by E A Owen
A layer of dust had settled on some of her belongings. I ran my finger along the living room’s entertainment center, leaving a trace from one edge to the other then wiping the dust on my pants. I walked to her bedroom and stopped in the entryway. An overwhelming feeling of dread overcame me. My throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. The room was dark and gloomy, and I swore the temperature dropped about ten degrees. I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed them, trying to keep warm. My gaze wandering around the room. Where to start?
I got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Other than a few dust bunnies, nothing was under there. I sat on the floor, legs crossed and deep in thought. It saddened me as I pondered what I really knew about Mary’s life before she had come to live with us.
Mary had been very secretive when it came to her life before us. She didn’t like discussing it; it caused her much pain. I respected her wishes and never pried. All I know was that she had lost both her parents in a tragic car accident when she was just twelve years old; she had attended South Dakota State University to become a nurse, just like her mother; she had married Elliott, and they’d had a daughter, Natalie—Dad’s biological mother; her husband had died—but she never explained how, it had been a very touchy subject, and I never pushed the issue. I also know that her daughter had died in a car accident after Dad was born.
What I never understood was why Mary didn’t raise Dad. He had been put up for adoption and never learned about her until I was five years old and diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. He had his adoption unsealed to obtain family history, to help save my life. And that was the extent of her life that I know, which was not much at all. I wondered if she kept a diary. I’d love to learn more about Great-grandmother.
I approached her closet and opened it. Clothes hung on hangers. A few pairs of shoes rested on the floor, and a blue tote sat on a shelf. I expected the tote to be heavy, but, to my surprise, it was light as a feather. I sat it on the floor in front of me. A terrible feeling washed over me, resonating deep—a warning not to open it.
I stared intently at the tote. My heart pounded as a sharp pain ripped through my skull, and my stomach twisted into a violent cramp. This can’t be good. I took a deep breath, preparing myself. My hands trembled to unlock the latches on both sides.
A folded piece of paper lay amongst the contents—a box that had been busted open where a lock must have been and two small unfamiliar books. I unfolded the paper.
To My Beautiful Wife,
I am so sorry for what I have done. I cannot live with the guilt a day longer. The guilt has tormented my soul, and I am reminded of how horrible a man I am every time I look at you and our daughter. I never meant for any of this to happen. I met Ashley at work when she was twenty-two and an assistant at the firm, and I eventually gave in to the temptation and couldn't stop my sexual urges. I was not honest with you about being laid off. I resigned after the firm found out about Ashley, since the relationship was considered against company policy. I was very selfish, and I blame myself for everything that has happened. The guilt is eating me alive. I can't eat or sleep. It is completely consuming me. I trusted Joseph to care for our daughter while I slept with another woman against our vows of marriage, and I know this must hurt you immensely. But, worst of all, the man I trusted raped our daughter for three years and got her pregnant. Even though Joseph was found guilty and is in prison for hurting our little girl, I cannot live with the guilt any longer. I am reminded of the horrible husband and father I am and how neither of you deserved this. So, I am doing what I do best and being selfish by ending the torment eating me alive. I am sorry for everything. You and Natalie will be much better off without me around. You both deserve a better man in your lives. I always loved you, Mary, even if you don't want to believe me. Goodbye.
Elliott
Oh, my God! Mary’s husband had committed suicide. Joseph had raped my father’s biological mother. Is that the reason he had been put up for adoption? Why had he never told me about any of this? Did he know? Or had Mary kept this from him too?
I had to know if Great-grandmother had kept more of her life a secret. I reached into the tote and removed an old carved wooden antique box covered in dust. I blew on it as the dust particles danced and swirled into the air before disappearing. I coughed, clearing my throat as an overwhelming feeling of darkness befell me.
I opened the box. A book sat inside—a diary—and in-between the pages rested a folded-up piece of paper. I unfolded it, but the note was in a different language. I set it aside, opened the diary and read the bookmarked entry.
November 3, 1888
A crazy, old woman approached me on the street in London this evening wearing a hooded long black cloak, claiming I would be punished for marrying Aaron Kosminski and any child born of us, and all descendants thereafter would be cursed and that only an angel born into the family could break it. The crazy woman then handed me a folded paper, turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.
I flipped to the front cover, reading Margaret Abigail Walker. Creepy, a curse … And who was Aaron Kosminski? This had got very strange.
A chill ran through me, sending shivers down my spine and making the hairs on my arms stand. I sensed someone in the room with me, watching. I quickly looked behind me but saw no one.
“Is that you, Great-grandma?” I asked in a shaky tone.
No answer came.
I reached into the tote and retrieved two other diary-looking books. I opened the first one. Madeline Grace Walker had been handwritten on the front cover, and Mary Elizabeth Walker had been inscribed on the other. I skimmed through Madeline’s diary and stopped on the last entry.
