NOTE: This chapter is available in audiobook format on the TLHOC Podcast.
Access previous chapters of the book on the Table of Contents page.
June 16, 2:35 pm —
In the Well
Dear Richard:
I write to you this morning from my new apartment, looking out over the lights of the Las Vegas Strip. Summer is much hotter here than in Salt Lake, so I have the windows closed, and my air conditioner humming, as I watch the shimmering waves of heat rise over the casinos. I’ve always wanted to live in Vegas, and the city is teeming and vibrant and exciting, just like I dreamed it would be.
But I’m lonely, and I can’t stop thinking about that summer when we met…
No, that’s not right. Let me start again.
Dear Richard: Greetings from the South of France! My plane arrived last night, and the first thing I wanted to do was drop you a postcard from the beach. You’d love it here, especially all the hot young guys hanging out on their beach blankets in their Speedos…
Fuck.
Bonjour Richard, from Montreal! As you can see, I’m trying to learn French. I sure wish I knew a good language professor (LOL)…
No, sorry. I mean— Hola, from Mexico City!
Best wishes from the desert of the Sudan.
Namaste the mountains of Tibet. G’day from Down Under. From Greenland. From Antarctica! Greetings, Richard, from the fucking moon! How are you doing, my friend? How have things been? What’s new with you? Seen any good movies lately? Are you dating anyone? Why won’t you answer my letters? Maybe because you’re dead, right?
Yeah, it’s so easy to forget that.
Can I tell you that I miss you?
No, sorry. Scratch that out. I don’t want to make this letter maudlin. You know me: always smiling Howard Gunderson! Never wanting anybody to be mad at me, never wanting anybody to be uncomfortable. Did you know my mom and dad used to call me “Saint Howie?” Did I ever tell you that? I always hated it when my mother called me that, because she believed it. And I hated it even more when my dad called me that, because he didn’t.
I miss them, too. My mom and dad. I assume they’re both dead, but I don’t know. I may never know. I guess it all depends on what’s coming. I mean, what I’m about to find out. I’m actually pretty curious—what’s next from here?
Maybe it’s Heaven. Or the “Void” you talked about. Maybe it’s something worse. Who knows? And I guess it doesn’t really matter.
But I don’t want to think about that.
I miss you, Richard. So weird to say that, considering I barely knew you. “You knew me well enough to kill me,” I can hear you saying. Ha ha. Yeah, funny guy. I don’t know if I’ve been here an hour, or a year, but I know that in the time I’ve had, I can’t think of much else but you.
And how I betrayed you.
I should have opened the letter with that, I suppose. Let me start over.
Dear Richard: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I killed you, and I’m sorry I betrayed you, that last afternoon we had together, standing in the street in front of your house. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around after… Well, you know. After I did what I did. I should have. I could have tried to explain. But I didn’t really understand what I was doing then, and I still don’t understand it now. How could I have explained it? Better, I guess, to just leave you lying there, on the pavement in the middle of J Street.
I wonder if J Street still exists. I wonder if your house is still there. If it is, I’d like to visit it some day.
But I know I won’t.
It’s funny that I haven’t talked about Justin at all in this letter, have I? He’s still up there, as far as I know. If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be down here, right? Isn’t that how it works?
Let me start again.
Dear Richard: I write you from the bottom of my well, where the stones are still weeping brackish water, and the world I knew is far above, where I’ll never be able reach it again.
Damn. I guess I shouldn’t have written that. Now the fantasy is gone. There is no Las Vegas, and there is no South of France. There isn’t even a pen or paper. There is just me, in the well, trying to work up my nerve by pretending to write you a letter. Trying to work myself up to doing what I know I must.
I won’t explain what I’m going to do. I know if I tried, you’d just materialize here in this fantasy to try and talk me out of it. And even if you were just the part of me that still doubts, seeing your face and knowing I was about to betray you again would be more than I could bear.
I can hear Justin’s voice, and he’s talking to an old friend of yours. I brought him here because… Well, I guess I don’t really know why. Because she sounded important to you and Billy. I thought maybe she’d know what to do.
