by Etta Faire
“So you took it out on Jasmine,” I said.
He shook his head. "I took it out on a whore. I should've killed Tina too. She saw me outside the Shop-Quik. I told her if she told anyone, I'd bite her fingers off, tear her limbs off like the rotting limbs of my mother..."
He looked all around the room, but stopped when he reached me. "I'm sorry we didn't get to have sex, Carly Mae," he said. I tried to keep my eyes from bugging out, but I honestly hadn't expected him to say that. I somehow held in my shock and my throw-up.
"We should've had sex. You would've liked it." He looked over at his aunt. "Sorry you had to hear that, Aunt Rosalie."
Her unconscious body didn’t answer him.
"Let's go," he said, grabbing my arm, yanking me to my feet. He raised the gun to my temple. “There's still time to make those dreams come true."
He pulled me toward the stairs, but stopped at his aunt's side. Through gritted teeth, he mumbled, "She's my girlfriend, Aunt Rosalie. It’s okay."
I gulped, and he turned back to me. “Move. Up the stairs.”
I couldn't believe this was happening. I bit my lip, telling myself to remain calm. Maybe I could catch him off guard if I went along. Maybe I could get the gun. I needed to get the gun.
Yanking my arm hard, he pulled me up the two flights of stairs to the floor with the bedrooms, pushing me past the room with the blackbird wallpaper and down the hall toward the main one. "Tell me how much you love me and beg for your life."
He didn’t give me time to say anything. He pushed the gun hard against my head. “Don’t make me wait,” he said.
“Please don’t kill me. I love you,” I said.
“Good,” he replied. “That’s the way we’re going to play this game. I tell you to do something, and you do it. No waiting.”
He tossed the flashlight and pushed me down hard onto the chair by the door, shoving his pants' zipper in my face, pointing the gun to my head. I could see his sinister smile in the light from the full moon. I kept my eyes focused on his smile. On the moon.
But I sat, motionless.
He lifted my hand and put it on his zipper. “I said no waiting,” he said, waving the gun around now.
I tried to get my fumbling fingers to unzip his pants, my eyes on the gun. That's when I noticed the dark shadow behind him.
"Well, this is an awkward 'I told you so,'" a very cocky voice said from behind the man with his crotch in my face. I blinked hard. I'd never been happier to see my awful dead ex-husband in my life.
He hovered by Brock. "I would've been here sooner, but somebody did this sage smudging thing..."
"Jackson," I said, my eyes avoiding Brock's unzipped pants, and the fact he wasn't wearing underwear.
Brock turned his head toward the back of the room. "Who in the hell are you talking to? Your dead ex? You goin' crazy like your friend?"
Seeing my chance, I kicked him hard in the crotch at the same time Brock's zipper flew up mysteriously, full speed ahead, catching along the extra sensitive parts of his flesh and tangling some of it into its teeth. Brock immediately grabbed himself, his face growing to a level of beet red I didn't know you could see in moonlight. He dropped the gun on his way down to his knees. I wasted no time picking it up and pointing it at him.
"Bitch!" he mumble-screamed, looking only at his darkening skin, half tangled in his zipper.
I stood over him, holding the gun with both hands, smiling smugly, taking full credit for his pain even though I'd had a little help.
He leaned on the chair to get up, still fiddling with his zipper.
"Don't get blood on my dead ex's favorite chair." I said, waving the gun toward the door. "Now, move. Downstairs." I still had to figure out how to restrain this guy, and more importantly, how to call the authorities. My phone cord had been yanked from the wall, my electricity was cut, and I had no idea where Rex was or my car keys. I took a deep breath. I could do this.
He didn't move. Through dark cheeks, he grinned. "You think it's really loaded, huh? All the other girls did too. I wasn't sure that was going to be the case when I followed those first two home from their work that day. But once they saw the gun, they just walked right into a masked stranger's car. A rental even. People see a gun and they think they don't have options."
I pulled the trigger, aiming right for his junk. It clicked, but nothing happened.
