Erin pursed her lips and shook her head. “Then go. I think you’re being a bit paranoid. But if you think getting away from me is what’s best for you, then be my guest. I’d offer to stay awake and watch you sleep, you know, like a loving wife would do. You’ve been so emotionally detached these last few days, but you never bother telling me what’s wrong. Maybe we could have figured this out together, but go on with your first solution and be by yourself downstairs.”
The words cut into Brandon like a chef’s knife slicing into a Christmas ham. He frowned, unsure if he should respond. It had been his car whose lines were cut, not hers. It had been him who found the family room covered in all that fucking cotton. And while it had been Jordan’s toy set on fire in the oven, it was Brandon who was home while it happened. When he was sleeping, of course. Erin was mad for all the wrong reasons. Brandon knew it was him, and he simply wanted to try and prevent it from happening again. Her sudden outburst caught him off guard, and he certainly didn’t have the energy for an argument in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” he said, defeated, crossing his arms and letting the baseball bat drop to the floor. Resentment bubbled underneath his accusatory tone. “Fuck it all, let’s just go to sleep. Nothing to see here.”
“Brandon!” she snapped, but he had already stalked out of the bedroom and stomped down the stairs like a pissed off teenager.
Brandon heard her let out a loud sigh before she slammed herself back on the bed. His hands were trembling, and he wasn’t sure if it was from anger, fear, or exhaustion. Whatever the emotion, it didn’t leave when he reached the main level, and continued with him as he rushed down the stairs to the basement.
Worried he might literally lose his mind if he didn’t fall back asleep, Brandon sat on the stool behind their bar, pulled out a bottle of rum and a Colorado Rockies shot glass, and poured himself a shot. Then another. And another.
Then one more for good measure.
He returned upstairs immediately, sure to get back to at least the main level before the alcohol kicked in. He made it with no problem and collapsed onto the couch for the rest of the night.
13
December 19
Brandon enjoyed his best night of sleep in a while. He had drunk just enough rum to knock himself out cold. When the sun broke through the kitchen window and illuminated the main level, he moaned and rolled over, slightly dizzy.
Nemo had snored along with him all night, but had already gone outside through the doggy door. Brandon rolled off the couch at six, stretching, his joints popping and cracking as he reached above his head with outstretched arms. The sound of Erin’s soft snoring trickled down the stairs, as if mocking him for throwing such a childish fit last night.
You think you can prove a point by sleeping on the couch? he imagined Erin saying. Well, then, watch me have the greatest night of sleep of my life!
The truth was, Brandon enjoyed the rare nights alone on the couch. In solitary, his mind was clear and focused, able to absorb the world around him.
We both slept great, and that’s all that should matter. I still love you, and you love me. Now let’s move on with our lives.
He dragged himself into the kitchen, eyes bleary, breath sour, and flicked the switch on the coffee maker. It hummed to life as he leaned against the counter, unsure if he was still tired or possibly hungover. Four shots shouldn’t have been enough to feel an effect in the morning, but crazier things had happened in the world of late-night alcohol.
Once his mug was filled, the fresh odor of coffee overloading his senses, he took a sip before shuffling to the back door to check on Nemo’s water jug outside. It appeared just about empty, so he slid open the door and stepped out to the cool morning to grab the container. Snow covered the backyard in random patches, nothing remaining on the slab of concrete that served as their patio. The grass, where it showed, was dormant and yellow, appearing as if it might catch fire from the simple flick of a cigarette.
The weather had been below freezing over the past week, but this morning already felt much warmer, maybe preparing for a day in low-40’s.
“Nemo!” Brandon called out once his four-legged friend didn’t come running around the corner. He whistled and slapped a hand on his leg before turning back into the house with the empty jug.
He filled it in the kitchen sink, keeping an eye out the window for Nemo, and worrying when he still didn’t appear after a whole minute passed.
He always runs toward the door when he hears it open. Always.
The backyard seemed extra still, deadly silent, when Brandon returned with the jug of water. No birds chirped, no car motors grumbled by, and no breeze whispered through the snow-covered trees. All Brandon heard was the sound of his own breathing, hollow in his ears.
“Nemo?” he called out, a nervous crack in his voice. His heart raced as he thought the worst. The snow and wind from the past week could have damaged the fence and left a gap for Nemo to squeeze through. The snow had finally melted enough to reveal this opening to the dog, and he surely escaped, wandering through the neighborhood without food, water, or warm shelter. He wouldn’t last in the wild for a single one of these frigid nights.
“Nemo?”
His voice wavered, and Brandon took a brief step inside to slide into his outdoor shoes he kept next to the door. Grass stains and mud caked their surface, as he wore them to complete yardwork. He slid the backdoor closed and trudged to the side of the house, calling out Nemo’s name with every couple of steps.
The concrete gave way to frozen, hard ground. Grass crunched beneath each step as he avoided the patches of snow. On the side of the house they stored their camper, covered up for the winter months, waiting to be let back out into freedom come spring time. The cover was solid gray and draped from the top to the side, barely scraping the ground. A dark splatter like mud appeared on the bottom edge of the cover.