July 21, 1967
My grandmother, Margaret, handed me an old carved wooden antique box. Something about it felt amiss. It felt wicked, giving me a gut-wrenching feeling. When Margaret handed me the box, she said an angel would be born and would be the only one who could break the curse that has been on this family for generations. I thought Margaret was delusional, so I buried the box far away from my family. But, hours after returning home, it mysteriously appeared on my bed. I was frightened. The box must be possessed. I took it outside and threw it in our firepit and set it on fire. I stood there for several minutes then walked back to the house. Hours later, I peeked outside the window and noticed the fire had stopped smoldering. I walked to the firepit, and there was the box in perfect condition and untouched by the fire.
Could this get any creepier? I set down the diary and opened Mary’s, afraid of what I would find. I flipped through the pages until something caught my eye. I stopped and read the entry.
January 11, 2011
Something horrible happened last night. Isabella’s close friend, Lindsey, and her entire family died in a house fire in their sleep. I think I made a horrible mistake. I hope I’m just overthinking and he had nothing to do with this, and maybe this was all just a crazy coincidence. But, deep down inside, something doesn’t feel right. I know how much Trevor absolutely adores Isabella. It kills him to see her hurt. Isabella and I are close, and she confides in me. She told me that Lindsey has been bullying and humiliating her in front of everyone at school. The only way she feels relief is by cutting herself. I had a little too much wine to drink last night after dinner with Trevor and Isabella. Isabella went to bed early, since it was a school night. And I was very concerned for Isabella and scared she was causing harm to herself and how bad she was hurting inside from her only friend turning on her and humiliating her. Trevor tensed up immediately, and his expression turned dark and disturbing. I’m sure he was upset. He would do anything to protect his little girl. But the poor man has been through a lot in his life. He was adopted and raised by an alcoholic mother, met the girl of his dreams who died during childbirth, raised his daughter alone who, at age five, was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and needed a heart transplant or she would die. He got his adoption unsealed under the family history medical and safety act in hopes to save h
is daughter’s life, found out that his biological mother was raped and impregnated with twins who were separated at birth and put him up for adoption. His biological mother died in a car accident shortly after he was born. He fell madly in love with a girl who was also involved in a car accident and was in a coma for almost twelve weeks. She lost her memory but regained it back. They get married, had a baby, and she dies during childbirth. After unsealing his adoption, he finds out that his wife is actually his twin sister and is absolutely devastated, finds the only match for his daughter’s extremely rare blood type, AB-, and new heart is from the man who had raped and violated his biological mother and was executed after killing two men in prison. And that a curse had been put on our family over a century ago by a London witch who felt the need to punish our family because my great-grandmother, Margaret, had married Aaron Kosminski, aka Jack the Ripper. I’ve been through a lot, but I think my grandson has been through much more in his lifetime. He will go to the ends of the world to protect his daughter. I really hope that fire was an accident and that Trevor did not start it.
For just a moment, I felt bad for Dad and everything he had endured. I flipped to the last entry in Mary’s diary.
May 14, 2023
I finally got the courage tonight to tell Trevor that he could not hide any of this from Isabella any longer, that she was a grown woman and deserved to know the truth about everything, that if he didn’t come clean with her, I would. I am scared to death of Trevor. He has a darkness in him that he does a very good job hiding. But, if you trigger his weakness, which is Isabella, he will snap into someone terrifying right before your eyes. This is only the second time I have seen the look in his eyes. Pure evil. It only last for a split second, but it’s long enough for me to feel the hatred and the dark in him. He told me that he couldn’t do it, that Isabella is very fragile and wouldn’t be able to handle the news, and that he’s afraid what she might do to herself if she finds out. He tried to make me promise not to say anything, that it was for Isabella’s own good, saying that sometimes some things are better off not known. But I couldn’t promise him that. We kept these suffocating secrets from her long enough, and it was eating me inside. He was very angry with me, threw his glass across the room, and it shattered into pieces. I left immediately, came home and cried in my pillow until I calmed down.
I closed her diary and tried to process all this crazy information as my mind violently twisted into knots. Had my father killed Mary? Had he made it look like she had peacefully died in her sleep, but he had killed her because she had threatened tell me everything, everything they had kept from me for twenty-three years? For just a moment, I felt bad for Dad, for everything bad he had experienced in his life. But, just as quick as that feeling came, it left, and an overwhelming anger filled every inch of me and made my blood boil.
Had my father killed Lindsey? Had he killed Mary? My head spun as I felt the walls close in on me. My heart hammered in my chest. My head split in two. My stomach twisted painfully as I slowly suffocated from the inside.
The Tape
“We need to talk,” Rachel demanded.
“Okay. What about?” I asked nervously.
“I know you said you didn’t want to invade Bella’s privacy.” Rachel looked away.
“But, with a murder investigation and Isabella being our only lead, I couldn’t resist watching the session.”
“How could you do that?” I pleaded.
“I wanted to eliminate her as a suspect. We need proof she had no motive. Her breaking in, stealing her file, and her therapist found dead in his office does not look good.”
“I know. I know. So, what did you find?”
