At Peace
Sabina's last statement sounded ominous. I checked in on Ben, who was still sleeping soundly, and decided to go in search of Mr. Bouchard. I had never really run into him anywhere but the patio outside the dining room, so when he wasn't there, I was at a bit of a loss where to look. I tried the front desk, but again, they wouldn't give out information to anyone but family. I wandered the halls of the lower levels, where most of the doors were open so I could easily glance in without being obtrusive, but I didn't see him anywhere. Finally, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“There you are!” It was Cecil. “I've been looking all over for you.”
“Sorry,” I replied, turning to face him. “I've been trying to find Mr. Bouchard. I don't suppose you can tell me his room number.”
His jaw dropped. “It was Mr. Bouchard that sent me to find you. He wants to talk to you.” I followed Cecil through winding halls into a part of the facility that I had never seen before. He walked at quite a quick pace and I had trouble keeping up with him. “We need to hurry,” he said. “Mr. Bouchard has finally woken up, but his condition is declining rapidly. I've never seen anything like it.”
This part of the facility felt older than the rest of the building, and the rooms all seemed to be empty. The walls were dingy, and the floors needed sweeping. Cecil led me into a dreary gray room that I had somehow not noticed until we were right in front of it. One tiny window offered a little relief from the gloom, but was too high to afford a view of anything but a minuscule patch of sky. An ancient hospital bed sat against one wall at a slight angle, as if it had been forgotten, and in it lay Mr. Bouchard. He was propped up by a few stained pillows, and turned his head slightly toward me as I entered the room. His appearance had changed considerably since I had seen him only a few hours earlier. He seemed to have aged at least a decade. His pale skin held considerably more wrinkles than before, and his frame felt more gaunt and fragile. His eyes had dimmed and sunken deeper into their sockets, and it seemed to take all his strength just to focus them on me.
“Come closer, my boy.” His voice was a dry rasp, and the act of speaking made him cough violently for a few moments.
Cecil got him a glass of water from the dripping sink in the corner, while I took his hand and assured him, “I'm here.”
After recovering himself, he continued, “I've tried to give you as many details as I could, but you probably still have some questions. What can I explain for you before I go?”
I cast my mind back, reviewing all the visions he had offered me over the last week or so. It was still quite a jumble, and I had trouble putting things in order. Then I remembered a detail that had puzzled me. “The void,” I said. “You spoke of becoming the void after your last boyfriend had succumbed to your influence. I don't understand that bit.”
He offered a faint smile. “Yes, I can see why you wouldn't understand.” He seemed to be rallying his forces, and made a weak attempt to sit up straighter in the bed. Cecil and I helped him get comfortable, then he continued, “I was waiting for you.”
“For me?” I asked, confused. “But I was just a child when...”
“You weren't even a glimmer in your father's eye when all this started,” he chuckled. “In fact, your father hadn't even been born when I first ran into the Aitu. But I've already told you that part of the story. The missing piece is from much later, the late sixties. By then I had finally come to understand the nature of the beast I was facing. He was a spirit that inhabited one of the thins places of the world. A place where the underworld seeps to the surface and seeks to corrupt those who might be useful. These spirits are often seen as gate keepers, or ferrymen. Many are seen as harmless, nothing more than heralds of death, but a few are understood to be actively evil, ensnaring wayward souls into a dark existence of servicing their needs. Such was Aitu. He haunted the island of Moku Milu, serving the god of the underworld, but he was greedy. He snatched souls but did not send them into the abyss, rather, he enslaved them, using their strength as his own. Over time, the island gained a sinister reputation because of this haunting. No one would live there, and eventually it became the place where the worst criminals were exiled and abandoned. Being sent to this island was essentially a death sentence for many generations.”
He paused to take a drink, and I asked, “Are you sure you're up for this? Maybe you should rest for a bit?”
“No.” He was adamant. “I have to tell you now.” He drew a deep breath and continued. “By the time I returned to the states, I knew that the spirit had attached itself to me and I could not seem to disentangle myself from it's grasp. I began formulating strategies for containing the destruction it was capable of. I still had free will, but the spirit was using and amplifying my natural psychic abilities to feed. And it was insatiable. In this part of the world such spirits are usually identified as wendigos, and drive their victims into literal feeding frenzies, which often include cannibalism. This particular spirit had a different hunger to feed. It wanted cock.” He paused to catch his breath. “You got a small taste of that hunger, but I was doing my best to shield you from it as much as possible, but there was only so much I could do while defending myself.”
“Why did I need to be protected?” I asked. “I had no prior engagement with the spirit.”
“When you first appeared at the cottage, the piece of the spirit that was based there sensed your connection to me. I had kept my distance, remaining only a vague presence in your mind until the time was right, but even that little glimmer woke it up and it began plotting to use you to get to me. It started trying to seduce you with visions of cosmic sex, at the first circle jerk, as you became obsessed with all the dicks surrounding you. You were an easy target because of your enforced celibacy as you waited for Ben to heal.”
