by Brom
“The bad deaths,” Chet ventured. “You’re talking about Grandpa?”
Lamia gave him a long look, sighed. “Chet, why don’t you have a seat?”
Chet did, next to Trish.
“What did your aunt Abigail tell you about your grandfather?”
“Not much. A lot of talk of demons, mostly. Said they’d got in his head, made him crazy. I’m really sorry to say, but she hated you. Blamed you for all of it.”
Lamia shook her head sadly. “I know.”
“I heard different accounts from other folks,” Chet continued. “Y’know, before we moved. They said that he was mean and bad. That he killed a bunch of folks. That crazy ran in the family. And that’s why mom was the way she was. After mom killed herself, it got to where we couldn’t go out without people staring or saying something.”
Lamia nodded, her eyes on the floor, distant.
“Is any of it true?” Chet asked. “Was he really such a bad man?”
Lamia cleared her throat. “He could be so kind at times, Chet. But as the years passed, that part of him seemed to slowly die until only the bad was left.”
“Was it liquor, then? Or like they say . . . crazy?”
“Maybe it was the liquor . . . part of it anyway. Maybe it was the war, the things he saw, the things he had to do. But for me it was hard to forget that he saved my life. And it was for that I put up with so much for so long. For too long. If I’d known that the violence would eventually spill over onto my children, would lead to such hurt . . . I would’ve been stronger . . . at least I hope I would.” She stopped, her face pained.
“Hey, Grandma,” Chet said softly. “You don’t need to talk about this if you don’t—”
“Here is where your grandfather shot me.” She touched the scar on her temple. Chet noticed a slight shake to her hand. “It’s not easy to talk about the things that he did, the things that happened. Every night I ask myself what I could’ve done different. Would anything have changed the outcome? They haunt me . . . the voices of my children.”
She took a long sip of her wine. “They were going to burn me.”
“What . . . who?”
“At the end of the first big war, World War One, I was in a refugee camp in Hungary. I caught a man stealing from me. I accused him to the guard, but they didn’t seem to care. Soon he began to tell everyone I was a witch, that he saw me poisoning a child. That child was sick, I’d only been trying to help. But later, when the child died, the camp turned on me. Feeding on each other’s fears. I was a foreigner. It wasn’t hard to blame me. The guards did nothing as they tied me to a post, piled wood about me, and set it to flame. It was Gavin, your grandfather, that stopped them. His squad was marching by the camp when he heard me scream. He came and kicked out the flames, began to untie me. When the guards tried to stop him, he pulled out his pistol, leveled it at them. Him, this one tall man, staring down several armed guards, his face, his eyes, almost daring them to shoot him. They backed away and he took me from the camp.
“I fell in love and we married. He brought me here, to this island. It seemed a paradise at first. The days of farming rice were long past, but Gavin started up a lumber business. We had children, first two boys, then your mother. Life was good. But the war, it caught up with your grandfather. He began to have nightmares, began to drink, and soon after, his business failed. He seemed unable to keep a job after that. He didn’t like people telling him what to do and the jobs always ended with Gavin hurting someone. Then he began to transport liquor for Sid Mullins. This was back during Prohibition. He did other things for Sid as well. He never told me what, but more than once I had to boil the blood from his clothes. People . . . they were afraid of him. The few times we drove into town together you could see it, how careful they were around him, the way you’d act around a dog you know will bite.
“It was soon after my second child that his violence began to turn on me, then the children. He just couldn’t control his temper. There was no standing up to him when he got like that. Then . . . then it happened. Soon after your mother was born. He came home one night, his blood up. Something had gone wrong with a shipment of booze. I don’t know exactly. He was raving. He started in on our oldest boy, Billy. When I tried to stop him, his mind just left . . .” She fell silent.
Trish and Chet looked at each other, then Trish reached out, put a hand on top of Lamia’s.
“I’ll never forget that look in his eyes,” Lamia said. “He glared at me, at the children as though we were monsters. Called us demons. Screamed it. You could see he believed it. He shot me three times, in the leg, the chest, and here.” She touched the scar again. “Then he went after the boys.” A tear ran down her cheek.
