He turned his head to smile at his mother, his face lighting up like a Fourth of July fireworks display. “I got it!” he exclaimed, as Deborah Weingarten rubbed her arms against the sudden chill she was experiencing. She winced at the pain from the bruises on her arms but continued rubbing them anyway.
This wasn’t the first time she had seen her son move small objects with his mind, he had picked up the “talent” after the family moved into this damned old (haunted) house, but every time he did it she had a hard time convincing herself that what she had seen was real after it ended. What did they call it? Teleportation? No. Telekinesis? Maybe. Yes, telekinesis sounded right.
She wondered—not for the first time—if she should tell someone about this special gift her son had lately begun manifesting, then almost laughed out loud. Tell someone, indeed. That was a joke - who could she tell? She didn’t have any close friends; Mark didn’t allow them. His standard answer when she said she wanted to get out once in a while was that she should be so busy taking care of their huge (creepy) house and their little boy that she shouldn’t have time for friends; at least not if she was caring for her family properly.
She had to concede that he had a point there. This house, which had stood empty for nearly two decades after the previous owner killed himself inside it, was so monumentally enormous that it took almost every waking second of her day just to keep the damned thing clean. Why Mark had picked this big white elephant to buy eluded Deborah, but of course he hadn’t consulted her before buying it; he never asked her opinion on anything.
And telling Mark was definitely out of the question. You would think that her husband would be her first option, the obvious person to confide in, but he was rarely home, working seventy to eighty hours a week managing mutual funds. Even when he was there, Deb’s main goal was to steer clear of him and hope she didn’t inadvertently set him off and suffer a beating like the one he had inflicted on her last week which resulted in her current colorful collection of extensive bruises on both forearms.
At first she had thought her left arm was broken; that was how hard he struck her with the metal softball bat he liked to use when he felt she needed punishing. Mark called his bat “The Persuader,” but she just called it painful and humiliating. Fortunately, the swelling had gone down after about three days and she was gradually regaining the full use of both arms, but they were still extremely tender. Her left arm resembled the color of the late-afternoon sky just before a violent thunderstorm. That was quite fitting, Deborah thought.
Deb’s main concern during these violent assaults was for the well-being of little Jonathan. She didn’t believe her husband would actually go so far as to injure him physically, but when Mark administered her beatings he wasn’t even discreet enough to send the little boy to his room most of the time. The four year old was forced to endure the sights and sounds of his mommy being manhandled and she feared the unseen but very real damage it was doing to his psyche.
Every awful episode played out in largely the same way. When the beating started, Jonathan would hurry to his tiny rocking chair, the one molded out of plastic to look like a green cartoon turtle superhero, and sit in front of the television while his favorite DVD played a collection of children’s songs. The wheels on the bus go round and round . . . Smack, as Mark delivered a blow with the softball bat . . . round and round, round and round . . . a scream of pain and anguish from Deb . . . The wheels on the bus go round and round . . . a lamp falling off a table as she crashed into it . . . All through the town.
To Deb, the most frightening thing about these episodes, even worse than the physical damage that she suffered, was the way the little boy’s eyes would glaze over, becoming blank and vacant as he tried to ignore the horrifying scene being played out again and again in the formal dining room under the massive cut-glass chandelier Mark had overpaid for. His head would loll back on the chair as he stared up at the ceiling, or maybe at an imaginary friend, or maybe at nothing at all, Deb wasn’t really sure. All she knew for certain was that he steadfastly refused to talk to her about it.
She knew the day was rapidly approaching when she would have to take Jonathan and escape, just leave Mark and this awful (haunted) house behind. The problem was, she had no idea how she would manage it. Everything was in her husband’s name—the credit cards, the cars, the savings accounts and investments, everything. He had all the money, all the connections, all the standing in the community, all the power. She was trapped, but she knew somehow she had to figure out some way to protect her innocent little boy, despite her growing realization that she could not even protect herself.
Across the kitchen, Jonathan was enjoying his eggs, spreading them all over his face and occasionally even getting some into his mouth. Deb watched him eat through eyes filled with tears.
***
That night was even worse than usual. Normally after a beating like the one Mark had inflicted last week, Deborah was able to enjoy a short respite from the terror. Her husband would be overcome with guilt and remorse and for a period of anywhere from a couple of weeks to even a couple of months would treat her, if not gently, at least without any outright hostility or physical intimidation.
