“Is there any way to get rid of a talasum?”
Lubie spoke again to her mother. Her mom thought for a while and finally replied.
“Mom says according to the legend, the only way to get rid of a talasum is to invite it to dinner in the kitchen and then politely ask it to join you for a celebration somewhere in the forest.” Lubie stopped translating and looked at her mother, confused, and then she asked her something. “She says that you need to invite it to the forest and leave it some food in a cabin, close the door and jam it shut. Then you go back home, and the talasum will stay in the cabin.”
“Why did you look confused?”
“We don’t really have those cabins around anymore. They were used by hunters and lumberjacks. I remember seeing one that was falling apart when we hiked through the Rila Mountains.” She spoke to her mother again.
“Mom says we might be able to use one of the small huts that are now used for hiking. We have a lot of those throughout the Pirin, Rila and Balkan Mountains. It means going for a hike, though. The problem is many of the huts are manned by guardians, so we’d need to find one that isn’t.” Lubie looked at Helen. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the kind of vacation I had in mind for you.”
Helen smiled and said, “I’m happy to go for a hike. I’m just glad I’m not sitting at that godforsaken computer.” She thought for a moment and then interjected, “So, this…talasum is just going to what? Get into a car with us and drive somewhere?”
Lubie smiled, turned to her mother and spoke, and then turned back to Helen, saying, “She doesn’t know. This legend goes back long before cars.”
Her mother spoke again and Lubie translated. “She says there is another possibility. The boy may never have received a proper burial. There is a chance that his body is still down there somewhere, and if we can retrieve it and bury it, it will go away. She added that this is her own personal belief. It’s not grounded in the folklore at all.”
“Well, that certainly sounds easier than trying to lead him into the mountains.”
After some discussion, they agreed to contact someone from the coroner’s office in Ruse as well as someone from the company that repaired the elevator in the past—for which a phone number was displayed downstairs—and have them meet them at the building.
A young man wearing overalls with a set of tools showed up from the elevator company, and a woman in her mid-fifties from the coroner’s office arrived in a small white van. Lubie didn’t bother giving them the full story, only that her aunt had claimed that a boy had fallen into the shaft when the building was built, and they wanted to ensure that the body was not still down there. The two professionals looked at each other in disbelief but agreed to help.
The man led them down to the basement which had a long corridor with poured concrete walls and low ceilings. There was a room off to the right with a light on where several older men all sat playing cards and drinking. The men stopped and looked toward them, clearly unaccustomed to seeing people roam around in the lower level. Ignoring them, Helen, Lubie, and the two professionals continued to walk to the end of the corridor where there was a small door to the left. Lubie explained to Helen that it said ‘Elevator room.’
The man pulled a large switch on a box outside the room, killing the power on the elevator, and he unlocked the door before opening it. There was a single small light mounted on the wall, and the four stood in the room at the bottom of the elevator shaft. There was a set of pulleys mounted to the floor as well as four rails along the wall with cables going up. Also, there was what looked to Helen like a counterweight hanging down about two stories up. The floor of the shaft had a very thick layer of dust, and the smell reminded her of a closet she had opened long ago in her grandfather’s house five thousand miles from here. There were no bones or any sign of a body in the small space even after the four looked in all the corners. The man then pointed to a wooden panel on the other side of the shaft and said something in Bulgarian.
“He says beyond that panel is the electrical motor for the elevator.”
He unscrewed the wooden panel in four places and removed it. Behind it in the dark was a large motor contained in a metal housing. Helen got on her knees and peered inside, holding up a flashlight. She slowly crept backward and handed the flashlight to Lubie, who peered inside. There, a few feet behind the motor, seated in the corner, was the desiccated body of a five-year-old boy laying on his side, fragments of hair still clinging to his nearly clean white skull. There were brownish-red fragments of what must have been flesh dried on the bones, and his arms and legs were still wrapped in the tattered brown pants and plaid shirt he must have been wearing at the time. “How did no one see this all this time?” Lubie asked the man in English, and before she even had a chance to say it again in Bulgarian, he replied in broken English.
“This motor never replaced. No person come in here.”
Helen looked at the boy and said, “If he fell down the shaft, he should be at the bottom of the shaft, not in a room off the side.”
“He must have been badly injured and crawled into the room behind the motor. They must have closed up the panel, not knowing he was in there,” Lubie replied.
“How awful.”
The following day, forty people, including Lubie’s family and Helen, all stood at the small grave that Lubie had purchased to help bury the boy’s body. The boy and the secrets were finally laid to rest.
Monsters are nothing new to our world. They have existed for as long as we have called this planet home. Like all living creatures, some monsters prey upon the innocent. And then there are always more the powerful monsters that prey on those monsters that are smaller. Every day, children are abused, neglected and have their innocence stripped from their precious life. They fear the monsters in their closet. But what do those monsters in their closet fear? They fear me.
I am a monster of sorts—I have always known this. I am a monster with a higher purpose.