“Lamia,” Trish said. “I think that’s enough.”
“He killed them . . . shot them . . . then burned them.” She put her face in her hands and Trish cradled her as she began to sob.
CHAPTER 4
Chet sat perched on the end of the bed, looking out the window into the night, waiting for Trish, hoping his grandmother and the strangeness of this house weren’t all too much for her.
Trish walked into the bedroom.
He gave her a cautious smile. “How’s Lamia?”
Trish pushed the door gently shut behind her. “Oh, she’s fine. A little upset, a little drunk too.” Trish grinned. “I helped her to bed. I think it did her a lot of good. Y’know, to be able to share what she went through.”
Chet nodded.
“Poor thing. She’s been living here alone ever since that horrible night. I can’t image how lonely that must’ve been. Did you know they took your mother away from her?”
“Yeah. Aunt Abigail, Grandpa’s sister, did that. Her and the rest of my grandpa’s family. Don’t know all the details, but I understand it got pretty ugly. Aunt Abigail went to court to prove Grandma was unfit to raise children, went so far as to try and have her committed.”
“Chet, I gotta show you something.” Trish opened her palm, revealing a small mark where the wound used to be.
Chet’s eyes widened. “Why . . . it’s all healed.”
“Yeah. Isn’t that something? Lamia may be a bit kooky, but she’s not crazy. There’s really something to those old ways of hers.”
They were both quiet for a minute.
“I like your grandma, Chet.”
“Even if she’s a wicked witch?” He smirked.
“She’s fascinating. She really is. The whole magic thing too. I mean, sure, the spells and witchcraft part is just ritual . . . at least I think so, but there’s this whole world of herb and root medicine I never knew anything about. She showed me her atrium. And it’s not just plants she’s got in there; there’re salamanders, frogs, snakes, bugs. She’s a regular encyclopedia on mushrooms, roots, fungus, dirt—shoot, about anything to do with nature. And, Chet, the best part is she wants to pass it along, to teach someone, and by someone I mean me. She actually asked if I’d be interested.”
“Are you?”
“Are you kidding? I thought I was gonna have to beg her, and, and—” Trish stopped. “What’re you grinning about?”
“So, you want to stay then? Give it a shot?”
Trish closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then opened them again. “I think so. At least for a while. Until after the baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Chet got up, turned off the light. They got undressed and into bed. He lay next to her, his hand on her stomach. Trish placed her hand atop his. “Do you think they’ll find us?”
“No,” Chet said, trying to sound reassuring. “My aunt did a good job of leaving the past behind.”
“Lamia is so excited about the baby,” Trish said. “Y’know she wants us to have the child here?”
“How do you feel about that?”
“That I’d be in good hands. She’s brought a lot of children into the world. And a home delivery would mean we wouldn’t have to go to a hospital.”
The baby kicked. Chet gasped, then laughed. “Seems like our daughter approves.”
Trish fell quiet and Chet could tell there was something on her mind.
“Chet, baby, this can all be so good.”
“Yeah,” Chet agreed, waiting for the rest.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Okay.”
“What we’re doing, leaving home, leaving everything we know behind to have this child. Well . . . it’s scary. Your grandma, she’s a real blessing and I think we got a pretty good thing here. But, I need to know, need to hear it from you again . . . that I won’t have to worry about you going back to jail. That you’re done with the drugs, done selling, transporting, all of it.”
