Psychological Thriller Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  My insides tense in a knot. “Why not? You’re pretty good at putting people out of their misery.”

  His eyes flit to mine, nothing but white glossy shards. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you want it to mean?” I lean over and pluck the beer right out of his hand before giving it a sniff. “I’m pretty sure there’s no antifreeze in this.” I knock back a quick gulp and taste a cigarette on the lip.

  “Boy, you have ten seconds to explain yourself before I boot you off my property.” His voice rises, well-controlled and teeming with percolating aggression.

  “Just like you booted Mom? The way you emptied the attic of every last memory of who we were as a family?”

  He brings his chin close to his chest, his brows pointing an angry V right at me. Flames shoot from his ears, he’s so irate—I must be right.

  “Why did you do it?” My gaze latches onto those demonic eyes of his and I can feel the need in me to kill him. I don’t see why not. Offing another human being seems to be in my DNA.

  “I needed some space.” He leans into his seat as if weighing his options. “What do you care? Just a bunch of pictures and boxes of tinsel. Damn stuff collected dust for close to forty years, long before you were born. Some of those boxes hadn’t been touched in that long either.”

  “Did you need the space or were you tired of being haunted by all those long-gone faces?” I turn toward him, my feet planted on the creaky floorboards beneath me.

  He gives a flick of the hand, his tired eyes moving toward the mountains in the distance wearing its fog-laden halo. “I know what they looked like. So do you.”

  “Do you see their ghosts? Do they gather around your bed at night, tormenting you? Begging to know the reason you decided there was no more room on the planet for them?”

  His eyes click over once again, a flash of guilt buried in each one.

  “That’s right.” I raise his disgusting beer at him before chucking it over the railing. “I know what you did to Wilson. I know what you did to Mom.” That last sentence comes out tired, a secret whispered in the night that I wish never broke the seal of my lips. “But what I don’t get is why Rachel? How?” I stagger over and pull him out of his seat by the neck. “How did you kill my sister?” I shout so loud my voice reverberates off the mountainside.

  He slaps my hands off his body quick and heavy like the trunk of a tree falling over me. “Let go.” His hands grip my shirt and pull me in close. “You think you can come to my house and spew these sick vicious lies? I tell you what—if there was a member of this family I should have slaughtered, it would have been you.” He sends me flying into the post and I hit my forehead over a rusted nail. I touch my hand over it and it glows pink under the light.

  “You killed them.” I glare at this older, not wiser, far deadlier version of myself. “Wilson was a stoner, a coke head who was quickly mucking up your image. Hell, our image of the perfect all-American family.” I give him a hard shove to the chest. “Isn’t that right? You fucking sick bastard? And who knows why you left Mom to die out there. What I really want to know is how long did it take you to practice that little maneuver? You had to time it just right, didn’t you? You jammed her door so she couldn’t escape. You’re a heartless, soulless monster. A stray dog would have made a better husband.”

  He snarls, as his upper lip tugs to the side. “You were the one that murdered our family. You took a bright light and blew his head all over the ceiling. Aston had the greatest potential of any Price child before or after him. You stole his youth, his children, his legacy right from underneath him because you were irresponsible. You’re the moron who should have died that day. You were a danger to yourself and others, and you continued that tradition when you lost your damn daughter!”

  I lunge at him, my hands finding a happy home around that slippery, wrinkled turkey neck of his and I squeeze until bubbles come from his lips, a choking sound emits, sweet as a lullaby.

  “I should kill you.” My eyes fix on his. Those dirty lenses he sees the world through bulge like eggs. “I should send you straight to hell. In less than thirty seconds you can be there, getting a head start on your miserable eternal state.” I thrust his head into the wall and it hits with a thud, like a melon to concrete. “Were those the last words you said to my mother?” I seethe over him, still motivated to remove him from the planet. I’m not opposed to disposing of a body later. It’s doubtful anyone would care if he was gone.

  He grips the back of his head and moans as he drifts toward the front door. “I forgive you, son. You’re under an awful lot of pressure. No sleep. You’re not eating right.”