But I don’t need her to tell me. I know. I think I’ve known it all along. But Richard, I’m afraid. I can’t stop thinking about all that life I would have had. I’ve never been to the South of France, or Montreal, or the fucking moon, for that matter. I’ve never been out of the country, and not even any further east than Kansas City, where I visited my Aunt Cecilia when I was ten.
There’s so much of this world I haven’t seen. If only I’d had more time. If only…
I know you thought the same thing. Billy told me a little, during those few hours we had together, about your life, and I know how much you feared… this.
Okay, I hear her calling. She sounds like Master Splinter from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and her voice makes me laugh. I guess it’s time to sign and send this letter. Let me imagine a mailbox on the side of the stone well. I’ll fold this letter and drop it in on my way up. The last letter I’ll ever write.
Richard, I hope you’re happy. I hope you find peace, whatever happens.
I’ll tell Tuilla you said hello.
Much love,
Howard.
June 15, 9:20 pm
Panting at the dining room table, Michelle wondered if this was what soldiers felt after a sudden brush with death.
Ever since Richard died, her world, and the world of those she loved, had been spiraling ever further out of control. But that week paled in comparison to the last thirty minutes, which had been nothing less than a complete assault upon everything she thought she knew about the world. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago she had been blissfully unaware of a shadow side of reality—of a world far more complex and terrifying than she had ever dreamed was possible.
She looked now at her three wounded warriors, huddled with her in the dining room, and realized that they all had the same distant, confused, numb look in their eyes. The events of the past half hour had traumatized each of them in different ways. She had lost and then regained her husband. Keith had regained his lover, and then lost him all over again. And Pil had lost and regained his very self. It was a wonder that any of them had summoned the strength and courage required to stumble back into the house and lock the patio door.
And then there was Howard.
Allowing herself to stare at him, she realized that Howard Gunderson was still a mystery. His traumas and his journey began long before the events of the evening. And even though what happened tonight might not have been as much of a shock to him as it was to her, Pil and Keith, what he had been enduring had been much stranger, and more relentless.
He’s barely more than a boy, she thought. But he wears burdens on his face that make him seem prematurely old and tired.
Michelle became aware that all three of them were now looking at her, as if she was the one that could tell them what came next. Somehow, they had come to a silent consensus that she would know what to do, and the desperation on their faces was tinted by a heavy shadow of fear.
How did I become the leader of these walking wounded?
Perhaps it was simply because she had been the one that recovered first, out there on the porch. She had gotten them all to their feet. She had hustled them indoors, helping both Pil and Keith to chairs at the kitchen table. Howard Gunderson had moved of his own volition, but he seemed on edge, like a cat in a cage. He’d paced back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, looking as if he could jump out of his skin at the slightest noise.
Finally, after several minutes of silence, she knew that if she didn’t get their minds focused and moving, they could all sink into either denial or inertia.
“Pil, why don’t you go check the doors and windows,” she suggested. “Make sure everything is locked up.”
Howard stopped pacing and looked at her forlornly. “Locking doors isn’t going to protect us,” he said. “They’re ghosts, for Christ’s sake. They can walk through doors and walls.”
“I understand that,” she said, giving him a sharp look. “But I take it they’re doing this by possessing living people. They can’t walk through walls. So keeping things locked up makes sense.”
“Everything’s still locked,” Pil said, his eyes focused on a distant point in space. “I checked it all about an hour ago. Before…” His voice trailed off.
So much had happened in that hour.
Without a word, Keith sniffed, and then stood up, grabbing a handful of cloth napkins from a stack in the center of the table. Michelle watched him, trying to ascertain how much damage had been done to his heart and his mind by what they had all just gone through. Oddly, he now seemed calmer than she had seen him since that horrible night two weeks ago. She watched his back as he left the dining room. She glanced at Pil, who finally focused his eyes, and she reached across the table for his hand. Together, they followed Keith and found him in the living room, on his hands and knees in front of the couch.
The room reeked of beer, and she saw Keith was using the napkins on the wet sofa and doing his best to soak up where the bottle had drained onto the carpet.
“Jesus Christ, what happened here?” Howard asked, coming into the room behind them. “It smells like a brewery.”
