by Amity Green
Caroline could handle Rebecca, although the couple didn’t leave their great aunt alone with the children and locked her in her room at night. Jack replaced Rebecca’s window with softly sanded pine boards after she’d broken out the glass in a fit. Her room was dark and empty, lacking the likes of a closet rod to hang herself, but the couple deemed it safe enough. If she wanted to find a way badly enough, she’d do it, regardless of their efforts.
People in a small town talked amongst themselves about the crazy lady at the Caleman Ranch. Some even made comments about the treatment of the old woman, exaggerating and spinning tales about Jack and his wife chaining the poor, frail lady to the floor, or locking her inside a closet all the time. In truth, Jack didn’t have the heart to have Rebecca admitted to the crazy house, and she’d calmed down a lot since Caroline gave her some art supplies. Caroline had removed all the paint brush handles, despite Jack’s debate that if his aunt wanted to do herself in, she could do it with her own two hands.
Rebecca used the brushes gratefully, grasping them in gnarled fingers, finding an amount of peace through her art, the way she said she used to. Peace was granted to all when Rebecca started routinely putting herself to bed at night, tired after days of painting and singing to herself.
The day was done and Jack settled on the couch beside Caroline. The kids were in bed and so was Great Aunt Rebecca, the dinner mess cleaned up, and the house fell blessedly silent except for a lively little fire crackling in the fireplace.
“This is nice,” Caroline said with a content sigh. She cuddled closer to Jack, curling beneath a multihued, crocheted afghan. Jack pulled her closer still and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. Bright sparks rose up with ribbons of smoke, warmth relaxing them as they reflected on their day.
The kitchen faucet opened, followed by the rising hum of a glass being filled.
“Who do you suppose is thirsty this time?” Caroline tested.
“Well, it’s not Chaz. He’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.” “My bet’s on Molly this time,” she said, pulling the blanket aside so she could get up.
“You don’t need to check up on them constantly, Care. They’re getting big.” He made a grab for her hand.
She considered for a second, watching him.
He changed his mind as she thought it over. Maybe he was right, but with their nutty aunt, one couldn’t be too careful.
“You locked Rebecca’s door, right?” she asked.
“Damn. I thought you did,” Jack said, jetting off the couch. They sped toward the kitchen together. “I’ll get the lock and you check the kids.”
“Deal.”
A gentle hissing sound grew from the kitchen and they both stopped in the hall. Caroline shot Jack a concerned look. They took off at a run, rounding the corner, Caroline in the lead. Inside the kitchen, they both slid to a stop. Rebecca stood with her back to them, frail body wavering in front of the sink. Soft light flowed down, illuminating the woman’s silver hair like a frizzy halo. Her head tipped back as the dredges from a water glass emptied down her throat. The hissing sound stopped and the room became silent. She dropped the glass onto the counter with a crash as a vicious cough wracked her body.
“Aunt Becca?” Jack said, carefully. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Caroline padded to the pantry, retrieving a wisk broom and the trash can for the broken glass. An empty box of lye granules lay in the bottom of the bin. “Ah, shit.”
Rebecca fell forward over the sink, hacking. Jack reached for her shoulder but she jerked away from his grasp.
“Aunt Rebecca, what’s wrong?”
A scream strangled in her throat. She clamped both withered hands over her mouth. Caroline dropped the broom, running to help.
“Mom? What’s going on?” Savannah asked from the doorway.
“Back to bed. Now!” Jack yelled, watching as she ran from the room.
Rebecca’s coughing grew ragged, blowing past her grip. White foam spewed from her nose. One hand fell away, streaked with pink and red froth.
“Jesus, no,” he looked to Caroline, franticly. His aunt went rigid, retching. A gurgling scream escaped and she collapsed, flopping over the sink.
“It’s lye! She ate the whole box!” Caroline turned on the water, pulling Rebecca back from the faucet. “We have to get water down her.” She grabbed a tumbler and let it fill.