  He forgives me? It seems to be a common theme. Forgiveness without asking. Life had become so simple.

  “You have a daughter out there somewhere.” He glares at me before stepping inside and the screen snaps shut between us. “Why don’t you take a good look around this town? You just might find her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? So help me God, if you know where she is and won’t tell me, you are as good as dead, old man.”

  “Or maybe it’s the best way I can keep you from choking the life out of me.”

  “Dammit!” I knife the word out of my throat so fast it rips through me like a razor.

  The door begins to close, then pauses abruptly. “What’s the matter, James?” That worn smile of his plays on his lips. “Got a ghost of your own you wish would get on the next ship?”

  A moment thumps by as we stare one another down. My father flooded with disappointment in me, resentment for discovering that the skeletons rattling around in his closet belonged to our own family. And me, wondering if he just gifted me a clue on a silver platter.

  He grunts into the night. “You never were that smart, kid.” The door slams quick and final, stealing all the light along with it.

  Ghost. Ship. Ghost Ship?

  I jump in my truck and speed all the way to Monica’s house. My heart racing, my blood pumping as I run light after light.

  And I wonder all the way there what in the hell would Monica want with my daughter?

  * * *

  There is a slight sense of relief in the thought that Monica could actually somehow be responsible for this plague that has affected my life. For as psychotic as she is, she’s a decent human being. One that I could never imagine mistreating a child in any single way. Heck, if Monica had Reagan tucked away in that wood-rotted mansion of hers, I’d bet she were taking excellent care of her. Candy, popcorn—movies on a never-ending loop. Anything to keep Reagan satiated and satisfied. With my luck, Reagan would never want to come home. And with me as a parent, it’s probably a damn good idea she keep her distance.

  I park on the street and walk close to the hedges as I make my way to the house. That giant ship still sits prominent on the lawn, still looking as haunted as ever. There’s no way I’d ever want to live in that mausoleum all by myself. Not sure why Monica would want to. McCafferty suggested Monica was single, alone, no longer Mrs. whatever the hell she was to begin with.

  The lights are on upstairs. Downstairs has the blue flicker of the television coming from the corner window. An awful lot of lights for just one person. But then again, I can’t fault her. A single woman all alone in that oversized monstrosity probably warrants a ding to your electric bill.

  I make my way around the back, no clue what I expect to find. A couple of garbage cans sit neat in a row and I pluck open the lid to the last one, only to be greeted with the stench of sour milk and a plethora of fast food bags slowly composting themselves, getting eaten alive by their soil stains.

  The house seems to grow taller as I crouch in the periphery. The Ghost Ship has been one of those legendary homes in Concordia that the entire town swears is haunted. Back when we were dating, I couldn’t even get Monica to watch a horror flick with me, let alone live one.

  A pale blue sphere at the base of the back porch stops me cold. A small rubber ball—the cheap kind they sell by
the dozens at the grocery store. I bend over and pick it up, soft, rubbery, depleted of air just enough to let me know it’s been melting in the elements for a while now.

  Who the hell does she have playing with a ball? Niece, nephew—hell, it could be neighborhood children. Monica could be a nanny for all I know. Sending me over here was probably just a ploy of my father’s. How can I get rid of the latest and greatest Price disgrace? Turn him into the town Peeping Tom. I’ll outsmart him. I jog back to the front and give a brisk knock over the door.

  A nervous rustle comes from inside and I peer into the murky glass to catch a shadowy figure moving quickly in the opposite direction.

  “It’s me. James.” I try to sound friendly despite the fact I’ve just shouted my head off.

  The porch light clicks on, and I give a humble wave.

  “My God, James Price?” The door swings open and she pulls me in. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me.” I take her in, with her hair sitting on top of her head in a blob, a white silk robe on and a pair of matching pants underneath. Monica always did have a flare for the luxurious. That was part of what drew me to Allison. She was so down-to-earth, sleeping in my old sweats and happy to do it. Just the thought makes me yearn for her. Instead, here I am staring in the face of my old high school girlfriend, wondering if she knows anything about my missing child.

