Empty Vessels
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
Hannah’s voice – faint at first – calls across space and time.
Awaken.
“Who is it?”
Me. Again.
“Again?”
Your name is Abigail.
“I don’t remember that name.”
Your name is Abigail Schwann.
“I hear her. That’s not me, it’s her… who am I?”
Hannah’s voice rumbles like distant thunderheads, irresistible in the most frightening of ways.
You are her. Make it so.
“She is me. Should I speak? I want to speak. I can feel you–”
No. Don’t speak through me. You speak through me too often. Abigail’s daughter, Lillian, is here. Speak through her.
A long pause. “I don’t remember how. I don’t remember, but... we have done this before.”
We have. Be Abigail. Let me guide you to another.
* * *
When Hannah speaks, tension doubles around the weathered oak table.
“Everyone, join hands.”
The six people seated around the table comply with solemn reverence. They are both familiar and alien to each other. No one here is under the age of thirty; Hannah requires loss to speak. And these six souls are exactly that. Lost to grief and memory, hoping to be found, to be reclaimed once again.
A balding, middle-aged man with a large birthmark on his chin. Another man, equally bald, sits next to him – perhaps they are lovers? An elderly woman’s lips purse tight, then sag loose. Her weary, ocean eyes tell the story of why she now sits alone. They have all paid thousands of dollars for this chance at a moment’s worth of lost companionship. One in six. Good odds.
The room is dusk dim as expected, yet the other tools of her trade are missing. No crystal ball or flickering candle occupies the center of the table, no tarot cards lay before her, nor does she speak with a false Romanian accent. For the newcomers, this is both unexpected and unsettling, challenging their skepticism. They expect a magician, an illusionist. Not this forgettable, plain looking woman.
“Let us begin.” She folds her fingers over the thin hand of the elderly woman to her right, and repeats the gesture with the bald man on her left. The rest take the cue and follow suit. Most close their eyes without being told to do so.
Six heartbeats align.
“Shhhhhhhhh…”
The silence deepens, their pulses gentle at first, a rhythmic tide lapping against ear drums. Then louder. Knocking. Knocking.
Knocking at the door.
“Shhhhhhh… listen. She’s coming.”
* * *
You are almost there. Are you in pain?
“No. No pain. I remember… there was pain before, but I wasn’t Abigail…”
Forget the pain. Just be Abigail.
“Yes… I feel her. I remember ponies when I was young… I loved them. Married. I was married, my husband… I remember… John… I think. Did he die? My daughter… she was also named Abigail. We all lived together… then John died. My daughter left, we fought, we fought, and… what happened to me?”
Shhhhhhhh….
“I understand. I am Abigail. Show me the vessel. Open the door.”
Shhhhhhhhhh…
* * *
Hannah’s eyes fly open. “Is there a Lillian Schwann here tonight? Little Lilly?”
A gasp, or perhaps a shudder. Maybe both. The woman at the far end of the table sits paralyzed. She is in her late forties, her tar black hair stained with slate grey, infant laugh lines budding at the corners of her eyes. Little Lily has aged much more graciously than her host.
The eyes of the others glitter with both disappointment and awe. Slowly, they release their hands. A single, silent tear traces a salty river down the cheek of the elderly woman. The bald man’s shoulders slump.
“Little Lily,” Hannah says, her voice as soft as cream.
“Mom?” There are tears now. “Are you there, mom?”
“She is not in me, child. Tonight, she comes to you.”
The timbre of the room shifts as six people bear witness, not just to a miracle, but a miracle redefined. This has never happened before. Hannah always speaks. Hannah is always the medium.
Lilliana jerks slightly, her eyes widening. Her mouth opens, but only a bit. She speaks slightly above a whisper. “Mom. I feel you… I can feel you inside of me.”
A new voice speaks from Lilliana’s mouth, similar, yet worn. Distinctly its own.
“I am here, child. I am with you.”
Hannah watches, relieved she can finally enjoy the show. This rare moment is hers as well.
* * *
Memories pound, followed by a shock of pincer pain like an umbilical cord suddenly severed.
“My daughter… Where is my daughter?”
She is not your daughter.
“I am Abigail.”
No. You thought you were. Now you are not.
“I am Abigail. I remember. I am Abigail.”
Let her go. She must go.
Memories blend, becoming an essence. The joy, the sadness, the loss – all become one. Fragile and indistinguishable. Yet, the hurt remains.
“Can I be Abigail again?”
No. You will come again, but never as Abigail.
“I was not… her… before…”
No.
“I have been others.”
Yes.
“I remember their pain. So much pain…”
Shhhhhhh…
A hazy door, as familiar as dust.
“Who am I?”
Hannah’s words seem forced and distant.
I don’t know. Shhhhhhh…
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed by how little you know of his other stories, some of which are published through Fiction on the Web, Exquisite Deathzine, Signus Magnolia and several anthologies. Donovan’s hobbies include toxic relationships, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, clean your dirty socks out from under your bed and follow him on Facebook and Instagram.
By
Donovan Douglas Thiesson
Hannah’s voice – faint at first – calls across space and time.