“The water’s what’s activating it,” he said, steadying his aunt. She continued to vomit, the fluid growing deeper crimson. “Call an ambulance!”
He grabbed the water cup and tipped Rebecca’s head back, at a loss for any other way to help. “It’s going to be okay.”
She quit screaming, her jaw lax. He poured water into her mouth, cringing when the fizzing and hissing intensified.
Caroline yelled into the phone, reciting their address around a sob. She gave an account, describing Rebecca’s actions as her innards boiled apart like overripe tomatoes in a blanching bath.
“She’s not breathing,” he called. “Aunt Becca?”
There was no response, just a belch of acidic air followed by a new geyser of bloodied soap that nearly sprayed him straight in the face. He turned away as the warm fluid gushed against his neck and shoulder, chemicals stinging and biting into his skin.
“They’re on the way,” Caroline said. She wiped away tears and helped Jack lower Rebecca to the floor.
Age-blued eyes gazed beyond them both, through the ceiling, as Rebecca searched for an angel.
* * *
Jack suffered a fair amount of conflict in knowing the lives of his family were improved due to the loss of the old woman. Except for her children, most of which were dead themselves, she was the last of his family and that made him feel pretty isolated from his relatives. At the same time, the burden was lifted. He didn’t want his kids to have to deal with the rumors about possible abuse, or about them living with a “crazy”.
The next morning over breakfast both his daughters were quiet, although they’d surely seen the event through a crack in a door, let alone heard the horrors. He gave each a loving pat on a hand or shoulder. Jack could only hope his family would have relief now that Rebecca was gone. He would handle it gently, talk if they wanted to, and share in their sadness if need be.
“Can we contact any of her children?” Caroline asked.
“The only one I knew an address for is locked up in the state asylum in Pueblo.”
“Well, we’ll set up a service for her in Victor.” Caroline placed two strips of crispy bacon on a plate where their son, Chaz, would sit.
“Chaz!” she called over her shoulder. “It’s getting cold.”
Footsteps grew louder until he ran into the kitchen and slid into his chair. “I was feeding Hornet,” he said, referring to his beloved dog.
Jack smiled at Chaz and turned back to his wife. “She has a plot next to her husband there.” He gulped the dregs of his coffee and stood to gather hugs and kisses before heading to work. At the door, he gave Hornet a scratch and left for the day.
Jack settled into his bulldozer at work, knowing he’d be rattled all shift long. Rebecca’s timing was crazy. Maybe she’d overheard them talking about the rumors in town so she’d resorted back to the idea of suicide. He saw her bent over the sink, dying each time he entered the kitchen, and he’d bet it was the same for Caroline and Savannah.
Remembering the hiss of chemicals eating away soft tissue—a sound that didn’t stop for screams, let alone death, made it easy to set aside any guilt he had at the idea of selling the family ranch after generations. It was time for a change.
Most of the family was gone anyway, and his in-laws visited more than any living relatives, who, for the most part were unreachable. He hadn’t been close with his great aunt, and the rest of the women in his family were known to be completely nuts. From childhood, she’d always looked at him in an odd way, and called him “Paul” like she talked to someone else. Tragedy had torn her sanity to shreds.
<
br /> Three of Rebecca’s girls were committed to mental hospitals when they were younger, but only one survived suicide. He didn’t know why his Great Aunt Rebecca hadn’t been locked up with the rest of them when she obviously had claim to a nice, padded room of her own.
When the remaining family vacated, it was no wonder they left the old girl behind, inherited like the furniture. For the most part she’d stopped talking, graciously, and not started up again except for random whispers about suicide and hating herself. The stain of suicide would mark their house on the Shelf Road forever. The change he’d sought for his family wouldn’t come too soon.
Jack was content in thinking his decision to stop off at a land auction that day was the best move he’d made in decades. The Witcher Place, a span of fertile ground and a good house with plenty of potential, was auctioned off for next to nothing. Spring would bring a fresh start for his family on top of a mountain in the sunshine. Grinning, he placed the winning bid.