  “What brings you around?” She shuttles me in the opposite direction of that glowing blue light, toward a hall that leads to an expansive kitchen. I spot a box of Lucky Charms cereal on the counter and my insides cinch at the sight of it. Reagan loves that stuff. She’d shovel it in by the bucketful if I let her.

  A quick bite of heat rises through me, and I’m suddenly struck with the urge to start shouting her name and whipping open doors, looking under beds, ransacking closets.

  “Just drove by after visiting the old man.” I give a wistful shake of the head while taking in the architecture, old world craftsmanship you just don’t see anymore. “I’ve always wondered what this place looked like. Saw the lights on and thought maybe you wouldn’t mind showing an old friend around.” I let my gaze fall to hers, lift my hand to her cheek, and do a clean sweep over it with my thumb as if I were flirting.

  “Oh.” She jumps back a notch as if my advance were something she’d need to consider. “Actually”—she glances over her shoulder, back toward that room with the flickering lights—“it’s pretty late. Um, I haven’t exactly been too tidy these last few weeks.” Those lying eyes drift back to mine. “Look, I know you miss your angel, hon. It’s bound to drive you mad. All of my concern has been for you, James.” Now it’s her hand caressing me, fondling my lips as if she still had any right to them.

  “I’m good with a mess.” I blink a dry smile. “Unless, of course, you have a guest.” I give a playful hop on one leg back toward the door. “Anybody here?” My voice booms throughout the skeletal structure, vibrating off the walls like a tuning fork.

  She swats me over the chest like a reflex. “Would you keep it down? I’ve got a sick dog that needs his beauty sleep.”

  “What kind of dog?”

  “Mutt,” she’s quick to answer, and I’m prone to believe her. Monica had three of them in the time we dated. For all I know it’s one of the three.

  “So how about that tour?” I rock back on my heels, trying to convince her I’m up for a good time if she’s looking. I’m not, but my father’s sick clue, that ball I found in the yard, her sketchy, skittish behavior—none of it sits well with me.

  “How about you’re drunk? I can smell the beer on your breath.” She turns me toward the door. “Get yourself home to that little wifey of yours. She’s probably worried sick about where you are. You should be down on your hands and knees together praying that little angel of yours gets home safe.” There’s a sarcastic inflection in that last sentence when she says the word angel as if she were mocking Reagan’s innocence.

  Her hand reaches for the doorknob, and I flatten my hand over the glass. “You’re right. I’ve had one too many.” I’ll go with it. “Let’s play a game.”

  Her affect drops. That I’m-so-concerned-for-you look in her eye quickly turns to anger. “What kind of a game?” Her voice shakes just enough to let me know she’s running scared.

  I lean in close, my nose just a millimeter from hers. “Hide-and-seek.” I bolt toward the back, toward that room with its flickering light. The blue glow of the television looks outright hypnotic.

  “Stop!” Her voice fills the house with its horror. “James, stop right there!”

  The hall bleeds into a family room, just big enough for a couple of sofas, a fireplace in the corner. The sound of moaning fills my ears, and I flick on the lights and a chandelier explodes overhead like the sun. Another sharp groan comes from my left, and then I see it on TV. The larger than life, very up close and personal view of the anatomy of a woman being penetrated by the world’s longest dick.

  “James!” Monica jumps over my back, trying to cover my eyes, and dances me in a circle while laughing off her shame.

  “Some like it hot.” I storm out of the room and head for the stairs. So what? Monica likes her porn. I would have never figured it, but people change. Ideals drift, and before you know it you’re cheating on your wife, watching men with dicks the size of butcher knives eat up your living room. “How about up here?” I stride right onto the second floor with her hot on my heels. “You hiding any more dirty little secrets? I’m betting the answer to that is a long, hard yes.”

  “James, stop before I call the police.”

