A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  “I’ll get clean, honey. I am so, so sorry for what I’ve put you through. I’ll make it up to you.”

  And I mean it, with all my heart.

  Early next morning, Fiona limps down the hallway from the bathroom and plops into an armchair in the corner, her bell-bottoms swaying with the motion.

  Fiona furrows her brow. “Something’s up with that bathroom. It smells like smoke and old farts and pennies. And the mirror, it must have a crack behind the glass or something. Like, I keep seeing a brief doubling of my reflection in it.”

  “It’s an old cabin, prob’ly has a lot wrong with it. Anyway, I’m going to go into town now to get groceries and carpet cleaner to try to clean up that nasty-ass stain.”

  I scratch my arms and moan at the relief it barely brings. The burning, maddening itch keeps getting stronger, as does the headache.

  Goddamn I need to find some heroin.

  “No booze. No self-medication. Okay, Mom? You know what? I’m just going to go with you,” Fiona says, easing herself off the couch, hissing and wincing.

  “Honey, no. I’ll be fine. I’ll be good. Besides, we don’t need to draw attention to ourselves. You’re all bruised up, limping, and with one helluva shiner. Ya think no one’s gonna notice? Let me run around for now, at least until you’re better.”

  I can’t let her see me shaking, or this house of cards will fall.

  Fiona stares at me for a long while before speaking. I’m suspicious about that look in her eyes; it doesn’t look like the unconditional love a child should have for their parent.

  “I guess we need to start trusting each other. You know we can’t afford for you to get wasted right now. Make sure you get a lot of aspirin, please.”

  I beam a forced smile in her direction. “Ya ain’t gotta tell me that.”

  “One hour. If you’re not back by then, I’m going to go looking for you. On hobbled foot.” Fiona’s eyes plead with me. “Maybe after you get back we can go to the theater to see Escape to Witch Mountain?”

  “An hour or less. I promise. And it’s a date.”

  I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath of fresh air.

  I don’t need the dope. I don’t need the booze. I just need Fiona.

  I veer off the dirt road and swing wide into the driveway more than two hours later, no longer burdened by the shackles of sobriety. The car cruises in at an odd angle and hits the parked Harley Davidson with a delicate impact, just hard enough to tip it over onto the brown lawn.

  Breathing seems impossible, and my belly aches as if jabbed by Muhammad Ali. The bitter taste of stomach acid replaces the heavenly juniper flavor of the gin I had been guzzling a few minutes earlier.

  Earl’s Harley.

  Fuck! How could he have found us … ? Fiona!

  My ancient Datsun’s rusted door flings open with a loud screech, and I try to rush to the house. I don’t even make it out of the car when a tight pain in my chest blooms, my breath gets pushed out of me, and I am pulled backward into the seat.

  Stupid fucking seatbelt!

  I fumble with the belt and somehow escape its clutches. In my rush to reach the front door, I miss seeing the pepper tree root protruding from the earth. My foot catches it, and I hit the ground, hard, releasing an oomph as my lungs compress and empty. The car door sways open, and I can see groceries spilling onto the floorboards. I stand and try to hurry to the front door, but everything is now rubbery and painful, and my ankle screams in agony with every step. I’m vaguely aware of dirt and leaves sticking to my face, and I’m bleeding from somewhere but I don’t care. I need to reach Fiona, to stop him from hurting her again.

  I throw open the front door.

  He’s got her pinned to the couch. Blood trickles from her mouth, and her right temple is swollen. Her blouse is open and ripped, her bra missing and breasts exposed. Apparently he hasn’t heard me enter—his backside still faces me. One hand holds his precious hunter’s knife to her belly while the other is undoing his belt. Earl always keeps that knife as sharp as a razor.

  Fiona’s eyes widen when she sees me. She shakes her head ever so slightly as if to stop me, but it’s too late, I can’t stop myself. Nobody hurts my baby. Nobody.

  With an inhuman cry of blind fury, I charge at him.