The next night, Jack gave his notice to quit at the mine to devote all of his time to the new property.
Anxious to get off the old family ranch, the remaining members of the Caleman family packed up everything that wasn’t tacked down and moved to the new house on the outskirts of Victor without delay. The old ranch sold quickly like he suspected, and for a worthy price for the acreage. The kids would attend the same school, which was the only one in the district. There was room for a dozen chickens, a few horses, and upward of a hundred head of cattle on the pasture down a draw. Weather cooperating, there would be plenty of hay put up each summer from the south meadow. A school bus would stop on the county road to take the children school each day, which was a luxury the Caleman household hadn’t had the pleasure of enjoying. They left the Caleman Ranch on the Shelf Road without a backward glance, looking forward to a new life atop a mountain outside of Victor, Colorado.
Jack grinned inwardly as he drove his beat up, extra-cab farm truck to a rumbling stop at the headgate to their new home. Life would be simple and good. No relatives would burn the house down or commit suicide in the kitchen.
Caroline beamed on the bench seat, over the top of Chaz’s head. Reaching, Jack cupped her face with an excited smile of his own. They locked eyes for just a moment.
“Just a coat of fresh paint.”
She nodded, still smiling.
Jack threw the truck in park and jumped out to open the gate.
Savannah, the oldest of the kids, took her cue, and moved into the front seat. She put the truck in gear and let it idle through the gate slowly, tossed it back in park and hopped out again, searching their new property with fresh eyes.
***
Chapter 4
Savannah continued to look around as her dad took the wheel and drove up to the house. Even the driveway was better than their old house. She shielded her eyes from the sun, taking in the look of her new home and giant yard. The terrain was a lot like that of the ranch, with aspens, blue spruce, dog brush, current bushes, and gooseberry brambles hugging outcroppings of mica-laced, pink granite. By the end of the month, all the trees and brush would bud out, and green would coat the yard and hillsides in numerous shades. Yellowed mountain grass tufted sporadically through breaks in rock and gravel, sprouting thicker along the half-circle drive. Where they used to live inside a canyon that allowed about six hours of direct sunlight each day, less in the winter, the new place took the top off the mountain, providing long views of mountain ranges from each angle.
Savannah turned to close the gate, stopping dead when she read the name above the driveway.
“No way,” she drawled, reading the name “Witcher” slowly to herself, trying to make it easier to believe. That’s coming down by morning. There was nothing more to say on the subject. She’d get her dad, his Sawzall, and a step-ladder, and creepy would no longer greet her upon arrival at home. Case closed. Without a second glance, she followed the truck past a tall wooden barn to get a better look at what her parents called a “Victorian” home.
Two rounded rooms on each side and a sprawling veranda added some personality to the ancient house. Windows peered down the nose of the porch roof, making the second floor completely unfriendly. The peak of the roof was like a third story, but there weren’t any windows, and the pitch likely made it too tiny for a room to be up there.
A patron of finding something good about every situation, Savannah decided she liked the size of their new home. At least it was big. Her little brother and his stinky beast of a dog would have their own room, as would her little sister.
The porch was the best part of the house. A swing hung to the right side of the front door, and if a person started at one end of the veranda and kept walking all the way around the other side it would take a while. Spring sun cut angles onto the painted plank floor, and a faint breeze reminded her that such a wonderful set up begged for the addition of the old heirloom wind chime from back at their old house.
Chaz and his mutt bailed out of the truck as she approached, the dog woofing and stomping up the front stairs behind him. The screen door smacked loudly after them, clapping out an echo that rattled Savannah’s nerves. She caught the door as it swung out for another run at slapping shut, shaking her head. Loud noises always set her on edge, not that her bratty brother cared.
She would be eighteen in just under two weeks, so dealing with his carelessness would soon be a thing of her past. She’d graduate and then be off to college.