All of us serve a purpose. Some choose to be a housewife, some choose to be a physician, some choose to teach. Too many opt to only exist. I cannot—will not—simply exist. I cannot change the fact that I am a monster, as it is my rightful legacy. But I can control how that monster is unleashed and when. I calculate. I plan. I get it right.
Most of the time.
Ruth Waters gently closed the leather-bound notebook and looked up at Rebecca Lacitor. She had known the retired detective for almost forty years, and her husband Brick had worked closely on several cases with the detective over the years.
The writing was undeniably that of her dead husband. There were five boxes of the notebooks sitting before her, each meticulously lettered and cataloged by Brick. “I don’t understand. What legacy? What is he talking about?”
The two elderly women sat in silence, staring at the boxes until Rebecca spoke. “Ruth, these are Brick’s thoughts and his atonement. He feels very guilty about the things that have occurred over the years. I cannot discuss them with you. They are yours to read, and hopefully you can come to your own conclusion.”
Ruth looked back down at the boxes and randomly picked up one of the books, flipping it open and reading the first words that her eyes came upon.
…slowly tore the jagged knife across her throat, her life began to eject from her, pulse by pulse, filling the tube that led down into the tank. I was overcome with joy. Not just the exhilaration of having the power to end her life but knowing that there was nothing she could do to stop it gave me an even greater strength. She would never again harm that little boy. Her atrocities now shed themselves from her one red drop at a time.
Ruth’s weathered hand slowly went to her mouth, covering her gasp. She slowly looked up at Rebecca. “You knew about this?”
Lacitor held up her hands, her palms facing Ruth, and said, “Ruth, this is between you and Brick. I am only a messenger. I promised Brick that I would give you these if anything happened to him.”
Ruth slowly rose, pushing hard on her
cane with her right arm, and stepped slowly toward Rebecca, saying, “You knew about this, and you never told me?!”
“Ruth, calm down,” the old woman said, slowly backing away.
Ruth held up her cane and then slammed it down on the table nearby. Despite being out of range, Rebecca held up her hands defensively. “Ruth, please! Listen to me.”
“Listen to you? Listen to you? He was my husband!”
“I know…I know…I just…”
“Get out!”
“Wait, what?” Rebecca stammered.
“Get out!” Ruth yelled again as she began to spin into a frenzy. “Get out! Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!” she screamed.
Rebecca grabbed her purse and walked to the door and left, closing the door behind her just in time to cut off Ruth screaming, “You conniving, deceitful bitch!”
Rebecca leaned her back against the door, closing her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. She had known that when Brick “revealed himself” to Ruth, it could go in any direction. She had hoped that it would not go in this direction, on the path of distrust and pain. Rebecca had feared that Ruth would see her as the enemy, as if it had been her choice to conceal Brick’s dark side, his murderous side. It was not her responsibility; it was Brick’s, and she truly felt she was the messenger in this—but the message she gave Ruth very well may have costed them their decades-long friendship.
There was a gentle whir of an electric engine as a car pulled up to the house. Rebecca opened her eyes and saw Doug, Brick and Ruth’s son, slowly getting out of the car, the fifty-three-year-old’s electronic prosthesis legs helping him slowly walk down the sidewalk toward her. He had been paralyzed over forty years earlier when he was twelve in the explosion in Terminal A at Logan Airport. That year had been a turning point for many things in Rebecca’s life. She had learned more details about her best friend—and monster—FBI Agent Brick Waters, she had fallen in love with her husband Stan Devonshire and she had learned that there was so much more hiding beneath the surface of society than people knew about. “Aunt Becca? What’s wrong?”
“You may want to come back at another time.”
He cocked his eyebrow and said, “Why? What happened?”
“Your mother is pretty upset. I…I just gave her the journals.”
Doug’s expression went from one of concern to exasperation as he said, “Seriously, Aunt Becca? Couldn’t you warn us that you were going to do that?”
“This is between your father and your mother. Please don’t yell at me, I’ve been yelled at enough. I made a promise to your father, and I’ve done my part. Please, go in and talk to your mom and let her know I never tried to hide anything from her. I made a promise never to speak about any of this to her.”
Doug shook his head slowly. “Maybe you’re right; maybe I should come back at another time.”
Rebecca put her hands on Doug’s shoulders. “No, go talk to your mother. She needs you now more than ever. This is terribly shocking news. Plus, there are things in those journals, especially the later ones, that your father wanted Ruth to know about. Read them with her.”
INSIDE THE HOUSE, Doug found his mother in the kitchen, staring at the boxes laying on the floor. “Mom? Are you okay?”
Ruth just continued to stare. How could I have not seen it? How could I have not even seen what was right under my nose? I am a federal agent, trained to find killers, to see patterns. How could I have not seen this for so long?
“I’m blind. I am a blind, stupid old woman,” she finally said and looked up at Doug.
“You’re not blind, mom.”
“Did you know about this?” she asked, waving her hand at the boxes.
Doug looked down at them and then back up at his mother.
