“Where are John’s parents?” I demanded.
Mama’s laugh echoed through the man’s voice, making my skin crawl. “They’re waiting for you in the living room.”
I dodged past that thing and down the hallway. The world spun, and suddenly it was dark. Mama’s face was inches from mine, her features the only thing distinct in the gloom, her rasping breath freezing cold on my cheeks.
“Repent, you whore,” she said, and her voice was like those spiders crawling all over my body. “Repent or suffer the consequences of your sin.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I shoved her aside, nausea almost overcoming me as my hands met the cold, bloated meat hanging off her bones.
I blinked. Mama was gone, and sunlight was streaming down the hallway. I beat back my fear and ran into the living room.
As I turned that corner, my heart filled up my throat. I expected to see John’s parents dangling from the rafters the way John had been. But it was like walking through the doors of a movie theater and ending up in a restaurant.
The heavy, dusty curtains had been taken down from the windows. The bright sunshine gleamed off a vase of peonies on a polished mahogany table, and sitting on an antique white sofa where Mama’s big, overstuffed monstrosity used to be, their hands folded peacefully in their laps, were Mr. and Mrs. Speyers.
The Mama-thing was lounged in one of the wingchairs. It took a long drag from a cigarette and blew out an affected puff of smoke. “Well, sit down, Tara, so we can discuss this.”
I wasn’t about to sit down for this bullshit, but a force dragged me forward into the chair next to Mama-man’s, so I was facing John Sr. and Rosine across the polished mahogany coffee table. The warmth that was usually in their eyes was long gone. John Sr., a man I’d worked for and known for years, was now looking at me like I was a nasty bug.
“It’s my understanding,” Mama lilted, “that my Tara here wants to marry your son John Junior.”
“There is no way in hell,” John Sr. enunciated, glaring at me, “that our son is ever going to marry you.”
Rosine crossed her arms and shook her head. “Oh hell, no.”
My eyes filled up with tears, but I wiped them away and spun on Mama-man, who was smirking and sucking on her cigarette. “You let them go, Mama. Whatever the hell you’ve done to them…”
That horrible laugh bubbled up on a ribbon of smoke from those thin lips. “Oh, Tara Faith, you know I didn’t do a damn thing to these people.”
Rosine scowled at me. “What, you can’t believe we wouldn’t want you to marry our son? Look what trash you come from, Tara.”
Mama laughed uproariously, flipping her long-gone hair; on the bald man, the movement was disturbing.
John Sr. wrinkled his nose in disgust. “John Junior is marrying you over my dead body. You never were much to begin with, Tara, and you definitely ain’t worth this drama.” He waved a hand toward the possessed man.
A lump rose in my throat so I couldn’t breathe. A strangled sound came out of my mouth.
The sunshine seemed to dim. Mama’s face loomed directly in front of mine, shriveled and wasted, her hair hanging in lank clumps around her hollow cheeks. “You heard him, Tara Faith. Over his dead body.” Her cracked lips pulled back from tobacco-stained teeth, and she placed something into my hands.
It was a long, deadly sharp kitchen knife, brand new and shining.
“Go get ‘em, Tara,” Mama said.
I tried to throw the knife away, but my hand wouldn’t move. Numb heaviness seeped into my body, and the image of the living room, of the Speyerses sitting there on that sofa, grew hazy and distant, like a reflection of a reflection.
I got to my feet and walked toward John Sr. and Rosine, lifting the knife in front of me.
No!
But the words wouldn’t come. I was left desperately pounding on the walls of my own body as the Speyers’s eyes grew wide, and they both scrambled to their feet, the sofa scraping against the wood floor as they backed away.
I lunged. John Sr. dodged me, pushing Rosine out of my way. She stumbled back and fell with a cry of pain, and he tripped over the leg of the couch and went down.
I stood over them. Rosine’s leg was twisted at an angle, and her face was screwed up in agony. John Sr. watched me with a look of frozen horror.
