Evelyn's Children

by Jim Johanson

  “And this is the funny part, Sheriff. He don’t even—”

  Two separate phones rang in succession, interrupting Tim's story.

  "He don’t—”

  Sheriff Ford motioned with his hand for Tim to stop talking. Tim tried to hide the fact that he was upset that the climax of his story was ruined. He reached for the phone on his desk, but it the line was dead by the time he got the phone to his ear. Ford had already picked up the call on the opposite phone.

  "Racine Sheriff's office."

  "Hi, um, Sheriff, I'm at a gas station down off of route sixty-seven."

  Ford noticed immediately that the woman's accent indicated that she was not from the area. East coast. Maybe Massachusetts.

  "Listen," she continued, "I just drove past a house about fives miles back, with all sorts of... of blood, and... blood and guts just tossed all over the place. It was in the road, and, and all over the front door, just, horrible patches of..."

  Kathryn Delafont struggled to speak, the contents of her stomach turning over, pressing upward into her throat as she recalled the scene outside the Greer house.

  “Sounds like somebody might have struck a deer, miss. Not uncommon this time of year, round these parts.”

  “This wasn’t a deer!”

  Sheriff Ford sat up in his chair and scooted forward toward his desk.

  "Ma'am? I don’t mean to argue with you, just trying to find some sense of the situation, that’s all. Are ya with me still?"

  Kathryn tightened her grip on the payphone, attempting to regain her composure. She turned her head back and forth, checking to see if anyone else was around. Empty.

  "Yes, yes I'm still here. Listen, I'm at the intersection of… route sixty-seven and… Maple. At a gas station. Out of service, the sign’s gone but the phone still works. Well, clearly it still works. But I think you should go up seventy-six, route seventy-six, and get a look at what's happened. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it's the... it's the most unnatural thing I've seen."

  Ford made note that she’d messed up the name of route seventy-six twice, transposing the digits.

  "Well I'd be happy to do that, miss. Can you stay on the line with me for just a moment? I need to get some more information from you before we can look into this," said Ford.

  Jessica had crawled into the front seat of the mini-van. The window controls were disabled in the back, but Jessica had managed to roll the window down on the passenger side door in the front.

  "Mommy!"

  “Jessica stay in the car!” yelled Kathryn.

  "Miss? Can I ask for your name?" said Ford, on the other line of the phone.

  "No, no I'm sorry, but no. I have my daughter with me. We're on our way to... we're on vacation. I have to go."

  Kathryn hung up the payphone.

  Ford set the phone back down on the receiver. He stood up from his chair with a grunt and stretched his arms. His sixty-year-old elbows cracked as he extended them.

  "Well Tim, get your jacket.”

  "Who was that?"

  “She didn’t say.”

  “What’d she want?”

  "Might be a prank call... might be a dead deer… something tells me that it's not."

  “Why you say that?”

  “Don’t you ever stop asking questions?”

  Ford took his jacket off the chair and shoved his arms though the sleeves. Thinking briefly of his wife for a second, he took the last of the sandwich and shoved it into his mouth before heading to the door, keys jangling in his weathered hand.

  Tim followed him to the door, where Ford turned around, blocking the doorway.

  “Forget somethin’?”

  Tim turned back in a tizzy, embarrassed, to grab his revolver from his desk.

  Chapter 15

  Mary awoke with red lines etched into the soft skin of her face, the result of having slept on a decorative throw pillow all night. Confused, she didn’t remember falling asleep, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. The lights were out, save for some white string lights woven through garland above the fireplace. Mary’s heart was pounding, though there seemed to reason for immediate alarm.

  The room still held the comforting smell of buttered popcorn. Mary spotted the metal popcorn bowl in front of her on the coffee table, reflecting the glow of the string lights. The reflection of the fireplace stretched on the curvature of the bowl, its recess looking like the gaping mouth of an Amazonian temple’s forbidden entrance.