“Why was it trying to get to you? I mean, you were completely shut down. What did it hope to gain?”
“Exactly what it did gain,” he chuckled. “The dog tags.”
“But those were buried under the cottage. How did they end up here?”
“I brought them with me when I first arrived here.” The utter confusion I felt must have shown on my face, because he continued, “Let's take a step back. Over the years I grew to understand two things about this spirit. First, and simplest, was that if I kept the dog tags separate from their chain, the spirit's hold over me was somewhat weakened. I actually figured that out on board my ship on the way back to the states. So I put the chain in the closet, where you found it, and buried the tags themselves under the house. Years later, just before I came here, I influenced a local developer into doing some renovations, during which he dug up the tags for me without even realizing that was what he was doing. I allowed him to think he had purchased the property, and that the renovations would make it more attractive as a rental.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “You 'allowed him to think'? Does that mean you didn't actually sell it to him?”
Mr. Bouchard sighed. “You caught that, did you?”
“Is that why there are no tax records?”
“I see you did your homework,” he chuckled. “I knew you were quick. No one else has caught that yet. Still...”
“And is that why Heather never cataloged the box with your papers in it? Why we didn't notice that one file, or find the envelope with my name on it?” I was stunned. “Was that all you?”
“There's still one more surprise for you , the second package. Heather is waiting for you to return to the museum before opening it. But that can wait. For now, let me finish.”
He paused and took another drink of water. His breathing was becoming more labored as he talked, and I begged him, “You're not well. Get some rest, we can finish this later, please.”
“There is no later, my time is almost up.” He allowed himself to sink a little deeper into the grungy pillows that supported him as he struggled to finish telling his story.
The second thing I learned about the spirit was that once I had been satiated, he had less influence over me. The only times I was ever truly free from it's influence was during post-orgasmic afterglow and when I could feel genuine affection from a partner. These understandings led to two strategies. I would often put out a call for local men to service me to the point that I had no libido left for a day or two after. But this was a short term solution. Secondly, I believed that if I could find a partner who was strong enough to resist my influence, that perhaps that love would be strong enough to overcome the spirit's attachment. I tried this with many men, but all it took was a single unguarded moment for the spirit to hijack my ability and use it to take away my partner's free will. In the end I resolved to barricade myself and the dog tags behind a psychic wall. I knew this would take every ounce of strength and concentration I could muster. Once I had the dog tags, I influenced the developer to watch over the cottage as if it were his own, but made sure he would never touch the bedroom closet. I then came here, influenced the staff to think of me as a legitimate resident, and built the wall to keep the spirit out, essentially becoming the void that it could not penetrate. I then waited for a love that had the strength to overcome the spirit's influence, a love stronger than death, as they say. I didn't know all the details, but somehow, I knew this day would come. I could see you from a distance, and I knew your name, so I made some preparations.”
“Like the envelope at the museum?”
“Yes. When you and Ben connected a few years ago I could see the glow of your love even from this distance, and I knew the time was drawing near. I had only seen a love that strong once before, but it was veiled. Something was interfering with it, alcohol, I think. And then it shattered. Only this morning did I realize that it was Helmut and Phil. When I saw the spark between them, I immediately recognized it from years before, but now, it doesn't seemed veiled. I hope it will continue to shine, and grow brighter with time.”
“I believe it will,” I whispered, moved by this description.
“So while you were vulnerable to the spirit's attacks because of Ben's disability, You had a strong defense of your own, by virtue of your love for Ben. As such the spirit could influence you, but never quite get a hold on you. The thing I hadn't counted on was that guardian angel of yours, Andi, was it?”
I smiled. “Yes, Andi.”
“Sabina told me a bit about her this morning. Amazing. My guardian angel as well, I guess.” He fell into a silence as his gaze turned inward. After a moment, he closed his eyes and whispered, “My part in all of this is done. Time to go.” His breathing began to grow slower and shallower, as if he were falling asleep. But after a moment he opened his eyes which now shone with hope. “She says Aitu has been bound, the captives have all found peace, even the Sargent who attacked me. She says it was Aitu who provoked him, so I can forgive him. She says I can forgive myself, because it was Aitu who used my psychic abilities to enrage the men to kill him. She says that I am not to blame.” A look of utter peace washed over his face. “Neither is Helmut, she says. I don't know what she's...” His voice faded, and his eyes once again closed, as he sank back into the pillows.
“I softly lifted his hand and asked, “Who is 'she'?” but he was gone. As if in response to my question a familiar shimmer of light briefly appeared at the top of his bed, then quickly faded, leaving Cecil and me in utter silence.
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