. You're not dying, you just wish you could, her brain lectured as Belinda struggled to catch her breath. Breathe, you fucking crazy bitch, the voice, her voice, harped. Breathe while you still can. Can you?

Fuck, her body was convinced that she was dying even though her brain knew the truth. It was just a panic attack. Belinda held her arms and rocked back and forth. She waited for her lungs to kickstart once more. Just need a breath, just need a cigarette, just need to stop reading this garbage, the voice of reason blurted. Belinda rose on unstable legs and held on for support until her feet could get her to the nearest door.

"Are you okay?" the librarian asked, her glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.

She was so fucking far from okay. Okay had been eclipsed by a fire back in Beverly Hills. Okay had been wretched up when they pumped her stomach. Okay had definitely seen better days.

"I just lost track of time," she whispered and added, "I'm sorry," although she wasn't sure what for. Sorry for everything, Belinda turned around to break into a full out run to the front door.

Once she was outside, she put her sunglasses back down and fumbled in her handbag for the crumpled pack of cigarettes. Belinda's fingers shook so badly that she could barely get the white cylinder to her mouth. It took four attempts to click the flame from the lighter.

The fucking Ouija board, it was a gateway. What had he said? It was just one of many doorways to her? Belinda exhaled and watched the trail of smoke float from her mouth into the atmosphere. The veil was thinner than she knew. Was that the veil between life and death or heaven and hell?

Sanity and insanity?

Wasn't it Edgar who had said, "the boundaries that divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and where the other begins"?"

Had he known, even back then? Had he known that he'd come back or did he make it happen? Or was she just hopelessly nuts? She should be thinking about the veil between alcoholic or fun, little hobby. Or maybe just between crazy and totally fucking crazy, she thought as she puffed harder. What she needed was a drink or twenty, Belinda nodded to herself. Shit, she'd been cooped up in the house, writing a wretched romance novel. It was enough to make anyone start imagining things.

Belinda headed toward The Horse. It was the perfect time to stop in and see the gang, she smiled and finished her smoke. First, she was going to need some more smokes and she crossed the street in front of the convenience store.

"Two packs of Marlboro Lights, please," Belinda said to the young man behind the counter.

"You okay?" he asked. He made a face as he grabbed her cigarettes from the overhead shelves.

"Yeah, why?" Belinda wondered as she fished out the cash from her wallet.

"You have bruises," the boy told her and gestured to his own throat.

Oh yeah, that. Just bruises from her ghost lover who got off on choking her. No biggie. "Right?" she nodded, "don't ever roller skate around here. Big mistake," she added with a giggle.

He didn't believe her, she could tell. Belinda put the new packs in her purse and left. She lingered in front of the store window and gulped as her eyes moved over her reflection. The boy inside was right to be concerned. The bruises on her throat were purple and angry. Maybe worse than that, she was pale and drawn and the circles under her eyes were almost the same color as the bruises. She looked like a ghost, or maybe a zombie. She was abused and undead and yet every inch of her body screamed for more. Belinda drew her jacket tighter around her shoulders and fastened the top button. A nice drink would fix everything.

***

Belinda wasn't drunk. She wasn't drunk enough anyway, she thought as she dug through her purse for her house keys. Not drunk enough to come home and face the truth, she sighed. The truth that she'd imagined all of it.

After half of the bottle of Jack Daniels, Belinda had decided that's what it had been. Sure, there were the marks but Belinda had hurt herself before. She was always covered in mysterious cuts and bruises that she had no explanation for. She was always clumsy and distracted. She constantly tripped on nothing or had little accidents with knives or flammable things. She'd just escalated since rehab. Everything had escalated since rehab.

In fact, this was no big deal. She'd always been a little crazy, a little too much for most people. Belinda felt as comfortable in her insanity as she did in her yoga pants. It fit perfectly.

She opened the door and waited for the hum of the energy inside. The house was silent, completely still, which it never really had been before. Belinda placed her purse on the table in the entry and thought she wasn't drunk enough to look at herself either.

She needed a nice, hot bath.

Belinda didn't hear a peep as she moved from the door to the bathroom. What was wrong with her that she felt the bottom drop out of her chest? Abandoned even by a spirit, dumped by another bad man and her heart was too frozen to ache. Fuck, even if he was a figment of her imagination, she was fairly certain that she was going to miss him.

As she undressed, Belinda looked in the mirror and traced the marks on her bare skin. She blushed as she touched the purple handprints on her throat. There were welts on her hips, angry, violent fingerprints where she had been grabbed. There were the teeth marks on her breasts. They were all horrible and beautiful all at the same time. He'd taken her hard, it had been desperate and driven. It had been savage and strange and yet, she knew it was love. His need to mark her was his torment; as if he were worried that Belinda would disappear.

He didn't want to miss her again like she did now, as the lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.

