Chapter Thirteen: A Soul, Suspended

Jonah wakes at some ungodly hour the next morning, sputtering back to consciousness with the shower still on, ice-cold and drenched to the bone, waterlogged and pruned. It's the most awake he's felt since Matthew left—he isn't drunk or hungover, and his sleep was dreamless and deep. The teen finally turns the shower off and struggles to stand on frozen limbs, wondering sluggishly of what Matthew will think when he receives the water bill. He towels off and brushes his teeth, and after a moment of consideration, bypassess Matthew's room (and his clothes) to go to his. He spends many long minutes in front of his own open wardrobe, staring in at all his pristine and perfectly-recreated nineteen-twenties clothing.

It makes sense now, that Matthew would go through the trouble of having all of these dated clothes made new just for him. He'd wanted Jonah to feel at home and comfortable, to feel himself in his own home. Maybe he even liked the way Jonah looks in them, his conflicted mind supplies. Jonah certainly likes Matthew's clothes, and how he looks in them, so many black and artistically patterned t-shirts and worn out roguish jeans, casual shoes. Honestly, Matthew's wardrobe makes it clear he is still stuck in the nineteen-eighties…he probably imagined Jonah would still be stuck in the twenties as well. And yet here they were, both alive and unwell in this year of our Lord two-thousand and five. July will soon come to a close and give way to August, fall-time, and winter will come surely and soon behind it. It will soon be two-thousand and six…Jonah wonders if they will still be parted, then, if he will still be trapped in this house, with Matthew hundreds of miles away, across the country.

Jonah slowly but surely picks out his clothing for the day. He hasn't truly dressed since the day before Matthew left. The soiled sweatpants and shirt seem to stare at him from the hamper, scornful of Jonah's more-than-a-week-long depressive episode. As Jonah tugs on a fresh set of drawers and shimmies into a pair of gray slacks, appropriately snug in the hips and waist and loose in the crotch and legs, ending just perfectly at his ankle, he wonders how Matthew had guessed his size so perfectly, especially considering how these clothes had no doubt been made just for him.

He probably imagined you standing in front of him and measured you with his hands, Jonah's traitorous mind supplies, bringing a hot blush to his face. He'd probably went to the seamstress and stated he's about this big, this tall, slim build…Jesus Christ.

This notion reminds in the forefront of his mind as he dons a white undershirt and a dark-green button up, again fitted perfectly to his chest. Even the tie, skinny and black, the height of twenties youth fashion, is the appropriate length. Jonah absolutely refuses to think even deeper on the matter as he tugs on laced dress boots. He really did not want to know how Matthew correctly determined his shoe size.

Jonah is endlessly grateful that he finally dressed well when the doorbell rings, interrupting his process of putting on a pot of coffee. The water and little cotton basket lay forgotten on the counter as Jonah peers down the hallway and out the front door, making out the silhouette of two people through the windows at either side of the front door. He can hear them talking quietly, muted through the thick wod, as he unlocks the door and opens it. There stands the elderly woman from next door, now dressed in a demure, matronly black dress, with her granddaughter at her side, looking fresh and young in a summery, floral dress, at least a foot shorter than the morals of Jonah's day would've allowed.

"Hi there," the young woman greets first, looking shy as she scuffs a sandaled foot on the porch, her arms wrapped around a heavy-looking plant. It's a behemoth to be sure, with broad, slotted leaves bigger than Jonah's hands.

"Hello," Jonah replies, voice unsure, the outer screen door propped on his hip. "What brings the two of you here?"

"Well, ah, we came to give you this, as sort of an apology…could we come in? To be honest, it's kind of heavy—"

"Yes of course, sorry. Make yourself at home, and you can put it…well, anywhere. The kitchen is down the hall, past the stairs and to the right. I was just putting on coffee," Jonah ushers them in. Even after the young woman's sense of urgency, she seems hesitant, almost afraid, as she steps past Jonah and into Hell House. She walks slowly, looking all around, before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Good morning, ma'am," Jonah says to the elderly lady. She replies with a good morning of her own, and thanks him as he helps her over the door jamb and into the house. He helps her totter all the way into the kitchen and into one of the kitchen chairs, arms laced together, with Jonah supporting most of her body weight. She could use a cane, Jonah thinks to himself.

The younger woman has placed the plant on the kitchen table and has seated herself at the other chair. She seems to be looking everywhere but at Jonah, her emerald-green eyes, the same color as her grandmother's, scan around, resting curiously on the outdated, vintage appliances and fixtures.

