T H I N
A I R
by KANE MORRISON
CHAPTER 1
On November 5, 1872, the Mary Celeste, a brigantine vessel, set sail from New York City. The ship was destined for Genoa, Italy. She was hauling a payload of 1700 barrels of raw alcohol to Genoa. The ship was formerly called ‘Amazon’, was 103 feet long and displaced 280 tons, and hailed from Nova Scotia.
In early December of ‘72, it was found abandoned in the Atlantic, between the Azores and the coast of Spain. No crew or passengers were aboard. In fact, Captain Briggs, his wife, young daughter, and 8 crewmen, would never again be seen.
There was no indication of a struggle. All individual belongings, even monies, were located unmolested. No messages were found stating what had happened, or where they had gone.
A British Board of Inquiry, staged in Gibraltar, found that piracy, and other such foul play, could be ruled out as reasons for the mysterious disappearance of those who were aboard the ship. The vessel that found them was cleared of any wrongdoing. The mystery would continue.
Not one person from the Mary Celeste was ever heard from again.
Ten people had simply vanished into thin air.
Every once and a while I remember this girl I knew for a very brief time; only three months. Those days, that we became close, never seem to be as long ago as they actually are. It was now two decades since we spoke in the New Wave, early 80s, Ottawa.
Amy was a fairly attractive young girl, long straight dark hair and a knowing smile. In fact, for someone who had been involved with my life for months, I found myself thinking of her quite often.
How could I have let her die?
Why didn’t I stop her death when it would have been so easy to do so?
Amy had attended this private school, run by Nuns. We had first met as the result of a blind date. A date orchestrated by my friend’s girlfriend, Stacey. I only accepted to follow through on this blind date as a favor. Stacey had gone to the same school as Amy, and Amy needed a date for their upcoming prom.
I had just gone through a hellish break-up with another girl, in fact another blind date that had been detailed by this Stacey chick. I didn’t like playing the same games young males my age always go through. On my first date with Amy, I brought her to see a movie, “Richard Pryor Live.” This was, in no sense of the imagination, a “date movie.” Amy enjoyed it anyway.
I was older than Amy was by a few years. She would be graduating from grade thirteen, while I had taken a year off and was waiting to enter College. I really didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life and in fact still don’t, some twenty years later.
Amy was as attractive as Stacey had billed. She had an irregular sense of humor and strong personality, even abusive at times, which I enjoyed. In a short period, I grew to like her quite a bit.
I was her date for her Grad, and we had a gas at the several parties thereafter. After all the steam had left the last party we attended, Amy furthered our evening, not wishing to go home. We ended up going to this isolated beach at Andrew Hayden Park, where we soon fell asleep in each other’s arms. We woke up at noon when we were almost run over by a madman with a whippersnipper. And when I say slept together that is what we actually did, sleep.
At this time, Amy and I continued to see each other, just about every night. We had a great time, no matter what we seemed to do. That summer she worked in a grocery store, a Loblaws, as a bulk foods person. Meanwhile I was slaving it away painting the exterior of homes. Thank God I didn’t have a job that required brain activity because when Amy and I got together at night it ended very late. We’d go either to a film or one of her friend’s houses, or end up back at her place. Her parents gave her an unnerving amount of privacy.
We would watch TV and talk to all hours, often having the bars and tone from the television set as the background noise. We would make-out, but not consummate the relationship. By the time we usually called it an evening, it was five in the morning. It was always 5AM by the time I got myself into my car. No matter if we had planned on making it an early night due to sleep deprivation.
But, as most things do, the situation became complicated over time. Amy wanted me to make love to her, which was the only thing we had not yet traversed. I was reluctant, even with the hormones that drive one at that age.
I guess I still stung from my savage break-up months prior. Amy was also a virgin, which I believe had more to do with my reluctance. And yes, she was a virgin, which I was certain of, so this was not some sort of veiled attempt by her to appear pure. Amy was always very truthful about things.
She accepted my stance with a mild degree of frustration, since she knew I was not a virgin. Then it came up again, and again she pressed me as to why I wouldn’t. Didn’t I like her? Didn’t I find her attractive enough?
I dug down deep and wanted to tell her the truth, as I always had. Since I really had grown to like Amy I told her the exact reason. The reason I would not make love to her had nothing to do with her looks. She was attractive, thin, etc... Why I really could not make love to her was because I didn’t want to be the one that she would lose her virginity to, pure and simple.
‘Not someone like me’.
The fact I wasn’t a virgin, and held this tenet, stunned her. I simply liked her too much to become the one that would take that part of her, be that memory.
She probably thought my reason was utter bullshit, some kind of line I had designed so I wouldn’t hurt her. She was really mad. She was rapt with confusion over my statement, as I guess most would be in her situation. I had tried to tell her how I felt about this issue in a nutshell, and it came out causing more grief than good.
I told her that if she had already lost her virginity we would have surely made love quite often by then. Since this was to be her first time, I wanted it to be something really special for her, with someone really special to her. I didn’t feel I represented those things.
I know I was looking back at what had happened to me, how I lost my innocence, how I still was very bitter with the one that cost me my virginity. Actually, I was still stuffed with unmitigated hatred toward that girl. I didn’t want Amy to make the same mistake, and then end up being hated by her.
In the end, I was an object of hatred anyway.
I really did like her very much. I even said that we could wait, see what would develop between us in the long run.
Amy and I broke up a few weeks later.
I had to pull the “I just want to be friends” line. She wanted to be more than that and would not settle for less. What I never told her was why I had said this, and it had nothing to do with her, or I.
My ex, my first, Nicole, had called me back into her life, and I went. Not that I really wanted to, but for moral and ethical reasons. She thought she was pregnant, and the guy she had been with after me had split. Deep down, that is why I said I wanted to be friends, just in case it was an error on her part. It was trying to keep an oar in the water.
It did end up as a false alarm, and the truth came out that Nicole had been using that story to get me back. Then she dumped me again.
I could not go back to Amy. I was utterly ashamed. She would forever feel second place, and her trust in me would be long gone. I blew it.
I still believed she wasn’t thinking of me with any permanence in mind. We never really discussed our deeper emotions with each other, just glossed over them, and kept having a good time. I know I didn’t want to throw a crux into what we had going, and thought because she never gravitated toward emotions, she was on the same angle.
I wanted her to love the one that would take her virginity, and vice versa. I really felt strongly about Amy, stronger than most women I have been involved. She was a kindred spirit.
I think, when you meet this “kindred soul,” at such a young age, you don’t really understand what it can mean. These spirits don’t come around very often; sometimes you’re lucky to meet more than one of them in your lifetime.
I returned to College a few weeks after she decided we should halt our relationship. Months later a found a few messages in my room. Amy had called a few times while I was out, or in class. The course I was taking had long hours and a long week. I never found the time to call her back. Okay, that was crap.
I could not call her back because I was ashamed of my behavior. She did deserve better than anything I could offer. I had been poisoned and needed time to work that out of my system and come to terms.
Yes, I did miss her, more than I imagined I would have. I missed Amy even months later, years later. Yet shame, in not having called her back, had made me a coward to approach the thought of talking to her again.
By the time I realized what it was I felt toward her I knew I had let things go silent between us for too long.
I did call her house once, years later, when I was feeling low, and remembered how she used to elate my soul. I was bewildered by the conversation that took place.
Amy’s Mother answered the phone. Both of her parents were originally from Britain and still possessed those telling accents. I could understand what she said without a problem, since my Mom had a Scottish accent, although I can never hear one. I was also a “Monty Python” fan.
I asked her Mother how Amy was doing and if she would give me her phone number, guessing she no longer lived at home. Her Mom turned slightly cool; she wanted to know my name. That was understandable; I could have been some maniac, a stalker. I readily told her my name, but thought she wouldn’t remember me from such a long time ago, and a relatively short time as well.
‘Pat, Pat MacKinnon’, I paused, thinking I would have to add in some more details in order for her to recall who I was. I knew Amy wasn’t in the directory. My name did mean something to her Mom, however, which came as a surprise.
‘She’s happy right now’, her voice firmed up a notch and grew increasingly hostile with each word she passed. ‘You’ve caused her enough problems, so you can forget about contacting her. You’ve hurt her enough’.
I tried to interrupt her, retrieve some sort of explanation as to what on earth she was talking about. I knew I had caused some stress, but not on the level that was being described. Amy had been a very strong girl, on top of her emotions, restrained even.
Her Mother continued to vent. ‘We finally got her straightened out, so don’t get involved in her life again!’ The next noise I heard was the clatter on the earpiece as she crammed the phone back into its cradle.
What the hell was that all about? I thought she had me confused with someone else. She thought I was someone that had really hurt her. Not me.
I knew that Amy’s Father had passed away about three years after I had last talked with her. She had been very close with her Dad, and didn’t get along with her Mom very well back then.
Did something about his death have to do with me? I couldn’t understand how so much hate had been thrown against me for seemingly no reason, or even an elusive reason. Then I thought about it. I thought about what I could have possibly done to deserve such a reputation.
I thought back to those notes my parents had left in my room, decades earlier. My parents never told me Amy had called, fearing I would start coming in at all hours again, and have my grades topple. I was sure they would have told me if she had been distraught, agitated, or even crying. It wasn’t as if she had called my place to the point of being incessant.
Maybe Amy had felt something more than I thought she did for me. I couldn’t see why she would have, honestly. I guess she put up a convincing facade, as far as her true feelings were. I thought, to her, I was disposable, in a way. She never let on. I know she wanted me to make love with her, but I thought that was void of any strong emotions. I thought she just wanted to elevate her sexual experiences, be more in flux with her rampant friends. I thought it was her loins, her hormones doing that talking.
Maybe she had missed me as much as I missed her. Maybe she also felt more than she thought she had, as I had learned about her.
I had often thought about Amy before this call to her Mom’s. Now I think about her a lot more. Wondering what might have been, wondering what she looks like now. Remembering what a great pair we were, and what that might have built into.
But it was entirely gone, all gone. But we would also never forget each other by the sounds of it, one for good and the other for bad reasons. I wonder if Amy thought as much about me as I had about her over all these times.
Who knew I would have to let her die. How could I have not even tried to stop her death? I had that chance.
I remember this seminar that we both attended, one she dragged me to down at the University. Amy would be going to University for a Business Degree, with a side interests in advertising and technical writing. I found out later, after bumping into Stacey one day, she had become a technical writer with a computer firm.
The topic of the discussion was controversial; Subliminal Advertising. I remember thinking, and saying, that it was a load of crap, but went along anyway. I thought about whispering sarcastic remarks to her all evening, which would not have been out of the ordinary for me. Amy persisted that I behave myself, and emphasized her statement with that smile, and damn twinkle in her eye. She seemed to hold the ability to actually make them twinkle whenever she felt like it would get her something.
It did end up being interesting and even provocative. At times there seemed to be proof that subliminals were being implemented by agencies and they were reaping the effects of sales increases. After, even Amy admitted that in many instances they were reaching, seeing things that weren’t there, typical conspiracy theorists.
Amy and I used to talk about all kinds of subjects. We were both knowledgeable on a wide variety of topics and ideas. I remember watching this television documentary on the mystery of the “Mary Celeste.”
The Mary Celeste had been this small ship that saw its passengers vanish off the coast of Spain. They had a cargo of denatured alcohol, which was intact. The vacant ship was discovered by a Spanish vessel, called the “Dei Gratia”. The Mary Celeste was just floating along aimlessly, wherever the flow of the ocean was taking it.
An inspection by the crew of the Dei Gratia revealed that the ship had simply been abandoned, and all valuables had been left behind. Even a meal, set out on several tables, had been untouched. The forward hatch was open. The compass had been smashed. Both bow planks were lowered and resting ten meters above the water. The sails were partially rigged. The one lifeboat was missing, which could have held all eleven of them. The thing was that nothing on the ship seemed amiss. Everything was normal, except the compass. There was nothing to indicate a dangerous situation.
Whatever it was that had happened had come quickly and suddenly. Eleven people had simply vanished from the face of the earth. No trace of them would ever be discovered, although theories were wide and even ludicrous.
Amy and I had our own believable theory, right after they mentioned that eight of the barrels of alcohol had leaked. We were not buying into a Bermuda Triangle or abduction by aliens explanation.
The leak coupled with heat from the sun and the limited air flow in the hold; a noxious and caustic stew must have been created. This would have been enough to make them abandon ship, for either fear of imminent explosion, or poisonous fumes. Perhaps they went to the lifeboat to avoid being overtaken by the gases. Perhaps that is why the front hatch had been left open; in effort of airing the cargo bay.
Maybe they had entered the lifeboat for what they assumed would be a relatively short period, enough time to let the gas dissipate. Since the sails were partially rigged it is conceivable that while they were waiting a strong gust of wind may have snapped the tether they had made with the boat, forever separating them.
We were convinced of our theory. It made sense. It was far more logical and believable.
This was one of many conversations we had had. It stood out from the others since we both agreed without deviation.
Losing Amy, and they way I kept her at bay, then ultimately lost track of her over time, is something I will always regret. She was someone I valued being with, held with esteem, and trusted. She was someone I wished I had known my entire life. Amy was a great character and she could make me feel great just both the spark from her eyes. But I let her slip away, without a fight. What are supposedly good qualities caused this error: honor, pride, and sacrifice. Of course, there was also a good measure of guilt, shame, and fear.
I would allow her to die, and not even attempt to save her when I could have.
It would have been worth seeing where those emotions could have taken us, especially knowing that she might have felt more strongly for me than I anticipated. And she undoubtedly did not know how I felt about her, since I did not let her know.
What ever happened to Amy and I was a mystery, like the Mary Celeste. Although I was young, I should have been able to see the beacon that she was. It was like the seasoned Captain Briggs, who made several ill-fated errors trying to save his family and crew.
Who knew that the reasons for both events would be connected? The reasons would be nothing anyone could have imagined. The same thing that took that crew from the Mary Celeste would be the same thing that would take Amy.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Glove - Kane Morrison
Glove
By KANE MORRISON
CHAPTER 1
“It’s 2 AM, all fear is gone…”
The fridge door opened. The bulb inside wavered before springing to full intensity. A hand reached into the upper rack and removed a bottle. He unscrewed the cap and downed the cool green liquid, quenching a thirst.
It was humid. His skin still felt clammy, especially around his neck. The cold plastic housing of the Mountain Dew felt good in his hand. He swished down more of the drink and screwed the lid back on the bottle. He carefully placed it back in the refrigerator.
The room went dark after the door closed. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust as he walked from the tiny kitchen. He knew where everything was at any rate, and he could have managed to get to his bed with his eyes closed if need be.
Godzilla had finished eating things. The creature was deceased, or was it? And had that been a movie, or was it the news?
He trudged into the further darkness of the hall. Sleepless were his nights of late. The heat seemed to pulsate from the eggshell walls. He toed into his bedroom. It was small, even for a bachelor pad. Even more surprisingly, it was uncluttered.
He rolled back a few sheets until he felt comfortable with a thin layer; a ply suitable for the aim of gaining sleep amid the stagnated heat.
He didn’t know why he was having such a hard time sleeping at night. He could easily slip off during the day, but at night it was difficult. The things he thought about while trying to nod-off seemed to be the problem.
The white curtains that hung from the rod looked like clean, corrugated, aluminium siding. There was no breeze, not even an odd gust to billow the sheer fabric. No breeze created unease.
His naked frame clung to the sheet as he tried to stay still within his arid room. He wanted to thrash, readjust himself, but knew if he gave in, would be a catalyst for his inability to fall from wakefulness.
He tried not to sweat, but could feel the swamp of beads forming in the arch of his back. He was soaked but kept that condition away and kept himself thinking that it was just an illusion. It was merely this grand plan to try and keep him for falling asleep.
His tongue lashed out and swished away some perspiration from his upper lip. It was salty. While his tongue meandered back into his mouth he passed by his top row of teeth. He couldn’t help but check on their standing and began pushing each section of his teeth, looking for loose ones.
He could not help it. He had had that dream where his teeth were all very loose, and some had begun to fall right out of his gums. He dreamt of trying to shove them back into their sockets, but the holes had enlarged and become unreceptive abodes for housing teeth. Things were good, and he could only locate a few teeth that he could even twitch about, but they were not close to falling out.
The mind game seemed to have an effect. In those few moments of distraction he had dozed off. There was still no breeze, no movement of air. There was still the unforgivable warmth, the humidity, and the dew that now caked his flesh. These conditions no longer mattered; they no longer begged his attention from actual, true, sleep.
Sound travels with exceptional clarity from great distances during these types of sultry nights. He was not a rich man, one that could afford air conditioning. His windows were his vents. The area he lived in was on a par with him. It was usually quiet, neat, and one could even describe it as serene.
A few cats became embroiled in a skirmish, where, what seemed, was right outside his bedroom window. The screen to the window rattled, causing a cascade of growls, hisses, and aluminium chattering to cascade throughout the room. He awoke to the sound of a tom spitting at his foe.
He half-heartedly sat up on the edge of his damp bed and trudged over to the open window. He could not see any fur, or any motion to indicate where this feline melee was taking place. He scolded the general area with his eyes, even gave an evil glare to the elm in front of his apartment.
Whatever had happened, the cats had suddenly dissipated from their territorial activities. A sticky calm replaced them. He could even smell the scent of sweat coming from the varying vegetation.
More asleep than awake he hobbled back toward his dank bedding. He lowered himself slowly into his awaiting bed frame, leaving his foot behind on the floor.
He was now suddenly awake. He was very awake, very conscious. He swiftly moved his foot from the carpet and yanked it up to the bed. He felt awkwardly certain, that while completing this manoeuvre that someone, or something, had tried to grab his ankle from under the bed.
It was only a momentary sensation, one that quickly departed after considering how childish the entire situation he had imagined really was. Maybe the film had frightened him more than he could admit. He tried to quench his senses, make them relax, get some shut-eye.
He suddenly jumped from his bed, careful not to let his feet get near the bottom of the bed, and jaunted to the washroom. He twisted the cold water tap and grabbed a face cloth from the pile that was in front of an over abundance of varying brands of underarm deodorant. He patted the moistened cloth about his head and neck.
He looked into the mirror, stared into his tired eyes. He briefly recalled the last time someone had gazed into his eyes this way.
He felt refurbished, relieved, and cooler, and was ready, yet again, to try and sleep.
He dropped back onto his pillow, lost in thought, had even forgotten about that thing that dwelled under his bed. He had seen her at the bar and managed to be with her for one short dance. Her deep brown eyes had burned themselves into his memories. He could recite every detail; how he molested her with his eyes, undressed her. She smiled coyly, and seemed to know what he was doing. He looked into her throbbing and pulsating thighs as they danced to some old Steppenwolf ditty.
“Rock me baby, rock me baby, all night long…”
He delivered himself from his memories back to the present. Although that dance he had had was where he often wanted to be. He even noticed that he had become some what aroused by the whole escapade.
He had replaced this pleasant dream with a building feeling of sickly pain in his stomach and head. He really needed to get some sleep. He rolled down his eyelids and concentrated on achieving his goal. No more distractions. No more clatters and whines from animals. Relax. Don’t fidget.
Outside his window the night picked up its pace. The stir from this rare breeze softly blanketed his room. The movement of air swished the sheers, tossed about the portraits that he had tacked into the wallpaper.
His tongue unleashed itself and moistened his lips. His hand mechanically placed his hair back to a more comfortable position. His toes briefly jetted against the damp sheets. Minor nuisances were keeping sleep at bay.
He, once again, had this strange notion to open his eyes, be awake once more. A presence seemed to be focusing on his body. It was an urge, a belief he was being looked at, analyzed.
He thought about giving in to this tenet. He thought he was a young lad again, plagued by the monsters that stormed about in the dark of every room he had ever been in.