When two crazy people fuck, Belinda thought with a sarcastic smile even though she had tears in her eyes. She turned around and watched her bottom in the glass. Marked with more handprints there, she breathed deeply as she outlined the bruises with a finger. No one had ever made love with her like that before.

Was it considered lovemaking when you looked like this?

Belinda thought as she sank into the warm, sudsy water that yes, it was making love. He was so hungry and needy, he couldn't help that it had been rough.

The bathroom door creaked. The hinges were sticky and the door swelled and warped with the damp. There he was and her whole body sang. Edgar hadn't disappeared at all and Belinda felt the rush of desire grip her body. "You're home," he murmured. His gray eyes were large and sad. He dropped to his knees beside the old, claw foot tub. "I missed you," he reached into the water and his hands were warm on her thighs.

Now he was warm and she was frozen. Her teeth chattered as he caressed her skin. "Did you?" she asked and sighed and sank deeper into the tub as she let him and the water both have their way with her. "Did you catch up?" Belinda felt as if she'd heard him, all the while, in her brain. Edgar talked out loud to himself in the other room as he took in almost two hundred years of life.

"I think so," he murmured and his hand delved down to her knee. He seemed to delight in the feeling of Belinda, everywhere was a new discovery and his eyes gleamed as he explored. "And you, my love? What did you do today?"

Besides scare myself into getting shit faced? Getting drunk was something that he would be familiar with, wasn't it? She didn't want to confess.

Belinda shrugged and ran her wet fingers up his flexed forearm. He wasn't built like a writer, that was for sure. He'd taken the blue collar muscles and that chiseled marble. He was thick and bulky, built like a hardworking man. He filled out the tee shirt and jeans that Belinda had brought home for no one, for the figment of her imagination that had left her sore and achy.

"I went to the library," she whispered as she watched his fingers slide down to her ankle. "Did you know that you have quite the fan club here?"

He laughed and it was infectious. Edgar pressed his lips to her instep and asked, "Really? It can't be like Fantasia's fan club, can it?"

"Oh Jesus, don't tell me you wasted a perfectly good day of research on that nonsense," Belinda settled back. Her legs were open, open wide to invite him inside. No matter what he'd done, no matter how he'd marked her earlier, Belinda wanted more.

"Not garbage, darling," Edgar took his time with his fingernails and ran them down each tendon. He left behind a trail of desire that inched up her body. "Love stories, and what does the world need more than that?" he asked, his breath on Belinda's calf.

"Good writing," Belinda muttered, her wet hand in his black curls.

"Surely not horror stories," Edgar slid his hands up to her knees and studied Belinda's face. "The world had enough of that," he traced a vein as he looked into her eyes. "What does my fan club think of me?"

"Well, you know, the usual," Belinda nodded. "You're so mysterious. There are all these rumors about you, you know."

"Like what?" he asked with sparkling eyes.

"Well, you could settle a bet amongst the day drinking regulars at the Horse," she said with a snort. "Did you really die in the bar?"

Edgar smiled and placed Belinda's hand on his cheek. "It's a strange conversation to be having but I guessed from my reading today that people still discuss me," he shrugged. "I wouldn't have ever dreamed to have been important enough."

"Are you kidding?" Belinda shook her head. "Your writing, the stories? They're still as eerily beautiful and desperately sad now as they were back then." She twisted a black curl around her finger. "So have you been haunting the bar all this time?"

He laughed. "I can't say definitely. Dare I confess that the last year or perhaps longer, of my life, was more insane than sane?"

He was speaking to the choir. Here she was, half in the bag, talking to a ghost. Belinda wondered just how much lithium would she need to make her a respectable member of society? And how much would put her out of her misery? "So you haven't been opening the cash register at night?" she asked with a giggle.

"No," Edgar whispered and kissed her palm. "I have been dreaming of you though."

"Dead and dreaming," Belinda whispered. A spirit and yet, trapped in the walls of the house. A spirit in a love story, it could only be a Poe tale.

"Oh, but I dreamt of you long before I was," he paused and exhaled deeply, he didn't want to say it either. "In love with you," he said instead with half a smile.

"Well, your fans definitely want to know more about that," Belinda watched as his fingers traced her legs in the water.

"About what?" Edgar asked but his eyes were drawn to her skin.

"Well, there's the whole thing about your love life," Belinda started and then bit her lower lip. That was really more her own question and always had been. Long before she had been bedded by her author crush, Belinda had wondered about the heart of the man.

"My love life?" he whispered and his voice was far away as his hands moved into the water.

"You and your cousin, Virginia?" Belinda wondered.

"Oh Sissy?" he smiled, "that was hardly my love life, darling." Edgar reached into the bubbles and set his palm on Belinda's belly. "I married her to keep her safe. She was so sweet and innocent. She had been so sheltered and I was worried for her." His voice was the sigh from a fairytale. "There weren't many good options for poor girls then," Edgar kissed her calf.