As my heart cried out in horror and pity, my arm raised up, ready to bring that knife down.
A wordless screaming. Mama’s laugh. The smell of blood and long-ago death.
Happily-Ever-After is Just the Beginning
Chapter Eight
Evil Takes a Vacation
For a minute, pain was all I knew, but that minute was blissful compared to what came after.
Trapped in the darkness of an unquiet grave. The stench of Mama’s corpse lying beside me.
Would Mama always be there? Would I ever escape this?
“Well, there she is,” a voice said.
My eyes flew open. Brightness seared my vision, and nausea took over the rest of me.
My swimming head slowly settled, and my eyes adjusted to the light after that long dark. I was lying in a bed, orange sunlight slanting through slatted window shades.
That voice…
“You awake, Tara?”
Grandma Denise sat beside my bed on a straight-backed chair.
“John Senior and Rosine,” I said. “John Junior—”
“They’re fine,” Denise said. She clutched her knees, her expression inscrutable.
“But I…” I winced, my head swimming, bile churning in my guts.
She chuckled darkly. “I’m guessing that whatever you thought you did, you didn’t do. The Devil is the king of lies.”
“I didn’t hurt them?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “No, they’re fine. They don’t remember anything, and they’ve got a headache, same as you I guess, but they’re not hurt. They’re in the other room.” She jerked her chin toward the door. I realized I was in one of the spare bedrooms of the Speyers’ house. “The only one hurt was the wife of that poor man, the ones who bought the house.”
My fast-growing relief had a relapse. “Oh, Jesus…”
“Don’t you worry. She’s going to be okay, too. She’s in the hospital with a concussion from falling down some stairs. But you’re the one hurt worst.”
“I am?” I looked down at myself. I was wearing an unfamiliar pair of cotton pajamas, and my left arm was wrapped in gauze and bandage tape, dark, rusty stains showing underneath. I prodded it gently with a finger and was rewarded with a deep ache.
“You fought that devil pretty good,” Diane said. “Cut yourself up in the process.”
My jaw tightened. “What happened?”
With a wry smile, Grandma Diane told me how John Junior hadn’t been able to break through the door or any of the windows to get at me. “Anything he hit them with didn’t pack no punch. But luckily, I’d called Pastor Fred.” She smiled fiercely. “He knew the prayers to get that door open.”
“Thank God,” I muttered. I tried to picture it, but it was too weird. My head swam.
Diane laughed. “Exactly. When we got in there, John Senior and Rosine were lying on the living room rug along with that man, the one who bought the house, all three of them out cold, while you were wrestling around with a big old knife stuck in your own arm, screaming.”
I pressed my fingertips into my eyes, not wanting to think of what could have happened.
“Fought that Devil good,” she repeated, and she sounded proud. “Pastor Fred did an exorcism and got the Devil out of all of you.”
I scratched my good arm with my fingernails. The Devil in me...My blood felt tainted, a touch of evil still souring it, and I shook my head to clear it.
“I don’t think they’re gone,” Diane said quietly. “I don’t know that for sure, but I don’t think they’re done with you yet. Pastor Fred isn’t the one to banish those ghosts, Tara. You’ll have to do that yourself.”
The door burst open,
and John came in. “Oh God, you’re awake.” He crossed the room in a leap and slid into the bed next to me, gathering me up in my arms. It hurt like hell, but it felt good, his warmth seeping into me like medicine. “Goddammit, Tara Faith,” he muttered into my hair. “Running into that house all by yourself. What the hell were you thinking?”
Tears rose up into my eyes again. “John?”
“What, Tara?”
“Do you still want to marry me?”
He pulled away and gave me a look like I was crazy. “What, do you think I met someone else while you were in there getting yourself killed?” I looked at him, and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I still wanna marry you, Tara Faith.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I had to. I glanced at Diane, back at him. “I don’t think those ghosts are gone yet, though.”