"Wow. You were really going to do that." He laughed, reaching for the gun. I kicked him hard in the junk and threw the gun at him as he toppled down forward, screaming obscenities at me. I've never run down two flights of stairs faster. I took off through the living room and out the kitchen door into the night. Rosalie's beams shown in an unhelpful direction as I looked around the veranda for what to do next.
"It's scary when you suddenly realize you don't have the power you thought you had, isn't it?" I heard him yelling from the house. He was getting closer.
I ran for the opened turret door. Maybe Rex was in there. Maybe my police escort, Justin, would finally show up soon. Maybe Brock wouldn't see me running into the turret and would look all around the yard, giving me time to find my keys, or Rosalie's. There were way too many maybes for me to feel comfortable about my odds. Still, I had to go with them. I knew Jackson was probably too weak to help me any more.
I heard Rex whimpering as soon as I ran in. He was gagged and chained to the couch in the room with all the paintings. Thankfully, he wasn't hurt. I tried to unhook him as heavy footfalls hit the wood of the veranda. I stopped frozen, chain in my hand, hoping Brock hadn't heard it rattle.
“Olly olly oxen free,” he yelled into the night in a sing-song voice. He laughed. "If you're waiting for Justin, he ain't coming. I talked to him earlier tonight. Seems something you said had him convinced Bobby Franklin was the killer. He's tailing Bobby Franklin... can you believe it? Because the poor guy wants you to be safe. That's about the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I think that boy still likes you."
While he was talking, I managed to unhook the chain from Rex's collar. He shook his head a little too loudly in gratitude, and Brock stopped talking. The footfalls came toward the turret's entrance, faster than I expected. With no other option, I ran up the stairs to the library, Rex right behind me.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." he said, throwing open the door. It crashed against the back wall. "You're trapped. And all because you wanted to save your stupid dog. He's too old to help you and if he even tries, you'll be watching me kill him first."
I heard Brock checking through the paintings in the bottom room, throwing things around, probably to see if we were hiding there. I locked the library door and ran behind the desk chair.
Brock was soon on the stairs, clomping loudly so I'd know he was coming. Slowly.
My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my ears; my lip twitched unnaturally. I grabbed a couple books, but I knew they weren't going to do much. In the dim moonlight streaming in through the windows, I saw the library's knob move. I held my breath, making one last desperate attempt to find something of use besides some books. The desk drawers were locked. I knew that, but I still checked.
The door flew open with the kick of Brock's combat boot, and I screamed. Rex growled and moved forward, toward the killer, baring his teeth. My hero.
"You're a good boy," Brock said. "You remember me, right?" He put his hand out and my dog went to him, sniffing it. So much for heroes. Brock looked at me and smirked just as Rex bit into his hand, hard.
Yelling obscenities, Brock kicked my dog across the room. Rex smacked into the back wall, flopping down limp and lifeless. I screamed and crawled over to him, watching as Rex quickly rolled over, got up, and ran back to Brock, snarling.
Brock laughed harder. "You want some more, huh? Too stupid to know when to give up. Stupid runs in this family, I see.” He kicked his boot through one of the stain glass windows adorning part of the back of the room. Glass shattered onto the ground below, clinking and clanking. "How 'bout I throw you out this window? Fi
rst you, then your owner."
The room began to rumble, low and slow at first like the veranda when Mrs. Harpton was sweeping it. Then the whole turret shook, violently. Books soared from their places on the shelves, papers and pens flew from the desk, all the drawers opened now; everything pelted Brock on the head and back.
"What the?" he said, swatting the books away, trying to protect himself from the attack, backing up toward the opened window. His voice cracked as he spoke. "What in the hell is going on? As soon as this earthquake stops, I swear you’re gonna get it.”
"Earthquake? This is no earthquake and it's not going to stop," I said, matter-of-factly. "My house doesn't like you."
"You're crazy."