He took one more step before realizing it was blood, freezing him where he stood, heart trying to rip through his ribcage. “Nemo! Come here right now!” His voice wavered as he attempted to sound authoritative.
A car zoomed by well too fast for driving in a neighborhood, and the roaring engine made Brandon jump, briefly snapping him out of the trance he had fallen into from staring at the bloodstains. Nemo didn’t come and Brandon was forced to approach the camper, the splatter growing bigger, darker, and deadlier with each step. After the car had driven off into the distance, he was once again left in a deafening silence.
He reached the camper and squatted to examine the stain. It was certainly fresh, a handful of the droplets streaming downward like condensation on the bathroom mirrors after a steamy shower.
A lone streak of blood, no more than a centimeter wide, oozed from beneath the cover, running into the dead grass. Brandon reached his trembling hand to the cover and gripped it firmly between his fingers, taking a deep inhale before swinging it up to reveal what lay behind it.
“AAAHH!” Brandon wailed, lunging backward and falling on his ass, rolling into a pile of old dog shit that had collected on the lawn over the past few weeks. The cover fell back on top of Nemo’s head, revealing his shiny black nose, lifeless brown eyes, and mutilated neck.
Blood caked his fur as he lay limp on the slab of concrete. His tongue hung out of his mouth like a dead worm, bright pink in contrast to the pool of blood it was dipped in.
“No, no, no,” Brandon muttered, tears streaming from his eyes and blurring his vision. The cover concealed the rest of the dog’s body, so he wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. With a numbing rush of adrenaline, Brandon scrambled back to his feet and flailed toward the camper, lifting the cover with the caution of someone opening a hidden treasure chest for the first time in hundreds of years.
The sight sent an instant gag into Brandon’s throat, staying there and ballooning as he witnessed the bloody scene. Nemo’s head had been separated from his body, hanging on by nothing more than a chunk of pearly white bone that appeared to be h
is spine. The throat had clearly been chewed through by a creature with sharp fangs, his furry flesh shredded like beef brisket, dangling in flabby chunks.
“Jesus Christ,” Brandon cried. He kept his eyes locked on the family dog, physically unable to look away despite his brain’s demands to do so. His throat had clenched to the point he couldn’t so much as swallow his own spit. The cold air stung his lungs with each difficult inhale. All of the drama from last night seemed a thousand years in the past. Something had viciously attacked Nemo, and they were all fortunate that whatever it was decided to not take a stroll through the doggy door into the house.
He finally dropped the cover from his grip and dragged himself inside. Erin had to see before he started digging a grave in their backyard, so he went upstairs with heavy, depressing steps, the world spinning as the shock of the situation struggled to settle. He had lost track of time, but found Erin in the bathroom, dressed in her robe and crouched over the sink as she washed her face.
“Hey,” he said, the lone word forced out with all his might.
Erin locked eyes with him, but didn’t say anything.
“Something’s happened,” he said next, his voice cracking as his lips quivered.
Erin’s cold stare immediately softened into a look of concern. Brandon rarely cried, so she quickly understood that something wasn’t right. “What is it?” She lunged through the doorway and grabbed him by the arms, which were also shaking.
“Nemo’s dead,” Brandon said, flat and forced.
Erin stepped back, releasing his arms, and met his eyes once more, this time to confirm that what he said was indeed true. Brandon’s face turned red and scrunched into distortion as he nodded. “It’s so bad,” he wailed as he buried his face into her shoulder. Erin rubbed his back while still processing what had happened.
“Something killed him,” Brandon managed to say between whimpers and sniffles. “Something ate him.”
Erin’s eyes welled with tears as she pushed Brandon off her to see his face. “What would eat him in our own backyard?”
Brandon shrugged. “Whatever it was almost ripped his head straight off his body.” Queasiness filled his stomach as the image of Nemo’s dismembered body remained crisp and vivid in his mind.
“Do you want me to go look?” Erin asked, her tone suggesting she’d rather do anything else.
Brandon shook his head. “Only if you want to.” Part of him hoped she would go see the damage, just so he didn’t have to be the only one with the gruesome scene stuck in his head.
“I’d rather not,” she said. “I’ll get the kids up and let them know that Nemo is no longer with us.” Erin spoke in a lifeless monotone. “You’re going to bury him?”
Brandon nodded before pulling Erin back into his embrace. He couldn’t even remember what their argument had been about last night, and at this point it didn’t matter. They remained together in their bedroom for another five minutes until Brandon regained control of his breathing.
“Okay, time to get this done,” he said, more to himself.
Erin leaned in and gave him a kiss, tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”
“Me too.”
Brandon returned downstairs and grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen before heading to the garage for a shovel. Before he started digging, he sent off another text message to his boss to let him know of today’s tragedy.
The frozen ground resisted the shovel with every strike, mocking Brandon when he’d slam the blade to the ground, only to have it bounce back and send a nasty shockwave through his body. He would dig for a good ninety minutes that morning, oblivious to the little gray eyes watching him through the kitchen window.