Would it be harmful?
He opened his eyes and looked directly into his closet. That’s where they used to live. His pupils dilated fast in the night’s darkness. He remained still, sight glued on the closet.
Between the hangers, from the pants and shirts, tiny faces and forms stared back at him. The shadows had taken on characteristics that were a little too finely developed. These eyes that stared back at him were puffed in anger and madness. His fingers gently moved the bedding over his unprotected skin.
Were his demons from childhood back for a visit? It had been years. Was it merely another semi-conscious dream?
The morning’s first breath created new shadows in his wardrobe. He sighed as the features changed, and the demons went away. He rolled onto his side, thankful that the sun was starting to rise, but agitated that he was unable to get any sleep.
He glanced over to the misty light blue lines of the digital alarm clock on his bedside table. It was just 2:44. Leaping over fences, the sheep should have already been spent. He quickly dashed the realization that he had thought the sun was rising. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps it had been distant headlights, or the moon coming out from behind a cloud.
He closed his eyes once more. Time faded swiftly as he looked at the tiny sparks and crevices of his inner eyelid. Relief steamed from his metabolic system. He fell into a well-earned deep sleep.
It was not long before he was awake again. A mechanical yet man induced noise had now grabbed his attention.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As quickly as it stemmed itself, it would start all over again. The sound seemed to be getting closer and closer. It began from down the street, then the lamppost, the tree, outside his window… It now seemed to be right inside his room.
His eyes sprang open.
This time there were no child-like tricks over taking his imagination.
This time there was a definite vision, one that could be reconciled easily.
There was no explaining this away as a young boy’s sleepy tale, no shadows playing tricks with his mind. He saw the source of the strange rattling, and it was right in the middle of his bedroom.
A bald man, with mirror shades, sat at this cranking device. His well-muscled arms struggled with the iron wheel that he moved about with this awkward looking, thick handled crank. He wore dirty green work pants; a brand new pair of Puma runners and a white sand and sweat stained wife-beater. Balls of perspiration rolled down his forehead toward his thick brown eyebrows, leaving tracks in what seemed like a thin layer of dust. Fine white hairs caked his exposed skin and seemed to capture light and sparkle. The light from the street lamp flowed through the sheers and revealed his deep brown tan.
He did not fully understand what he was being audience to; he did not know how to react, if he should react. He knew he was not at all comfortable. He felt he could be harmed, although there was no violence to speak of, just this inexplicable invasion of privacy.
If he closed his eyes, really tight, and opened them again, would this strange tableau still exist? Would he and his crude machine go away?
No, they would not.
How did he get into the room with that machine anyway?
Maybe he had been in the closet all along?
Maybe he had been the one who was under the bed?
He searched about for some sort of weapon. He had to be ready to defend himself from this obvious flake. He started to feel threatened by this guy’s presence, and had full right to.
What in hell did he want?
He couldn’t come up with a single article that could supply ample defence. He watched the continuing monotonous action of this Herculean being in the centre of his bedroom. He did have an alternative to his present action, which was doing absolutely nothing but skulking into his bedding.
Instead of lying there, easy prey for what would ever transpire, why not try to get the hell out of there. He eyed his bedroom door and glanced back to the grimacing bald man. He sprang out of his bed and darted toward the door.
His tensed hand grabbed onto the knob and twisted it swiftly. His heart stopped in shock as he found himself face to face with this unworldly entity. He stumbled backward and flopped back onto his bed.
The big bald guy kept churning his mechanism, as if nothing was happening he should be concerned with.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
He now knew he was dreaming, had to be. This was surreal, out of the ordinary, inexplicable. He tried to make himself become awake. He tried to jolt his nerves to leave this unconscious state.
The thing he met at his doorway now slowly came into his room.
It could be a man. Maybe someone was playing a joke on him?
Mark? Larry? Mike?
This thing continued into his room, and came to stand right beside his bed. It was silent and ominous.
All of its features seemed white. It had a white hood, barely creased. It had what appeared to be a white baggy t-shirt, over an oddly shaped torso. It seemed to be wearing white surgeon’s pants as well. It strangely had a pair of alligator skin boots, which were also shiny and white. This white mist seemed to ooze from its clothing.
The only part of this entity that was not white was its face. It was a pale green featureless face, almost like that you would find on a cheap mannequin. The height of this thing was also incredible, well over seven feet tall.
It made no noise, not even a murmur. It seemed content to stand there, hovering over me. It was violent, wasn’t docile, just standing there being ominous.
‘What the fuck do you guys want from me?’ He shifted his eyes back and forth between these two decidedly different beings.
That bald man continued with his aimless chore, oblivious to me; blind anything going on around him. The white-cloaked figure said nothing, not like it could, and did nothing, like it had since coming into his bedroom.
Suddenly the tall green-faced thing reached out and grabbed the man by his wrist. He tried to break free but there was no give to the strength of this thing. The grip the entity had was tight but not painful. It was in control, and could not be budged.
The thing easily yanked the man from his bed to make him stand on his feet. It was not a violent aggression, more of a command, a request. He motioned for the man to go toward the door.
The man knew this was a dream, but it was like none he had ever had. Was it due to the heat wave? Lack of sleep? Godzilla? Mountain Dew? The girl he had danced with that night? She had powers…
The entity guided the unsteady, overwhelmed man to the doorway.
The bald man kept up his pace.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As they went through the doorway, into the pitch black of the hall, the man looked back into his room, and to check on the white thing. He could see a gentle smile form on the bald guy’s face as he continued grinding that machine. The cloaked figure was still behind him, and with those arms of his would easily grab him again if he broke for it. His sunglasses glowed in fascination as he left his view.
In the dark of the hall, as he gingerly toed his way to where this beast wanted him to go, there was a sudden eruption of bright light. The explosion of light caused the man to close his eyes and raise his arms. His toes dug into the parquet flooring.
The flash seemed to halt and quickly as it came upon him. He tried to peek through his fingers to see what had happened.
He tensed up completely; knees locked, and heart pumping.
He now found himself on a narrow ledge of this immense building. It was so dark, and so high, that he could not see the ground below. Somehow he now wished he had managed to stay in his room, even if it was with those strange people. At least he wasn’t precariously standing on this very high ledge.
That white-cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.
The “urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech,” could no longer be heard.
The bricks on the wall behind him were ice cold. It was replenishing for a second, considering the heat of late, but that attribute soon fell off. There was also a slight wind, one that caused him ill ease, considering his balance would be challenged if it got much worse.
Minutes seemed to pass, and nothing was changing. He just stood there, gripping the concrete edging with his feet, digging his fingertips into the cold bricks, and not seeing anything around him.
In the distance, at about his altitude, he can spy movement. Was it a plane? A bird? There was no sound to associate with this object, just the breeze.
The wind built a little in energy as the object got closer. He couldn’t make it out. Then he realized there were two objects, paired together in flight. The closer they got the more the wind kicked.
Now it was a constant wind, one that made him dig into the ledge and wall with even more desperation. It was hard to look, with the wind partially blinding him, making it hard to open his eyes for any great time.
It couldn’t be right, what he was seeing. It seemed to be the theme of late for him.
Two giant grey gloves now hovered in front of him, slightly below his location on the ledge. They were massive. He could easily fit into any of the fingers. As the gloves can to a steady halt, the winds immediately died down.
Now what?
All his body hairs stood erect in the cold of the darkness. He clutched tightly into the ledge and wall, using all his digits like never before. His heart, and a good group of the other major organs, beat feverishly against the unknown circumstances.
Then he felt movement, and it was not anything one could consider a positive turn. Either the wall behind him started to slowly edge out, or the ledge was beginning to disappear into the wall.
Why the hell is it moving? What have I done?
He had no real time to question any of the events that had now taken over his life, ruled his existence. There was no time to question reality, just time enough to try and survive each situation as it came to him.
The soles of his feet dragged across the cement as the wall sucked the ledge slowly into itself. He was trying to gain traction, a foothold, even if the ledge vanished, he didn’t have much of a choice.
He looked below him, and saw nothing but the openings of the gloves. That was his last resort, and not really one to look forward to. The wall quickly receded and he could not hold on to anything.
He fell without much fight.
He landed in the right hand of the gloves, finding himself snugly lodged in the thumb.
The shock and tension from the fall, let alone all the other strange events, caused the man to go unconscious.
The gloves didn’t move, just hovered there in the darkness.
“There are things that are known and things that are unknown, and in between are doors.”
By KANE MORRISON
CHAPTER 1
“It’s 2 AM, all fear is gone…”
The fridge door opened. The bulb inside wavered before springing to full intensity. A hand reached into the upper rack and removed a bottle. He unscrewed the cap and downed the cool green liquid, quenching a thirst.
It was humid. His skin still felt clammy, especially around his neck. The cold plastic housing of the Mountain Dew felt good in his hand. He swished down more of the drink and screwed the lid back on the bottle. He carefully placed it back in the refrigerator.
The room went dark after the door closed. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust as he walked from the tiny kitchen. He knew where everything was at any rate, and he could have managed to get to his bed with his eyes closed if need be.
Godzilla had finished eating things. The creature was deceased, or was it? And had that been a movie, or was it the news?
He trudged into the further darkness of the hall. Sleepless were his nights of late. The heat seemed to pulsate from the eggshell walls. He toed into his bedroom. It was small, even for a bachelor pad. Even more surprisingly, it was uncluttered.
He rolled back a few sheets until he felt comfortable with a thin layer; a ply suitable for the aim of gaining sleep amid the stagnated heat.
He didn’t know why he was having such a hard time sleeping at night. He could easily slip off during the day, but at night it was difficult. The things he thought about while trying to nod-off seemed to be the problem.
The white curtains that hung from the rod looked like clean, corrugated, aluminium siding. There was no breeze, not even an odd gust to billow the sheer fabric. No breeze created unease.
His naked frame clung to the sheet as he tried to stay still within his arid room. He wanted to thrash, readjust himself, but knew if he gave in, would be a catalyst for his inability to fall from wakefulness.
He tried not to sweat, but could feel the swamp of beads forming in the arch of his back. He was soaked but kept that condition away and kept himself thinking that it was just an illusion. It was merely this grand plan to try and keep him for falling asleep.
His tongue lashed out and swished away some perspiration from his upper lip. It was salty. While his tongue meandered back into his mouth he passed by his top row of teeth. He couldn’t help but check on their standing and began pushing each section of his teeth, looking for loose ones.
He could not help it. He had had that dream where his teeth were all very loose, and some had begun to fall right out of his gums. He dreamt of trying to shove them back into their sockets, but the holes had enlarged and become unreceptive abodes for housing teeth. Things were good, and he could only locate a few teeth that he could even twitch about, but they were not close to falling out.
The mind game seemed to have an effect. In those few moments of distraction he had dozed off. There was still no breeze, no movement of air. There was still the unforgivable warmth, the humidity, and the dew that now caked his flesh. These conditions no longer mattered; they no longer begged his attention from actual, true, sleep.
Sound travels with exceptional clarity from great distances during these types of sultry nights. He was not a rich man, one that could afford air conditioning. His windows were his vents. The area he lived in was on a par with him. It was usually quiet, neat, and one could even describe it as serene.
A few cats became embroiled in a skirmish, where, what seemed, was right outside his bedroom window. The screen to the window rattled, causing a cascade of growls, hisses, and aluminium chattering to cascade throughout the room. He awoke to the sound of a tom spitting at his foe.
He half-heartedly sat up on the edge of his damp bed and trudged over to the open window. He could not see any fur, or any motion to indicate where this feline melee was taking place. He scolded the general area with his eyes, even gave an evil glare to the elm in front of his apartment.
Whatever had happened, the cats had suddenly dissipated from their territorial activities. A sticky calm replaced them. He could even smell the scent of sweat coming from the varying vegetation.
More asleep than awake he hobbled back toward his dank bedding. He lowered himself slowly into his awaiting bed frame, leaving his foot behind on the floor.
He was now suddenly awake. He was very awake, very conscious. He swiftly moved his foot from the carpet and yanked it up to the bed. He felt awkwardly certain, that while completing this manoeuvre that someone, or something, had tried to grab his ankle from under the bed.
It was only a momentary sensation, one that quickly departed after considering how childish the entire situation he had imagined really was. Maybe the film had frightened him more than he could admit. He tried to quench his senses, make them relax, get some shut-eye.
He suddenly jumped from his bed, careful not to let his feet get near the bottom of the bed, and jaunted to the washroom. He twisted the cold water tap and grabbed a face cloth from the pile that was in front of an over abundance of varying brands of underarm deodorant. He patted the moistened cloth about his head and neck.
He looked into the mirror, stared into his tired eyes. He briefly recalled the last time someone had gazed into his eyes this way.
He felt refurbished, relieved, and cooler, and was ready, yet again, to try and sleep.
He dropped back onto his pillow, lost in thought, had even forgotten about that thing that dwelled under his bed. He had seen her at the bar and managed to be with her for one short dance. Her deep brown eyes had burned themselves into his memories. He could recite every detail; how he molested her with his eyes, undressed her. She smiled coyly, and seemed to know what he was doing. He looked into her throbbing and pulsating thighs as they danced to some old Steppenwolf ditty.
“Rock me baby, rock me baby, all night long…”
He delivered himself from his memories back to the present. Although that dance he had had was where he often wanted to be. He even noticed that he had become some what aroused by the whole escapade.
He had replaced this pleasant dream with a building feeling of sickly pain in his stomach and head. He really needed to get some sleep. He rolled down his eyelids and concentrated on achieving his goal. No more distractions. No more clatters and whines from animals. Relax. Don’t fidget.
Outside his window the night picked up its pace. The stir from this rare breeze softly blanketed his room. The movement of air swished the sheers, tossed about the portraits that he had tacked into the wallpaper.
His tongue unleashed itself and moistened his lips. His hand mechanically placed his hair back to a more comfortable position. His toes briefly jetted against the damp sheets. Minor nuisances were keeping sleep at bay.
He, once again, had this strange notion to open his eyes, be awake once more. A presence seemed to be focusing on his body. It was an urge, a belief he was being looked at, analyzed.
He thought about giving in to this tenet. He thought he was a young lad again, plagued by the monsters that stormed about in the dark of every room he had ever been in.
Would it be harmful?
He opened his eyes and looked directly into his closet. That’s where they used to live. His pupils dilated fast in the night’s darkness. He remained still, sight glued on the closet.
Between the hangers, from the pants and shirts, tiny faces and forms stared back at him. The shadows had taken on characteristics that were a little too finely developed. These eyes that stared back at him were puffed in anger and madness. His fingers gently moved the bedding over his unprotected skin.
Were his demons from childhood back for a visit? It had been years. Was it merely another semi-conscious dream?
The morning’s first breath created new shadows in his wardrobe. He sighed as the features changed, and the demons went away. He rolled onto his side, thankful that the sun was starting to rise, but agitated that he was unable to get any sleep.
He glanced over to the misty light blue lines of the digital alarm clock on his bedside table. It was just 2:44. Leaping over fences, the sheep should have already been spent. He quickly dashed the realization that he had thought the sun was rising. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps it had been distant headlights, or the moon coming out from behind a cloud.
He closed his eyes once more. Time faded swiftly as he looked at the tiny sparks and crevices of his inner eyelid. Relief steamed from his metabolic system. He fell into a well-earned deep sleep.
It was not long before he was awake again. A mechanical yet man induced noise had now grabbed his attention.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As quickly as it stemmed itself, it would start all over again. The sound seemed to be getting closer and closer. It began from down the street, then the lamppost, the tree, outside his window… It now seemed to be right inside his room.
His eyes sprang open.
This time there were no child-like tricks over taking his imagination.
This time there was a definite vision, one that could be reconciled easily.
There was no explaining this away as a young boy’s sleepy tale, no shadows playing tricks with his mind. He saw the source of the strange rattling, and it was right in the middle of his bedroom.
A bald man, with mirror shades, sat at this cranking device. His well-muscled arms struggled with the iron wheel that he moved about with this awkward looking, thick handled crank. He wore dirty green work pants; a brand new pair of Puma runners and a white sand and sweat stained wife-beater. Balls of perspiration rolled down his forehead toward his thick brown eyebrows, leaving tracks in what seemed like a thin layer of dust. Fine white hairs caked his exposed skin and seemed to capture light and sparkle. The light from the street lamp flowed through the sheers and revealed his deep brown tan.
He did not fully understand what he was being audience to; he did not know how to react, if he should react. He knew he was not at all comfortable. He felt he could be harmed, although there was no violence to speak of, just this inexplicable invasion of privacy.
If he closed his eyes, really tight, and opened them again, would this strange tableau still exist? Would he and his crude machine go away?
No, they would not.
How did he get into the room with that machine anyway?
Maybe he had been in the closet all along?
Maybe he had been the one who was under the bed?
He searched about for some sort of weapon. He had to be ready to defend himself from this obvious flake. He started to feel threatened by this guy’s presence, and had full right to.
What in hell did he want?
He couldn’t come up with a single article that could supply ample defence. He watched the continuing monotonous action of this Herculean being in the centre of his bedroom. He did have an alternative to his present action, which was doing absolutely nothing but skulking into his bedding.
Instead of lying there, easy prey for what would ever transpire, why not try to get the hell out of there. He eyed his bedroom door and glanced back to the grimacing bald man. He sprang out of his bed and darted toward the door.
His tensed hand grabbed onto the knob and twisted it swiftly. His heart stopped in shock as he found himself face to face with this unworldly entity. He stumbled backward and flopped back onto his bed.
The big bald guy kept churning his mechanism, as if nothing was happening he should be concerned with.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
He now knew he was dreaming, had to be. This was surreal, out of the ordinary, inexplicable. He tried to make himself become awake. He tried to jolt his nerves to leave this unconscious state.
The thing he met at his doorway now slowly came into his room.
It could be a man. Maybe someone was playing a joke on him?
Mark? Larry? Mike?
This thing continued into his room, and came to stand right beside his bed. It was silent and ominous.
All of its features seemed white. It had a white hood, barely creased. It had what appeared to be a white baggy t-shirt, over an oddly shaped torso. It seemed to be wearing white surgeon’s pants as well. It strangely had a pair of alligator skin boots, which were also shiny and white. This white mist seemed to ooze from its clothing.
The only part of this entity that was not white was its face. It was a pale green featureless face, almost like that you would find on a cheap mannequin. The height of this thing was also incredible, well over seven feet tall.
It made no noise, not even a murmur. It seemed content to stand there, hovering over me. It was violent, wasn’t docile, just standing there being ominous.
‘What the fuck do you guys want from me?’ He shifted his eyes back and forth between these two decidedly different beings.
That bald man continued with his aimless chore, oblivious to me; blind anything going on around him. The white-cloaked figure said nothing, not like it could, and did nothing, like it had since coming into his bedroom.
Suddenly the tall green-faced thing reached out and grabbed the man by his wrist. He tried to break free but there was no give to the strength of this thing. The grip the entity had was tight but not painful. It was in control, and could not be budged.
The thing easily yanked the man from his bed to make him stand on his feet. It was not a violent aggression, more of a command, a request. He motioned for the man to go toward the door.
The man knew this was a dream, but it was like none he had ever had. Was it due to the heat wave? Lack of sleep? Godzilla? Mountain Dew? The girl he had danced with that night? She had powers…
The entity guided the unsteady, overwhelmed man to the doorway.
The bald man kept up his pace.
“Urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech.”
As they went through the doorway, into the pitch black of the hall, the man looked back into his room, and to check on the white thing. He could see a gentle smile form on the bald guy’s face as he continued grinding that machine. The cloaked figure was still behind him, and with those arms of his would easily grab him again if he broke for it. His sunglasses glowed in fascination as he left his view.