"Would you two ladies be interested in coffee?" They both confirm that yes, they would be, and Jonah busies himself with making enough coffee for the three of them. It's awkward at first, the silence between the three of them, before the younger woman decides it's time for introductions.

"I don't think we even introduced ourselves, and we've sort of barged in on you like, twice now," she begins, "my name is Angela, but I prefer Angie; this is my grandmother, Shannon Duvall."

"Pleased to meet both of you," Jonah replies, as he shakes both of their hands. Shannon's surname, Duvall, rings a faint bell in Jonah's memory. But, considering his memory spans almost one-hundred years, placing her is impossible. It deeply unsettles him that he thinks he may know her, and she him.

"My name is Jo, uh…Herrell," he supplies, settling on Mother's maiden name. But Shannon just laughs, and levels him with a sharp, knowing look.

"Clever boy…you're Jonah Aickman. Who could ever forget those eyes, boy? And your mother, Regina Herrell, had the same eyes, God rest her soul."

The room seems to still within this revelation, a chill somberness, like the sun passing over a cloud. The only sound, for a moment, is the brewing of the coffee, and its slow, steady drip, as Jonah reels, does his best to consider how to respond to such an accusation, even if it is the truth.

"Oh, don't look so god-damned worried, child," Shannon saves him, "I remember you, though you don't remember me. My family used to live over on Elm Street…when my father passed away, it was yours who held his service and buried him."

"I—I'm sorry—"

"Though, how you manage to look just as you did then, in the year nineteen-fifteen, when I was five, is a mystery I've been trying to puzzle since we saw you out on the porch those few days ago. At first I thought you were a dead ringer, until I saw you up close…as I said, there is no mistaking those eyes of yours. Just as off-putting now—"

"Grandma!" Angela admonishes, shaking her head and turning to Jonah, "I really am sorry, Jo, I don't know what she's on about. She's just confused…she's ninety-five now and losing it, I'm afraid."

She laughs awkwardly, looking at him uneasily as if worried her grandmother's words are true, that the teenager in front of her, clad in suspenders, slacks, and a weird, skinny little tie, of all things, could possibly be the same teen Shannon recalls from ninety years ago.

Jonah doesn't know how to reply, doesn't want to confirm the young woman's suspicions and fears, so he pours them both coffee in fine china cups, served on a tray along with a boat of cream and a small jar of sugar, complete with spoons for each. He drags the stool from over by the washtub to the table, sitting with them. The silence is even worse now, heavy with secrets. Shannon's gaze, still youthful and sharp, pierces him knowingly.

Angela won't meet his gaze. Just as off-putting, Jonah thinks, his hands trembling around his own cup of coffee.

"Well, so, uh…who is this, what kind of plant is this? He asks, gesturing to it. It stands about two-feet tall in a clay pot, chipped and painted yellow.

"It's a monstera." Angela answers, seemingly grateful for the diversion. "We've had it for years now. My mom first planted it, she even made this pot for it. It's super hearty, and grandma's loved it dearly all this time—"

"But, Jonah Aickman, I thought it could serve you," Shannon interrupts, reaching a tremulous, wrinkled hand to pat Jonah's hand, "Angie and I have loved it for years, though it's outgrowing the room we have for it. We have a greenhouse, you see, overflowing though, bless the Lord. Considering how you're, well…stuck in this damned house, all alone, we thought maybe you had the space."

"Are you sure? It is beautiful, but if it's so well-loved by both of you—"

"Angie and I have each other to take care of," the elderly woman interrupts again, "but you, boy, have nothing to care for. Seemed to me you couldn't even care for yourself, last time I saw you. Glad to see you're at least dressed for company today," she sniffs haughtily to herself, eyeing him up and down again judgmentally.

Jonah blushes red, reaching out a handle to gently caress one of the monster's massive verdant leaves.

"Well, ma'am…you're not wrong, but I'm trying, I really am—"

As I said before," Angela interrupts, "losing someone you love is hard, even harder when it's of their own accord. We saw that man leave, the one with the pick-up truck, and then after we saw you, looking so upset right before and then after, well…we thought you could use some cheering up."

"Well, I…thank you. Thank you to both of you, for even…thinking of me. This plant, it really is beautiful. If it's truly your wish, I'll do my best to take care of it," Jonah stammers, still pink. Now it's his turn to avoid their gazes, looking down at his hands. He's loathe to think anyone has witnessed his conflict, his upset, especially considering they know absolutely nothing about his situation, know nothing about him, or Matthew.