He grimaced. “Yeah, wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t gone yet. But I still want to get married.”
“But that’s messed up, actually. You’re in danger because of me.” The tears rose up, and I couldn’t say any more.
He snorted, gently tracing the bandage on my arm. “I think I need to be around to protect you.”
I put my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. If I didn’t marry him, how did I know Mama and those other ghosts wouldn’t come after him anyway? Maybe it’d be better if I were at least there to stop them.
I might have been making excuses, I know. But I wanted to marry my man.
Pastor Fred married us the very next morning, there under the jasmine arbor in Rosine and John Sr.’s back garden. Later that month, we had a nice big reception with everyone invited except evil ghosts.
And we had different centerpieces.
About the Author
Elizabeth Roderick is a prolific author, musician, homesteader, and freelance editor. Her current publications include the romantic suspense novel Love or Money and the magical realism The Other Place Series.
Elizabeth’s stories are about love, death, gang warfare, and madness and have the sorts of characters that society generally shuns: addicts, convicts, and the mentally ill. She believes if you get to know these sorts of people, you’ll like them more than you expected.
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/elizabethroderickauthor
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/LidsRodney
Website:
http://talesfrompurgatory.com/
Mama’s Closet
By Erin Lee
We’ve been locked in this closet for three days. I know, because there’s a crack under the door barely big enough for my sister to peek under. She gives me reports, like the weatherman on Mama’s favorite morning show. My baby sister can see the light coming into the house from the big window in Mama and Papa’s room. When there’s light out there, it’s daytime. When it’s dark, even all the way over by Mama’s vanity, we know it’s night. It’s not so bad, really. At least, I try to tell Spencer that. Spencer, my baby sister, is eight. I’m ten and three quarters. I hope I’m still ten and three quarters by the time we get out of here.
Probably no.
My name is Hope, and I’m gunna need lots of it to get out of here before Halloween comes.
We got locked in this time because Mama’s mad. She gets mad a lot. This time, it was all Spencer’s fault. She didn’t ask to be excused from supper. Mama says it’s rude. She says we’re disrespectful. But I always ask to be excused. The last time we got locked in here, Mama and Papa didn’t come back for a whole three weeks. They gave us milk jugs of water, a flashlight with bad batteries, a bucket from the painter who worked on our house, and three loaves of bread. They told us to eat like prisoners. They said that’s what we’d one day be—prisoners. That time it was because I took an extra muffin without asking. I shouldn’t have stolen it. Mama said I’m a thief. It was so tasty! Last time, it was all my fault. I should have known better. There’s a lock on the fridge for a reason.
“Decent children don’t steal,” Papa says. “They ask, not take. They always say please and thank you.” Those, he says, are the only kind of kids that get to go trick-or-treating. That’s why last year we had to stay home and pass out stupid candy that we weren’t allowed to eat. This year will be different, if only we can get out of here and Spencer can keep it together.
I wonder what our parents will come back with. I hope they have a good trip and bring something to make Spencer smile. Last time, they had big flower necklaces Mama called leis. Those things made Mama so happy. She danced and twirled with Papa for weeks. Her skin was a pretty shade of brown, and she couldn’t stop smiling. She didn’t even say Clarissa’s name, not once. Clarissa is our next door neighbor. Mama says Papa likes her way too much for his own good. She says Clarissa is trying to steal our Papa away, like how I stole the blueberry muffin. I hate her. Clarissa makes Mama mean. Clarissa should ask, not take. Or, even better, Mama could lock her in the closet instead of us. Clarissa makes Mama mean.