In the dark of the hall, as he gingerly toed his way to where this beast wanted him to go, there was a sudden eruption of bright light. The explosion of light caused the man to close his eyes and raise his arms. His toes dug into the parquet flooring.
The flash seemed to halt and quickly as it came upon him. He tried to peek through his fingers to see what had happened.
He tensed up completely; knees locked, and heart pumping.
He now found himself on a narrow ledge of this immense building. It was so dark, and so high, that he could not see the ground below. Somehow he now wished he had managed to stay in his room, even if it was with those strange people. At least he wasn’t precariously standing on this very high ledge.
That white-cloaked figure was nowhere to be seen.
The “urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr urrrr screech,” could no longer be heard.
The bricks on the wall behind him were ice cold. It was replenishing for a second, considering the heat of late, but that attribute soon fell off. There was also a slight wind, one that caused him ill ease, considering his balance would be challenged if it got much worse.
Minutes seemed to pass, and nothing was changing. He just stood there, gripping the concrete edging with his feet, digging his fingertips into the cold bricks, and not seeing anything around him.
In the distance, at about his altitude, he can spy movement. Was it a plane? A bird? There was no sound to associate with this object, just the breeze.
The wind built a little in energy as the object got closer. He couldn’t make it out. Then he realized there were two objects, paired together in flight. The closer they got the more the wind kicked.
Now it was a constant wind, one that made him dig into the ledge and wall with even more desperation. It was hard to look, with the wind partially blinding him, making it hard to open his eyes for any great time.
It couldn’t be right, what he was seeing. It seemed to be the theme of late for him.
Two giant grey gloves now hovered in front of him, slightly below his location on the ledge. They were massive. He could easily fit into any of the fingers. As the gloves can to a steady halt, the winds immediately died down.
Now what?
All his body hairs stood erect in the cold of the darkness. He clutched tightly into the ledge and wall, using all his digits like never before. His heart, and a good group of the other major organs, beat feverishly against the unknown circumstances.
Then he felt movement, and it was not anything one could consider a positive turn. Either the wall behind him started to slowly edge out, or the ledge was beginning to disappear into the wall.
Why the hell is it moving? What have I done?
He had no real time to question any of the events that had now taken over his life, ruled his existence. There was no time to question reality, just time enough to try and survive each situation as it came to him.
The soles of his feet dragged across the cement as the wall sucked the ledge slowly into itself. He was trying to gain traction, a foothold, even if the ledge vanished, he didn’t have much of a choice.
He looked below him, and saw nothing but the openings of the gloves. That was his last resort, and not really one to look forward to. The wall quickly receded and he could not hold on to anything.
He fell without much fight.
He landed in the right hand of the gloves, finding himself snugly lodged in the thumb.
The shock and tension from the fall, let alone all the other strange events, caused the man to go unconscious.
The gloves didn’t move, just hovered there in the darkness.
“There are things that are known and things that are unknown, and in between are doors.”
Consume - J. Ryan Elgin
CONSUME
J. Ryan Elgin
CHAPTER ONE
You could clearly see the thumb imprints left around her windpipe. There is a bracing of bruises encircled by once soft skin. There were also the formations of his other fingers, and some of his hands, wrapped around her throat.
He had kept his hands there for eight minutes, keeping a fixed pressure in his tensed hands, constricting. He had fought off the girl’s initial struggles and death throes. She tried to pry his hands free, lift his arms, but it was useless. She never had the time to gouge at his face or punch him; she was concerned solely in regaining her ability to breathe.
To keep the prolonged attack of strangulation on a victim, one must have more than the standard type of fury, hatred. It is more than merely an eruption of brutality after a quarrel. It is an incident where a life is meant to be taken, without pity or second thoughts. This was no mishap.
Eight minutes. That is a long time for one to sustain such dominance and evil. It is, conversely, obligatory in effecting a successful strangulation. There is sufficient of time in which one could to undergo sorrow, regret, and comprehend the damage you are committing.
The ripple of water beneath the thick rubber skin of the water bed swung languidly as she sat on corner of the bed. The oaken headboard rattled against the eggshell paint of the bedroom wall. Her hand slightly quivered as she lifted the pink telephone from her nightstand.
She grabbed a handful of tissues from the flower-patterned cardboard box as she tucked the pink receiver between her neck and shoulder. She slipped her toes under the green floral sheets and listened as the rings purred to her ear.
She gave the baby carrier next to her a quick peek. The newborn was sound asleep. His bulbous belly was bared as the pyjama shirt ruffled up under his neck. The edges of the blue maple leaf were crinkled about over his small chest. His Mom carefully pulled some soft white bedding up to cover him.
Five rings. She tossed her straight light brown hair over her shoulder and peered into the glow of red numerals of the tiny clock on the night table. It was well-passed midnight. She widened her eyes momentarily, realizing that she was calling too late. Seven rings.
'Hello...' An elderly woman answered. There was a hint of French to her words, edged by being woken so late.
'Hi Mom,' She tried to calm her voice so her Mother would not get worried. She set her eyes toward the baby monitor; the single red dot told her that he was not home yet. That eased her somewhat.
'Suzanne, is that you.'
'No Ma, this is Kelly. Sorry for calling so late, I didn't realize-.'
'Kelly, what's wrong? 'Is Kevan okay?’ She was suddenly awake, wide-awake. Her daughter had never called this late before.
'He's all right Mom...he's on the bed right beside me.' I just called to ask you a favour, I guess', her voice started to crackle near the end. She could never hold back her feelings from her Mother.
'I guess I could book tomorrow off...is Janet sick or something', She calmed herself down, nothing was wrong with her fourth grandchild.
'No no no, it's not that...It's...’ Kelly felt a swollen tear tumble down her cheek. She was not sure her Mom would understand, or even support her. She did not want to let her parents down; her parents, like they had failed in raising her might take on her failure.
'What's wrong dear...We can help honey.'
Those words always got to her. It was as she was a little girl, heart broken over a lost Barbie, and she was there to console the way only a Mother can.
'Remember when Dad finished the basement,' Her words were slow and hesitant.
'I guess...what's wrong honey, is everything okay. Do you need some money this month.'
'No Ma, it's not money. Remember what I said when I came over and looked at the basement.' She did not want to tell her outright. It would be better if her Mom could piece it together herself.
'No, not really honey...why don't you just tell me...' Her Mother rambled through a few scenarios in her mind, but none that made any sense.
'Well, I think you thought I was joking or something,' she grounded her teeth and wiped a tear from her cheek.
'Dear, just ask me what you want, it's okay.' Kelly heard her Mother muffle the phone with her hand and mumble something to her Father.
'Well, remember what I said...something like it was big enough for someone to actually rent out'.
'Kind of...I-.'
'Well I said that Kevan and I could probably make a good home down there.'
'Yes...ya, you were having some trouble with Cory. I thought you guys sorted all that out...You weren't serious, were you?’ Her voice stretched and reached out, trying to comfort and console what she now had an inkling of. Kelly and Cory were going through another bumpy road. She knew of them in all the thirty years she'd been married, and the many times she was close to running off with the kids.
'Well Mom, I'm serious this time. I have to get out,' She began to sob into the mouthpiece.
'He didn't hit you...’ Her Mother was now deeply concerned for her child's well fare. This was her most susceptible child, she wasn't as tough and street wise as her other three children. She could tell by her daughter's inflection that she was serious. This was something that she did not want to be denied or talked out of.
'No....No, he didn't hit me. I don't think he would ever hit me. I'm just frightened of him...it's hard to tell you how Mom, I'm just scared something's gonna happen to us. I don't know', She sucked back some tears. 'I have to get the hell out of here'.
'He's not molesting Kevan-', She was terrified of that happening to any of her children's children.
'No. He would never do anything like that. I just don't want to be around him any more...he makes my skin crawl'.
'Is he seeing another woman, is he fooling around with Sarah', Her Mom's vivid imagination was trying to make the strange circumstance equate to something she could understand.
'No. I don't think so...it doesn't matter anyway'.
'Well what the devil is going on honey...You just don't leave your husband on a whim. I went through this so many times with-', Kelly heard her Mom put a palm over the mouth piece and whisper out, '...with your Dad'.
'Mom!’ Kelly started to edge her voice in frustration. She did not know how to put her heart's feelings into words. 'I don't love him any more, I don't'.
'Is he out of town right now', Her Mother had calmed her imagination, and concern now ruled.
'He's in Oshawa, he wont be back until Thursday'.
'Well just take the next few days off and think about what you really want to do...I know you kids can work it out'. She was trying to paint herself with a caring motherly facade. It was a crutch she seldom leaned upon, but right now, she could not muster the correct response or stature.
'I've been...all I've done for the past few weeks is think...I just can't stand it any more...’ Her eyes began to swell again. She was helpless, didn't know what to do, but knew she wanted out. She wanted her Mother to give her a final push, solve her dower problem. Kelly did not want to think any more, her brain had done all it could. Now she was exhausted, and just sought the arms of someone that could ease her, protect her, and understand her.
Her Mother let the line dangle in silence. Kelly could tell that she was trying to give her what she wanted. As a Mother, she had to be sure of what it was she was going to do. She didn't want to become the shim that ended her daughter's seven-year marriage. This would have to be something Kelly really wanted.
'Mom, please...please. We wont be down there very long, just until I can get on my feet again'.
'Okay...okay honey', that is what she needed to here, she was now certain. 'Ray will get hold of Danny's van and we'll be over in the morning, just try and get some sleep, okay honey'.
'I love you Mom', Her tears now flowed and her voice gasped for short pants of air. 'I'm so sorry...’
Kelly put the phone back in its cradle; she could see her tears and mascara run along the side of the pink phone. It was over, time to go on.
She looked at her son, crunched up in the rocker. He looked so angelic, beautiful, warm, and devoted to her affection.
Kelly tossed a quick peek at the monitor. The red dot did not flicker at all. She was safe.
All was quiet in the end unit of the four home row house. 1310 Cedarcroft was mostly darkened, just the peach glow from the upstairs windows that faced the barren crescent.
The moon was a slit in the black of the cloudless night. The tiny bustling of red and yellow leaves swept along the top of the grass lawns. The purr of the odd automobile seeped from the main highway that backed onto the homes across the street from Kelly Thomas's front door.
A distant dog bark floated among the parked cars and soft orange yellow street lamps. It was like a calm before the storm. In Kelly's case, it would be the calm in the eye of the storm.
The sound of a neighbour's stereo wafted in and out of the gently lifting breezes. It seemed as though life was sated all around her, only she was in this torment.
The child's hand awkwardly shot out of the bedding and gently swiped at his little olive skinned forehead. Kelly looked at the soon to be single parent tot. She felt a rock sink into her chest. She convinced herself that she was doing this more for her son's sake, not her own.
Kelly stretched out her tanned legs and took a deep breath. She took solace in the monitor’s single red glow. She was safe now. Things would get better.
Down stairs, behind the blackened front door, all was clean, orderly and serene. Beige thermal drapes were closed along the back of the home, encasing the living/dining room area in night's darkness.
The three-piece wall unit held the colour television and VCR. A few cassettes sat on top of the machine. 'Sleeping Beauty' could be still seen the black room.
A large oak coffee table sat in with the two dark blue love seats. The top of the square table was orderly, People magazines all neatly stacked. The converter lay across the top of a coaster. A baby sound detector stood behind the blue floral Kleenex box, directed toward the front door.
It was Kelly's personal alarm system. She knew Cory was out of town, four hours from that front door, but that did not mean he wouldn't come home early.
Cory had not trusted since the day they first met in College. He was paranoid about someone sleeping with Kelly while he went on business trips to utilities scattered about Ontario.
The monitor softly charged that single red light, Kelly fell asleep staring into the glow, sure that she was safe, and would be from this time on.
J. Ryan Elgin
CHAPTER ONE
You could clearly see the thumb imprints left around her windpipe. There is a bracing of bruises encircled by once soft skin. There were also the formations of his other fingers, and some of his hands, wrapped around her throat.
He had kept his hands there for eight minutes, keeping a fixed pressure in his tensed hands, constricting. He had fought off the girl’s initial struggles and death throes. She tried to pry his hands free, lift his arms, but it was useless. She never had the time to gouge at his face or punch him; she was concerned solely in regaining her ability to breathe.
To keep the prolonged attack of strangulation on a victim, one must have more than the standard type of fury, hatred. It is more than merely an eruption of brutality after a quarrel. It is an incident where a life is meant to be taken, without pity or second thoughts. This was no mishap.
Eight minutes. That is a long time for one to sustain such dominance and evil. It is, conversely, obligatory in effecting a successful strangulation. There is sufficient of time in which one could to undergo sorrow, regret, and comprehend the damage you are committing.
The ripple of water beneath the thick rubber skin of the water bed swung languidly as she sat on corner of the bed. The oaken headboard rattled against the eggshell paint of the bedroom wall. Her hand slightly quivered as she lifted the pink telephone from her nightstand.
She grabbed a handful of tissues from the flower-patterned cardboard box as she tucked the pink receiver between her neck and shoulder. She slipped her toes under the green floral sheets and listened as the rings purred to her ear.
She gave the baby carrier next to her a quick peek. The newborn was sound asleep. His bulbous belly was bared as the pyjama shirt ruffled up under his neck. The edges of the blue maple leaf were crinkled about over his small chest. His Mom carefully pulled some soft white bedding up to cover him.
Five rings. She tossed her straight light brown hair over her shoulder and peered into the glow of red numerals of the tiny clock on the night table. It was well-passed midnight. She widened her eyes momentarily, realizing that she was calling too late. Seven rings.
'Hello...' An elderly woman answered. There was a hint of French to her words, edged by being woken so late.
'Hi Mom,' She tried to calm her voice so her Mother would not get worried. She set her eyes toward the baby monitor; the single red dot told her that he was not home yet. That eased her somewhat.
'Suzanne, is that you.'
'No Ma, this is Kelly. Sorry for calling so late, I didn't realize-.'
'Kelly, what's wrong? 'Is Kevan okay?’ She was suddenly awake, wide-awake. Her daughter had never called this late before.
'He's all right Mom...he's on the bed right beside me.' I just called to ask you a favour, I guess', her voice started to crackle near the end. She could never hold back her feelings from her Mother.
'I guess I could book tomorrow off...is Janet sick or something', She calmed herself down, nothing was wrong with her fourth grandchild.
'No no no, it's not that...It's...’ Kelly felt a swollen tear tumble down her cheek. She was not sure her Mom would understand, or even support her. She did not want to let her parents down; her parents, like they had failed in raising her might take on her failure.
'What's wrong dear...We can help honey.'
Those words always got to her. It was as she was a little girl, heart broken over a lost Barbie, and she was there to console the way only a Mother can.
'Remember when Dad finished the basement,' Her words were slow and hesitant.
'I guess...what's wrong honey, is everything okay. Do you need some money this month.'
'No Ma, it's not money. Remember what I said when I came over and looked at the basement.' She did not want to tell her outright. It would be better if her Mom could piece it together herself.
'No, not really honey...why don't you just tell me...' Her Mother rambled through a few scenarios in her mind, but none that made any sense.
'Well, I think you thought I was joking or something,' she grounded her teeth and wiped a tear from her cheek.
'Dear, just ask me what you want, it's okay.' Kelly heard her Mother muffle the phone with her hand and mumble something to her Father.
'Well, remember what I said...something like it was big enough for someone to actually rent out'.
'Kind of...I-.'
'Well I said that Kevan and I could probably make a good home down there.'
'Yes...ya, you were having some trouble with Cory. I thought you guys sorted all that out...You weren't serious, were you?’ Her voice stretched and reached out, trying to comfort and console what she now had an inkling of. Kelly and Cory were going through another bumpy road. She knew of them in all the thirty years she'd been married, and the many times she was close to running off with the kids.
'Well Mom, I'm serious this time. I have to get out,' She began to sob into the mouthpiece.
'He didn't hit you...’ Her Mother was now deeply concerned for her child's well fare. This was her most susceptible child, she wasn't as tough and street wise as her other three children. She could tell by her daughter's inflection that she was serious. This was something that she did not want to be denied or talked out of.
'No....No, he didn't hit me. I don't think he would ever hit me. I'm just frightened of him...it's hard to tell you how Mom, I'm just scared something's gonna happen to us. I don't know', She sucked back some tears. 'I have to get the hell out of here'.
'He's not molesting Kevan-', She was terrified of that happening to any of her children's children.
'No. He would never do anything like that. I just don't want to be around him any more...he makes my skin crawl'.
'Is he seeing another woman, is he fooling around with Sarah', Her Mom's vivid imagination was trying to make the strange circumstance equate to something she could understand.
'No. I don't think so...it doesn't matter anyway'.
'Well what the devil is going on honey...You just don't leave your husband on a whim. I went through this so many times with-', Kelly heard her Mom put a palm over the mouth piece and whisper out, '...with your Dad'.
'Mom!’ Kelly started to edge her voice in frustration. She did not know how to put her heart's feelings into words. 'I don't love him any more, I don't'.
'Is he out of town right now', Her Mother had calmed her imagination, and concern now ruled.
'He's in Oshawa, he wont be back until Thursday'.
'Well just take the next few days off and think about what you really want to do...I know you kids can work it out'. She was trying to paint herself with a caring motherly facade. It was a crutch she seldom leaned upon, but right now, she could not muster the correct response or stature.
'I've been...all I've done for the past few weeks is think...I just can't stand it any more...’ Her eyes began to swell again. She was helpless, didn't know what to do, but knew she wanted out. She wanted her Mother to give her a final push, solve her dower problem. Kelly did not want to think any more, her brain had done all it could. Now she was exhausted, and just sought the arms of someone that could ease her, protect her, and understand her.
Her Mother let the line dangle in silence. Kelly could tell that she was trying to give her what she wanted. As a Mother, she had to be sure of what it was she was going to do. She didn't want to become the shim that ended her daughter's seven-year marriage. This would have to be something Kelly really wanted.
'Mom, please...please. We wont be down there very long, just until I can get on my feet again'.
'Okay...okay honey', that is what she needed to here, she was now certain. 'Ray will get hold of Danny's van and we'll be over in the morning, just try and get some sleep, okay honey'.
'I love you Mom', Her tears now flowed and her voice gasped for short pants of air. 'I'm so sorry...’
Kelly put the phone back in its cradle; she could see her tears and mascara run along the side of the pink phone. It was over, time to go on.
She looked at her son, crunched up in the rocker. He looked so angelic, beautiful, warm, and devoted to her affection.
Kelly tossed a quick peek at the monitor. The red dot did not flicker at all. She was safe.
All was quiet in the end unit of the four home row house. 1310 Cedarcroft was mostly darkened, just the peach glow from the upstairs windows that faced the barren crescent.
The moon was a slit in the black of the cloudless night. The tiny bustling of red and yellow leaves swept along the top of the grass lawns. The purr of the odd automobile seeped from the main highway that backed onto the homes across the street from Kelly Thomas's front door.
A distant dog bark floated among the parked cars and soft orange yellow street lamps. It was like a calm before the storm. In Kelly's case, it would be the calm in the eye of the storm.
The sound of a neighbour's stereo wafted in and out of the gently lifting breezes. It seemed as though life was sated all around her, only she was in this torment.
The child's hand awkwardly shot out of the bedding and gently swiped at his little olive skinned forehead. Kelly looked at the soon to be single parent tot. She felt a rock sink into her chest. She convinced herself that she was doing this more for her son's sake, not her own.
Kelly stretched out her tanned legs and took a deep breath. She took solace in the monitor’s single red glow. She was safe now. Things would get better.
Down stairs, behind the blackened front door, all was clean, orderly and serene. Beige thermal drapes were closed along the back of the home, encasing the living/dining room area in night's darkness.