  Earl stands straight and pulls Fiona in front of him. The flat steel of the blade presses hard against her stomach. His other hand pulls her necklace tight enough for her to start turning red and gagging. The end of his now-undone belt flaps against the bulge of his erection under his jeans.

  I stop and extend my hands, palms displayed.

  “Ah-ah-ah. Not another step or I gut your bitch of a daughter.” Earl is breathing heavy, his voice deep and gruff. Spit flies from his sneering mouth with every word. His nostrils are powdery and white, sweat drips down his mutton-chop sideburns—he’s clearly flying high. “Nice cabin you got here, Wendy. Betch’ya thought I didn’t know about it. You’re not exactly careful about your secrets when you’re living it up with your lovers, Black Tar or Beefeater, are you? No, you have no fuckin’ clue what goes on in your own house when you’re drunk ‘n’ stoned.”

  Rage like I’ve never felt builds. My face flushes with its heat as sobriety comes rushing back. “You let her go right now you motherfucker, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, Wendy? Take another drink? Look at you. You’re fuckin’ wasted right now, as always. I bet you didn’t even know what was happening all this time, did you? Right under your nose, ever since she hit puberty. You paid more attention to bottles and needles than me or her. But hey, that’s okay. You tend to your needs, and I’ll tend to mine.”

  He pulls Fiona’s necklace tighter and leans forward, taking her earlobe into his mouth. Fiona grits her teeth, eyes closed, and turns away from him.

  My resolve breaks. “Please, just set her free!” I beg, hoping beyond reason he actually will.

  “Free? Darlin’, don’t ya know by now? Only the dead go free.”

  Fiona squeezes her eyes shut and starts croak-whispering one of her prayers. “Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, I accept from Your hands whatever kind of death it may please You to send me this day with all its pains, penalties, and sorrows, in reparation for all of my sins, for the souls in Purgatory, for all those who will die—”

  Earl’s message registers as Fiona sputters that last word, and it echoes in my head like a church bell summoning the choir.

  DIE! DIE! DIE!

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I charge at him, screeching those same words.

  Everything takes a familiar slow-motion aura. Earl’s eyes widen. Fiona’s mouth opens in a hoarse shriek as she elbows him in the gut. The blade of his knife slides fully into her belly button and then slashes upward, splitting her open until it crunches well into her sternum. Blood and multi-colored organs spill out of her like a gutted deer. The stench of shit and bile as her torn intestines empty onto the carpet should be nauseating, but I hardly notice. All three of our screams are almost mute to my ears.

  I tackle Earl and my knee squashes his testicles against the floor; one of them bursts under the pressure. He roars in agony. His fist slams square on my jaw, throwing off my balance. My thumbnail jabs into his eyeball with an audible POP. Pinkish-clear jelly oozes out as my thumb slides in. He screams and reaches for Fiona’s twitching, wrecked body and tries to remove the knife embedded in the center of her ribcage. I grasp at his hand to stop him, but the knife wriggles free and he slashes at my face.

  That’s okay, he missed.

  Only he didn’t. Wet warmth pours from my cheek, and every breath burns as it passes through the new gash. He slices at me again, and I instinctively try to block it with my hand. It takes a moment to realize the crayon-like objects flying through the air and rolling into the corner are three of my fingers.

  I grab his knife-wielding arm with my good hand, pull it backward, and place my leg underneath the elbow. I rise as high as I can and drop all my weight on his arm. With a
snap, like fresh celery stalks breaking in half, his elbow bends the wrong way, and his hand goes limp. The knife rolls to the floor, and I lunge for it.

  Earl sits up, headbutts me, then bites my hanging flap of cheek and tears it from my face with an agonizing wet rip. I wail while my good hand grasps the knife and plunges it deep into his precious leather Motorcycle Club vest, over and over and over again. The blade penetrates with a CRUNCH … withdraws with a SLURP. Droplets of blood soar higher into the air with every strike.

  At some point, I realize I’m still screaming and that his chest is nothing but a sticky, spongy ruin. The wheezing that had been bubbling from new holes in his chest has stopped. Blood covers every surface of Earl and me, most of Fiona, the carpet, and the couch. Only Fiona’s pale face is prominent in this scarlet sea.