“I… I spilled my beer,” Pil said, going back to the kitchen. She heard the water running, and Pil returned with a wet towel in his hands. He knelt silently next to Keith and swabbed at the wettest parts of the carpet. No word or glance passed between the two men as they worked, side by side.
The TV was on, although the sound was still too low to hear, and Michelle saw the city was continuing to descend into chaos. The picture was mostly just the talking heads now, as if they had lost most of their field cameras. But the scrolling chyron at the bottom of the screen seemed even more horrific without the accompanying pictures, and she read the words as Keith and Pil continued to scrub at the carpet.
More than thirty dead in YMCA slaughter.
Looting reported throughout the city.
Riots overwhelm police in Sugarhouse and downtown.
She was still staring mutely when Pil rose, carrying the wet towels and napkins to the kitchen. Keith sank into a dry spot on the couch, his head in his hands.
When Pil came back into the living room, Michelle grabbed his elbow and pulled him aside.
“You know, we have to do what Richard said,” she whispered. “We have to get out of here.”
Pil looked at her, and she thought she saw, finally, some spark returning to his eyes. “I know,” he said. “We will. We’ll go, I promise.”
Instinctively, they both looked at Keith. He had been the reason they had stayed this long. Would he still refuse to go? Even after Richard had told him to?
Michelle crossed to Keith and sat next to him on the couch.
“Pea? Can you hear me?” she asked. And then when he didn’t respond, she took his hand, which hung in hers as limp as the napkins he had used to wipe the couch. “Keith, can you look at me?”
Slowly, he turned his head and met her gaze. And after all that he had suffered, there was a clarity and purpose in his eyes that surprised her.
“You do know we have to go, right? It’s what Richard asked us to do. We all have to get into the car and go. Right now.”
Keith looked at her, and then at Pil, and then at Howard, who was watching them from the very spot in which Richard had died. “All of us?” Keith asked. But she knew it wasn’t really a question.
“Yes, all of us. All four of us.”
Pil shifted uncomfortably. “Michelle, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know this guy,” he said without actually looking at Howard. “And he’s wanted for two murders. We don’t know him, and we can’t trust him.”
Michelle couldn’t help but shoot a glance at Howard, who didn’t seem at all insulted by what Pil had said. There was a look of sadness in his eyes, but Michelle couldn’t tell if it was anything more than what had been there since the first moment she saw him.
So they think of you as the leader, she thought. I guess it’s time to lead.
“We’re all going,” she said, trying to sound as forceful and clear as she could muster. “We have to go, and we’re taking Howard with us.”
Pil stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke his voice had a much harder edge. “No, Michelle. I don’t think Keith is safe around him. This… Justin… wants to hurt Keith, and he’s used Howard at least twice to try and do that. What makes you think he won’t use him again?”
“Because that fucker is never getting back in my head, that’s why,” Howard said, in a voice so steady that all three of them turned to look at him. Michelle had not noticed, but the boy still had the tire iron in his hand. “I’ve killed Justin twice. Or what passes for killing these things. And I know he’s afraid of me now. He’s not going to use me again. I can promise you that.”
Pil bristled and walked over to Howard. The two stood face to face, although Pil’s face hovered a good six inches over Howard’s. “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Pil said, in a voice all the more terrible for being so calm. “I said that I don’t trust you.”
“Fine,” Howard said, without blinking or backing down as Pil loomed over him. “I came here because I felt like I owed Keith something. I came here because of what I… Because of what happened to Richard. But I don’t know you, and I don’t owe you anything. So fuck you. I did what I came to do, and if you all want me gone, I’m gone.”
“Pil, think!” Michelle said, crossing over to the pair. Both men looked surprised when Michelle took Howard’s arm and gripped it tightly. “Howard is the only one of us that can actually see the ghosts! He is the only one that can tell us if Justin, or Richard, or anybody else, is close. This isn’t about trusting him. The truth is, we need him! And he’s staying.”
Pil’s eyes did not leave Howard’s face, but the muscles danced in his jaw. He looked closer to throwing a punch than Michelle had ever seen him.
“Howard, tell me,” Michelle said, hoping to break the tension. “Do you know how many ghosts there are out there?”