"That's right," I said, chucking my own books at him now, moving in closer to the man at the window. "I am crazy. And you should know not to mess with crazy.”
Brock's feet lifted from the hardwood, setting him off balance. He swung his arms wildly around, trying to regain control, trying to comprehend just what in the hell was happening. "You bitch."
"It's just Carly now," I said, kicking him as hard as I could out the window, surprised when he teetered on the edge a second, swinging his arms around before falling. A loud thud soon followed, and even though I knew there was no way he could've survived that fall, I still checked. Every horror movie I ever watched made me know I had to check.
I turned toward what I thought was going to be a mess in the room. Everything was back in its place, books on their shelves, paper and pens back in the desk. I sat down on the chair and put my head in my hands. Rex came over and licked my arm. And I hugged him hard. "My knight in shining armor," I said.
One of the drawers of the desk was still open, and I couldn't help but think the house wanted to show me something or tell me something, which was crazy, except completely realistic all at the same time.
There was only one thing in the drawer, a large book with a gold embossed title: There Was a Crooked Man.
I still needed to catch my breath and check on Rosalie, but instead, I found myself opening the book, barely able to see it properly in the darkness of the room. It was a scrapbook of sorts with old tattered black-and-white photos glued into its pages. Children in what looked like a classroom setting, the girls in perfect curls and white dresses, the boys in black uniforms. All sitting at tiny desks. Two adults stood off in the back. A man with a handlebar mustache and a woman in a high-collar black dress.
I squinted. Was that Ronald and Mrs. Harpton? It was a pretty fuzzy photo and the thought was impossible. Mrs. Harpton had to be this woman's great granddaughter. Either that or Ronald and Mrs. Harpton were some sort of ghosts that seemed an awful lot like real people. I held the photo closer. I just couldn't tell. It probably wasn't them.
I'd need to look at this later. A breeze from the broken window reminded me I shouldn’t be doing this now, anyway.
I skimmed through the rest of the book quickly before closing it. Blackbirds and lewd old photos, kind of like this book was Playboy's creepy old grandfather. Sepia-toned, black-and-white images of beautiful young women in various stages of being undressed.
What on earth made me think the house wanted to show me this?
I shook my head, disappointed with myself for taking so much time for nothing, for believing my house had a message for me. I still needed to check on Rosalie, find her keys, and get help.
I was just closing the book when the last photo caught me by surprise. Three men stood around the very desk I was sitting at right now. I could tell from the stained glass windows in the background and the fountain pen sitting off to the side.
One of the men in the photo had round, Theodore-Roosevelt glasses and a buttoned-up, stuffy vest. I recognized him from other family photos. It was Henry Bowman, the designer of this house and Jackson's great grandfather. He was the only one in the photo I recognized, though. All three of the men were laughing, staring up at a woman dancing on the desktop in front of them wearing nothing but a single strand of long white pearls and some heels. I closed the book and pinched my arm, rolling the skin between my fingers until it stung under my touch, momentarily worried Mrs. Harpton, Ronald, and I had more in common than I thought.
That naked dancer looked just like me.
Chapter 31
Curses
Tina and I reminisced the whole drive over to the cemetery the next week, talking about the food fights we used to get into in the back of the Thriftway, and the boyfriends we made up so we wouldn't seem pathetic, not realizing that probably made us extra pathetic.
She seemed stable now, looking over at me from the passenger’s seat, her loose strings of blonde hair falling out of her ponytail and onto her round face. I knew things would never be like they were before her diagnosis, but little by little, they would still be okay.
I tried not to bring up Brock in case it upset her or Rosalie, who was sitting in the back seat of the car, but I told her if she was ever ready, I'd help her write a book about everything.
“My mother will be thrilled to hear I’m finally using my million-dollar English degrees for something,” I said.
When we got to the cemetery, my heels poked into the plush dark green lawn like they were trying to touch the dead folks laying just underneath us. Not sure why I chose to wear heels, or Jackson's favorite dress.
But then, my choices in life always did seem to rest on the edge of questionable.