The three-piece wall unit held the colour television and VCR. A few cassettes sat on top of the machine. 'Sleeping Beauty' could be still seen the black room.
A large oak coffee table sat in with the two dark blue love seats. The top of the square table was orderly, People magazines all neatly stacked. The converter lay across the top of a coaster. A baby sound detector stood behind the blue floral Kleenex box, directed toward the front door.
It was Kelly's personal alarm system. She knew Cory was out of town, four hours from that front door, but that did not mean he wouldn't come home early.
Cory had not trusted since the day they first met in College. He was paranoid about someone sleeping with Kelly while he went on business trips to utilities scattered about Ontario.
The monitor softly charged that single red light, Kelly fell asleep staring into the glow, sure that she was safe, and would be from this time on.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bent Tempest - Kane Morrison
BENT
TEMPEST
KANE MORRISON
CHAPTER 1
A man parks his car on a hectic downtown street. He is going to visit with a friend and down a few beers. When he departs, in the mid-morning, his car will have been towed.
This starts a sequence of seemingly understated miscalculations in his bid to salvage his car from an impound lot.
These modest mistakes amplify, and when added jointly, cause him to fear for his life, become paranoid of anyone and anything, and all for feasible and rational reasons.
1988
On a weekday night, the core of the city shuts down, as all drudgers return to their suburban dwellings. If you require gas, you have to go outside the city core to find an open station. At four in the morning, there is not a soul in sight, perhaps the odd cab or cop car, but that’s about it.
In an outmoded apartment complex on Bank Street, the Ottawa’s main thoroughfare, there is some semblance of life. The building was not historic, or grand in its age, it leaned toward dishabille. It was not hospitable in look, or pleasant in its odours.
On a standard sectional davenport sit two men in their mid-twenties, watching the music video station. The table was littered with a hodgepodge of spent late-night television viewing provisions; an empty pizza box with the ever present rock hard dough ball that was deemed too obnoxious for human consumption, a few compressed beer cans with a couple of spent plastic connector rings and an overflowed ash tray with unmolested brown filters and crumpled white filters. The filter management easily branded their past owners.
Tom rose from the chesterfield and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed a brown paper bag from out of the refrigerator. Before closing the door, Tom took a long swig from the plastic container of Minute Maid orange juice. He departed from the kitchen, turning off the light, and put his lunch bag near the front door of the apartment.
‘I gotta be getting. I don’t want that little French fuck chewing my ass out again for coming in late.’
Eddie recognized this statement by raising his hand in the air; his feet skittered across the coffee table that acted as a stool for the time being. He never permitted his eyes to leave Samantha Fox, the delicacy that glowed from beyond his socks.
“Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body…”
‘Back out in a sec’, Tom ambled off to the bedroom, which was in close proximity to the front door.
Ed reached for the remote control, which seemed to be just beyond his grasp at that moment. Samantha’s song had ended, and some species of pop rock crap had come on.
“Don’t forget me when I’m gone, my heart will break...”
Eddie resettled himself on the cushions and reattempted his grab for the television controller. Stretched to his body’s utmost ability he manages to get a finger on the lip of the remote and tenderly pulled it toward him. Once it was closer, he moved his thumb under the device and reached for the gritty tabletop.
Suddenly, in a mélange of uncontrollable actions, Ed found himself sitting on the floor, at the foot of the sofa. One arm remained bucked on the arm of the couch. The ashtray, which had once balanced on his thigh, had clattered to the coffee table, sending a column of ash in the air, and depleted cigarette casings far and wide.
The resonance of these mishaps reverberated through the modest apartment louder than one could hope to envision.
He decided to remain in the position that he had fallen into by misfortune. He still had won, the trophy, the remote, which had remained in his hand.
The cloud of ashes began to settle, dusting his hair and attire.
Ed glanced to the bedroom door, fully expecting Tom to come bursting out at any second. He expected a scolding for waking his significant other. The noise was certainly loud enough.
After twenty seconds, there was still no sign of Tom, or his wife. Slowly, Ed began trying to normalize the situation for which he found himself. He plucked the cigarette butts from the carpeting and swished the ash specks from the coffee table and back into the tray. Finally, yet importantly, he changed the channel on the television, which had been his primary objective.
Tom finally emerged from the bedroom, slowly closing the door as he peered in at his wife. After it closed, Tom quietly spun to face Eddie.
‘Okay, I’m leaving now. Are you gonna stay, or what?’
There was no mention of the tumult that erupted moments earlier.
‘Ah… you didn’t…’ Ed thought better of bringing up what had just transpired’, I’ll just stay for a bit if it’s not a problem? I’ve never seen the end of this movie. It’ll be over in about ten minutes’.
‘All right then. I guess I’ll see you Friday at Vic’s.’
‘Sure thing. Take it easy.’
‘Will Dude, gotta go’.
Tom left, quietly closing the door of the apartment behind him. You could hear his first steps down the bleak stairwell as he made his way out of the building.
Ed, according to his previous agreed upon plan, began getting his belongings together as the film wound down. He put on his coat, grabbed his bag of newly purchased albums, placed his pack and lighter in the inner coat pocket, and tapped on his pant pocket to make certain he still had his keys.
He turned off the television as the movie flashed the end credit- “fin”. It seemed he hadn’t missed very much. There had been more sex scenes that didn’t really illustrate very much. “Bleu Nuit” was always a let down, but for some reason, one that you always had to finish watching. Maybe once you would see something worthwhile.
Ed stopped as he neared the front door of his chum’s apartment. He glanced back into the living room and noticed a light was still on.
I should really turn that off. Nah, fuck it.
He was trying to be excruciatingly quiet, and was overcompensating due to his previously ill contrived manoeuvres on the sofa. He gingerly twisted the rickety knob and slowly opened the creaking door toward him. The hinges snapped and howled with each little movement. If he had been sleeping, where Tom’s wife was, he would have awoken.
Ed aimed his ear to the bedroom door, listening for her stir, her ire.
Who in the hell would design an apartment like this?
There was no sound. Not even a thrash or unsettled rustling.
Outside, Ed closed the apartment door with the same success he had achieved when he had opened it. The moaning and creaking was equal. He listened for Tom’s wife to go off in a heightened bloodshed attack. Nothing stirred.
He stalled at the entrance, staring at the knob.
How the hell am I going to lock up?
Ed ran his fingertips along the top of the doorframe; there was nothing but dust. He knew he couldn’t leave it open, not in this part of town. He had to open the door once more. Ed had no option.
Why does Tom never make this much noise?
The hinges again played the irritating serenade. Ed popped his head around the door and looked around. There was still no sight or sound of life from the wife’s bedroom. Ed began to rummage around for the key to the door; they had to be somewhere close by. He looked for a key hook; scanned table tops, counters, but saw nothing resembling a key.
His hopes went up when he found a series of nails banged into the wall just down the hall, but there was only one small key, which would have matched up with something like a bike lock. He opened the closet and checked out the pockets of everything that hung, but could not find a key.
There were no signs of keys anywhere, just that small bike lock key. He had looked everywhere he could, even through the glasses, dishes and cutlery in the kitchen. He, however, recovered two dollars and thirty-four cents in change, which he collected for this inconvenience.
He sat on the sofa and pondered over his mid-morning mini quandary. Ed eyed the layer of ash that he had spewed across the People Magazine underneath the coffee table.
Should he just stay there? Wait for Bonnie to get up? She was a downright bitch in the mornings, all the time, actually. Should he just leave and take the consequences for leaving the door unlocked? How could he arrive at solving the situation?
The resolution Ed found himself at was to, basically, wake Bonnie. He would face her wrath and deal with the insults. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He softly bounced his knuckles against the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and he could discern that at least one light was on within the room. He would not get a reaction, even though he would replicate the knocking several times, with increasing vigour. She was out like a light.
Ed decided to shove the door open and see if he could spot the keys on a night table. The light from the living room added fuel to his search as it bellowed about the muddled bed and floors.
At this point Ed witnessed something he had only seen on one previous occasion. That episode was at the gang’s summer shindig back in 1985. This was what was perpetually referred to as the Nude Party. It was a simple, yet definitive adjective to have thrust in front of the word party.
Bonnie lay on her side, facing away from Ed. There was not a stitch of clothing on her frame and the bedding had all been kicked off. Her shoulder length dark hair had hardly been mussed in her bid for sleep.
‘Bonnie… Bonnie. Wake up Bonnie. It’s Ed… Bonnie?’
Christ, is she dead or something?
Ed decided to get closer to her, perhaps tap on her shoulder to awaken her.
Free show. Free show.
He stopped short of directly waking her. Ed checked her out for a few seconds; he liked her legs.
‘Bonnie… Bonnie’. He hushed so as not to alarm her too much.
She tossed over on to her back for an instance. For a short-lived moment, Ed had garnered a jam-packed frontal observation of Tom’s wife.
Nice, real nice…
Then, in a brief second, Bonnie let out with a blood-curdling shriek, grabbed a three wood from alongside the bed and wickedly pulverized him in the meaty part of his upper arm.
Ed fell into the dresser behind him and let out with an audible grimace of pain and surprise.
‘Holy shit Bonnie, take it easy. This is Ed, for Christ’s sake, put down the driver’.
“What the hell are you doing? Sneaking up on me like that… I thought you were a rapist, robber, or something like that, you goof’. She wrapped the azure comforter about herself as she started to chastise Ed.
Ed began to unfold the account of why he was in there. ‘Look, Tom went to work. I stayed on to finish watching the movie. I went to leave, but didn’t have a key to lock up. So, would you have rather I left the door open, or came in here to get the key?’
‘It’s 4:30 in the morning…’ Bonnie looked at her watch on the nightstand.
‘Yes, that is correct…’
‘Get outta here. I’ll close it behind… Jesus, I have to work in three hours.’
‘Okay. I’m out of here, I’m leaving… by the way, nice legs.’
Bonnie raised the three wood and hurled it at him as he scrambled out of the bedroom; and again, she had hit him in the same area of the arm as before.
He rapidly made his way from the apartment without receiving further harm to body or soul.
Bonnie got up and locked the dead bolt behind him. She glanced at the full-length mirror as she returned to her bedroom. She scanned her legs- ‘They are nice…’
TEMPEST
KANE MORRISON
CHAPTER 1
A man parks his car on a hectic downtown street. He is going to visit with a friend and down a few beers. When he departs, in the mid-morning, his car will have been towed.
This starts a sequence of seemingly understated miscalculations in his bid to salvage his car from an impound lot.
These modest mistakes amplify, and when added jointly, cause him to fear for his life, become paranoid of anyone and anything, and all for feasible and rational reasons.
1988
On a weekday night, the core of the city shuts down, as all drudgers return to their suburban dwellings. If you require gas, you have to go outside the city core to find an open station. At four in the morning, there is not a soul in sight, perhaps the odd cab or cop car, but that’s about it.
In an outmoded apartment complex on Bank Street, the Ottawa’s main thoroughfare, there is some semblance of life. The building was not historic, or grand in its age, it leaned toward dishabille. It was not hospitable in look, or pleasant in its odours.
On a standard sectional davenport sit two men in their mid-twenties, watching the music video station. The table was littered with a hodgepodge of spent late-night television viewing provisions; an empty pizza box with the ever present rock hard dough ball that was deemed too obnoxious for human consumption, a few compressed beer cans with a couple of spent plastic connector rings and an overflowed ash tray with unmolested brown filters and crumpled white filters. The filter management easily branded their past owners.
Tom rose from the chesterfield and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed a brown paper bag from out of the refrigerator. Before closing the door, Tom took a long swig from the plastic container of Minute Maid orange juice. He departed from the kitchen, turning off the light, and put his lunch bag near the front door of the apartment.
‘I gotta be getting. I don’t want that little French fuck chewing my ass out again for coming in late.’
Eddie recognized this statement by raising his hand in the air; his feet skittered across the coffee table that acted as a stool for the time being. He never permitted his eyes to leave Samantha Fox, the delicacy that glowed from beyond his socks.
“Touch me, touch me, I want to feel your body…”
‘Back out in a sec’, Tom ambled off to the bedroom, which was in close proximity to the front door.
Ed reached for the remote control, which seemed to be just beyond his grasp at that moment. Samantha’s song had ended, and some species of pop rock crap had come on.
“Don’t forget me when I’m gone, my heart will break...”
Eddie resettled himself on the cushions and reattempted his grab for the television controller. Stretched to his body’s utmost ability he manages to get a finger on the lip of the remote and tenderly pulled it toward him. Once it was closer, he moved his thumb under the device and reached for the gritty tabletop.
Suddenly, in a mélange of uncontrollable actions, Ed found himself sitting on the floor, at the foot of the sofa. One arm remained bucked on the arm of the couch. The ashtray, which had once balanced on his thigh, had clattered to the coffee table, sending a column of ash in the air, and depleted cigarette casings far and wide.
The resonance of these mishaps reverberated through the modest apartment louder than one could hope to envision.
He decided to remain in the position that he had fallen into by misfortune. He still had won, the trophy, the remote, which had remained in his hand.
The cloud of ashes began to settle, dusting his hair and attire.
Ed glanced to the bedroom door, fully expecting Tom to come bursting out at any second. He expected a scolding for waking his significant other. The noise was certainly loud enough.
After twenty seconds, there was still no sign of Tom, or his wife. Slowly, Ed began trying to normalize the situation for which he found himself. He plucked the cigarette butts from the carpeting and swished the ash specks from the coffee table and back into the tray. Finally, yet importantly, he changed the channel on the television, which had been his primary objective.
Tom finally emerged from the bedroom, slowly closing the door as he peered in at his wife. After it closed, Tom quietly spun to face Eddie.
‘Okay, I’m leaving now. Are you gonna stay, or what?’
There was no mention of the tumult that erupted moments earlier.
‘Ah… you didn’t…’ Ed thought better of bringing up what had just transpired’, I’ll just stay for a bit if it’s not a problem? I’ve never seen the end of this movie. It’ll be over in about ten minutes’.
‘All right then. I guess I’ll see you Friday at Vic’s.’
‘Sure thing. Take it easy.’
‘Will Dude, gotta go’.
Tom left, quietly closing the door of the apartment behind him. You could hear his first steps down the bleak stairwell as he made his way out of the building.
Ed, according to his previous agreed upon plan, began getting his belongings together as the film wound down. He put on his coat, grabbed his bag of newly purchased albums, placed his pack and lighter in the inner coat pocket, and tapped on his pant pocket to make certain he still had his keys.
He turned off the television as the movie flashed the end credit- “fin”. It seemed he hadn’t missed very much. There had been more sex scenes that didn’t really illustrate very much. “Bleu Nuit” was always a let down, but for some reason, one that you always had to finish watching. Maybe once you would see something worthwhile.
Ed stopped as he neared the front door of his chum’s apartment. He glanced back into the living room and noticed a light was still on.
I should really turn that off. Nah, fuck it.
He was trying to be excruciatingly quiet, and was overcompensating due to his previously ill contrived manoeuvres on the sofa. He gingerly twisted the rickety knob and slowly opened the creaking door toward him. The hinges snapped and howled with each little movement. If he had been sleeping, where Tom’s wife was, he would have awoken.
Ed aimed his ear to the bedroom door, listening for her stir, her ire.
Who in the hell would design an apartment like this?
There was no sound. Not even a thrash or unsettled rustling.
Outside, Ed closed the apartment door with the same success he had achieved when he had opened it. The moaning and creaking was equal. He listened for Tom’s wife to go off in a heightened bloodshed attack. Nothing stirred.
He stalled at the entrance, staring at the knob.
How the hell am I going to lock up?
Ed ran his fingertips along the top of the doorframe; there was nothing but dust. He knew he couldn’t leave it open, not in this part of town. He had to open the door once more. Ed had no option.
Why does Tom never make this much noise?
The hinges again played the irritating serenade. Ed popped his head around the door and looked around. There was still no sight or sound of life from the wife’s bedroom. Ed began to rummage around for the key to the door; they had to be somewhere close by. He looked for a key hook; scanned table tops, counters, but saw nothing resembling a key.
His hopes went up when he found a series of nails banged into the wall just down the hall, but there was only one small key, which would have matched up with something like a bike lock. He opened the closet and checked out the pockets of everything that hung, but could not find a key.
There were no signs of keys anywhere, just that small bike lock key. He had looked everywhere he could, even through the glasses, dishes and cutlery in the kitchen. He, however, recovered two dollars and thirty-four cents in change, which he collected for this inconvenience.
He sat on the sofa and pondered over his mid-morning mini quandary. Ed eyed the layer of ash that he had spewed across the People Magazine underneath the coffee table.
Should he just stay there? Wait for Bonnie to get up? She was a downright bitch in the mornings, all the time, actually. Should he just leave and take the consequences for leaving the door unlocked? How could he arrive at solving the situation?
The resolution Ed found himself at was to, basically, wake Bonnie. He would face her wrath and deal with the insults. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He softly bounced his knuckles against the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and he could discern that at least one light was on within the room. He would not get a reaction, even though he would replicate the knocking several times, with increasing vigour. She was out like a light.
Ed decided to shove the door open and see if he could spot the keys on a night table. The light from the living room added fuel to his search as it bellowed about the muddled bed and floors.
At this point Ed witnessed something he had only seen on one previous occasion. That episode was at the gang’s summer shindig back in 1985. This was what was perpetually referred to as the Nude Party. It was a simple, yet definitive adjective to have thrust in front of the word party.
Bonnie lay on her side, facing away from Ed. There was not a stitch of clothing on her frame and the bedding had all been kicked off. Her shoulder length dark hair had hardly been mussed in her bid for sleep.
‘Bonnie… Bonnie. Wake up Bonnie. It’s Ed… Bonnie?’
Christ, is she dead or something?
Ed decided to get closer to her, perhaps tap on her shoulder to awaken her.
Free show. Free show.
He stopped short of directly waking her. Ed checked her out for a few seconds; he liked her legs.
‘Bonnie… Bonnie’. He hushed so as not to alarm her too much.
She tossed over on to her back for an instance. For a short-lived moment, Ed had garnered a jam-packed frontal observation of Tom’s wife.
Nice, real nice…
Then, in a brief second, Bonnie let out with a blood-curdling shriek, grabbed a three wood from alongside the bed and wickedly pulverized him in the meaty part of his upper arm.
Ed fell into the dresser behind him and let out with an audible grimace of pain and surprise.
‘Holy shit Bonnie, take it easy. This is Ed, for Christ’s sake, put down the driver’.
“What the hell are you doing? Sneaking up on me like that… I thought you were a rapist, robber, or something like that, you goof’. She wrapped the azure comforter about herself as she started to chastise Ed.
Ed began to unfold the account of why he was in there. ‘Look, Tom went to work. I stayed on to finish watching the movie. I went to leave, but didn’t have a key to lock up. So, would you have rather I left the door open, or came in here to get the key?’
‘It’s 4:30 in the morning…’ Bonnie looked at her watch on the nightstand.
‘Yes, that is correct…’
‘Get outta here. I’ll close it behind… Jesus, I have to work in three hours.’
‘Okay. I’m out of here, I’m leaving… by the way, nice legs.’
Bonnie raised the three wood and hurled it at him as he scrambled out of the bedroom; and again, she had hit him in the same area of the arm as before.
He rapidly made his way from the apartment without receiving further harm to body or soul.
Bonnie got up and locked the dead bolt behind him. She glanced at the full-length mirror as she returned to her bedroom. She scanned her legs- ‘They are nice…’
Snowman - Samuel Dunbar
SNOWMAN
Samuel Dunbar
You never expect to see a ghost. Even if you get an eerie feeling that you might be, you can often explain it away. People who see ghouls and phantoms are often thought to be slightly insane, gripped by self-induced fantasy, or just not very bright.