Howard paused a moment and then broke his gaze from Pil. “No. Not exactly. But there are… lots. It’s like… probably thousands. But I think most of them are harmless, like Richard and Billy.”
“But you can see them all, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Pil, don’t you see how important that is? If the ghosts, the bad ones are least, are responsible for what is happening out there, Howard is the only person who can possibly keep us all safe.”
The big man turned to her suddenly, and his eyes were white hot. “How do we know he isn’t some kind of magnet for them? How do we know that he’s not putting us in even more danger, just by being here? Maybe they can sense him. So what if he can see them? I still don’t fucking trust him!”
From the couch, a small voice spoke up.
“I trust him,” Keith said. “I trust him, and he’s staying. He’s coming with us.”
Michelle turned slowly to her friend, relief passing through her. Thank God, she thought. Thank God that he’s ready to go.
Michelle crossed to him and took both his hands. “I trust him too, Pea,” she said. And she looked over her shoulder at Pil, whose face had softened. She knew she had won, and that he wouldn’t argue any more about Howard. Keith wanted him to go, and if that was what it would take to get him to leave this city, then Pil knew it was a small price to pay.
She could see that Howard also sensed the change in the room. With a weariness and a sense of relief, he sank into a chair across from the couch.
Michelle was about ready to get Keith to his feet so they could leave, when she noticed that there was a red stain on the collar of his t-shirt. A spot of blood had trickled down the side of his neck and was staining the cloth. She was surprised that she had not noticed it before, but the lighting in the room was dim, and getting worse all the time. It appeared that Pil’s grip, or perhaps his fingernail, had torn the skin just behind Keith’s ear.
“Oh, honey,” she said, turning his head so that she could see better in the light. “You’re bleeding!”
But it was more than bleeding. As she turned his head, she realized that the entirety of Keith’s throat was red and raw, with dark olive-shaped bruises where Pil’s hands had gripped him. Blood had run and matted in the black hair behind his left ear.
Pil was looking over her shoulder, and as he saw the injury that he had caused, she heard him strangle back a cry.
“Is it bad?” Keith croaked.
“No, not too bad,” she lied. “But there is a cut here we should at least put a band-aid over. Maybe some antiseptic. Do you have a first aid kit?”
“There’s one under the sink in the bathroom.”
Without having to be asked, Pil shot out of the room and was back in seconds with the white plastic box in his shaking hands. It was a basic kit, but Michelle quickly found a band-aid and a tiny tube of antiseptic gel. She smeared some on the cut and applied the biggest band aid in the box. She hoped that would stop the bleeding. The bruising would have to take care of itself.
It wasn’t until she was done that she saw Pil had knelt next to Keith, and was staring hard at the marks his powerful hands had left on his friend’s neck. Gone was the bravado and distrust that he had been showing toward Howard. Instead, Michelle saw a man who was on the verge of an emotional breakdown. He was alternately looking at Keith’s neck, and at his own hands, which were trembling uncontrollably. The reality of the damage his hands had done to someone he loved was descending on him like a weight far greater than any he had ever born.
His shoulders started to shake and slowly he dropped his head into Keith’s lap.
“Keith, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” he sputtered through his tears. “I can’t believe I hurt you. I… I almost killed you. K, I would never want to hurt you…”
After that, Pil seemed unable to form any more words. All he could do was weep, his big shaggy head cradled on Keith’s knees. Keith reached out a hand to the big man’s head, and stroked him gently, like a big dog, without saying a word. But Pil continued to weep, his shaking hands now clutching at Keith’s shirt. Finally, Keith leaned over the big man, burying his face in his curly hair.
And then Keith wept, too.
Michelle sat back and watched them for long minutes, while no one spoke. It was as if there was no more that could be said at this moment. All any of the four of them could do was bear witness to Pil’s shame and regret, and Keith’s forgiveness. To Michelle, there was a holiness about the moment. Keith looked like a mother with a repentant child, or even a priest with a sinner. But as she watched, she was not sure who was the holy man, and who was looking for redemption. They appeared to be blessing and absolving each other in a way that left them both wounded and purified.