  Through the floor to ceiling windows on either side of the fireplace, Mary saw the sun hovering just above the horizon in the distance. She couldn’t tell if it was rising or setting. Her equilibrium seemed off-kilter. Her body felt to her like it was healing from some traumatic injury, like a patient recovering from surgery.

  Mary realized she was shivering. Her eyes still blurry, she reached around half-blindly for a blanket, eventually finding one draped over the back of the couch. She closed her eyes as she pulled it down over her. It was heavy, probably custom-made and hand-woven. The weight of the blanket was comforting, and it smelled like Jackie’s house, in the way that every home has a smell that only guests can detect.

  Mary flipped the pillow over to the colder side and laid her head down upon it. She felt safe underneath the blanket, wrapped up on Jackie’s couch with the soft beams of sunlight streaming through the windows, though she could not shake the unwelcome feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  Anxiety. Dread. Inexplicable.

  ***

  "Whoa, wait, hold on, sir. What's all this here?" said Tim Williams.

  The police cruiser rolled to a stop just short of the Greer's gravel driveway.

  "You think this is what she called in about?" said Tim.

  Ford sniffled his nose. His autumn allergies were making his nose run, and he didn't want snot dripping down into his moustache. His eyesight had worsened in the last few years, but not significantly enough to make the obscenity of red in the street any less apparent.

  Ford took a deep breath.

  "What do you think, sir? Is this it?"

  "Jesus, son. What’d I say about askin’ so many questions?"

  Tim blinked and tried his best to analyze the look on his superior's face.

  "No disrespect sir," said Tim, "but you know I don't think that it's... you know, a good idea to be taking the Lord's name in vain, um, sir."

  "No, I don't suppose it is, Tim Williams.”

  "Sir, um, do you think that... is this possible... is it possible that this is what the woman who called us on the phone, that this is what she called in about?"

  Without removing his eyes from the scene in the road, Ford stretched his neck to the left, then to the right. He placed the car into park and turned off the ignition.

  “Or maybe, uh… somebody’s Halloween decorations… setting’ up early?”

  "Tim, I need you to go around back and get Old Margaret out of the trunk."

  "Margaret? Oh, yes sir, I'll--- I'll go--"

  Tim opened his door and ran around back to lift open the trunk. The cold morning air stung his face as he retrieved the shotgun, affectionately named Old Margaret. He loaded it with shells, then stuck four extra shells into the left breast pocket of his jacket. By the time he’d closed the trunk, Ford had his car door open, stepping out onto the street.

  Ford ambled over to the bright red splatter of entrails in the road, swatting flies away from his face. Tim followed cautiously behind as Ford stayed fixated on the horrible mess. Ford's head tilted upward to follow the trail of blood leading up to the house. He cleared his throat and sniffled.

  Tim stood fearfully behind, his hands wrapped around the shotgun. Ford walked back to where Tim stood and looked into his eyes. He put his hand on Tim's upper arm.

  "Steady. Calm and confident, you understand me son?" said Ford.

  Tim nodded nervously.

  "Don't even put your finger on the trigger of that cannon unless you see me shootin’ first," said
Ford.

  Ford removed his pistol from the holster at his side and clicked the safety to the off position. He began walking toward the house slowly, his stride three paces to the right of the trail of blood, making sure not to step in any of it.

  The two officers paused and looked in disbelief as they reached the front steps of the Greer house, witnesses to the horrific display of mutilated human remains woven throughout the wreathe on the front door.

  Tim felt a gulp travel down his throat. The pocket of air he swallowed intensified the feeling of discomfort in his stomach. Ford focused his attention to the empty space between the doorframe and the ajar door. The house was dark and silent.

  "Tim," whispered Ford, "We’re checking the house for wounded, then we’re going to the car to radio the county, got it?"

  Tim nodded. He wiped his sweaty hand on his uniform, then reclenched the barrel.

  Ford took a step up onto the highest portion of the front steps. He pressed against the bottom of the door with his boot to push it open slowly. The door was lighter than he expected. Bits of wood dropped out of the bottom, the apparent effect of an insect infestation. Ford had to catch the doorknob with his hand to stop the door from swinging inward and banging against the interior wall.