Ghosts are often thought of as earthbound spirits. These entities roam old houses, ones with stories to tell. The haunt is often historic - a site of misfortune and suffering. Ghosts are envisioned as being vaporous images, apparitions. These spectres are seldom confused for real people due to these, and other obvious characteristics.
Our ghost came to us during a cold blustery winter evening. He did not rise and take to dwelling in our home; he chose to stay outside of it. He did not look like a goblin, no white sheet, no transparent parts, no floating about, no sinister moaning.
He came to us from the snow. He was borne of the cold and frost. He was not something children happily roll up, stick a carrot in and call a snowman.
This snowman was our ghost, our wraith.
CHAPTER ONE
June 12, 1979
Serenity
I would never forget this day. It was a time that should have been marked with memories of joy. In the end would be a date etched with remorse.
It was to be the contentment of finally achieving a long sought-after goal. We had grasped at a simple dream. Not that it was a big dream, one that was out of reach. It was rather uncomplicated.
That is not how it played out though, not by a long shot. It was just the start of a nightmare.
We had made that first step in moving away from a home that we had lived at for fifteen years. It was a nice home. It was a place that had grown warmer with familiarity. It was going to be hard to leave a place where you had developed roots. To us, the home had grown out of its usefulness.
Our boy, Joe, had been out of the house for a decade. I had retired five years earlier. We did not need to be close to the city any longer. There was no work, or schools to fret over anymore. It was now our time, my and Lisa’s time, to be together and enjoy what we had driven toward our entire lives. It would be like when we were first married, but without the burden of having to buy a house, get a career, and start a family. We now would have all the time in the world to be together, to be alone.
It was not that we had grown to dislike the home where we had lived. It was a bungalow on a fair sized lot in a hushed suburb. It was far away from crime, industry and urban decay.
It was not that we disliked our neighbours; some had become quite close over the years. We played cribbage with the Churchill’s just about every Friday night since the late sixties.
We just realized we were getting old. One of our first thoughts as a couple was to one day having a nice little house on a river or a lake, swathed by nature. That did not seem very much to ask for after years of saving and crimping. We used to talk about the dream of ours quite a bit, especially in the bumpy times where a pay cheque barely seemed to be enough. Now we had no justification in keeping this dream distant. We also realized that it was a now or never situation. We had to do it while our health was still good enough. This actuality was hard to bow to, but true nonetheless.
Our son now lived on the other side of Ottawa. He had been married for nine years. He had met his wife at the Carleton University. They now had two little girls. Joe had a stable job with a good income at the Industry Canada. We did not need to stick around in case things went awry with him. He was well on his way, established.
This day, June 12, 1979, was the day Lisa and I found the particular home that met all of our expectations. We had described this home to each other all those years ago. It was like the closing stages of a fairy tale, everything falling into place.
At least that is what we thought was happening.
The unrelenting heat pulsated from the foggy flow of the Ottawa River. The cicada bristled from its habitat among the stuffy pines that flourished along the rocky bank. The sun scorched a route through the light blue sky. In the distance, grey clumps of clouds lined the horizon, framing a perfect and scenic summer’s day.
A dusty gravel road ran along the riverfront. It had been firmly packed down by a steady current of vehicles. The other side of the river was visible, but only enough to see the odd dock jutting out into the water. Even less frequent was a black tiled roof breaking up the thick green vegetation.
The banks of the Ottawa were rather steep and unforgiving in parts. Rocks shot out of the soils and the beaches were mostly small stones as opposed to sand. That was the nature of the geography; the granite base was never too far from the surface. For this reason it was not an agricultural region by history, moreover it had a tradition of logging and paper mills.
Cottages, mixed with four season homes, were sprinkled along this meandering gravel road, which, in itself, was hardly ample enough for two cars to pass by each other. The unpretentious homes were a good stone’s throw from their nearest neighbour and those were the cluttered ones.
On one of the paved driveways, a rarity in itself, which also doubled as a boat landing, two swallows flapped down to the surface. The birds found it difficult to dwell on the asphalt, which had been trapping every ray of the smouldering sun. The birds soon departed for a cooler perch.
The swallows swept up to their more reliable haunt; the small white signpost at the top of the sloped tarmac. The tall trees around them shaded the spot, making it at least more comfortable for them to loiter. The hamlet’s name could still be read from the sign below them, even though the black paint had faded and even peeled in sections. The black had even weathered to the point where it was now grey in hue.
The village was called Crown Point. It had been obviously named for the way the craggy shoreline had domineered its way into the murky Ottawa River at that point. Most of the locals probably thought Crown Point had more to do with the British throne than the topography of the vicinity. Some even thought that French explorer Jacques Cartier had named the point for the King.
Three faded lime green mailboxes, containing numerous compartments, sat beside the signpost, facing the gravel road. Half were secured with a variety of locks, others simply dangled open. On breezy days nearby residents could hear the clatter of these open shutters, but had grown used to it with time. It was now a noise that was part of their realm. It was now an unnoticed fracas, one that if was omitted would be bothersome.
A telephone poll stretched up into the deciduous trees on the other side of the signpost. One could always smell the creosote that oozed from their trunks, especially on hot days like this. The top of the poll had a streetlight arcing out from it. The silver hub glistened as it snaked away from the canopy of the large maple that sat just feet away.
The light had been installed to make it easier for residents to make their night time mail pick-ups. At night, in the darkness, this light would tick constantly. It would only knock off when the sun rose. It was another audible quirk of the hamlet. The clatter of mail box doors and the tick of the lamp; both infuriating at first, but now welcomed.
The roasting and thick humidity of this June day was not unfamiliar. Ottawa had a few of these heat waves every year. The area could be caked in frigid snow, drenched by icy rains, or unctuous with sticky heat. It was an inhospitable climate to live in, but diverse in all of what nature had to present.
Some wondered, on days that managed to span this spectrum, why man, in all his know-how, would have selected this region to live in year round. It did not make sense, but they still kept on living there, year after year, and cold snap after heat wave.
If not for the vast mixture in weather conditions, people would not have a damn thing to whine about. People really do love to complain and bicker. The weather was the only secondary for the proper entity of abuse, the Government. However, most made their living in the Government.
Betraying the calm on this summer’s day was the sound of an outboard motor skipping across the dull water of the Ottawa River. Two ropes stiffened from the back of the boat to the hands of a water-skier. This young man had an uncommon form when compared to most water-skiers. A straw sun hat sat perilously on his head, yanked down to his brows to keep it from blowing off. It jumbled with every cascade made by his skies as they skipped over the ridges of water.
The boat was driven by a big teen, around the same age as the skier. Two girls, in one piece bathing suits laughed as they watched the antics of their friend from the back of the boat.
It was a nice, yet very hot summer day, and people, specifically these teens, partook in what nature had afforded them. They were older than high school kids that would still be in class this time of year. They were either college students or dropouts.
The red motorboat, with Evinrude engine, made a large oval pattern in the heart of the river. Their sporadic laughter could be heard over the whine of the motor and the smacking of the surging water against the hull.
The olive Ottawa flow had a conflicting bouquet, one stemming from a marriage of expired fish and sewage. Across the river was a town called Quyon, a French community. It was also another Province, Quebec. The Ottawa River was the border of Ontario and Quebec. Quyon was infamous for having their cottage waste lines dumping directly into the Ottawa, sans treatment. Everything downstream from this settlement was tinted with this nectar of human discharge.
The cross river belltowering was natural just because of the water. Causing more of a divide and general dislike was that they were another province, Quebec. The language by each Province was also different, English in Ontario, French in Quebec. So the sewage lines pouring into the river only added to the hate.
This was a muggy summer day. One of the first days like this they had had all year. Nature yawned in gratification under this sunny deluge. The residents could only put up with the underlying reek, which at times, they would not even notice. It had to be ignored on days like this, for escape to the water was the only way they could restore their psyche. There was, however, this great impulse to shower and wash once leaving the cool of the Ottawa.
The laughter from the boat revellers was accented by the understandable display of beer, an activity that was customary to all who enjoyed life in Crown Point. These young roustabouts were loud enough to be heard in most homes along the river. Some words were dipped in the valley drawl, with every other word not fit for younger ears. They were emblematic of their age, mischievous and borderline disrespectful for the most part, chiefly if gathered in a number of three or more.
Along the rock-strewn shores of the river, meek bursts of water slapped the stone surfaces in the wakes initiated by the motorboat. The water sluggishly lapped the greasy green-coated rock facings. In a few areas, dead fish and severed eels seemed to be gathered in moribund pockets. They were fatalities of either the effluence created across the river, or the odd propeller blade with which they had connected.
One of the homes along the river added further noise to the din of the day. Upon a large brown deck, which afforded a great view of the Ottawa, two cumbersome JVC speakers began to mash out music. The throbbing added to the gargle of the outboard motor. Summer had now legitimately begun.
Two young men ambled out onto the deck from the back door of the modest house. They gazed down at their friends on the river from their loft. The lads were chugging lager and intermittently playing air guitars. They were not alone out there on the sun-baked deck either. Two females were splayed in the corner of the thirty by thirty foot platform, taking in the sun’s rays and starting in on their first tanning session of the year. They were young and uninhibited, just wearing their bikini briefs while letting the rest of their unclad bodies take in as much sun as could be had.
The blonde had relatively large breasts for her age, and they were getting as brown as the rest of her. That showed that this was not a prank, but that her display of skin was an ordinary event. More corroboration that this was usual was that the males were not making that much of a deal over her topless appearance.
‘Unfucking real!’, the tall male with the beard hollered from the edge of the deck, pointing out to the water skier out on the river.
The skier finally saw the straw hat on his head fly off in a gust created by the speeding boat, but providence was on his side. In a fraction of a second, he took a hand from his bar, reached back and secured the hat in a miraculous display. It was a million to one grab, and the bearded male had witnessed it in awe.
The others on the deck arched their backs to see what had made him become so thrilled, but could only see the skier flopping the hat around on his head. They looked at each other, baffled by his antics, and let it go as a usual episode by him.
‘The twins look a little red,' Quipped the other male on the deck, making reference to the girl’s bare breasts. He was a younger and shorter version of Robert Redford. He cracked a mocking smile from behind his Foster Grants.
‘Pig,' Spat back the bare-chested blonde as she eased back into her customary sun catching pose.
‘The cedar logs are just beautiful, aren’t they Judd?’ An elderly woman spoke as she toed her way across the hard wood floor. Not a speck of furniture encumbered the large sunny room. The radiant sun beamed through the white sheers that draped the entire outer wall; made up entirely of bay windows. Through the white fabric, she could make out the green of the leaves, the red of the deck, the powder blue of the sky and the silvery sparkle of the river.
‘Looks like it would burn pretty quick too...’ Judd remarked crisply. He clutched his old worn hands behind his back as he flanked his wife in the stagnated air of the empty dwelling’s living room.
Judd’s wife gave him a sneer, showing her mild discontent toward his manner. It was a game he always played with her, seeing the bad in everything. He played it with others too, but only Lisa seemed to take it as it was meant, as a joke; or an irritant she had grown accustomed.
‘Just look at the location,' Lisa raised her hand from her purse and motioned through the white sheers.
‘Enough vegetation out here...’ Judd lined up some more sarcasm.
Lisa walked over to the wall and ran her hands along the cedar panelling. She could smell the wood, smell the mildew that only an old house could emit, but it was a strangely comforting aroma.
Judd trekked toward the bay windows that crept out over the deck. He scratched at his developed bald spot and eyed the teenagers that were water skiing down on the Ottawa. He smiled over their cavorting and it reminded him of his salad days. He did like the area, the home, the nature; even the price was one that he could live with.
‘This is the ideal place for someone who has retired... low taxes, quiet,' A woman’s voice came from another room. She sounded younger than the Tylers, and from her cadence seemed to be in sales.
Judd turned and eyed the big flagstone hearth that was near his wife. ‘Is this supposed to be the living room?’ He mumbled to Lisa.
‘Shhh,' Lisa lifted an eyebrow than looked into an adjacent room, checking to see if the woman was hearing any of her husband's remarks.
‘What was that Mr. Tyler?’ The woman now joined them in the empty living room. She had an amiable smile painted across her face, one that lloked to have been forced on for some time and now seemed natural.
She had her dark hair done up in a ball on the back of her head. Her glasses, which were actually plain glass lenses, made her look professional. They were cosmetic to her career. Her plain red dress and thin white blazer told of her femininity but this outfit was more of her trade. She held a Kanata Real Estate folder in the crease of her arm as she walked toward Lisa. Mrs. Tyler was the one she had to concentrate on if she was going to make the sale.
‘Is this air conditioned?’ Lisa’s voice crackled, trying not to inflect whether that would be a good or bad thing for the home to have.
‘Too damn cold in here if you ask me,' Judd started to rail from under his breath.
Lisa looked up, first in embarrassment, then appeasement, after she saw the cedar log rafters that made up a bulk of the ceiling.
‘Especially if I cut the grass out there...’ Judd continued to mutter, ‘...in the blazing sun, and then come in here and become frozen where I stand.' Judd smiled and turned to face the window. It was a game. He wanted to see what lengths Ms. Nelson would go to sate them.
‘Uh, yes it is,' Ms. Nelson reluctantly answered. ‘But you don’t have to have it set this low.' She began to realize that Mr. Tyler might be toying with her. She had come across his type before, trying to low ball a home that was for sale. She knew the Tylers were not that out of it, senile.
Nelson decided to change directions. ‘You’ll notice that the grade down to the dock is quite manageable, not like most of the others on this part of the river.'
‘Well that’s a dandy reason to buy this place,’ Judd continued to play his cranky old man routine.
The experienced real estate agent did not become flustered by his play. She knew how to handle his sort. He was trying to get the price down, pure and simple.
‘Ms. Nelson, excuse me, do you have the Hydro bills for the last people that lived here?’ Lisa spoke softly, hoping her request would not be too much of an inconvenience.
‘Yes I do have them. If you’ll both excuse me, they’re in the kitchen.' Nelson knew that wanting to see bills was a good omen.
The Tylers stood quietly as she left the room. Lisa began to look up the mouth of the fireplace; soot clung to the bricks as if there had been a fire in there just recently. Knowing salespeople, maybe there had. It would add to the home’s flavour.
‘It’s a very reasonable price,' Ms. Nelson handed Lisa the billing history as she came back into the living room. She looked for a sign that they would either leave or try to stay and barter.
Judd folded his arms across his chest and continued to scan the Ottawa from the back windows. He could make out enough through the white sheers as his eyes rolled among the trees, rocks and rippling river water. He leaned forward and glanced toward the neighbouring cottage, at first only making out the large brown deck and huge speakers that pointed out to the water.
Suddenly the motorboat slowed, and its people glanced up from the Ottawa. Judd had this urge to see what it was that had attracted their attentions. He parted the drape and edged his face close to the pane.
The neighbouring home was a little further down the slope and now Judd could see that there were four young people out on that deck. Two guys were sipping beer and loitering near the speakers. Then he could see the two topless nubile young women sun bathing on the deck’s surface.
Judd was tantalized at the prospect of these people might be his new neighbours. Life would not be boring. He knew that these kids might be loud and maybe even destructive. These young women were nothing to sneeze at, however. He also realized that this was something he could use to get Ms. Nelson in a stir.
‘Talk about solitude,' Nelson kept up her pitch, trying to perceive what train of thought these customers might be in.
‘I don’t know...if you really like it,’ Judd mumbled as he tried to get a better view of the young women. He had tossed the ball in his wife’s corner, knowing that Lisa had really taken a shine to the place. He also knew that he would take back the gauntlet when Nelson was hooked.
Lisa smiled as she continued her inspection of the hearth. ‘Well...I think it fits our needs.'
‘Great, great,’ Nelson was pleased that the sale had been easy. ‘Would you like to see more of what this home comes with?’ She was a little taken aback; after all, they had been only inside the house for five minutes. She was used to pulling teeth with seniors as her customers.
‘Do they live up here year round or just rent out for the summer?’ Judd asked in a tone that hinted there was something bad in the offing, setting his play in motion.
Nelson scurried across the hard wood floor wondering what had gotten the old man’s goat. Her heels tapped under her lithe weight. She closed in on the window beside Judd and pulled down the cord that drew the white curtains apart. She quickly made out what Mr. Tyler had been upset by.
Lisa remained in the centre of the room, scratching at the top of her head, clutching at her purse, and counting the electrical outlets, oblivious to the wrench her husband was throwing into the works.
Nelson’s face slowly turned crimson and her jaw dropped open. She was dumbfounded and could not think of an approach to take to put this in a positive way.
Judd glanced at her out of the corner of his sneer. He had won the game.
‘Well… well. Uh there are many elderly people up here, like yourselves,’ Nelson turned to Judd and could see the dissatisfaction in his eyes. ‘I’ll call the police…they shouldn’t be doing that…I’ll get it all sorted out.’ She started to ramble as she turned away from the glass, burrowing her red painted nails into the folder she was carrying.
Lisa stopped when she heard the word ‘police’ mentioned. What was this all about she thought? What had Judd done now? What had he done to final unnerve this woman?
Judd just grinned and brought his eyes back to the window. The four teens that had been on the deck started to make their way down to the dock. The girls grabbed their bikini tops and tied them back on as they made their way down the embankment.
‘Now why would you wanna go and do a thing like that?’ Judd had her now. ‘That’s just the kind of things I used to do when I was a teenager.’
Lisa gathered up her glasses and plied them to her nose as she swept up to the window and glanced around, not really seeing anything out of the ordinary, and anything close to being illegal.
Ms. Nelson turned to the couple, whom were both facing out to the river. She did not know what to think, or say. She did not know how she was going to regain the momentum she had had before the display of topless young girls at the neighbouring property. She did not know what to make of Mr. Tyler either.
‘Heck, being around them, with their exuberance for life just might add some years to me,’ Judd continued to chastise the real estate rep.
Lisa watched as two full figured young girls bounded down the planks of the neighbouring dock and dove off into greenish waters of the Ottawa. What the hell was going on? Lisa was lost.
‘They’re just going for a swim…is there some sort of law against that out here?’ Lisa turned at looked at this young woman who was threatening to call in the cops. ‘If my grandchildren can’t come here to cool off in the river… I don’t think we belong here.’ Lisa started to build her ire over the seemingly incidental play of the young people at the nearby cottage, and how that in turn would affect them if they bought this home.
‘No, no no…’ Ms. Nelson replied, eager to correct the situation. What kind of people am I dealing with here, she thought, accepting young people running around without a stitch of clothing on? ‘There’s nothing wrong with going for a swim in the river, nothing what so ever, but…‘
‘Then what?’ Lisa was becoming confused again, but was still bordering on anger.
‘It’s fine dear, nothing to worry over. I was just having the usual fun, that’s all,’ Judd finally brought an end to the game. He was a little bothered by the nude breasts he had seen, not for him, but for Lisa and the grandkids.
‘Yes…it’s just fine,’ Nelson was still trying to figure Mr. Tyler out, but it seemed positive, so why rock the boat. She pasted that professional, unflappable smile back on her thirty something face. ‘Would you like to work out the details, or would you like some more time to mull it over?’
‘My wife seems to have taken a shine to this house.’ Judd glanced at the hearth and imagined their first fire. ‘And I don’t care where I live so long as it’s dry and warm’. Judd knew Lisa would take his comments as meaning he really liked the house as well, and was going to try to get the price down.
Lisa nestled in closer to her husband, grabbing his hand warmly and giving it a squeeze. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I think we’ll take it’.