Finally, all the weeping ceased, and Keith gestured to Michelle to sit next to him on the couch. She sat, and Keith laid his head on her shoulder, while continuing to stroke Pil’s hair. Howard sat alone across the room, and Michelle wondered if he longed to be part of the comfort the three of them were finding in each other. Of all of them, he was the most deeply violated, and it wasn’t right for him to be denied solace in this moment. He would likely suffer for the rest of his life because of what he had gone through these past couple of weeks. That is, if he survived at all.
Michelle got up and crossed to where Howard sat. Without a word, she took his hand and led him back to the couch. Keith saw what she was doing, and he had a glow of approval in his eyes. Keith took Howard’s hand, and the young man sat next to him, with Michelle on the other side. Michelle put her hand on top of theirs, and slowly Howard eased his head onto her shoulder. And then he too wept.
Only Michelle’s eyes were dry. And for a moment, she felt as if she was holding all three men in her embrace. She had never felt so maternal, or so inadequate to the role that had been given to her.
The house was so very still in that moment, with only the sound of their tears and their ragged breathing. The sun had set, and the room was almost dark. The only motion now was from the dancing shadows cast by the parade of death and destruction playing out across the silent television.
It could have been ten minutes, or an hour later, when one of them finally spoke. And to nobody’s surprise, it was Michelle.
“So it’s agreed. We’re all leaving, right? All four of us?”
Pil spoke quietly, not lifting his head from Keith’s lap. “I still don’t trust him. But I trust both of you. If you want him with us. He goes.”
After a few beats of silence, Howard spoke. “Then we should leave now.”
“No, not right now,” Keith said. Michelle stiffened, worried that maybe Keith had changed his mind. “Don’t worry, Pod, I’m going to go,” he continued. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s gotten dark outside now. And who knows what things will be like in the streets after dark. Besides, Richard could come back.” Michelle felt Keith squeeze Howard’s hand. “You’ll tell me if he comes back,” Keith said, and it wasn’t a question.
“I will,” Howard said. “But I think waiting until morning is a mistake.”
Michelle sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe it will all blow over by morning. You never know…”
“Richard and Billy didn’t think so.” Howard said, his voice heavy.
“I heard you say his name earlier,” Keith said. “Who is Billy?”
“He’s… another ghost. He’s helping Richard, I think. Or maybe Richard is helping him. That’s about all I know. Except that, the way he’s dressed, I think he’s been dead for a very long time.”
“Have you seen many of them?” Michelle asked? “The ghosts, I mean.”
Howard swallowed hard before answering. “I’ve seen… hundreds. Just here in the avenues. The cemetery is filled with them. It’s like… nothing you can imagine…”
Michelle barely heard him. She was staring at the TV, and the chyron on the bottom of the screen looked suddenly different. It had been blue and white, but now it was a blood red, and the words scrolling across the screen caused her to shudder.
“It looks like the decision’s been made for us,” she said. “Look.”
As they all looked up, the text began to once again scroll the message she had just seen. The headline read, MARTIAL LAW EXPECTED. Then, followed by slightly smaller type, Dawn to dusk curfew in effect. Police authorized to fire upon anyone found out after dark.
Howard sighed. “As if a curfew is going to help. Not when the killers can walk right through your locked door without being seen…”
Michelle realized they were all waiting for her to tell them what to do. Once again, it seemed that it was her decision. And once again, she wondered who had elected her to this post.
“We stay,” she said. “But just until morning. We’re not going to throw ourselves into this chaos in the dark.”
And, that easily, the decision was made. And it was a relief to them all. There was no more discussion, and no more dissent. They had a plan.
My god, what if I’m wrong? Michelle thought, as the room fell back into silence, and as the horrors on the TV continued to unfold.
What if this city is gone by morning?
The Last Handful of Clover is a supernatural thriller by Wess Mongo Jolley. Thanks for reading! If you are enjoying this story, please consider supporting the author on Patreon.
For more information (including maps of the story’s world and a contact form) visit the author’s website.
To read previous chapters of this book, go to the Table of Contents page.
If you’re interested in listening to the book, rather than reading it, the audiobook is available at the Patreon link above, and also as a podcast on iTunes, Stitcher, Anchor, and all other podcast platforms. Visit the podcast page for more details.
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