  There was enough sunlight streaming in through the windows on the opposite side of the house for Ford and Tim to see the trail of blood that continued inward. It grew wider and thicker the further into the house that it led.

  Ford took a step inward, making sure that Tim had ample room to aim the shotgun into the house without obstruction. Staying his breath, Ford listened intently for any sign of persons still inside. Convinced that whoever had done the deed had left, he closed his fist and rapped loudly on the door.

  "Sheriff's department!" yelled Ford.

  No response.

  Ford pushed inward, Tim trailing him. They made their way slowly through the hallway, coming first upon Mary's room, making sure it was empty, then reaching Billy's room, also empty. They followed the trail of blood until they had a view of the undisturbed kitchen. Ford took a deep breath before continuing to follow the trail to Evelyn Greer's room. The door was wide open. Ford peered inside. Tim followed closely. With his back to Ford, he turned to look over his shoulder, into Evelyn Greer’s room.

  "Oh, Jesus Chri--," said Tim.

  Ford pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  "Tim... ever there were a time where God might forgive you for takin' the name in vain... pretty sure you and I are looking at it."

  Chapter 16

  "Wake up, sleepyhead!"

  Jackie bashed Mary in the face with a pillow. Mary winced. She cracked her eyes open to see Jackie in front of her, sitting cross-legged in her pajamas, smiling.

  "I've got good news!" said Jackie.

  Mary groaned and reached up under her head to grab the pillow she'd been sleeping on. She clumsily flung it at Jackie in protest. Jackie turned her head. The pillow flew past her, landed on the floor and bounced until settling against the wooden entertainment center that housed the McCaully family’s TV and stereo.

  "Hey, I said I have good news. No need for throwing stuff, and I'm gonna bash you again with this pillow if you don't smile about it," said Jackie.

  "It’s too early for any sort of news…”

  Jackie readied the pillow to thwap Mary again.

  “Okay, okay, what is it?” Mary conceded.

  "I GOT IN!"

  "You--- what? Where?"

  "Ohio State!"

  "No way! That's awesome!"

  "and that means that you totally did too, because your GPA is like, so much higher than mine. We're going to college! And we can flush this shit-kicker town down the drain. Did you get your letter yet? We gotta go check, like, right now. I wanna know if we can room together. Come on, get up! I made bacon… and I tried to make eggs but they came out awful, but they're eggs, technically. I don't know, I think I used too much oil. But the bacon is good. Here, eat some."

  Jackie shoved a piece of bacon at Mary's mouth. The grease smeared onto her cheek and upper lip.

  "Ah!" yelped Mary.

  Jackie shoved the piece of bacon into Mary’s mouth as she yelped.

  "Agh, hey, mmph..."

  Mary stopped protesting once she tasted the bacon. She sat up to chew and swallow.

  "There, now you're up. Just needed some forcible bacon...action. Forcible bacon experience. Want coffee?" asked Jackie.

  "No, I don't drink... eh, alright, yeah I'll have some coffee," said Mary.

  Jackie thrust a mug of coffee forward, stopping just inches short of Mary's face. Mary snapped her head back slightly, then took the cup of coffee in her palms. The steam felt good on her face.

  "Here, let me get you a plate of eggs and stuff. It’s not quite breakfast in bed, because you slept on a couch. But I figured it was close enough that…"

  Jackie continued talking as she skipped back to the kitchen out of earshot. She returned with a loaded plate.

  "Oh, you probably need a fork too. Hang on, Mare. This is a full service operation."

  Mary sipped at her coffee. Normally she wasn’t a fan of the taste, but today it felt good. It was nice just to do something different, to have a change in routine.

  Jackie presented Mary with a fork, which she accepted. She began munching at the eggs. Despite the eggs being overcooked and drenched in cooking oil, Mary enjoyed them. She hadn’t eaten anything for almost twenty-four hours. Her body graciously thanked her.