Chet knew going into this that it wasn’t going to be easy, that he had a lot of work ahead if he wanted to earn back her trust. They’d been together since high school. In those days he’d sold a bit of weed, but mostly to friends. Trish never seemed to mind; she’d even shared a jay with him from time to time. But somehow selling to a few friends had turned into selling all around town, then eventually to running drugs across the state line. The first time Trish had found out she’d threatened to break up unless he stopped. Said she couldn’t devote herself to someone heading for prison, that she just didn’t need that kind of heartache. He’d promised her never again and meant it too, but what he meant to do, and what he actually did, didn’t always line up and it wasn’t long before she’d caught him again. He’d sweet-talked her into a second chance, but when it happened once more, she’d given him an ultimatum, telling him that next time was strike three and they were done—that he was out of her life for good. He knew she was looking out for him and he had sworn to her, yet again, that he was done, only done for him meant after one last run. Two weeks later he was arrested for transporting drugs and shortly after that he’d received her letter while sitting in a county cell.
“What it comes down to,” Trish said, “is I don’t want our baby growing up with her daddy in jail. So I need you to swear again, but not to me this time.” She pressed his hand against her belly. “But to her, to our little girl. Swear to her that her daddy is always going to be there for her.”
Chet did, and he meant it, more than he’d ever meant anything in his life, having no way of knowing that by morning, he’d be dead.
CHAPTER 5
Chet awoke sometime after midnight. No dreams this time, but the dread felt like a weight upon his chest. He sat up, his skin clammy, his breath labored as though there wasn’t enough air in the room. He got up, slipped on his shirt, pants, and shoes and found his way downstairs in the dark. He headed for the kitchen, poured himself a glass of lemonade, and went out onto the porch, careful not to let the screen door slam.
He leaned against a post, watching the sea fog seep into the lowlands, the big moon setting the mist aglow. He could just hear the distant waves breaking as the fireflies danced. He’d never seen so many fireflies. A calm began to steal over him and he closed his eyes. A vision came to him, as vivid as a real memory. It was of him, Trish, Lamia, and a little girl with dark curls playing on the beach. He caught himself smiling.
Chet opened his eyes. There—on the walkway—stood a boy.
Chet almost dropped the glass.
The boy appeared to be around five or six years old, white hair and dark eyes, jeans, but no shirt or shoes, a Mason jar full of flickering yellow lights in the crook of his arm. “Boo.”
Chet stared at him, trying to make sense of what a kid was doing way out here by himself, especially at this time of night. “Hey . . . do your folks know where you’re at?”
The kid smiled, held up the jar. “Come look what I caught.”
“Where do you live?”
“With the Burning Man. He wants to meet you.”
“Burning man?” Chet started down the steps; his hand bumped the strings and the little bells chimed. The boy’s face creased as though in pain. He fell back a step, glaring at Chet.
“Hey,” Chet said. “Don’t be scared. What’s your name?”
“I hate them bells,” the kid said and took off, darting around the hedge and out of sight.
“Wait,” Chet called, following after the boy. Chet came to the end of the walk, looked about the circular drive then down the dirt road. He squinted, thought he saw someone running near the cemetery, but the fog was thick that way.
“Hey, mister,” someone called. Chet started, spun round to find another boy. This kid also had white hair and dark eyes, but was a bit older, wearing a loose button-up shirt and baggy pants with suspenders.
“You seen my kid brother?” The boy looked worried.
“Um . . . yeah. I think so.”
“He ain’t suppose to be out here, y’know.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he headed that way.” Chet pointed down toward the cemetery.
“Mister . . . would you mind too much coming with me . . . to help me find him?” The kid dropped his eyes as though embarrassed. “Please. I don’t like being out here in the dark by myself. Don’t know if you heard or not, but there’s suppose to be all sorts of spooks trapped on this island.”
“Sure . . . okay. Let me go see if I can rustle up a flashlight.” Chet started back in.
“Need to hurry,” the kid said, starting down the road. “He might fall in the creek, or off the seawall. Davy, he can’t swim so well.”
“Yeah, okay,” Chet said and followed, realizing they really didn’t need a flashlight, not with the moon so bright.
“What’s your name?”
“Billy.”
“Well, Billy, I’m Chet.”
“I know,” the boy said.
“Y’know?”
“You’re Lamia’s grandson, ain’t you?”
“I am,” Chet said, trying to figure out how the kid would know that.