Although Spencer’s driving me crazy, I have to pretend she’s not. I don’t want to listen to her cry again. It hurts my ears. I tell her to dress up, to find a costume for Halloween. I let her turn the flashlight on only for a hundred Mississippis before I make her turn it back off. We can’t let it run out like last time. We won’t be able to see the bucket we’re supposed to use for a bathroom. If we make a mess, Papa will be even angrier, and we will be stuck passing out Skittles again. Last time, Spencer missed and peed on the floor. Papa said it warped because of her, and it cost us three extra days. I can’t miss the Halloween parade. This year, I’m going to be an angel. I have the best teacher and three of my best friends in my class. They are going to be angels, too. They don’t know about the closet. I’d never tell anyone. Mama says it’s a secret, and Papa says it’s a crime to betray the family trust. I wonder how much time that would get us if we messed up and told. I don’t want to think about it. I bet we’d even miss Christmas.
Today, we’re playing dress up. Mama has so many clothes. The closet is big and even has benches we can sleep on. I took her sweaters and made them into pillows and blankets for when it gets too cold. Papa doesn’t like running the heat when they’re not home. Spencer used the flashlight to pick out her outfit. I think I know what she’ll be—a clown. Spencer’s always a clown. That’s what’s she’s gunna be again for Halloween this year. Not me. I’m going to be an angel with magical powers who could fly right out of a closet like this. The kind of angel who can cast a spell on criminal neighbors and make Mama happy with flower necklaces. The clown thing is annoying. It’s really stupid and really obvious.
“This game is dumb!” Spencer whines. She’s always complaining about something.
“Be quiet. This is your fault. All you had to do was ask if you could be excused. Besides, you have to be good if you want Mama and Papa to be in a good mood.”
“I forgot!”
“I know,” I sigh, remembering how many times I’ve forgotten too, especially on meatloaf nights. “You can’t forget ever again.”
She shakes her head, shining the flashlight into her face and squinting. “I won’t. I promise.” She blows air into her cheeks and pops them with her hands, making a farting sound, and laughs.
I forget to laugh. I’m too worried about running out of light. “Don’t keep turning that thing on! If it runs out, we won’t be able to see what we’re doing.”
“But I’m bored!” Spencer pouts. “And I gotta be able to get dressed with lights so my costume is perfect! I’ve got a surprise for you!”
Spencer’s smile is contagious. Her big lips and square teeth with the missing spots make me smile right back. She sticks her tongue out through the space between her top two teeth and crosses her eyes. In five minutes, I know, her smile will be even wider. Her blue eyes will sparkle and remind me of the time she helped me sneak a kitten home. She’ll ask me what she’s supposed to be, and I’ll guess everything but clown. It’s what big sisters do. How I know this? I don’t know. I’ve
never had a big sister. I guess I’m just good at knowing what to do. We’ve spent enough time in the closet together.
“Fine. Two more minutes.”
“How many Mississippis is that?”
“Sixty.”
“Okay, turn around and count,” she says, squinting toward our bucket and scuffing up her nose. “Can’t you push that thing further back?”
I use my foot to slide the bucket under Mama’s dressing bench and tell myself not to laugh. Anger creeps in.
Serves her right. She’s probably dancing with Papa again and has forgotten all about us. She’s probably swimming in an ocean the color of Spencer’s eyes or a garden tub with bubbles and rose petals, just how she likes her baths. It’s cold. I wonder how much snow is outside. Why do we have to live in a place where it snows in October, anyway?
We haven’t had a bath in days, and the onion smell of my armpits is starting to bother me more than a little. Perhaps it’s time to talk to Mama about deodorant. It might be fun. She wants me to grow up. We could go shopping for it together when the after-holiday sales come. I hope Spencer hasn’t noticed my stink. I want her to be proud of me, not think I reek. If she has, she hasn’t said anything. And Spencer says everything that comes across her mind—another reason we’re always in trouble.
“There!” I say when it’s pushed all the way back. “Now, hurry. We’re gunna need that light.”
“I am hurrying!”
I put my hands over my eyes and turn to face her.
“No looking! You’re gunna ruin my surprise!”
“I can’t see anything. My eyes are covered. Chill out, Spence.”
“Fine!” and then, “Man, you stink.”
13 Night Terrors Page 10