Ms. Nelson stepped through the insect drenched grass that made up a fair portion of the top of the property of what was now the Tyler’s new home. She carried a white backed sticker in her hand as she toed carefully through what seemed a sea of nervous grasshoppers. The front of the sticker was black with big orange lettering spelling out the word ‘SOLD’. It was the part of the job that real estate agents always look forward to, kah-ching.
She meticulously placed the sticker over her firm’s ‘FOR SALE’ sign, placing it at a precise 45-degree angle. She stepped back and looked proudly across the bright bold letters. She reached to the bottom portion of the sign and took off a strip that was fixed to the main sign by hooks. Her name and number were no longer of use here. Her work was officially done; it was time to move on.
As she made her way out of the gamut of slithering and soaring insect life, back to her bright red company sedan, a building noise caught her ears. She stopped and scanned down the gravel road. Bulging pines and gangly spruce trees blocked the base of the hill out. Suddenly a compact car, silver with bubbled headlights, splashed up from a scattering of stones and billowing dust trail.
Nelson gave the occupants a quick sneer; they were going way to fast through this calm village. She recognized the two girls in the Honda; they were those topless girls from next door. How could they parade around like that, have they no shame?
The blonde with the big round breasts looked decidedly angry. As for her dark haired, lithely built friend, she just sobbed in the passenger seat.
Relationships among young people always verged on two opposite trains. One was being love, which was more often than not an awesome lust and the other, was unadulterated hatred, which sometimes too was found in lust. Things were much easier when you were young and already knew everything.
Nelson continued to watch as their car scooted by the front of the Tyler’s new roost. She only then realized that she was going to be overtaken by the plume of dust and dirt that the car had picked up. It would surely cover the sparkling red paint of her car and entrench herself in a dry and clinging film.
She squinted and covered her nose and mouth as the cloud swarmed down around her. Yes, her prophetic thought had come to fruition.
‘Fucking degenerates!’ She mumbled as she swept the grim from her overly made-up face and swished the matter from the front of her red dress.
The dust had also settled across the Tyler’s relatively new Cougar. Judd was certainly not your usual senior, his car itself rained from a much younger mindset.
The sun was baking, very bright and still managed to wrench a glisten off both vehicles chrome plating. Nelson’s Malibu had magnetic door signs, detailing the firm she represented.
Trees and thick brush framed the outer side of the drive way and garage, they afforded little in the way of shade though. The interior of the cars was almost certain to be akin to the surface of a red-hot frying pan. Thank God for air-conditioning.
Across the road was a thick and forbidding forest. Tall scraggily trees stretched out from their grip on the rocky grounds. There were also countless thick pines, spruce and cedars. Bushes and weeds guarded the root systems of these much larger plants.
‘That must look pretty damn good,’ Judd’s voice startled Ms. Nelson as she continued in her quest to paw off the dust that had captured her and settled in the pleats of her dress.
‘Actually, this home could have sold itself; it’s got great curb appeal.’
Lisa slowly emerged from the stone walkway that ran up from their new home. She would get used to it.
‘Once again, congratulations on your new home,’ Nelson neared Mr. Tyler, who was scanning the upper portion of his new lawn.
Lisa approached them on the apron of the drive way as Ms. Nelson offered her hand to Judd. ‘I know you’ll just love it up here.’
Judd grabbed the young woman’s hand and muttered, ‘We’d better.’
‘We certainly will, and thank you for your time…and patience,’ Lisa jabbed her husband lightly in the rib cage and then took her turn in shaking Ms. Nelson’s hand.
Soon the driveway of the Tyler’s new residence lay barren. Both vehicles had gone along on their way, back toward Ottawa. All that remained was the freshly adhered sold sticker and the thumping of ACDC from the cottage next door.
The cedar log home was nicely tucked away from the gravel pitch and offered a serene view of the Ottawa. The bustling greenery and wafting breeze made everything appear tranquil, peaceful, and calm.
It was the home Judd and Lisa had been dreaming of owning someday, a dream that started when they were on their honeymoon at Lake Placid. Now they had what they had worked for the entire lives.
Nevertheless, no home was perfect; no fulfilment of a dream is perfect. Judd and Lisa knew this, expected this. However, what was to come they could have never anticipated.
Samuel Dunbar
You never expect to see a ghost. Even if you get an eerie feeling that you might be, you can often explain it away. People who see ghouls and phantoms are often thought to be slightly insane, gripped by self-induced fantasy, or just not very bright.
Ghosts are often thought of as earthbound spirits. These entities roam old houses, ones with stories to tell. The haunt is often historic - a site of misfortune and suffering. Ghosts are envisioned as being vaporous images, apparitions. These spectres are seldom confused for real people due to these, and other obvious characteristics.
Our ghost came to us during a cold blustery winter evening. He did not rise and take to dwelling in our home; he chose to stay outside of it. He did not look like a goblin, no white sheet, no transparent parts, no floating about, no sinister moaning.
He came to us from the snow. He was borne of the cold and frost. He was not something children happily roll up, stick a carrot in and call a snowman.
This snowman was our ghost, our wraith.
CHAPTER ONE
June 12, 1979
Serenity
I would never forget this day. It was a time that should have been marked with memories of joy. In the end would be a date etched with remorse.
It was to be the contentment of finally achieving a long sought-after goal. We had grasped at a simple dream. Not that it was a big dream, one that was out of reach. It was rather uncomplicated.
That is not how it played out though, not by a long shot. It was just the start of a nightmare.
We had made that first step in moving away from a home that we had lived at for fifteen years. It was a nice home. It was a place that had grown warmer with familiarity. It was going to be hard to leave a place where you had developed roots. To us, the home had grown out of its usefulness.
Our boy, Joe, had been out of the house for a decade. I had retired five years earlier. We did not need to be close to the city any longer. There was no work, or schools to fret over anymore. It was now our time, my and Lisa’s time, to be together and enjoy what we had driven toward our entire lives. It would be like when we were first married, but without the burden of having to buy a house, get a career, and start a family. We now would have all the time in the world to be together, to be alone.
It was not that we had grown to dislike the home where we had lived. It was a bungalow on a fair sized lot in a hushed suburb. It was far away from crime, industry and urban decay.
It was not that we disliked our neighbours; some had become quite close over the years. We played cribbage with the Churchill’s just about every Friday night since the late sixties.
We just realized we were getting old. One of our first thoughts as a couple was to one day having a nice little house on a river or a lake, swathed by nature. That did not seem very much to ask for after years of saving and crimping. We used to talk about the dream of ours quite a bit, especially in the bumpy times where a pay cheque barely seemed to be enough. Now we had no justification in keeping this dream distant. We also realized that it was a now or never situation. We had to do it while our health was still good enough. This actuality was hard to bow to, but true nonetheless.
Our son now lived on the other side of Ottawa. He had been married for nine years. He had met his wife at the Carleton University. They now had two little girls. Joe had a stable job with a good income at the Industry Canada. We did not need to stick around in case things went awry with him. He was well on his way, established.
This day, June 12, 1979, was the day Lisa and I found the particular home that met all of our expectations. We had described this home to each other all those years ago. It was like the closing stages of a fairy tale, everything falling into place.
At least that is what we thought was happening.
The unrelenting heat pulsated from the foggy flow of the Ottawa River. The cicada bristled from its habitat among the stuffy pines that flourished along the rocky bank. The sun scorched a route through the light blue sky. In the distance, grey clumps of clouds lined the horizon, framing a perfect and scenic summer’s day.
A dusty gravel road ran along the riverfront. It had been firmly packed down by a steady current of vehicles. The other side of the river was visible, but only enough to see the odd dock jutting out into the water. Even less frequent was a black tiled roof breaking up the thick green vegetation.
The banks of the Ottawa were rather steep and unforgiving in parts. Rocks shot out of the soils and the beaches were mostly small stones as opposed to sand. That was the nature of the geography; the granite base was never too far from the surface. For this reason it was not an agricultural region by history, moreover it had a tradition of logging and paper mills.
Cottages, mixed with four season homes, were sprinkled along this meandering gravel road, which, in itself, was hardly ample enough for two cars to pass by each other. The unpretentious homes were a good stone’s throw from their nearest neighbour and those were the cluttered ones.
On one of the paved driveways, a rarity in itself, which also doubled as a boat landing, two swallows flapped down to the surface. The birds found it difficult to dwell on the asphalt, which had been trapping every ray of the smouldering sun. The birds soon departed for a cooler perch.
The swallows swept up to their more reliable haunt; the small white signpost at the top of the sloped tarmac. The tall trees around them shaded the spot, making it at least more comfortable for them to loiter. The hamlet’s name could still be read from the sign below them, even though the black paint had faded and even peeled in sections. The black had even weathered to the point where it was now grey in hue.
The village was called Crown Point. It had been obviously named for the way the craggy shoreline had domineered its way into the murky Ottawa River at that point. Most of the locals probably thought Crown Point had more to do with the British throne than the topography of the vicinity. Some even thought that French explorer Jacques Cartier had named the point for the King.
Three faded lime green mailboxes, containing numerous compartments, sat beside the signpost, facing the gravel road. Half were secured with a variety of locks, others simply dangled open. On breezy days nearby residents could hear the clatter of these open shutters, but had grown used to it with time. It was now a noise that was part of their realm. It was now an unnoticed fracas, one that if was omitted would be bothersome.
A telephone poll stretched up into the deciduous trees on the other side of the signpost. One could always smell the creosote that oozed from their trunks, especially on hot days like this. The top of the poll had a streetlight arcing out from it. The silver hub glistened as it snaked away from the canopy of the large maple that sat just feet away.
The light had been installed to make it easier for residents to make their night time mail pick-ups. At night, in the darkness, this light would tick constantly. It would only knock off when the sun rose. It was another audible quirk of the hamlet. The clatter of mail box doors and the tick of the lamp; both infuriating at first, but now welcomed.
The roasting and thick humidity of this June day was not unfamiliar. Ottawa had a few of these heat waves every year. The area could be caked in frigid snow, drenched by icy rains, or unctuous with sticky heat. It was an inhospitable climate to live in, but diverse in all of what nature had to present.
Some wondered, on days that managed to span this spectrum, why man, in all his know-how, would have selected this region to live in year round. It did not make sense, but they still kept on living there, year after year, and cold snap after heat wave.
If not for the vast mixture in weather conditions, people would not have a damn thing to whine about. People really do love to complain and bicker. The weather was the only secondary for the proper entity of abuse, the Government. However, most made their living in the Government.
Betraying the calm on this summer’s day was the sound of an outboard motor skipping across the dull water of the Ottawa River. Two ropes stiffened from the back of the boat to the hands of a water-skier. This young man had an uncommon form when compared to most water-skiers. A straw sun hat sat perilously on his head, yanked down to his brows to keep it from blowing off. It jumbled with every cascade made by his skies as they skipped over the ridges of water.
The boat was driven by a big teen, around the same age as the skier. Two girls, in one piece bathing suits laughed as they watched the antics of their friend from the back of the boat.
It was a nice, yet very hot summer day, and people, specifically these teens, partook in what nature had afforded them. They were older than high school kids that would still be in class this time of year. They were either college students or dropouts.
The red motorboat, with Evinrude engine, made a large oval pattern in the heart of the river. Their sporadic laughter could be heard over the whine of the motor and the smacking of the surging water against the hull.
The olive Ottawa flow had a conflicting bouquet, one stemming from a marriage of expired fish and sewage. Across the river was a town called Quyon, a French community. It was also another Province, Quebec. The Ottawa River was the border of Ontario and Quebec. Quyon was infamous for having their cottage waste lines dumping directly into the Ottawa, sans treatment. Everything downstream from this settlement was tinted with this nectar of human discharge.
The cross river belltowering was natural just because of the water. Causing more of a divide and general dislike was that they were another province, Quebec. The language by each Province was also different, English in Ontario, French in Quebec. So the sewage lines pouring into the river only added to the hate.
This was a muggy summer day. One of the first days like this they had had all year. Nature yawned in gratification under this sunny deluge. The residents could only put up with the underlying reek, which at times, they would not even notice. It had to be ignored on days like this, for escape to the water was the only way they could restore their psyche. There was, however, this great impulse to shower and wash once leaving the cool of the Ottawa.
The laughter from the boat revellers was accented by the understandable display of beer, an activity that was customary to all who enjoyed life in Crown Point. These young roustabouts were loud enough to be heard in most homes along the river. Some words were dipped in the valley drawl, with every other word not fit for younger ears. They were emblematic of their age, mischievous and borderline disrespectful for the most part, chiefly if gathered in a number of three or more.
Along the rock-strewn shores of the river, meek bursts of water slapped the stone surfaces in the wakes initiated by the motorboat. The water sluggishly lapped the greasy green-coated rock facings. In a few areas, dead fish and severed eels seemed to be gathered in moribund pockets. They were fatalities of either the effluence created across the river, or the odd propeller blade with which they had connected.
One of the homes along the river added further noise to the din of the day. Upon a large brown deck, which afforded a great view of the Ottawa, two cumbersome JVC speakers began to mash out music. The throbbing added to the gargle of the outboard motor. Summer had now legitimately begun.
Two young men ambled out onto the deck from the back door of the modest house. They gazed down at their friends on the river from their loft. The lads were chugging lager and intermittently playing air guitars. They were not alone out there on the sun-baked deck either. Two females were splayed in the corner of the thirty by thirty foot platform, taking in the sun’s rays and starting in on their first tanning session of the year. They were young and uninhibited, just wearing their bikini briefs while letting the rest of their unclad bodies take in as much sun as could be had.
The blonde had relatively large breasts for her age, and they were getting as brown as the rest of her. That showed that this was not a prank, but that her display of skin was an ordinary event. More corroboration that this was usual was that the males were not making that much of a deal over her topless appearance.
‘Unfucking real!’, the tall male with the beard hollered from the edge of the deck, pointing out to the water skier out on the river.
The skier finally saw the straw hat on his head fly off in a gust created by the speeding boat, but providence was on his side. In a fraction of a second, he took a hand from his bar, reached back and secured the hat in a miraculous display. It was a million to one grab, and the bearded male had witnessed it in awe.
The others on the deck arched their backs to see what had made him become so thrilled, but could only see the skier flopping the hat around on his head. They looked at each other, baffled by his antics, and let it go as a usual episode by him.
‘The twins look a little red,' Quipped the other male on the deck, making reference to the girl’s bare breasts. He was a younger and shorter version of Robert Redford. He cracked a mocking smile from behind his Foster Grants.
‘Pig,' Spat back the bare-chested blonde as she eased back into her customary sun catching pose.
‘The cedar logs are just beautiful, aren’t they Judd?’ An elderly woman spoke as she toed her way across the hard wood floor. Not a speck of furniture encumbered the large sunny room. The radiant sun beamed through the white sheers that draped the entire outer wall; made up entirely of bay windows. Through the white fabric, she could make out the green of the leaves, the red of the deck, the powder blue of the sky and the silvery sparkle of the river.
‘Looks like it would burn pretty quick too...’ Judd remarked crisply. He clutched his old worn hands behind his back as he flanked his wife in the stagnated air of the empty dwelling’s living room.
Judd’s wife gave him a sneer, showing her mild discontent toward his manner. It was a game he always played with her, seeing the bad in everything. He played it with others too, but only Lisa seemed to take it as it was meant, as a joke; or an irritant she had grown accustomed.
‘Just look at the location,' Lisa raised her hand from her purse and motioned through the white sheers.
‘Enough vegetation out here...’ Judd lined up some more sarcasm.
Lisa walked over to the wall and ran her hands along the cedar panelling. She could smell the wood, smell the mildew that only an old house could emit, but it was a strangely comforting aroma.
Judd trekked toward the bay windows that crept out over the deck. He scratched at his developed bald spot and eyed the teenagers that were water skiing down on the Ottawa. He smiled over their cavorting and it reminded him of his salad days. He did like the area, the home, the nature; even the price was one that he could live with.
‘This is the ideal place for someone who has retired... low taxes, quiet,' A woman’s voice came from another room. She sounded younger than the Tylers, and from her cadence seemed to be in sales.
Judd turned and eyed the big flagstone hearth that was near his wife. ‘Is this supposed to be the living room?’ He mumbled to Lisa.
‘Shhh,' Lisa lifted an eyebrow than looked into an adjacent room, checking to see if the woman was hearing any of her husband's remarks.
‘What was that Mr. Tyler?’ The woman now joined them in the empty living room. She had an amiable smile painted across her face, one that lloked to have been forced on for some time and now seemed natural.
She had her dark hair done up in a ball on the back of her head. Her glasses, which were actually plain glass lenses, made her look professional. They were cosmetic to her career. Her plain red dress and thin white blazer told of her femininity but this outfit was more of her trade. She held a Kanata Real Estate folder in the crease of her arm as she walked toward Lisa. Mrs. Tyler was the one she had to concentrate on if she was going to make the sale.
‘Is this air conditioned?’ Lisa’s voice crackled, trying not to inflect whether that would be a good or bad thing for the home to have.
‘Too damn cold in here if you ask me,' Judd started to rail from under his breath.
Lisa looked up, first in embarrassment, then appeasement, after she saw the cedar log rafters that made up a bulk of the ceiling.
‘Especially if I cut the grass out there...’ Judd continued to mutter, ‘...in the blazing sun, and then come in here and become frozen where I stand.' Judd smiled and turned to face the window. It was a game. He wanted to see what lengths Ms. Nelson would go to sate them.
‘Uh, yes it is,' Ms. Nelson reluctantly answered. ‘But you don’t have to have it set this low.' She began to realize that Mr. Tyler might be toying with her. She had come across his type before, trying to low ball a home that was for sale. She knew the Tylers were not that out of it, senile.
Nelson decided to change directions. ‘You’ll notice that the grade down to the dock is quite manageable, not like most of the others on this part of the river.'
‘Well that’s a dandy reason to buy this place,’ Judd continued to play his cranky old man routine.
The experienced real estate agent did not become flustered by his play. She knew how to handle his sort. He was trying to get the price down, pure and simple.
‘Ms. Nelson, excuse me, do you have the Hydro bills for the last people that lived here?’ Lisa spoke softly, hoping her request would not be too much of an inconvenience.
‘Yes I do have them. If you’ll both excuse me, they’re in the kitchen.' Nelson knew that wanting to see bills was a good omen.
The Tylers stood quietly as she left the room. Lisa began to look up the mouth of the fireplace; soot clung to the bricks as if there had been a fire in there just recently. Knowing salespeople, maybe there had. It would add to the home’s flavour.
‘It’s a very reasonable price,' Ms. Nelson handed Lisa the billing history as she came back into the living room. She looked for a sign that they would either leave or try to stay and barter.
Judd folded his arms across his chest and continued to scan the Ottawa from the back windows. He could make out enough through the white sheers as his eyes rolled among the trees, rocks and rippling river water. He leaned forward and glanced toward the neighbouring cottage, at first only making out the large brown deck and huge speakers that pointed out to the water.
Suddenly the motorboat slowed, and its people glanced up from the Ottawa. Judd had this urge to see what it was that had attracted their attentions. He parted the drape and edged his face close to the pane.
The neighbouring home was a little further down the slope and now Judd could see that there were four young people out on that deck. Two guys were sipping beer and loitering near the speakers. Then he could see the two topless nubile young women sun bathing on the deck’s surface.
Judd was tantalized at the prospect of these people might be his new neighbours. Life would not be boring. He knew that these kids might be loud and maybe even destructive. These young women were nothing to sneeze at, however. He also realized that this was something he could use to get Ms. Nelson in a stir.
‘Talk about solitude,' Nelson kept up her pitch, trying to perceive what train of thought these customers might be in.
‘I don’t know...if you really like it,’ Judd mumbled as he tried to get a better view of the young women. He had tossed the ball in his wife’s corner, knowing that Lisa had really taken a shine to the place. He also knew that he would take back the gauntlet when Nelson was hooked.