His mother’s face contorted, and she cocked her head to the side as the reality hit her. “Oh my god. You did,” she said quietly. “Douglas? How can you have known about this side of your father and never tell me?”
“Mom, it’s complicated.”
“There is nothing complicated about a fucking murderer living in our house! I shared my goddamn bed with him!”
“Mom, stop. You’re judging him, and you don’t know the whole picture—far from it. Just stop and calm down. Let’s go through this together.”
“Who else knows? Who else knows how fucking blind I am?”
“Only Aunt Rebecca, your nephew Jonah, Uncle Robert and I know about this. There is a lot more depth to this than you know.”
“Was he a killer?” Ruth asked outright.
“No. Well, yes, but not like you think.”
Ruth’s mind was spinning. She probed her memories, turning them over in her head like a puzzle piece, trying to fit everything together. She found herself attempting to build the psychological profile that she had somehow overlooked all these years. Thinking back though, all she could remember was a loving husband and a solid father who was distant at times, but everyone had moments when they needed solitude. For the most part, he was always present and always went out of his way to help anyone he could, especially if it involved children.
She took a deep breath and asked, “What do you mean it’s not like I think?”
“I think it would be better if dad himself told us.” Doug grabbed the first box and shuffled through the journals. From the bottom, under several of the books, he pulled out an old DVD jewel case that was like the kind that was used to hold movies back in the late 1990s. It was plain black with a note taped to it. It read simply:
Doug,
Please don’t let your mom watch this by herself.
I love you, son.
Dad
Doug opened the DVD case and pulled out the aging disc. He walked over to the small cubby built into the wall and placed it facedown on the media reader. “Elise, recognize and play the DVD on the media reader.”
A female’s human-like voice replied, “One moment, Doug.” She paused and then a moment later continued, “I’m detecting some oxidation on the disc. I’ll do my best to repair it. Do you want me to copy it to the library?”
“Yes please, but keep it encrypted to the voice pattern of myself and mom and do not allow it to leave the premises. Then play it on the living room television.”
“Understood. Ruth, do you concur?”
Her voice shaking a little, Ruth replied, “Yes, I concur. Encrypt using key Delta 3.”
“Delta 3 encryption confirmed,” Elise replied. “Now ready to play in the living room.”
Doug and his mother made their way into the next room and sat down. As they entered, the entire wall to the left was illuminated with an image of the six-foot man who had died last year—looking thirty years younger. The man that had been their solid foundation. Their Brick.
As they sat down, Elise added, “I’m sorry, but there isn’t enough data to create a holographic representation. It will have to be a two-dimensional presentation.”
“That’s fine, go ahead and play,” Doug replied.
“Hello, my sweet Ruthie,” Brick started. “I’m sure if you’re watching this, it’s because something happened to me either in the line of duty or because someone finally got pissed off at me enough to take me out.”
“Or an aortic aneurysm,” Ruth interrupted quietly.
Brick looked down at his hands and then back up at the screen. “Please understand, this is difficult for me to talk about. I’m sure you’ve seen the journals that I’ve written. I’ve never said all of this out loud, and I haven’t written them to brag or to confess. I have nothing to confess, and I am not ashamed of my actions. There is a monster within me. A monster that my mother helped to create. No, that’s not right. She didn’t create the monster. I suppose that it’s more of a monster that has haunted my family for many generations, and she just helped to give it a home. I suppose the best place to start will be the beginning, at least as far as we know.
“The year was 1782, and my great-great-great-great grandfather…” Brick said,
pausing to count out the “greats” before nodding. “Anyway, he had recently moved to the United States from Ireland. His name was David Poe. He was the father of the writer Edgar Allan Poe. Yes…Poe is a part of our family, which may explain some of the oddities that we have in our lineage. Perhaps our genome was screwed up long before it ever left Ireland. We will never know for sure.
“My mother…” Brick paused again, taking a breath before saying, “was a killer. She was…” He looked down and then back into the camera. “She was the very serial killer that you were hunting when you met me, and she was one of the primary reasons I chose to become an FBI agent. She was responsible for the milkman murders, and it was her and her father before her that committed the St. Louis slayer murders. In fact, her father taught her how to be a serial killer. Grandpa’s father, great-grandpa James, taught grandpa how to kill, my great-great-grandma Anne May taught James how to kill, my great-great-great-grandpa William Poe, who was Edgar Allan Poe’s brother, taught Anne May how to kill and so on back to my great-great-great-great-grandfather David Poe.”
Brick locked his eyes on the camera and stared at it. Ruth could almost feel her husband’s ice blue eyes staring at her from beyond the grave. “Ruthie, my mom taught me how to kill. She taught me the art, the ceremony, the desire…the pride.” Silently sobbing, Ruth’s hand went to her mouth, covering it. “Sweetie, I know this is very difficult to hear, but I need to tell you this. I’ve needed to for a very long time. I’m so tired of hiding. So tired of keeping our line a secret.
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