"We wanted to let you know, too, while we were here…" Angela begins, her expression one of open concern and care. She reaches for Jonah's hand, and Jonah does his best not to yank it back from her. That would be rude…she's just trying to comfort him, after all. Her hands are soft, her nails painted a pretty, feminine pink, almond shaped and long.

"We wanted to let you know that you aren't alone, you don't have to be alone. I know we don't, ah—truly know—your situation, but you don't have to stay locked up in this house stewing over your own sadness. Grandma and I live just next door, and you're welcome anytime. We'd love to have you, and if you don't come around, well…we'll just come to you. If you ever want us to come over, just let us know, or text or call me."

She hands Jonah a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Jonah accepts it and does his best to smile, nodding. He really has no idea how he could ever explain to them how he's never going to come over, will never be able to.

They chat about meaningless things for the next half hour or so, seemingly smart enough not to push Jonah into talking about just how he looks so much like a dead boy, or what his relationship with Matthew had even been like, who he even was, or how the relationship ended. They talk about the ending of summer. They talk about Shannon and Angie's garden, growing sunflowers, bean sprouts, and radishes. Jonah informs them of his compost bucket and says they can help themselves. When the coffee is finished, they excuse themselves, and Jonah walks them out. When the two of them are finally down the steps, the heavy front door closed behind them, Jonah finds himself standing in the hallway, even more puzzled and afraid than before. How the old woman remembers him is beyond him. It isn't good…if she blabs to the wrong person, tells anyone other than Angela that Jonah Aickman is still alive and well and living in Hell House, the press will swarm, and Jonah's facade will come crashing down, and Matthew's already-precarious career as a demonologist and paranormal studies professor will come crashing down.

Jonah thinks of Matthew at his job, he thinks of him standing in front of a chalkboard, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, informing young minds of how truly thin the veil between worlds is, how easy it actually is to reach through to communicate with the dead, and worse, with demons and entities. He wonders if he's told anyone that he's reincarnated an entire person, brought him back to life decades after his passing. Jonah doubts it. It's ethically evil, unsound, and downright illegal. It's a vile and powerful form of necromancy.

Another thought comes to mind, one that seems sudden and easy, brainless, an obvious bolt from the blue, and Jonah is shocked into stillness before springing to action. Determined, he rifles through Matthew's study, helps himself to looking through Matthew's desk drawers, his sheaves of graded papers and academic paperwork. There, he finds what he is looking for—a letter, addressed to Matthew, sent to him by the university.

Jonah's hands shake as he picks up the telephone receiver and dials zero, elated to find that the number is valid, the phone connecting and ringing. A woman's voice cheerfully answers.

"Hello, you've reached an Operator for the United States of America. How can I assist you today?"

"Hi, I, uh, have someplace I'd like to reach, but I don't know the telephone number, and I don't know how to acquire it," Jonah explains, his voice shaking.

"Go ahead."

"I'm trying to reach the Holly Hill University for Atypical Vocational Studies in Holly Hill, California?"

It seems to take ages. She transfers him first to a California Directory, who at first insists the university doesn't exist, before recanting that statement. They eventually patch him through to another woman, who states she is the Head of Student Affairs. This woman is downright annoyed with him, asking him why he couldn't just 'Google it', a phrase that thoroughly confuses Jonah, before she finally connects him to the right department, after unsuccessfully wiring him through to the History department, and then the Theatre department, and then to the English department, who patch him through to another different number. Finally, someone picks up, a man this time, and states:

"Paranormal Studies department, this is Eric speaking," the man sounds exasperated, as if stressed and busy.

Eric. This must be the Eric Matthew spoke to so frequently.

"Uh, hi there, hello…I was wondering if I could speak to Matthew Campbell? Is he there?"

"...why, who's asking?"

"Well, um…my name is Jonah? Jonah Aickman—"

Eric laughs, a snide sound.

"Funny fucking joke, man. You journalists just don't know what to quit…what tabloid are you calling from? Matt is not, nor will he ever, be accepting interview requests. Haven't you people drug him through the mud enough? And claiming to be some poor dead medium, is just sick—Matt's been through enough without you people poking and prying into his past with Hell House. Find a different dead horse to beat, asshole."