“You have to watch for yourself.” Rachel opened her laptop and clicked on the file.
***
After twenty minutes, the session ended. I sat staring at the screen in shock. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be true. If Rachel brought this to the police, Isabella would spend the rest of her life in prison or, worse yet, get the death penalty. How had I not seen this? I couldn’t lose my baby girl too. I’d already lost too many people in my life. I won’t let this happen.
“Are you going to say anything?” Rachel asked, waiting for a response.
“We can’t show this to the police.”
“We have to. Isabella is a serial killer. She just admitted to killing all those people. But, what I don’t understand is, why her therapist didn’t bring this evidence to the police.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Clearly Isabella is the serial killer, and he had a moral right to bring this information to the police immediately.”
“Wait. Isabella did society a favor. These people she killed are bad people. They don’t deserve to live. Isabella felt the need to give the victims the justice they deserved. If the court system wasn’t so corrupt and let these sickos walk free, they’d still be alive.”
“That is not Bella’s decision. She can’t take the law into her hands and take the lives of others.”
“The world is better off without them, and now you want to punish Isabella for doing something we all wish we could do to them.”
“You can’t just go and kill people. It’s murder. It wasn’t self-defense. It was calculated. She tortured these people. Whether they deserved it or not, she killed people, Trevor.”
“At least talk to Isabella. Let her explain herself.”
“It doesn’t matter. Your daughter is a murderer. I need to make a phone call. Don’t worry, I’m not going to the police with this just yet. I need all the answers before I do.”
“What kind of answers?”
“Who Carrie really is, and if she has any relation to Dr. Marshall. That’d be the only reason I could see why he wouldn’t go to the police with this information and refuse to see Isabella anymore.”
“Carrie was Bella’s roommate in college. They were best friends. But she got married, had a baby and moved to California.”
“You heard the session. Carrie is involved. She helped. She’s an accomplice. She must be questioned regarding the murders.”
“She lives in California. How can she be involved?”
“Carrie hacked the FBI database and got the files of the victims’ court cases unsealed. She’s an accessory to murder. Isabella is a very intelligent woman. She could have gotten away with the murders if we hadn’t stumbled across this evidence.”
“She doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life in prison. Isabella needs help. It’s not her fault. It’s in her blood.”
“You aren’t making any sense, Trevor. What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Jack the Ripper?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“He’s my great-great-grandfather. His real name is Aaron Kosminski.”
“But he never got caught. No one knows Jack the Ripper’s true identity.”
“You’re right, but they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute him for the murders. But recently they found DNA from a century-old bloodstained scarf linked to one of Jack the Ripper’s victims, Catherine Eddowes. Aaron Kosminski was a suspect for many years. Since the scarf had been subjected to contamination for decades, and it’s not clear if it had been really left behind by Catherine or her killer, experts claim it’s not considered evidence.”
“Even if your great-great-grandfather is Jack the Ripper, it doesn’t give Isabella a free card to go kill a bunch of bad people.”
“No. But if the killer instinct is in her genes, then she doesn’t need to be punished. She needs to get help. Locking her up isn’t going to make the victims come back, but at least we can try to save her. It’s not her fault, Rachel. Please don’t do this.”
“I need to find out more about Carrie. I’ll be back. I promise I won’t go to the police with this until we talk more. But I need to do this.”
Out of Control
I got a text that Rachel was heading home from the office. I was stir crazy all
day, sitting at home by myself with all the demented thoughts that controlled my fragile mind, festering in a break of psychosis and anxiety. I didn’t feel right. Something was amiss. How would I protect Isabella? I was torn. I loved my wife, but I loved Isabella even more. She was my daughter; how couldn’t I? Life was complicated, and I couldn’t believe I was in this absurd situation.
I paced back and forth until I heard Rachel’s car pull up the driveway and park inside the garage. I had to calm down. Rachel couldn’t see me this way. I tried to calm my nerves by taking slow, deep breaths and counting to ten.
“Hi, honey. I brought home dinner from Giovanni’s. Their special tonight was pasta carbonara with freshly baked garlic bread sticks,” Rachel hollered as she entered the house.
She waltzed through the kitchen, holding a few bags, flashed a smile and kissed me. She set the bags on the kitchen island and pulled the Styrofoam containers from the bags. She grabbed plates and silverware from the cabinet and served the food.
“Would you mind grabbing a bottle of white wine from the cellar?”
I forced a smile. “Of course.”
How could she act as if everything was normal? She had been ready to go to the police and put my little girl behind bars for the rest of her life. This was not okay; my life was ruined.
I scanned all the wine bottles in our massive wine cooler. All our red wines rested on racks, and the whites sat in the cooler. We always chose white wine with pasta, fish, and chicken, and reds with our red meats, like steak and burgers. I found the perfect one for tonight—Domaine d’Auvenay Criots-Batard, a $2,300 bottle of wine. It tasted exquisite. It hailed from a French vineyard, and connoisseurs considered it a delicious and delicate wine and one of the most aromatic.