Lisa smiled as she continued her inspection of the hearth. ‘Well...I think it fits our needs.'
‘Great, great,’ Nelson was pleased that the sale had been easy. ‘Would you like to see more of what this home comes with?’ She was a little taken aback; after all, they had been only inside the house for five minutes. She was used to pulling teeth with seniors as her customers.
‘Do they live up here year round or just rent out for the summer?’ Judd asked in a tone that hinted there was something bad in the offing, setting his play in motion.
Nelson scurried across the hard wood floor wondering what had gotten the old man’s goat. Her heels tapped under her lithe weight. She closed in on the window beside Judd and pulled down the cord that drew the white curtains apart. She quickly made out what Mr. Tyler had been upset by.
Lisa remained in the centre of the room, scratching at the top of her head, clutching at her purse, and counting the electrical outlets, oblivious to the wrench her husband was throwing into the works.
Nelson’s face slowly turned crimson and her jaw dropped open. She was dumbfounded and could not think of an approach to take to put this in a positive way.
Judd glanced at her out of the corner of his sneer. He had won the game.
‘Well… well. Uh there are many elderly people up here, like yourselves,’ Nelson turned to Judd and could see the dissatisfaction in his eyes. ‘I’ll call the police…they shouldn’t be doing that…I’ll get it all sorted out.’ She started to ramble as she turned away from the glass, burrowing her red painted nails into the folder she was carrying.
Lisa stopped when she heard the word ‘police’ mentioned. What was this all about she thought? What had Judd done now? What had he done to final unnerve this woman?
Judd just grinned and brought his eyes back to the window. The four teens that had been on the deck started to make their way down to the dock. The girls grabbed their bikini tops and tied them back on as they made their way down the embankment.
‘Now why would you wanna go and do a thing like that?’ Judd had her now. ‘That’s just the kind of things I used to do when I was a teenager.’
Lisa gathered up her glasses and plied them to her nose as she swept up to the window and glanced around, not really seeing anything out of the ordinary, and anything close to being illegal.
Ms. Nelson turned to the couple, whom were both facing out to the river. She did not know what to think, or say. She did not know how she was going to regain the momentum she had had before the display of topless young girls at the neighbouring property. She did not know what to make of Mr. Tyler either.
‘Heck, being around them, with their exuberance for life just might add some years to me,’ Judd continued to chastise the real estate rep.
Lisa watched as two full figured young girls bounded down the planks of the neighbouring dock and dove off into greenish waters of the Ottawa. What the hell was going on? Lisa was lost.
‘They’re just going for a swim…is there some sort of law against that out here?’ Lisa turned at looked at this young woman who was threatening to call in the cops. ‘If my grandchildren can’t come here to cool off in the river… I don’t think we belong here.’ Lisa started to build her ire over the seemingly incidental play of the young people at the nearby cottage, and how that in turn would affect them if they bought this home.
‘No, no no…’ Ms. Nelson replied, eager to correct the situation. What kind of people am I dealing with here, she thought, accepting young people running around without a stitch of clothing on? ‘There’s nothing wrong with going for a swim in the river, nothing what so ever, but…‘
‘Then what?’ Lisa was becoming confused again, but was still bordering on anger.
‘It’s fine dear, nothing to worry over. I was just having the usual fun, that’s all,’ Judd finally brought an end to the game. He was a little bothered by the nude breasts he had seen, not for him, but for Lisa and the grandkids.
‘Yes…it’s just fine,’ Nelson was still trying to figure Mr. Tyler out, but it seemed positive, so why rock the boat. She pasted that professional, unflappable smile back on her thirty something face. ‘Would you like to work out the details, or would you like some more time to mull it over?’
‘My wife seems to have taken a shine to this house.’ Judd glanced at the hearth and imagined their first fire. ‘And I don’t care where I live so long as it’s dry and warm’. Judd knew Lisa would take his comments as meaning he really liked the house as well, and was going to try to get the price down.
Lisa nestled in closer to her husband, grabbing his hand warmly and giving it a squeeze. Her eyes sparkled. ‘I think we’ll take it’.
Ms. Nelson stepped through the insect drenched grass that made up a fair portion of the top of the property of what was now the Tyler’s new home. She carried a white backed sticker in her hand as she toed carefully through what seemed a sea of nervous grasshoppers. The front of the sticker was black with big orange lettering spelling out the word ‘SOLD’. It was the part of the job that real estate agents always look forward to, kah-ching.
She meticulously placed the sticker over her firm’s ‘FOR SALE’ sign, placing it at a precise 45-degree angle. She stepped back and looked proudly across the bright bold letters. She reached to the bottom portion of the sign and took off a strip that was fixed to the main sign by hooks. Her name and number were no longer of use here. Her work was officially done; it was time to move on.
As she made her way out of the gamut of slithering and soaring insect life, back to her bright red company sedan, a building noise caught her ears. She stopped and scanned down the gravel road. Bulging pines and gangly spruce trees blocked the base of the hill out. Suddenly a compact car, silver with bubbled headlights, splashed up from a scattering of stones and billowing dust trail.
Nelson gave the occupants a quick sneer; they were going way to fast through this calm village. She recognized the two girls in the Honda; they were those topless girls from next door. How could they parade around like that, have they no shame?
The blonde with the big round breasts looked decidedly angry. As for her dark haired, lithely built friend, she just sobbed in the passenger seat.
Relationships among young people always verged on two opposite trains. One was being love, which was more often than not an awesome lust and the other, was unadulterated hatred, which sometimes too was found in lust. Things were much easier when you were young and already knew everything.
Nelson continued to watch as their car scooted by the front of the Tyler’s new roost. She only then realized that she was going to be overtaken by the plume of dust and dirt that the car had picked up. It would surely cover the sparkling red paint of her car and entrench herself in a dry and clinging film.
She squinted and covered her nose and mouth as the cloud swarmed down around her. Yes, her prophetic thought had come to fruition.
‘Fucking degenerates!’ She mumbled as she swept the grim from her overly made-up face and swished the matter from the front of her red dress.
The dust had also settled across the Tyler’s relatively new Cougar. Judd was certainly not your usual senior, his car itself rained from a much younger mindset.
The sun was baking, very bright and still managed to wrench a glisten off both vehicles chrome plating. Nelson’s Malibu had magnetic door signs, detailing the firm she represented.
Trees and thick brush framed the outer side of the drive way and garage, they afforded little in the way of shade though. The interior of the cars was almost certain to be akin to the surface of a red-hot frying pan. Thank God for air-conditioning.
Across the road was a thick and forbidding forest. Tall scraggily trees stretched out from their grip on the rocky grounds. There were also countless thick pines, spruce and cedars. Bushes and weeds guarded the root systems of these much larger plants.
‘That must look pretty damn good,’ Judd’s voice startled Ms. Nelson as she continued in her quest to paw off the dust that had captured her and settled in the pleats of her dress.
‘Actually, this home could have sold itself; it’s got great curb appeal.’
Lisa slowly emerged from the stone walkway that ran up from their new home. She would get used to it.
‘Once again, congratulations on your new home,’ Nelson neared Mr. Tyler, who was scanning the upper portion of his new lawn.
Lisa approached them on the apron of the drive way as Ms. Nelson offered her hand to Judd. ‘I know you’ll just love it up here.’
Judd grabbed the young woman’s hand and muttered, ‘We’d better.’
‘We certainly will, and thank you for your time…and patience,’ Lisa jabbed her husband lightly in the rib cage and then took her turn in shaking Ms. Nelson’s hand.
Soon the driveway of the Tyler’s new residence lay barren. Both vehicles had gone along on their way, back toward Ottawa. All that remained was the freshly adhered sold sticker and the thumping of ACDC from the cottage next door.
The cedar log home was nicely tucked away from the gravel pitch and offered a serene view of the Ottawa. The bustling greenery and wafting breeze made everything appear tranquil, peaceful, and calm.
It was the home Judd and Lisa had been dreaming of owning someday, a dream that started when they were on their honeymoon at Lake Placid. Now they had what they had worked for the entire lives.
Nevertheless, no home was perfect; no fulfilment of a dream is perfect. Judd and Lisa knew this, expected this. However, what was to come they could have never anticipated.
Progeny - J. Ryan Elgin
PROGENY
J. Ryan Elgin
Maybe the head was somewhere in the field? Possibly, it was there, under the stiff grey clouds. Or he could have kept it, and put it on his mantle.
The sky was become hauntingly dour, even sinister in appearance. Those who slowly walked in the wild, wet and twisted grasses could attest to the sickness of the entire situation.
It was a culmination of several totally evil acts. Who could thrive and be enthralled, by searching for a young woman’s head? At least they had located the rest of her.
Please don’t let her be face up.
Please don’t let her eyes be open, staring and terrorized.
Please don’t let her have been chewed on by rats.
Please don’t let her head be buzzing with maggots and insects.
“What did you do today Daddy?”
‘Oh… I looked for this girl’s head.’
It was not a task that anyone wanted to complete or to be a success. Finding her head would only cause nightmares, and the abrupt urge to vomit after a memory flash. Surely one would flicker on the terror she had lived through, imagine the violence waged upon her body.
Anyone could see that she had been much more than simply decapitated. She had been tortured- then brutalized- then dehumanized- then probably had the programme repeated a few more times.
Why is there always a certain stillness at scenes of such horror? It is as if time and nature have decided to pay homage to the victim. Everything seems hazy, but there is also crispness in the air that makes everyone acute to his senses.
The looks of fear, of disbelief, and of anger were on all faces.
The rest of her corpse was located, bare and supine, in a creek, water gently lapping her sides. Her neck bone stuck out, crudely twisted from the tissue and muscle. She was covered with bite marks, bruises, burns, ligature marks, all committed on her once youthful frame. There was a white-blue tint to her skin, as if she had been drained of her blood, of her soul.
Investigators walked around in a daze, searching the field for anything that could help. They needed clues to get the unsub, this scum, something that could put him away where he could not do this to another innocent girl.
By the immediate evidence, the indication was that their killer was sick. Either he did not fully understand how to remove a head from a body, or got-off on the way he had completed the job, which was in an inhumane and laboured manner. It was as if he had yanked her head off. It was a sickening gesture from the demented mayhem of its artist.
CREATION
FAMILY
Brett's Grandparents were nothing like his Father. He was just three when they passed away. They had left a sizeable estate, and Brett had a trust waiting for him when he would be 25.
Foreseeing the future growth of Chesterton they had bought much of the land onto which the suburb would spread. They had also bought a nickel and dime golf course that was a ten-minute drive from the Government buildings, on the Cartier side. They had a posh country club built and that was enough to gather the rich political elite.
In this crunch of quality-time came the birth of Theodore Thomas Normand. He would be raised to barely to know his hard-driven parents. The result was that Ted grew up angry, and unaware of what family relationships were supposed to be. This all swung down on Brett.
Subconsciously, he was probably taking out his lack of a childhood on his own son. Now he was too blind from the bottle to see what he was doing to Brett and Vera.
Ted Normand was not a tall man. His renowned short-fused temper brought his image up to over six feet. He was also rarely seen with anything but a four-day beard.
Women seemed attracted to this style, the scabrous personality. Ted always was on the edge of throwing a punch at somebody around him at all times. Ladies, with the 'I can Mother him' attitudes, used to slide in beside him on the bar stools. Women will always be sadly mistaken to learn they could not change this type of man. The inner cavity of an acrimonious man can never be tamed by beauty or love.
Ted had lost his driver's licence long before Brett was born. It did not bother him that he could not drive; it had always interfered with his socializing and drinking. Now he didn't have to watch himself, Vera would always come and get him.
Early in the holy dread-lock, Vera had worked as a receptionist at a local senior's home. Ted had forced her to leave that job to become his private taxi service. Her place was in the home anyway, as Ted often told her.
Vera was from a quiet French Roman Catholic family. Her last name was common in the area, Chouinard. They had met at a bar, and she fell for him the way most women did. She thought she could harness this man's violent raging. Her notion was wrong, but she found out too late.
When she had realized what a major mistake she had made it was too late. Vera already had Ted's ring on her finger. She could have left him, but she feared for her life to do that, it was already violent enough. Vera was also from a religious family, and that really meant until death do you part.
Then came the birth of Brett Normand, and the cement shoes of commitment were dried solidly to her feet. She had to stay, there was nothing else to consider.
Nevertheless, Vera could dream, wish. She did a great amount of that. She would fantasize about other men, never Ted. Vera had to live with her flawed emotional error.
Vera Normand now bided her days at being a Mother to Brett, a wife to Ted, a cab, and a virtual lump in front of the Zenith. Everything she had become was tainted by the repugnant scent of Ted Normand, the misbegotten son. She resented Brett for her plight, maybe it would have been easier to have left long ago if not for that boy.
She never tried to let Brett feel her ugly emotions, or take things out on him, the boy was half her too. It was hard for her to feel anything but antipathy toward the things that enveloped her existence.
Vera had long lost interest in sex with her spouse, even learned to loathe the entire ordeal, which is what Ted had burgeoned. She knew he was often unfaithful but never let on. Who knows what he would do to her then? Vera could smell other women's odours all over him when he stumbled in late. She did not really care anyway, maybe he knew that.
She would putout whenever he wanted her, but she was not there. Only her abused shell was there for him, a body he could command, take pleasures from, and pummel. Her only sexual satisfaction came while she was alone; it was her only alternative.
Like little Brett, Vera had to live under strict rules brought on by Ted. Sex anytime he wanted it, meals had to be readied on time, even though he might be parked at a bar stool, hours late. The house had to be spotless, his clothes washed to specifications. Even Vera saw the unfriendly side of that black belt he liked to twirl and she had the welts and scars to prove it.
THE NORMAND HOME
SPRING OF 1971
He would never forget the way that place smelled, felt. The scent was one that would mean safety, security.
It was damp and dusty under his bed. The five year old had often sought refuge there from the outside world, there with the dust bunnies. The hardwood floor offered little comfort, but a little boy does not notice those things. His anxiety would dissipate once in the embrace of this lonely hideout. For company he brought along a well-worn teddy bear, a toy that stood up to punishment without tears.
It was not his bedtime yet but he knew it was time for him to remain quiet and still. His Father's rules kept on changing and no matter how hard he tried, he would always seem to break a few each day.
Dad only wanted to make a man out of him. The boy tried really hard but could not come up with a way to please him, please Dad. He realized the price he would have to pay for his mistakes.
The little boy often dreamed of being some place else, away from his parents. He often wished he were someone else. The wish was a distant dream; he had come to know that. He kept these wishes with his fears, deep inside. He was never taught to let them out; it was a sign of weakness.
Don't ever cry, don't ever show fear, these were Dad's two most heard lessons. This had been carved into the boy's fragile eggshell mind.
He never questioned parental guidance, never dared question his Father's reasoning. The boy was a product of his environment, as his Father was the product of his own, and sometimes bad products keep repeating.
The boy waited under his bed. He had broken a rule. He kept still, quiet, waiting for his mishap to be discovered.
While bathing he had neglected to totally close the shower curtain. Some water managed to get on the black and white scuffed tiles. It was only a handful of drops, but enough to raise Dad's wrath.
He might have tried to dry it up with his towel, but if he had been caught, doing that the result would have been three errors. The mistakes; the towel would be soiled, the floor would be damp and he would have been trying to cover up a mistake. Trying to get away with anything was a Cardinal sin.
Maybe Dad wouldn't see the drops? Maybe he was too drunk? He felt a shallow wave of hope, though deep down he knew better. The little boy knew better than to hope. "Wishing will get you nowhere." That is what Father had taught him several times.
'Where is he!’ The boy heard his Father yell from the hallway, just outside his bedroom. 'Where is that stupid little fuck-up! Brett!’ Dad continued to yell with a familiar acrimony.
The boy could see his Father standing in the opening to his room, his body cast out a shadow across the braided rug. 'Brett!’ He shouted again. The rattle of the windowpane was his only response.
Brett did not move; he did not dare.
'Vera...is that ugly little bastard down stairs?’ He could hear Father's footsteps tread heavily to the top of the stairwell.
'No Ted, he isn't,' Mother replied without much care.
'You'd better not be giving me one of your lies bitch! Ya know what that little puke did up here!’ Ted menaced with his words, always. '...Little fuck,' He mumbled as he turned down the hall.
'I haven't seen him since he went to wash up,' Vera tried to impart truth, to avoid further wrath from Ted.
'Jesus H. Fucking Christ!’ Ted stormed up the hallway. His stomps could be felt the house over.
Brett could hear his Mom turn up the sound of the television; she was watching “Jeopardy”, her favourite show in that time slot.
Ted now stood stiff in his doorway, twitching with frustration. 'That's it. I'm gonna get the damn belt!’
The boy started to breathe heavier, calm his fears, hoping his hiding spot would suffice this time. Brett did not think what he had done merited the belt. He tried to comprehend the severity of his error. He could hear Ted bashing things around from the upstairs closet.
'Where the hell are you Brett!’ Ted yelled upon uncoiling the black leather belt from the upstairs closet. 'Ugly stupid...little fucking...,' He muttered as he stormed back and forth through the hall. Silence again visited the upstairs; Brett could hear Ted breathing, wildly.
Then Ted left. The boy could hear him banging around in the other rooms, opening closets. He was checking all of his other recently used hiding spots, he hadn't been under the bed for a spell, and it seemed too flagrant.
Sometimes this process was just a test for the young boy, Ted giving him ample time to give himself up and face the punishment. Then again, sometimes Ted would actually be too far loaded for bear to locate his child. It was a fifty-fifty situation.
'Damn you!’ He heard Ted explode. This was quickly shadowed by the crack of the demon belt. It sounded as if it slashed into a plastic switch plate, scattering the shards across the hardwood flooring.
The ensuing silence sped the pounding in Brett's tiny chest. Did Ted finally figure out where he was hiding? Was Dad in his room and he just couldn't hear him? Sneaking up on him? Brett did not dare flinch.
He saw the shadow of the man again, Ted was in his doorway. The boy could feel the heat from Ted's enraged eyes scanning the room. Brett could feel the blackness of his vengeance. The boy twisted a little, silently, and could see the tip of the belt, feel the invisible presence of evil, lapping the floor by his Dad's feet.
The belt was an inch and a half wide and an eighth of an inch thick. It never seemed to wear or tire from use. It even seemed to enjoy its position within their family. The black leather texture seemed to snarl at Brett, as if it had spotted him under the dark of the bed.
In all its infamy the belt had indeed elicited an existence all its own. If they had posed for a family portrait this black wraith would be proudly displayed in one of Ted's swaggering fists. The silvery studs seemed to call, wanting to meet the boys’ welts and still healing skin.
Brett held his breath, sensing that his Father would be listening for that faint sound. A fresh layer of sweat replenished the moisture that had stayed on the boy’s skin from washing. He hated that belt as most as much as he hated his Dad, they both made him hurt.
The young boy had an assortment of good hiding spots in and around the old white house and most of the time could escape from being accosted. His hide depended on this wherewithal. Brett would hide under the living room sofa, the bathroom vanity, beneath the kitchen sink, in his Mom's plastic clothes' keeper, to name a few. His optimum spot, though, was in the hall closet and this he would save for when Ted was in a real big rage.
The closet was unusual. Due to Ted's long time bouts of frustration and bursts of anger on the nearest objects: walls, doors and furniture. The closet's walls and guides were in terrible condition. It was precarious how the shelving managed to keep holding up the towels and bedding. With the door shut, Brett could see out into the hall through the cracks in the frame. Through the other cracks he could see into the bathroom as well as his Parent's bedroom. Brett would watch over his Parents for hours, but mostly it was just his Mother to see.