14
December 20
With Nemo dying on Thursday morning, Brandon was told to take the rest of the week off. All of the events that had happened so far now seemed irrelevant and petty. Brandon forgot all about haunted spirits or sleepwalking. Nemo’s death struck the family hard, and they all needed time to mourn the loss of the dog they had since moving into the house over four years ago. Riley struggled to cope, crying at the news, and bawling a flood of tears when Brandon walked her outside to show her Nemo’s new home beneath a circle of rocks used to cover the grave. Jordan didn’t quite understand, but clearly sensed something had gone wrong.
Erin had called the city’s animal control to report the incident and inquire about what may have done such an atrocious act. They informed her that both coyotes and foxes had been spotted in the neighborhood, but only a coyote would likely attack a dog.
They tried to resume their lives as normal on Friday morning. Erin and the kids were off to their final day at school and daycare before Christmas break commenced. Brandon stayed home, weary and emotionally drained. Digging a grave in the bitter days of December proved physically difficult and mentally grueling, especially considering why he had to dig a grave.
After seeing the kids and Erin off, Brandon spent most of the day walking around the house like a zombie. He’d start a simple task, like making toast for breakfast, only to find himself distracted and unaware of his surroundings. The toast had popped, yet he stared out the kitchen window to the fresh grave, pondering what the hell had happened to poor Nemo.
Brandon noticed Snowball sticking out of one of the Christmas stockings hanging on the family room mantle. Even with all this, Erin still keeps him moving around.
He had forgotten about the silly tradition with Snowball, too consumed with hanging on to the last threads of his rationality. Yet there he was, watching with those sideways eyes, his crooked grin hidden beneath the top of the stocking.
Brandon eventually ate his toast, washing it down with a glass of milk, and proceeded to the couch for a full day of lying down and watching TV. Normally he’d complete some tasks around the house that always seemed to get put off, but he needed a true day of nothingness. He would flip through the channels for something familiar, and planned to doze in and out of different naps throughout the day. Maybe he would get up for lunch, maybe not. The day had zero plans and he fully expected to keep it that way.
Brandon fell into a trance watching SportsCenter, his mind still unable to focus, being tugged a different direction. Regardless, he kept his eyes on the TV screen, and worked his hardest to concentrate on the sports highlights. He watched for an hour, the time passing feeling more like a week, and by the time nine o’clock rolled around, he was ready for a morning nap.
“Brandon,” a voice whispered, high-pitched, and somewhat childish. “Psssttt!”
Brandon didn’t flinch, too exhausted to move, and instead muted the TV.
“Brandon,” it called again, clearly coming from the fireplace. His brain continued trying to fall into sleep, and he thought maybe he was already dreaming.
“Wake up, you chickenshit,” the voice called out, and this made Brandon sit up stiffly, gawking to the fireplace’s dark pit as his hands balled into fists, ready to fight whatever might come out. “Up here, dumbass.”
Brandon’s eyes wandered up and locked with Snowball. The elf’s stare was no longer sideways, his eyes meeting Brandon’s straight on, wide grin remaining as it always had.
This isn’t happening, Brandon thought. No, sir. You fell asleep and are dreaming. That’s the only possible explanation.
Brandon stared at the elf, waiting for it to say something else, but it stayed quiet, spreading relief that it was indeed a dream.
After a minute, the elf giggled. It didn’t move, not its mouth nor body, but it certainly giggled like a child.
Thank you for the delicious breakfast yesterday morning, its voice continued. Brandon watched the elf, not believing his eyes, or his ears, and accepted the harsh reality that he was now officially mentally insane.
“That’s all this is,” he said aloud. “The sleep deprivation. The constant paranoia. All capped off by seeing Nemo shredded to pieces like a stuffed animal. I’ve snapped. A nervous fucking breakdown!”
Brandon’s late grandfather used to call him Brandy Boy, and oh, how he hated that nickname. As a child it drove him crazy being called what he considered a girl’s name. There were no boys named Brandy, and it always embarrassed him when his grandfather called him this in public or in front of his friends. It was a name he thought he’d never hear again, and hearing it come from the elf’s mouth—or from its mind?—felt slimy, like tree sap stuck on his hands that he just couldn’t wipe off.
He debated speaking back to the elf. So far he hadn’t, convinced doing so would be the nail in the coffin. Call in the men in whitecoats, folks, Brandy Boy is talking to the toys! He wondered if people who developed mental issues later in life even realized it was happening. Did they just carry on with their lives until someone, whether it be a family member or a county judge, decided it was time for you to enter the loony bin? Did one’s sense of reality and normalcy just vanish one day, or was it a slow, silent leak, like air seeping out of an invisible hole in a tire? Was it possible to actually know and accept that some form of mental insanity had planted itself in your brain, and all you could do was hang on for dear life, praying and hoping it will go away on its own?
I am not talking to this elf, he thought. There’s no reason to, because he’s just a toy. Erin bought him in a store to play a fun game with the kids. He’s not talking to me, and I’m not going to talk to him.
The elf kept its cheesy grin as Brandon mentally worked his way through this situation.
You’ll be gone in five days. Christmas Eve I will personally pack you away, and just maybe we’ll “lose” you. To the dumpster where you belong, you creepy piece of shit.
Snowball Page 7