The Tethered Souls Of The False God

The house was stiflingly hot. A hot that prompts deep breaths to know there is air in the room, a hot that you think moving might relieve, only to encounter a resounding stiffness of the hot air. Mary-Beth lay on her twin mattress in the bare room, staring at the ceiling. A reality she was so adapted to there was little left to feel about it. She lifted her nude body from the sheet slowly and let her feet touch the wood floor of the old farmhouse. The floorboards were warm already. This is how she began her ritual. She spoke aloud as if Dale Fogs her bonded soul was still in this realm. “Good morning” came out of her mouth like a fastball, her voice echoing against the wood and plaster with no soft surface to catch it but the mattress. “Today I hope the sign is in the sky.” There was no one physically present to respond to the request. She looked out the window and saw the clear blue Colorado sky and the plains sprawling with grasses and tumbleweeds and dust. Despite her plea to the universe, she did not look to the sky. She would have to look out 3 times before she could expect a sign from him, and even then, it was possible she would see nothing today. In fact, the signs had all but ceased.

When Dale had passed over, Mary-Beth stopped seeing signs. She would yearningly watch for them, but nothing came. A silent prayer, or worry, she carried silently was that the signs had never been of her, rather they had traveled through her to Dale. This would mean that she would never bring him back, which left a hole in her that was slowly filling with pain and yearning, where it a hole that had been filled with admiration and devotion. Getting out of bed when you have hole filling with pain and yearning can take all the energy you have to walk the earth for a day. Dale had known this, that is why he gave her so many tasks to do, he had the foresight to know she would need it. If she did not have the path to put her feet on, she would crumble into the sea. She had no path now, however, yet somehow, she resolutely continued existing. She would not fall to the sea like Philo, the spirit of the lighthouse she embodied, Mary-Beth was resolute, she would do what the original structure could not, she would weather the worst storms, she would guide ships into port and the city she guided them to would have eternal prosperity.

Marybeth pulled out a bright green packing crate from under the bed and lifted a bottle of lotion. She pumped the lotion 3 times, filling her hand and spread the lotion on her legs, feet and arms, rubbing in large aggressive circles. Followed by peeling her 3-quarter sleeve maxi dress over her head. When she had purchased the navy dress, it had sat snugly on her frame. Hugging her arms and pulling when she needed it to go over her hips. Now she swam in it. She had to safety pin the top, so it did not just fall from her gaunt frame. Despite being alone, being naked mattered in ways she could not even label. A piece of her would fleetingly imagine Dale watching her and shaming her for being immodest. So, she safety pinned the dress.

She walked down the hall in a cadence left-right-left, right-left-right, it took exactly 2 cycles to get to the end. She left the door open because it was hot; she was alone, and there was no rule regulating that action. She brushed her teeth, splashed her face with cold water, and braided her long hair over her shoulder in a fishtail braid. All the while she stared at the wall, despite there being no mirror. Some habits never left her, no matter how hard she rejected them. When Shawna brought the mirror to trim her hair Mary-Beth would stare at the stranger in her reflection. It was as if she was meeting a new friend. She recognized herself less and less. Her cheeks once full were now sharp, her lips that had receded into those full round cheeks were not fixtures dangling off her face. These were the only measurable passage of time she was experiencing, and it was always so jarring. She sometimes wondered why he wanted this for her. She accepted that Geneva had been acting on his wishes from beyond, without question, so Dale Fogs must have wanted this.

As she left the bathroom and headed down the stairs, she stopped and kissed a photograph of a young man with a suit and tie, a mullet, and thick framed aviator eyeglasses. His hair was sort of wispy and his glasses displayed clearly that though his lips curled into an appealing smile, it didnt quite reach his eyes. She paused and kissed the photo three times and whispered “the lighthouse guides you” between each kiss. The cadence of her steps continued, left-right-left, right-left-right, she shuffled her rhythm into the empty entry way that sat between the empty sitting room and the empty dining room. Quickly, as if someone were watching, she glanced out the window for the second time. She pivoted and headed toward the kitchen. The vacancy continued down the hall as she passed a bedroom and a bathroom, only furnished enough for guest use, and into the kitchen which was a starkly modern room compared to the rest of the house. The floor had tile, there was appropriate ventilation, a refrigerator, and a 6-burner gas stove. In which she cooked a lot of meals only for symbolic consumption.