  I roll off Earl to check Fiona and find no pulse or breathing. Her face is so beautiful, even still. I sit and hold her hand for what seems like a long time. My heart rips apart with the knowledge I will never see her face smile again. Memories of the lifetime it took for us to get here—for the moment of freedom we got to enjoy— play on a loop in my brain. All the hope I had when we arrived here of fixing myself and repairing our relationship dies with her.

  Her skin begins to cool and becomes an ashen gray color. The only thing left in this world I haven’t fucked up beyond repair, the only thing I still care for, is now gone.

  Lightheadedness drains my brain of thought as my wounds drain my body of blood. Without knowing or caring why, I stand and trudge to the garage. I drag the red plastic gas can from beneath the shelving that lines the walls with my five-fingered hand.

  Seems full enough, should do the trick.

  I return to the living room and splash gasoline across their bodies until the can is empty. I reach for my Zippo, but that hand only has one finger and a thumb, so I reach across with my other hand and awkwardly remove it from my pocket. I flick the fire to life and toss it onto Earl. Blue flames crawl across his body, tasting him before devouring him completely.

  Thoughts aren’t coming so easy now.

  So filthy. I need to get clean.

  I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I face the sink, and sudden clarity hits me. Multiple reflections of myself are transposed onto each other in the mirror. In some of these broken silhouettes, my face is destroyed; in others, it’s untouched; in yet others, it’s somewhere in between. One is nothing but a maggoty death’s head.

  For a brief moment, I can remember all this happening many times before. Panic steals my breath. How many times has he killed her? How many times have I killed him, before I took …

  And as quickly as they came, the answers disappear. Once again, my mind goes blank.

  The shower’s hiss behind me still competes with the roaring inferno raging down the hallway. Breathless and without thought, I gaze with lifeless eyes into the bathroom mirror—again. This gore-drenched nightmare of a witch is still not recognizable. What have I done? What was the lesson here? I never wanted this.

  Questions bubble up like water-borne carcasses of my past until I hear his final words thunder in my head. “Only the dead go free,” he had said, right before he—

  A shiny blue Oldsmobile pulls off the road and parks askew in the driveway. A striking woman with black hair and copper skin exits the driver’s seat and raises her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun. A couple and their young son follow suit. The boy hums Judas Priest’s “The Ripper” as he plays with a toy motorcycle.

  “I think you’ll love this floorplan and location. Not too far from town, but secluded enough to guarantee your privacy. The bank is quite motivated to sell—you won’t find a better deal, I promise you!” Rebecca flashes a bright smile. “Watch the grass please, sweetie. We just had that put in.”

  Quinn glares at her. Adults are no fun at all. He throws his motorcycle on the lawn, where it lands on its side, and he sticks out his tongue at her.

  Still smiling, Rebecca walks across the fresh-painted porch to unlock the lockbox on the door, but her keys tumble from her hand. She bends to pick them up and is overwhelmed by a strong odor of rotting meat.

  Great, how am I supposed to sell the house with that stink?

  There is a humming behind the door, like a swarm of bees. Foreboding replaces her disgust. Hairs on the back of her neck prickle and her shoulders tense. The coyote yipping and howling in the distance is not helping her mood. This place always gives her the willies.

  She shakes it off and reapplies her fake smile. This time her key penetrates the box without a hitch and the humming stops.

  “Ms. Church,” the mother says, “I was told this place is haun—”

  “Dawn, let’s not even say that word. You don’t really believe in all that tomfoolery, do you?” Michael clucks his tongue at her.

  “Well, there is a truth in that.” Rebecca leads them into the house, still smiling, and flicks on the lights. “By California law, I do need to disclose to you that there was a death on the property last year. That’s why the bank has reduced the price by thirty percent. There was also some heavy fire damage to the structure, but that just means most of it has been rebuilt. I can assure you there are no gho—”

  Michael shakes his head while waving his hands in front of him. “Please, I don’t even want to hear that word.”