Eric hangs up with a slam of the receiver. Jonah flinches heavily at the sound and sicks to the hallway floor, his hands shaking, vision blurring. People have been calling for Matthew to dig up dirt on him and the Hell House? The fact that Eric had immediately recognized Jonah's name, and assumed it was a ploy to get in touch with Matthew, makes him feel sick. Stomach in knots, tears spring to his eyes. Eric will never let him speak to Matthew, and honestly, judging by Eric's anger and concern for the professor, maybe it was for the best. Matthew's been harassed enough…Matthew is most likely doing his best to leave his past with Hell House, and with Jonah, behind him.

Jonah sniffles and staggers to his feet, awash in guilt in despair, his only hope to reach out to Matthew directly, dashed. In the kitchen, Jonah ponders the monstera and restless with his spiraling feeling of hopelessness. It is hopeless, this existence. Locked away on this cursed property, unable to leave, and unable to truly live without Matthew at his side. Just how was he supposed to function again, as Shannon and Angela wish him to? How is he supposed to feed himself, clean himself, find the will to dress, find the energy to read, or draw, or paint? Resigned, Jonah finds a piece of paper and scribbles out a note to the two women, an apologetic and truthful explanation of his existence, and his plan to end it. He carries the plant—it is really very heavy—back out to the porch, in a sunny spot, placing the note on its soil. The girls will wonder about his well-being again and come looking, he's sure. He hopes.

Jonah goes back through the house and out the back, down the steps to the backyard, crossing to the shed. It only takes a few minutes, finding what he's looking for. He winds the length of rope around his arm as he trudges back inside and upstairs. He goes to his room and adds a gray sports coat to his outfit, the one that matches his slacks, and he changes his tie to a more formal one. He even takes the time to slick his hair back. The chances of Angela being the one to eventually find him is high, and he wants to look his best, lest Shannon judge him…he doesn't want to leave a bad last impression, especially considering he may unintentionally traumatize the two women.

Jonah ties one end of the rope to the top landing rail, using a constrictor knot, a type of knot Father had taught him to use when lowering bodies into the mortuary, before they invested in the dumbwaiter. He sits on the top step of the stairs and takes his time tying the other end of the rope into a noose. It takes a few tries…he hasn't actually had to tie one in a very, very long time. Finished, he stares at its foreboding shape, his mind awash in loud, remembered voices.

You're that Aickman boy—

Freak, witch, Devil's spawn—

Are you a fairy, too, boy? On top of everything else?

I'm so, so sorry, but I love you—

Jonah wails in frustration, gripping the rope with white knuckles. He tosses it angrily to the side and bounds back down the stairs to the living room. He puts the victrola on as loud as it can go—the Boswell Sisters, again—to drown out the voices, and it helps. But it doesn't erase them entirely, and tears seem to roll endlessly down the medium's face as he goes back upstairs, wrestles the noose awkwardly over his head, tightens it down on his neck to the point of restriction. He swings one leg over the upstairs landing rail, gripping it tightly in shaking hands as he swings the other leg over. Careful, he turns to face into the house, so he can look down the stairwell, watch the light of the summer day shift and reflect along the floor. He takes deep breaths through his nose and tries to calm down, tries his best to drown out all of the ghosts of memories past. No-one would be able to stop him this time. Ramsay Aickman isn't here to snatch him up, throw him into the back of the family hearse and speed him to the Goatswood Hospital, accruing a line of cop automobiles behind him. The memory makes Jonah smile, a soft, watery little grin. Maybe he'll see Father in Hell. They can finally talk again, after all these years.

Jonah lets go of the railing, his body weight dropping suddenly. The knot and noose catch hard, his vision swimming and blacking out entirely as the rope pulls taunt and his neck snaps, an awful sound that the medium can hear distantly, muffled by the sound of blood roaring in his ears. The pain of it is here and gone in a flash, a temporary, searing thing, much less painful than burning to death. Jonah is grateful he hasn't eaten in days as his body kicks, only momentarily, before going still and limp. At least he wasn't going to be embarrassed one last time by his bowels evacuating…he's seen that before, in the bodies he's handled, red-faced, bloated, and soiled. Jonah's gasps are cut short and stop entirely, choking off the horrible rattling sound coming from his broken windpipe. His heartbeat slowly and finally stops, cut short.

Jonah's body hangs there, still and heavy, suspended in the stairway of Hell House. He looks nice in his gray suit. Almost like he prepared for his own funeral. It might not be too long before he's found. If anyone is brave enough to come up on the porch, to stand in front of the door to Hell House, they would see him hanging there, terrible and ghostly, another cursed apparition, another life claimed by Hell House, another death staining its long and soiled history.