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As she entered the kitchen, she approached a plate, and a cup of coffee, that sat on a small Formica table next to the window. The house had a whole dining room, but the small table in the kitchen was all there was. Mary-Beth cleared the plate of food, scraped it into the trash, poured out the coffee and pulled out another plate from the freezer. She set it in the exact place of the previous plate. After removing the plastic wrap and setting aside for reuse, she poured a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar to the cup. She placed it next to the plate on the left. He had preferred it there, where he could easily pick it up after placing his fork on the plate. Noting that if he were to return this week, it would be fortuitous as the meals available were all spaghetti and meatball, which had been his favorite. Rather are his favorite as he is not dead, Dale Fogs is just not here. Now that the Founder had his meal, Mary-Beth could eat.

She promptly turned and began making herself plain oatmeal and a cup of black coffee. This had been the breakfast she enjoyed for the past 4 years and 11 months. Though she had long lost track of the time. Sometimes there was butter and honey for her oatmeal, or the other tethers would send her own personal creamer for the coffee, they never allowed her to use the Founders creamer or any of the other divined rations delivered for him. Mary-Beth must use nothing he may use until his return to the flesh world. He would need purity of spirit to maintain his physical being. Mary-Beth stood at the counter next to the sink and ate her oatmeal, then drank her coffee. Washed her dishes and left the kitchen. The spaghetti and coffee still on the table to wait for her to return in the morning. At least on her more disconnected days that was the thought, on days in which she was a dedicated servant her thoughts were of being prepared for the return of her husband and spiritual guide.

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Belly full, and caffeinated, Mary-Beth methodically straightened her dress. She smoothed her hair. The gestures were like ghosts; they had the faint touch of vanity of the young girl she had been before she had camped under the stars and felt the tethers that held her to her sisters and to Dale. She took a deep breath and remembered the steppingstones. She remembered Dale was trapped, reaching back over the path. She remembered she was the lighthouse. Her divine purpose was to guide him back to the world to finish his work. Deep down she drew the puppet strings that moved her through the day and mentally presented them to the hand of the almighty. The strings pulled her up the stairs. The strings drew her back to the photo; the strings pulled her to the windows to look for the signs. The strings pulled counted her rhythm. Left-right-left, right-left-right.

Again, she stopped on the stairs to kiss the photo, and carefully walked into a lavishly furnished bedroom, leaving her shoes in the hallway. The room was an oven by this time, but in this room, there was a fan. She was not allowed to use it. The fan was not for her. The fan was for the Founder, and she was unworthy of such comforts in his absence. She could not forget the loss of him. So, she dusted under the fan, along with every other piece of the cherry wood bedroom set, including every post on the four-post bed. Mary-Beth gently removed the bedding and replaced it with clean sheets, she fluffed the pillows and set out new clothing for him. Finally, she vacuumed the carpets in the room and swept the floor. The last touch was turning on the fan and cracking the window before she walked backwards out of the room and slipped her shoes back on. If he were to return, he now had a meal, and fresh bed, as any man would want when he returned home.

Mary-Beth walked down the hall, continuing her cadence of 3 steps and a pause. Left-right-left, pause, right-left-right, pause. The steps were easier than the hallway. There were 19 steps in total, 13, then a landing and 6 more. This meant that Mary-Beth could just whisk down to the landing and kiss the photo and continue. The stairs were by far the easiest part of her day. After she cleaned the room, she placed the used sheets in the laundry bin that would be picked up in 2 days and proceeded to her room to read. This month she had been provided a series of chapters from Lord of the Flies. She would read them and provide her associations in the mailbox. Associations are connections made to the reading, and if her associations match what others had made with this or other readings, it will symbolize that they are building connections. Each month chapters are selected for the signs they express. If she correctly interprets the signs in the readings it is yet another way to guide souls back to the physical world. One soul. Dale Fogs.

For the most part this is the entirety of what an outside observer would see. She had not left the property since she came, the last date she had been aware of was Dales birthday 3/9/2015. She did not have a calendar; she did not have a cell phone or television, or computer. The Tethered Souls of the False God arranged for food deliveries. Mary-Beth had a mailbox to inform them of other needs, for example the heater had broken this winter, she placed a note in the mailbox and within a few days the heater was repaired. She didn’t know where she was, and had no one to reach out to. As far as Mary-Beth knew, she would die in this house waiting for the return of her beloved. Every kiss on the photo was an ember being sent to his spirit, every act of earnest devotion was a steppingstone.