They passed the cemetery, the fog growing thicker, dimming the moon’s glow. As they entered the trees the shadows began to blend together. “Damn,” Chet said. “Have you ever seen so many fireflies?” The bugs appeared to be following them.
“Those ain’t fireflies.”
There was a guttural, husky pitch in the boy’s voice that hadn’t been there before. Chet glanced over and noticed patches of marred skin across the boy’s face and neck, as though the boy might’ve suffered burns years back. Chet couldn’t understand how he’d missed them earlier. He took a harder look, surprised at how gaunt and malnourished the kid appeared, how dark the shadows were under his eyes. Chet wondered what sort of home life this kid might have. If maybe the boy’s parents were the sort to put money toward drink before feeding their kids.
“Not fireflies? What are they then?”
“Souls. The souls of all the trapped children.”
A chill slid up Chet’s spine. Someone had been filling this kid up with stories, and Chet could tell by the way the boy said it that he believed them. Chet let out a weak laugh. “Souls, huh? Where’d you hear that?”
“I know it ’cause I seen them.”
“Oh . . .”
“If you want, I can show you where some of them died.”
Chet imagined the boy was referring to the murders committed by his grandfather, could only imagine at the local folktales circulating about.
“I can even show you where me and my little brother died.”
A moan came from deeper in the woods. Something moved toward them. Chet felt his hair stand on end, fell back a step, then stopped, an annoyed smirk on his face. “You can come on out, Davy,” he called.
A shape stepped out from behind a tree, walking out of the shadows toward them. It was the younger boy. He wore a sheepish grin.
Chet shook his head, let out a long sigh. “All right, you guys got me.”
They both snickered.
“Wanna play a game?” Davy asked.
“Nope. I’m all done playing games,” Chet said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I’m tired. Going to bed.” He turned, star
ted back, and realized he wasn’t sure which way back was. The fog was now so thick he couldn’t see past the nearest trees. The fireflies caught his attention, jigging about as though agitated. He’d never seen fireflies do that before. He started to point them out to the boys, when a moan, little more than a whisper, echoed about him. More moans followed, louder; the sounds seemed to be emanating from beneath him, from under the ground. They sounded dreadful, as though someone or something was in great pain. Chet felt a twinge of real fear grip his stomach. Something poked Chet from behind. He wheeled and found Davy smirking at him.
“C’mon, Chet. Let’s play awhile.” The kid, his face, something was wrong with his face. “We made a game up all on our own. Wanna know the name?” Davy’s grin grew, his lips peeling back, revealing black, broken teeth, far too many teeth. “It’s called Kill Chet.”
Chet’s eyes widened. This wasn’t the boy he’d seen before; this boy looked starved. Burn scars began to crisscross his bare skin, spreading, darkening. The boy’s eyes receded, shrinking into their sockets. An odor hit Chet, the smell of burning meat. “What the hell?” Chet shouted and spun away, colliding with Billy. Billy grabbed him, clinging to his waist. Chet tried to shove him away, but the boy’s blackened, scabby skin slid off, sticking to Chet’s hands like melting cheese, exposing raw sinew and putrefied meat.
Billy laughed, his eyes now sputtering yellow sparks. His head snapped forward, striking at Chet. The mouth with too many teeth sank into Chet’s arm.
“Hey! HEY!” Chet screamed as sharp, burning pain shot up his arm. Chet shoved the boy again, stumbling and thrashing until he tore free.
Chet ran, not caring where he was going so long as it was away from the two boys. Branches and briars grabbed and slashed his flesh and clothes as he barreled through the trees and underbrush. He lost first one shoe, then another. He ran and ran, trying to get back to the house, ran until his breath burned in his throat and lungs, until his feet were cut and bleeding.
Chet thought he heard crashing waves and stopped, tried to quiet his panting to listen. He did hear waves—just ahead. Dammit. Wrong way. He turned creeping along, trying to get his bearing. When he felt sure he was heading away from the surf he again began to run. The sound of the breakers disappeared and just as he felt he was almost to the house, again the sound of the surf. Shit!