Mother stood inside the doorway, taking in the dusty, forlorn look of the foyer. More of what Savannah would call a mud-room, the walls held a smattering of coat hooks screwed to the walls in unreasonable places, and a grand, wooden door announced the true entryway just a couple of yards farther in.
Canine feet shuffled above and Chaz claimed his bedroom, screaming “This one’s mine!” and slamming his new door.
Mother shook her head, blinking. “Well, here we are.” She slung her mammoth, faux leather purse onto a plush sitting bench. “We could play cards on the porch, huh?
“Mm hm,” agreed Savannah although, of all the children, it was no secret Savannah would be the last chosen to play games with. There was an amount of awkwardness between them, and it grew at the same rate Savannah did.
“The place seems to need a little something, though. And that name over the gate out there?” Savannah asked, gesturing with a nod. “Can we take it down?”
“I’ll talk to Dad about the gate. Judging from the looks of this little room, the house needs a woman’s touch.” Caroline pulled out a pack of Pall Malls and lit one, dropping a lighter back into her bag. She blew a gust of thick smoke above her head and smiled, studying Savannah for an idea of her thoughts.
After a moment watching her mom puff away, she admitted, “It’s going to be good. We can make it home.”
Caroline pulled her into a smoky embrace as Savannah held her breath. “We’ll get it livable.”
Savannah waited as long as she could stand it, then leaned away so she could walk inside to see the rest of the house. The smoke had the tendency to bother her eyes when she wore her contact lenses.
No one had mentioned the house remained fully furnished with grand, Victorian style furniture, right down to the dishes in the buffet. Their old bedsteads and couch looked cumbersome and old compared to the plush, velvet and overstuffed armchairs in the den and living room. Dark wooden chests of drawers and armoires stood empty in each bedroom.
Dropping an overstuffed backpack onto the hardwood floor, Savannah claimed one of the round bedrooms upstairs for herself, content with the large amount of ambient light from a horizontal row of thickly-paned windows. The bedroom set was cloaked in drop sheeting that held an impressive amount of settled dust, so she carefully rolled each long piece of fabric to keep the room clean. Soon, she beheld a four poster bed, a vanity with an ornate, round looking-glass type mirror, and a tall dresser.
“Not bad.”
The gate to the horse trailer squealed, announcing som
eone was outside beginning the long process of unloading boxes. Savannah left her new sanctuary and headed downstairs. Dad was at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on his chin, surveying something on a wall beyond view, so she hurried down to see. He’d hung a giant painting of a mountain lion just above the couch in the den.
“It’s straight, if that’s what you’re contemplating,” she told him, squishing close.
He put a warm arm across her shoulders, pulling her in. “What do you think? Is that a good place for it?”
“I guess,” she said, squinting at the lion’s face. “What’s wrong with its eyes?”
“What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow, glancing between her and the picture.
“There’s nothing wrong with it, I mean, it’s real pretty. It’s just that mountain lions’ eyes aren’t like that.” She stepped across the room, getting a better look. “Where did this come from?”
“It was stashed in the canning cellar out at the ranch,” he said, joining her in front of the painting. “A shame. Such a nice piece of art, stuck down there so no one could enjoy it.”
“Yeah, as if,” Molly said as she joined them. “That thing’s creepy as heck.”
“Yeah,” Savannah said. She looked deeper into a dark swirl of fog below the cat’s perch. The darkness there was undefined, lending a rather ominous sense of depth. The artist had penned their name in the corner, but it was just a little too far above her head to be able to read. She shrugged. “Well, I’m going to go find my clothes. Bye, Daddy.”
“I’ll be right out to help with the trailer,” he said, still admiring the art.
She turned for the front door with Molly just behind her.
“I so love my room,” Molly said. “It’s so bright in there. I’m going to make a sun-catcher out of tissue paper. It’ll look just like stained glass. Want one?”