Awaken.
“Who is it?”
Me. Again.
“Again?”
Your name is Abigail.
“I don’t remember that name.”
Your name is Abigail Schwann.
“I hear her. That’s not me, it’s her… who am I?”
Hannah’s voice rumbles like distant thunderheads, irresistible in the most frightening of ways.
You are her. Make it so.
“She is me. Should I speak? I want to speak. I can feel you–”
No. Don’t speak through me. You speak through me too often. Abigail’s daughter, Lillian, is here. Speak through her.
A long pause. “I don’t remember how. I don’t remember, but... we have done this before.”
We have. Be Abigail. Let me guide you to another.
* * *
When Hannah speaks, tension doubles around the weathered oak table.
“Everyone, join hands.”
The six people seated around the table comply with solemn reverence. They are both familiar and alien to each other. No one here is under the age of thirty; Hannah requires loss to speak. And these six souls are exactly that. Lost to grief and memory, hoping to be found, to be reclaimed once again.
A balding, middle-aged man with a large birthmark on his chin. Another man, equally bald, sits next to him – perhaps they are lovers? An elderly woman’s lips purse tight, then sag loose. Her weary, ocean eyes tell the story of why she now sits alone. They have all paid thousands of dollars for this chance at a moment’s worth of lost companionship. One in six. Good odds.
The room is dusk dim as expected, yet the other tools of her trade are missing. No crystal ball or flickering candle occupies the center of the table, no tarot cards lay before her, nor does she speak with a false Romanian accent. For the newcomers, this is both unexpected and unsettling, challenging their skepticism. They expect a magician, an illusionist. Not this forgettable, plain looking woman.
“Let us begin.” She folds her fingers over the thin hand of the elderly woman to her right, and repeats the gesture with the bald man on her left. The rest take the cue and follow suit. Most close their eyes without being told to do so.
Six heartbeats align.
“Shhhhhhhhh…”
The silence deepens, their pulses gentle at first, a rhythmic tide lapping against ear drums. Then louder. Knocking. Knocking.
Knocking at the door.
“Shhhhhhh… listen. She’s coming.”
* * *
You are almost there. Are you in pain?
“No. No pain. I remember… there was pain before, but I wasn’t Abigail…”
Forget the pain. Just be Abigail.
“Yes… I feel her. I remember ponies when I was young… I loved them. Married. I was married, my husband… I remember… John… I think. Did he die? My daughter… she was also named Abigail. We all lived together… then John died. My daughter left, we fought, we fought, and… what happened to me?”
Shhhhhhhh….
“I understand. I am Abigail. Show me the vessel. Open the door.”
Shhhhhhhhhh…
* * *
Hannah’s eyes fly open. “Is there a Lillian Schwann here tonight? Little Lilly?”
A gasp, or perhaps a shudder. Maybe both. The woman at the far end of the table sits paralyzed. She is in her late forties, her tar black hair stained with slate grey, infant laugh lines budding at the corners of her eyes. Little Lily has aged much more graciously than her host.
The eyes of the others glitter with both disappointment and awe. Slowly, they release their hands. A single, silent tear traces a salty river down the cheek of the elderly woman. The bald man’s shoulders slump.
“Little Lily,” Hannah says, her voice as soft as cream.
“Mom?” There are tears now. “Are you there, mom?”
“She is not in me, child. Tonight, she comes to you.”
The timbre of the room shifts as six people bear witness, not just to a miracle, but a miracle redefined. This has never happened before. Hannah always speaks. Hannah is always the medium.
Lilliana jerks slightly, her eyes widening. Her mouth opens, but only a bit. She speaks slightly above a whisper. “Mom. I feel you… I can feel you inside of me.”
A new voice speaks from Lilliana’s mouth, similar, yet worn. Distinctly its own.
“I am here, child. I am with you.”
Hannah watches, relieved she can finally enjoy the show. This rare moment is hers as well.
* * *
Memories pound, followed by a shock of pincer pain like an umbilical cord suddenly severed.
“My daughter… Where is my daughter?”
She is not your daughter.
“I am Abigail.”
No. You thought you were. Now you are not.
“I am Abigail. I remember. I am Abigail.”
Let her go. She must go.
Memories blend, becoming an essence. The joy, the sadness, the loss – all become one. Fragile and indistinguishable. Yet, the hurt remains.
“Can I be Abigail again?”
No. You will come again, but never as Abigail.
“I was not… her… before…”
No.
“I have been others.”
Yes.
“I remember their pain. So much pain…”
Shhhhhhh…
A hazy door, as familiar as dust.
“Who am I?”
Hannah’s words seem forced and distant.
I don’t know. Shhhhhhh…
Donovan Douglas Thiesson resides just outside your bedroom window. In fact, he is watching you read this right now, and is disappointed by how little you know of his other stories, some of which are published through Fiction on the Web, Exquisite Deathzine, Signus Magnolia and several anthologies. Donovan’s hobbies include toxic relationships, eating butter chicken, and going through your garbage at night. If you want Donovan to stop hiding in your closet, clean your dirty socks out from under your bed and follow him on Facebook and Instagram.