  “Did you see that? I think someone’s here. I saw something dart behind that sofa.” Dawn points at the brown floral-printed couch in the center of the room. Her eyes bulge from her skull, her mouth draws into a horrified O shape.

  “Jesus, Dawn!” Michael says and strides into the room and peeks behind the sofa. “Nothing back here except some big, old stain on the carpet. You really need to stop reading those stupid horror stories.”

  Rebecca frowns. How could there be stains on the new carpet? The agency will not be happy about this.

  Dawn scowls. “Well, I saw something. I’m not the fool you think I am. Ms. Church, how did you say the previous resident passed?”

  “Uh, well, you see, there …” Rebecca stammered.

  “Wasn’t just one death. There were three. No, there were more—going back a loooong time,” Quinn says in a voice much deeper and gruffer than should come from a small child.

  All heads turn to him. His eyes roll backward to whites, and his eyelids begin fluttering.

  He points to the stain. “It always starts right there, but ends up in— ”

  The shower hisses to life down the hallway, startling all three adults. Dawn puts a shaking hand to her mouth.

  “—there.” Quinn points down the hallway to the steam bilowing out of the bathroom, and his lips retract into an uncharacteristic sneer. He bends to grab a large, mottled hunting knife from the carpet stain, then smiles sweetly. “And it usually ends with this.”

  The front door slams shut. Everyone jumps and gasps. Smoke wafts into the room from nowhere.

  Michael runs to the door and struggles to open it, but it won’t budge.

  The lights go out.

  Dawn screams.

  “Open the door!” Rebecca yells. “Open the door and set us free!”

  “Free?” the gravelly voice behind her asks. “Darlin’, don’t ya know by now? Only the dead go free.”

  Oscar walked the crowded streets of New York, the city he’d called home for the past two years. His legs dragged and his bloodshot eyes burned. His joints creaked like the hinges of an old door. He’d had too much to drink the night before, and his forty-year-old body couldn’t handle it like it could when he was younger. His arms hurt from waving a rainbow flag from his friend Jeff’s balcony in the East Village. But it had been well worth it. Gay marriage was legal now, and several of his friends would marry soon.

  Not that being married was a good thing. No, no. He had been married to a woman before. They were doomed to fail though. Turned out she knew he was gay even before he did. Would it be different if he married a man? Sure, it was legal now, but strangely he still had
that feeling he was being judged. But marriage was something he needed to push out of his mind—at least for now.

  He hobbled down the grimy concrete stairs to the subway station, stopping to spare a couple of dollars for the old trumpeter who played bluesy licks every day in the same spot. He was missing both legs and sat on a worn-out bluish rug in front of a coffee can. Everything about him was gray. His eyes, his hair, his skin. He’d blend with the wall if it weren’t for the vibrations of his trumpet, which seemed attached to his mouth. Oscar’s money clanked at the bottom of the can. He saluted the man with a brief smile and went on.

  The station stank like sweat and booze—atypical for a Monday morning. It seemed as if everyone had partied the night before.

  I belong here. New York. Hell, I’m not going back. New York, rats and all …, he thought, spotting a naked tail behind a trash can. His stomach swirled. “Not going back,” he said aloud through clenched teeth.

  Oscar pushed through a group of students and locked his arm around the metal pole inside the train car. The train closed its doors and started a slow, rhythmic motion toward his destination at 59th and Columbus Circle.

  “Damn work permit,” he growled, and his gut dropped as it did every time he remembered his was about to expire. The nightmare couldn’t be real—him being sent back to London. He fisted his hand on top of his mouth as tension crushed his stomach. “Gawh!” he let out, resting his weary head against the pole.

  A plump old woman—the only one in the train whose eyes weren’t glued to a smartphone—eyed him and clutched her purse a little tighter.

  The train stopped and Oscar quickly exited the sliding doors. Uptown roared like a rusted machine made of rushing people, honking cabs, and gawking tourists. A few feet away from the station on Columbus Circle stood a massive glass and steel building. Oscar had visited it before to sign a one-year work contract with Judy Swift. Basher, Dancer & Co. Publishing was engraved on a shiny metal plaque.