  "Look at me, I'm practicing my house-wife skills," said Jackie. "Except I'm not gonna be a house-wife, I'm gonna be a... I don't know, a college graduate, something or other, with a job and... Hey, I can make sausage too. Do you want sausage?"

  Mary started to say "yes", but suddenly a thought from the previous day forced itself into her head. The mental image of the finger that Billy had regurgitated onto the kitchen floor was now vividly present in her mind's eye.

  Mary struggled to swallow the remainder of egg and bacon in her mouth.

  "Uh, no, no thank you... Listen, Jackie, I have to tell you something... I don't want to spoil breakfast. Maybe I should wait."

  "You know you can always tell me anything. I'm open ears. But, I think first, we need to go see what showed up in your mail! That'll put you in a better mood."

  "No, Jackie, I don't wanna go to the house. I can't… I can't go there right now."

  "Why not?"

  "Billy... he... there's something really wrong with him."

  "Like worse than normal? Is he sick or something?" asked Jackie.

  "I'm... I don't know. I'm not sure."

  "Okay well, what if we just go check the mailbox, then we come back here? My parents are gonna be gone, we can just hang here all day. Maybe skip school Monday. Since we’re going to college, who cares about high school? Which is why we need to check your mail! We might be roommates! In college! That's so much more important than any of the stupid shit going on here right now, right?"

  "Yeah," said Mary. "Alright, okay, we can do that."

  "Okay good. Finish your bacon, or I'm going to finish it for you."

  Jackie walked out of the room to grab her shoes and jacket. Mary shoved the last stick of bacon into her mouth. Chewing was difficult as she faced the prospect of returning to her family's house, even just to pull in the driveway to check the mail, but the bacon tasted good, and she knew that her body needed it.

  Chapter 17

  Billy Greer awoke in the woods as the sun neared its noontime zenith in the sky, an empty plastic jug of vodka beside him. His left arm was numb, a result of compressing the nerves by laying on it all night.

  He failed on his first attempt at standing up, his legs seeming to give way beneath him. Still drunk, Billy lurched forward and landed his face squarely in the dirt. With an angry grunt, he thrashed around on the ground for a moment before finding his balance and pulling himself up to a seated position. He brushed dirt away
from his face, revealing a fresh scrape on his cheek from his tumble.

  The whole world seemed to be drifting sideways, as if being sucked into a whirlpool. His mouth was bone-dry and dehydrated, his tongue swollen up and tough like sandpaper, inundated with the stale taste of cheap vodka and dental rot.

  Billy stumbled forward a few paces before finding a tree to steady himself. There was a painful sensation throbbing through the whole of his right ankle. He pulled up his pant leg to inspect it. Bruised, red and irritated, but not broken or sprained.

  He stroked the bark of the tree with his fingers. His left index finger felt numb compared to the others, but showed no signs of damage. Some pale-green moss stuck to his fingertips as he rubbed his hands up and down the tree trunk, breathing heavily. He struggled to recall the last memory his brain had managed to store, a vodka induced blackout haze having consumed the remainder. His mother’s exasperated voice, singing a hymn out of key, repeated endlessly in his head like the needle skipping at the end of a record.

  ***

  Jackie slowed her parent's truck as she reached the driveway for Mary's house. She turned the wheel toward the house then stopped abruptly, pressing the brake hard enough to make Mary and herself lurch forward in their seats. Mary put her hand on the dash to steady herself from the force of Jackie's sudden stop.

  There were three police cars parked in the driveway, and a fourth on the opposite side of the street, facing the opposing direction. Two officers stood outside on the steps to the front door, one of them looking down, the other with a clipboard in his hand, writing.

  Confusion turned to dread as Mary and Jackie each silently mulled over the dozens of possible reasons why there might be police at Mary's house, neither uttering so much as a murmur. One of the officers took notice of Jackie's car and began walking toward it. His grey moustache was not quite large enough to conceal the grim expression on his face.