Rosalie pointed to a batch of headstones to our right and we headed over there, my ridiculous heels squishing the whole way over. I scanned the gravestones, genuinely surprised none of these people were trying to communicate with me right now.
Tina handed me one of the bouquets of flowers we bought when I picked her up from Safe Home. Peonies and sunflowers, Jackson's favorite mixed with mine. Much like the dress and the heels, I wasn't sure why I chose that combination; it just seemed fitting. I hadn't seen my ex-husband since he helped me kill Brock about a week ago when we solved his murder, so I thought I should come say goodbye, maybe finally figure out where he was buried, and "pay my respects," so to speak.
Turns out, the Bowmans had a special area of Potter Grove Cemetery dedicated to them with its own gate and everything. Money had its privileges even in death.
"You think Jackson's really moved on?” Rosalie asked.
"I don't know," I said. “He said he would if I solved his murder.”
Henry Bowman's headstone was next to his wife's and their four children. Since Jackson was an only child, he was there by his parents. Oddly, there was a blank tombstone with no words mixed among the various Bowmans.
"The unmarked grave," Rosalie said, pointing to it. "They say it's for all the women and children the Bowmans put through hell and high water to get where they got in life. Henry Bowman had the blank headstone put there, right on the other side of him so he'd never forget."
I nodded. I didn't tell her I thought it might've been for Eliza. I hadn't shown her the photo or the scrapbook that I'd found in the drawer. I also didn't tell her how my Amytiville Horror house helped save us that night either. The poor woman had been through enough, learning that her nephew was the Landover stripper murderer.
I stared at Jackson's grave for a minute, thankful I didn't have to have his body exhumed after all. Thankful for a lot of things, actually. I put the flowers by his headstone and stood back to examine them.
A breeze blew my sundress up, and I barely grabbed it in time before my legs were exposed.
"My favorite dress for a reason," a voice behind me said. "And my favorite flowers, too? You do care."
I turned around. Rosalie and Tina had their heads bowed like they were praying.
"How in the world did you get here?" I whispered to the bearded ghost behind me. "I thought new apparitions could only manifest in the house."
"Looks like I've leveled up," he said.
I turned to see if Rosalie had heard me talking to the air. She looked up and winked then pulled Tina by the arm. �
�You said your dad's grave is here someplace? Let’s go find it. Give him the flowers we brought,” she said, leading Tina over to the sprawling hills sprinkled with gravestones.
For a minute, Jackson and I just stood there, not saying much. My long curls seemed heavy along my neck and I pulled them up into a bun. My bruises were still visible, but they didn't hurt as much anymore.
"I'm learning a lot about what it means to be dead," he finally said. "Things I should've learned while I was living."
He was a pale washed-out version of himself, like an image fading into the background as he hovered over the graves in his family's little gated community. I felt close to him, closer than I ever did when we were married. It was strange but familiar all at the same time.
"Thanks for helping me with Brock," I said. "With the zipper, and the... everything."
"Hardly worth mentioning," he replied. "I noticed."
I chuckled. I was glad the sage hadn't worked that night, and not just because he helped me. I would honestly have missed him. It made me realize maybe I didn't need to escape my past to move on to my future. Maybe, they were actually working together somehow to give me everything I needed to live the moment I was in. "I hate to admit it, but you were right about Brock."
I could see him smirking. I tried not to care.
"But for the record," he began. "Brock and Destiny did not murder me. They may have tried, but they did not succeed."
I rolled my eyes. "Because they weren't bright enough to murder someone as smart as you?"
"One can hardly argue with logic."
"They clearly tried to poison you once. I'm sure they just succeeded the second time. Either that, or you really had a heart attack. Old men who love strippers and alcohol often die from that, you know? Fire and brimstone."
He changed the subject. "I got a lot of paranormal messages on our way over here today."
I pulled a heel out of the soil. "It's weird I didn't. You'd think a strong medium walking through a graveyard would pick up on a ton of activity."