Luckily, the boy had never been caught or even suspected of spying on them. Who knew what the punishment would have been for that infraction, and Brett did not want to find out.
He had just enough room in the closet to ease out the shelving from the back wall and slide up behind them, putting his feet on the bottom shelf. Thank God he was wiry because it did make it hard to determine that he was hiding there. Brett was cognizant and ate little so he could keep using this spot.
When his Father failed in locating Brett, it was usually due to the spirits of a bottle. On certain hunts Ted would tip over in a heap somewhere. That was a good thing, for when he awoke he often forgot that he had been out to get the boy or Vera.
Sometimes Ted would cart around a bottle with him on his missions to find Brett. This practice would bring out increased frustration and truncated his ability at tracking his Son down. There were times when Vera would be hit under suspicion of hiding Brett from penance due.
High-volume and agitated swearing was a normal circumstance, even when there was apparently nothing wrong.
The beacon that shone impending safety was the activation of Ted's stuttering, which meant he would soon be passing out. Brett had been born into this knowledge, and knew this was also his Dad's most violent time. When his words began to skip and stumble it was time for them to run and hide fast.
Vera would even display this sport of hiding, scurrying to the basement and hiding in the darkness after unscrewing a few light bulbs on the way.
The stuttering went on for about twenty minutes, which halted only when he finally toppled over something. On one night, Ted passed out sitting on the toilet. When Dad was quiet, it was safe to come out.
At night, after Ted had passed out, the boy would head down stairs to the living room. He would silently sit on the couch next to his Mother. They would never talk, would not look at each other. They were only drawn together by that fear and hate that was always in the air. It was their only Mother-Son relationship.
There were times when Ted would awake from one of his stupors fuelled by the memory of what it was that had angered him and this would catch the boy and Vera off guard.
Brett was in a seemingly constant state of cuts and bruises as well as mental anguish. The silver studs that embellished Ted's beloved black leather belt had created out a well-worn pattern on the child's rear and lower back.
'Brett! Is that you I can hear fucking breathing!’ he saw his Dad's feet and belt tip enter into his bedroom. Ted flung the closet door open, clanging the spare hangers together. 'Fuck...,' He muttered.
Brett remained calm, slowed his breathing, and listened for his Father's next action. He tried to catch a glimpse of the tip of the leather belt or his Dad's white feet. The bear was damp from the clamminess of his hands.
Ted backed away from the closet and settled in the middle of his Son's room. 'Brett you ugly little bastard...yer gonna getta good taste of the belt when I find yer ass. Ya think yer so fuckin smart, don't ya?’ He spoke loud enough to be heard out of the room, but it was as if he knew Brett was in there with him.
Ted added an edge to his words by slashing the belt out and hitting something a top of Brett's bookcase. Shards of the object clattered about the floor.
It was the model Brett had just finished, a tall ship. A shard from the hull came to rest just under the hem of the bedding, right near the boy's face.
Brett realized what it was his Father had destroyed on him. The ship, and the time and care taken to build it, were mute points. It had been an avenue of escape for Brett and that was all it had represented. The boy didn't really like models and didn't like boats.
It had not surprised him too much that Ted had demolished one of his things. Most of his toys and possessions didn't last very long if his Dad thought he might like them. It was his way of teaching the child a lesson.
Brett had long abstained from asking for toys, and if he got any, he made sure not to look too pleased with what he got. This was the lesson he had learned by the age of five. He didn't like the position of having prized possessions taken hostage or wrecked on him. Brett knew how to separate material objects from the risk of personal pain that can be attached to them.
The boy diverted his stare from the broken plastic piece to the bottom of the box spring. He knew that was going to be his ship's ultimate destiny anyway. Destiny...he also knew of his own, maybe not on this night, but there would be many evenings that would come where he would get a strapping for something.
Brett began to think of something other than being quiet and hiding. Wouldn't it be nice if Dad just died. It would be nice, Mom never beats me. But Mommy loves Daddy, and that would make her sad. She'd blame me if he died...she would.
Remorse and frustration caused tears to well up in his eyes. He knew he was trapped. Not only was he trapped under the bed but also he was trapped in this life. Moreover, it was his entire fault for being such a bad boy. From his destiny, he had no escape.
'Brett!’.
J. Ryan Elgin
Maybe the head was somewhere in the field? Possibly, it was there, under the stiff grey clouds. Or he could have kept it, and put it on his mantle.
The sky was become hauntingly dour, even sinister in appearance. Those who slowly walked in the wild, wet and twisted grasses could attest to the sickness of the entire situation.
It was a culmination of several totally evil acts. Who could thrive and be enthralled, by searching for a young woman’s head? At least they had located the rest of her.
Please don’t let her be face up.
Please don’t let her eyes be open, staring and terrorized.
Please don’t let her have been chewed on by rats.
Please don’t let her head be buzzing with maggots and insects.
“What did you do today Daddy?”
‘Oh… I looked for this girl’s head.’
It was not a task that anyone wanted to complete or to be a success. Finding her head would only cause nightmares, and the abrupt urge to vomit after a memory flash. Surely one would flicker on the terror she had lived through, imagine the violence waged upon her body.
Anyone could see that she had been much more than simply decapitated. She had been tortured- then brutalized- then dehumanized- then probably had the programme repeated a few more times.
Why is there always a certain stillness at scenes of such horror? It is as if time and nature have decided to pay homage to the victim. Everything seems hazy, but there is also crispness in the air that makes everyone acute to his senses.
The looks of fear, of disbelief, and of anger were on all faces.
The rest of her corpse was located, bare and supine, in a creek, water gently lapping her sides. Her neck bone stuck out, crudely twisted from the tissue and muscle. She was covered with bite marks, bruises, burns, ligature marks, all committed on her once youthful frame. There was a white-blue tint to her skin, as if she had been drained of her blood, of her soul.
Investigators walked around in a daze, searching the field for anything that could help. They needed clues to get the unsub, this scum, something that could put him away where he could not do this to another innocent girl.
By the immediate evidence, the indication was that their killer was sick. Either he did not fully understand how to remove a head from a body, or got-off on the way he had completed the job, which was in an inhumane and laboured manner. It was as if he had yanked her head off. It was a sickening gesture from the demented mayhem of its artist.
CREATION
FAMILY
Brett's Grandparents were nothing like his Father. He was just three when they passed away. They had left a sizeable estate, and Brett had a trust waiting for him when he would be 25.
Foreseeing the future growth of Chesterton they had bought much of the land onto which the suburb would spread. They had also bought a nickel and dime golf course that was a ten-minute drive from the Government buildings, on the Cartier side. They had a posh country club built and that was enough to gather the rich political elite.
In this crunch of quality-time came the birth of Theodore Thomas Normand. He would be raised to barely to know his hard-driven parents. The result was that Ted grew up angry, and unaware of what family relationships were supposed to be. This all swung down on Brett.
Subconsciously, he was probably taking out his lack of a childhood on his own son. Now he was too blind from the bottle to see what he was doing to Brett and Vera.
Ted Normand was not a tall man. His renowned short-fused temper brought his image up to over six feet. He was also rarely seen with anything but a four-day beard.
Women seemed attracted to this style, the scabrous personality. Ted always was on the edge of throwing a punch at somebody around him at all times. Ladies, with the 'I can Mother him' attitudes, used to slide in beside him on the bar stools. Women will always be sadly mistaken to learn they could not change this type of man. The inner cavity of an acrimonious man can never be tamed by beauty or love.
Ted had lost his driver's licence long before Brett was born. It did not bother him that he could not drive; it had always interfered with his socializing and drinking. Now he didn't have to watch himself, Vera would always come and get him.
Early in the holy dread-lock, Vera had worked as a receptionist at a local senior's home. Ted had forced her to leave that job to become his private taxi service. Her place was in the home anyway, as Ted often told her.
Vera was from a quiet French Roman Catholic family. Her last name was common in the area, Chouinard. They had met at a bar, and she fell for him the way most women did. She thought she could harness this man's violent raging. Her notion was wrong, but she found out too late.
When she had realized what a major mistake she had made it was too late. Vera already had Ted's ring on her finger. She could have left him, but she feared for her life to do that, it was already violent enough. Vera was also from a religious family, and that really meant until death do you part.
Then came the birth of Brett Normand, and the cement shoes of commitment were dried solidly to her feet. She had to stay, there was nothing else to consider.
Nevertheless, Vera could dream, wish. She did a great amount of that. She would fantasize about other men, never Ted. Vera had to live with her flawed emotional error.
Vera Normand now bided her days at being a Mother to Brett, a wife to Ted, a cab, and a virtual lump in front of the Zenith. Everything she had become was tainted by the repugnant scent of Ted Normand, the misbegotten son. She resented Brett for her plight, maybe it would have been easier to have left long ago if not for that boy.
She never tried to let Brett feel her ugly emotions, or take things out on him, the boy was half her too. It was hard for her to feel anything but antipathy toward the things that enveloped her existence.
Vera had long lost interest in sex with her spouse, even learned to loathe the entire ordeal, which is what Ted had burgeoned. She knew he was often unfaithful but never let on. Who knows what he would do to her then? Vera could smell other women's odours all over him when he stumbled in late. She did not really care anyway, maybe he knew that.
She would putout whenever he wanted her, but she was not there. Only her abused shell was there for him, a body he could command, take pleasures from, and pummel. Her only sexual satisfaction came while she was alone; it was her only alternative.
Like little Brett, Vera had to live under strict rules brought on by Ted. Sex anytime he wanted it, meals had to be readied on time, even though he might be parked at a bar stool, hours late. The house had to be spotless, his clothes washed to specifications. Even Vera saw the unfriendly side of that black belt he liked to twirl and she had the welts and scars to prove it.
THE NORMAND HOME
SPRING OF 1971
He would never forget the way that place smelled, felt. The scent was one that would mean safety, security.
It was damp and dusty under his bed. The five year old had often sought refuge there from the outside world, there with the dust bunnies. The hardwood floor offered little comfort, but a little boy does not notice those things. His anxiety would dissipate once in the embrace of this lonely hideout. For company he brought along a well-worn teddy bear, a toy that stood up to punishment without tears.
It was not his bedtime yet but he knew it was time for him to remain quiet and still. His Father's rules kept on changing and no matter how hard he tried, he would always seem to break a few each day.
Dad only wanted to make a man out of him. The boy tried really hard but could not come up with a way to please him, please Dad. He realized the price he would have to pay for his mistakes.
The little boy often dreamed of being some place else, away from his parents. He often wished he were someone else. The wish was a distant dream; he had come to know that. He kept these wishes with his fears, deep inside. He was never taught to let them out; it was a sign of weakness.
Don't ever cry, don't ever show fear, these were Dad's two most heard lessons. This had been carved into the boy's fragile eggshell mind.
He never questioned parental guidance, never dared question his Father's reasoning. The boy was a product of his environment, as his Father was the product of his own, and sometimes bad products keep repeating.
The boy waited under his bed. He had broken a rule. He kept still, quiet, waiting for his mishap to be discovered.
While bathing he had neglected to totally close the shower curtain. Some water managed to get on the black and white scuffed tiles. It was only a handful of drops, but enough to raise Dad's wrath.
He might have tried to dry it up with his towel, but if he had been caught, doing that the result would have been three errors. The mistakes; the towel would be soiled, the floor would be damp and he would have been trying to cover up a mistake. Trying to get away with anything was a Cardinal sin.
Maybe Dad wouldn't see the drops? Maybe he was too drunk? He felt a shallow wave of hope, though deep down he knew better. The little boy knew better than to hope. "Wishing will get you nowhere." That is what Father had taught him several times.
'Where is he!’ The boy heard his Father yell from the hallway, just outside his bedroom. 'Where is that stupid little fuck-up! Brett!’ Dad continued to yell with a familiar acrimony.
The boy could see his Father standing in the opening to his room, his body cast out a shadow across the braided rug. 'Brett!’ He shouted again. The rattle of the windowpane was his only response.
Brett did not move; he did not dare.
'Vera...is that ugly little bastard down stairs?’ He could hear Father's footsteps tread heavily to the top of the stairwell.
'No Ted, he isn't,' Mother replied without much care.
'You'd better not be giving me one of your lies bitch! Ya know what that little puke did up here!’ Ted menaced with his words, always. '...Little fuck,' He mumbled as he turned down the hall.
'I haven't seen him since he went to wash up,' Vera tried to impart truth, to avoid further wrath from Ted.
'Jesus H. Fucking Christ!’ Ted stormed up the hallway. His stomps could be felt the house over.
Brett could hear his Mom turn up the sound of the television; she was watching “Jeopardy”, her favourite show in that time slot.
Ted now stood stiff in his doorway, twitching with frustration. 'That's it. I'm gonna get the damn belt!’
The boy started to breathe heavier, calm his fears, hoping his hiding spot would suffice this time. Brett did not think what he had done merited the belt. He tried to comprehend the severity of his error. He could hear Ted bashing things around from the upstairs closet.
'Where the hell are you Brett!’ Ted yelled upon uncoiling the black leather belt from the upstairs closet. 'Ugly stupid...little fucking...,' He muttered as he stormed back and forth through the hall. Silence again visited the upstairs; Brett could hear Ted breathing, wildly.
Then Ted left. The boy could hear him banging around in the other rooms, opening closets. He was checking all of his other recently used hiding spots, he hadn't been under the bed for a spell, and it seemed too flagrant.
Sometimes this process was just a test for the young boy, Ted giving him ample time to give himself up and face the punishment. Then again, sometimes Ted would actually be too far loaded for bear to locate his child. It was a fifty-fifty situation.
'Damn you!’ He heard Ted explode. This was quickly shadowed by the crack of the demon belt. It sounded as if it slashed into a plastic switch plate, scattering the shards across the hardwood flooring.
The ensuing silence sped the pounding in Brett's tiny chest. Did Ted finally figure out where he was hiding? Was Dad in his room and he just couldn't hear him? Sneaking up on him? Brett did not dare flinch.
He saw the shadow of the man again, Ted was in his doorway. The boy could feel the heat from Ted's enraged eyes scanning the room. Brett could feel the blackness of his vengeance. The boy twisted a little, silently, and could see the tip of the belt, feel the invisible presence of evil, lapping the floor by his Dad's feet.
The belt was an inch and a half wide and an eighth of an inch thick. It never seemed to wear or tire from use. It even seemed to enjoy its position within their family. The black leather texture seemed to snarl at Brett, as if it had spotted him under the dark of the bed.
In all its infamy the belt had indeed elicited an existence all its own. If they had posed for a family portrait this black wraith would be proudly displayed in one of Ted's swaggering fists. The silvery studs seemed to call, wanting to meet the boys’ welts and still healing skin.
Brett held his breath, sensing that his Father would be listening for that faint sound. A fresh layer of sweat replenished the moisture that had stayed on the boy’s skin from washing. He hated that belt as most as much as he hated his Dad, they both made him hurt.
The young boy had an assortment of good hiding spots in and around the old white house and most of the time could escape from being accosted. His hide depended on this wherewithal. Brett would hide under the living room sofa, the bathroom vanity, beneath the kitchen sink, in his Mom's plastic clothes' keeper, to name a few. His optimum spot, though, was in the hall closet and this he would save for when Ted was in a real big rage.
The closet was unusual. Due to Ted's long time bouts of frustration and bursts of anger on the nearest objects: walls, doors and furniture. The closet's walls and guides were in terrible condition. It was precarious how the shelving managed to keep holding up the towels and bedding. With the door shut, Brett could see out into the hall through the cracks in the frame. Through the other cracks he could see into the bathroom as well as his Parent's bedroom. Brett would watch over his Parents for hours, but mostly it was just his Mother to see.
Luckily, the boy had never been caught or even suspected of spying on them. Who knew what the punishment would have been for that infraction, and Brett did not want to find out.
He had just enough room in the closet to ease out the shelving from the back wall and slide up behind them, putting his feet on the bottom shelf. Thank God he was wiry because it did make it hard to determine that he was hiding there. Brett was cognizant and ate little so he could keep using this spot.
When his Father failed in locating Brett, it was usually due to the spirits of a bottle. On certain hunts Ted would tip over in a heap somewhere. That was a good thing, for when he awoke he often forgot that he had been out to get the boy or Vera.
Sometimes Ted would cart around a bottle with him on his missions to find Brett. This practice would bring out increased frustration and truncated his ability at tracking his Son down. There were times when Vera would be hit under suspicion of hiding Brett from penance due.
High-volume and agitated swearing was a normal circumstance, even when there was apparently nothing wrong.
The beacon that shone impending safety was the activation of Ted's stuttering, which meant he would soon be passing out. Brett had been born into this knowledge, and knew this was also his Dad's most violent time. When his words began to skip and stumble it was time for them to run and hide fast.
Vera would even display this sport of hiding, scurrying to the basement and hiding in the darkness after unscrewing a few light bulbs on the way.
The stuttering went on for about twenty minutes, which halted only when he finally toppled over something. On one night, Ted passed out sitting on the toilet. When Dad was quiet, it was safe to come out.
At night, after Ted had passed out, the boy would head down stairs to the living room. He would silently sit on the couch next to his Mother. They would never talk, would not look at each other. They were only drawn together by that fear and hate that was always in the air. It was their only Mother-Son relationship.
There were times when Ted would awake from one of his stupors fuelled by the memory of what it was that had angered him and this would catch the boy and Vera off guard.
Brett was in a seemingly constant state of cuts and bruises as well as mental anguish. The silver studs that embellished Ted's beloved black leather belt had created out a well-worn pattern on the child's rear and lower back.
'Brett! Is that you I can hear fucking breathing!’ he saw his Dad's feet and belt tip enter into his bedroom. Ted flung the closet door open, clanging the spare hangers together. 'Fuck...,' He muttered.
Brett remained calm, slowed his breathing, and listened for his Father's next action. He tried to catch a glimpse of the tip of the leather belt or his Dad's white feet. The bear was damp from the clamminess of his hands.
Ted backed away from the closet and settled in the middle of his Son's room. 'Brett you ugly little bastard...yer gonna getta good taste of the belt when I find yer ass. Ya think yer so fuckin smart, don't ya?’ He spoke loud enough to be heard out of the room, but it was as if he knew Brett was in there with him.
Ted added an edge to his words by slashing the belt out and hitting something a top of Brett's bookcase. Shards of the object clattered about the floor.
It was the model Brett had just finished, a tall ship. A shard from the hull came to rest just under the hem of the bedding, right near the boy's face.
Brett realized what it was his Father had destroyed on him. The ship, and the time and care taken to build it, were mute points. It had been an avenue of escape for Brett and that was all it had represented. The boy didn't really like models and didn't like boats.
It had not surprised him too much that Ted had demolished one of his things. Most of his toys and possessions didn't last very long if his Dad thought he might like them. It was his way of teaching the child a lesson.
Brett had long abstained from asking for toys, and if he got any, he made sure not to look too pleased with what he got. This was the lesson he had learned by the age of five. He didn't like the position of having prized possessions taken hostage or wrecked on him. Brett knew how to separate material objects from the risk of personal pain that can be attached to them.
The boy diverted his stare from the broken plastic piece to the bottom of the box spring. He knew that was going to be his ship's ultimate destiny anyway. Destiny...he also knew of his own, maybe not on this night, but there would be many evenings that would come where he would get a strapping for something.
Brett began to think of something other than being quiet and hiding. Wouldn't it be nice if Dad just died. It would be nice, Mom never beats me. But Mommy loves Daddy, and that would make her sad. She'd blame me if he died...she would.
Remorse and frustration caused tears to well up in his eyes. He knew he was trapped. Not only was he trapped under the bed but also he was trapped in this life. Moreover, it was his entire fault for being such a bad boy. From his destiny, he had no escape.
'Brett!’.
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