  “Be my guest. I’m sure Rich would love to join me. Kink it up a bit.” I open the first room I come across and flip on the lights. Old school décor, dated, too frilly and peach. Allison would want to burn it. A twin-sized bed sits in the corner, and I head over and run my foot underneath it. I open up the closet and find it stacked with shoeboxes and a few coats that smell like mothballs.

  “Would you get out of here?” She slaps me over the back as I hit the exit.

  “How about this one?” The door to the next room is open, with nothing but a sewing machine, some bolts of fabric leaning against the wall to show for it. The closet doors have been removed and inside sits a bookshelf laden with yarn and heaps of abandoned fabric. “It’s nice to know old habits die hard,” I tease. Monica used to attempt to sew her own clothing. The seams were always crooked, the fabric too cheap, but I never had the heart to tell her.

  I hustle down the hall and come across an office. No closet, but I check the desk on both sides just in case. “I could never cram my body in there.” I give a heavy wink as I blow right past her. A set of double doors sit open, and a pink fluffy cloud of a comforter greets me on the oversized bed set in the middle of the master bedroom. A television sits above the fireplace with the news playing, volume on mute. At any moment, I half-expect my face to pop up on the screen. America’s most wanted. Worst father in the nation. Shoot on sight!

  I head into the bathroom, a gaudy gold and glitter covered mess, a bathtub deep and wide enough to qualify as a swimming pool with a dark ring around the periphery covered in stubble-like hairs. She wasn’t joking. The place isn’t exactly hygienic. But I won’t hold it against her. I float back out, only to find her on the mattress. The robe slipped open down over one shoulder, exposing a low lying tit, that dark purple nipple peering out to see me once again for itself. And it’s in that moment I wake up from this self-induced nightmare.

  What in the hell am I doing here? I glance at her closet and step inside, nothing but a forest of clothes packed too tight, no room for another pair of jeans. Monica always did live by the diatribe more is more.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” Her voice strums smooth and seductive. I step out to find her bare legs gliding over the newly exposed sheets. Her white silk pants sit in a puddle at the foot of the bed. “Come on, James.” She pats the spot next to her. “You and I both know why you came.” Her lips invert before she licks t
hem clean. “You needed to come. And so do I.”

  A sick feeling penetrates me right down to my bones. Not because I’m in any way tempted, but I’m wondering how fast Allison will slap me with her knowledge of the event.

  “I’d better go.” I duck into the hall and stop cold when I spot a small patch of wood on the ceiling down on the other end. Hide-a-stairs. Of course, the Ghost Ship has an attic. I race over and hear Monica’s bare feet padding from behind.

  “James!” Her voice pitches into a fervor as I sling the ladder down so fast I nearly decapitate her. “You can’t go up there!”

  “Why? Is that where the dying dog is?” I race to the top and pull out my cell phone to use it as a flashlight. A long cord dangles from the ceiling, and I don’t hesitate to pull the damn thing, exposing the room in a blast of bright light.

  “Shit,” the word stumbles from me as I take it all in. “Monica.” I fall to my knees, tears swelling in my eyes.

  “I knew you’d think I was a freak. I can’t believe your father told you.” She climbs up and falls next to me, her robe still flapping open in the front.

  Strewn over several feet are boxes and boxes of all that old crap I thought my father tossed into a dumpster. Boxes and boxes of my mother’s precious scrapbooks, picture frames he plucked from the wall. Macaroni art my mother saved from her children’s precious years that went by far too quickly.

  I pull out a dusty old album covered in quilted brown fabric, microscopic white dots that give it a gingerbread appeal, and open it up. A smiling Aston is the first to greet me, and my chest bucks with a sharp hiccup of relief. His toothy smiles says I love you, I forgive you, all rolled into one. It’s a day that unexplainable forgiveness has been shed my way, so I don’t see why not.

  I flip through a few more and find Wilson and Rachel hugging, my mother in her Sunday best. Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays. The Price family lives to see another day. At least in the form of faded photographic memories.