Not this time, though. The air in the old house was thick with the scent of impending trouble again already. Deb felt she could almost reach out and touch the malevolence. Something had gone badly at work, something Mark was not the least bit interested in discussing with Deb. But a storm was brewing inside her husband. She had known him long enough to be able to recognize the warning signs, much like some seasoned weather observers can sense an oncoming electrical storm just by sniffing the air.
Jonathan, of course, was totally oblivious. He babbled at his father, describing a butterfly he had seen during a walk he had taken that afternoon with his mommy. “It was brown and yellow and it flyed in every direction!” He excitedly began running around the dining room, flapping his arms like butterfly wings in a manic demonstration of the insect’s flight path.
Mark said nothing, just sat in his seat glowering at Deborah, who was nearly in a panic trying to get dinner on the table before the impending explosion ripped through the house. She had misjudged how long it would take to cook the chicken, and now she knew what was coming, could sense it, could practically feel the onset of violence. All he needed was an excuse, and she had provided him with a ready-made reason to get angry, had served it up to him like a ball on a tee, just waiting for him to smash it out of the park, literally in this case.
“Is there a chance, any chance at all, that we might be able to eat dinner before that little rugrat is ready for COLLEGE?” The question had started out soft, Mark’s words almost imperceptible across the length of the kitchen, but by the end he was screaming at Deb, dark eyes flashing, fist slamming on the table and making the dinner dishes rattle with a discordant crash!
She cringed, knowing she was making a mistake, knowing that her fearful reaction would only set him off more, but she just couldn’t help it. “It’s ready now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s ready now, I swear it’s ready now, I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out of her in a rush of fear and panic.
Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Jonathan begin his trek, head down, into the living room as Mark advanced upon her like an avenging angel. She heard the child’s DVD start up, heard the wheels of the bus begin to turn, rolling through a world where little boys didn’t have to watch their mothers get assaulted by the very people who were supposed to love and protect them, a world where mommies didn’t have to wear long-sleeved blouses in July to hide the bruising inflicted by daddies, a world where life was cozy and happy and safe and normal.
Mark wound up and shoved Deb hard. She lost her balance and fell back, arms pinwheeling, an ugly purple bruise appearing as if by magic on her lower back where she smashed it against the corner of the stove. Her ears rang as he clapped his hands over them and then hit her in the face. She fell into the dining room, landing in a heap, trying to protect her ribs from his
vicious kicks, once, twice, three times.
He kicked her in the head and her consciousness began to waver, little black spots blossoming around the edges of her vision and then growing larger and threatening to overwhelm her, and Deb thought for just a moment that this was it—this was going to be the time he killed her. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Black despair flooded her heart, not for herself but for her only son. Who would care for Jonathan? Who would teach him right from wrong? Who would make him understand his mommy had loved him and tried her best to protect him?
From where she lay in the corner of the dining room, sprawled on the floor and unable to stand, Deb looked through the open entryway into the den at her beloved son. He was once again staring up at the ceiling, entranced by whatever it was he saw during these moments of extreme stress.
“TURN THAT MUSIC DOWN!” Mark screamed as the wheels on the bus started turning again on Jonathan’s DVD. He turned on his heel and started across the room toward the little boy, lost in his rage. As he did, Deb saw the enormous chandelier hanging in the middle of the room begin shaking on its own, almost as if a small earthquake was taking place over just that one spot in the ceiling. It was almost imperceptible at first, a musical jingling sound as the crystal orbs bounced against each other. Mark didn’t notice.
Jonathan continued staring upward, a look of intense concentration framing his tiny face, and plaster began to break away from around the cast iron plate that kept the chandelier bolted securely into the ceiling, falling like snowflakes in July on and around the angry man.
For the first time, Mark looked up and took notice of the strange occurrence taking place over his head. By now the chandelier was swaying violently back and forth, rattling and screeching as plaster continued to fall. Time seemed to stop as the abusive man stared in slack-jawed amazement at the unlikely sight taking place directly above him.
After just that moment’s hesitation he seemed to recognize that he might be in danger and he started to move, taking one giant step toward the corner of the room and the prone body of his wife. As he did, the chandelier let go, tearing loose from the ceiling with an impossibly loud roar, plaster and wood and cast iron and cut glass crashing down in a screaming symphony of destruction.
He almost made it. Two feet farther and the massive lighting fixture would have slammed harmlessly to the floor. Instead, Mark Weingarten took the full force of the falling chandelier, smashing him to the floor like a rag doll, slicing off the top of his head in an instant and spraying blood in a near-perfect circle on to the gleaming oak floor.
Deborah struggled to her knees, hair hanging in sweaty strings around her face as she spit up blood, adding a little of her own to the rapidly growing pool around her now-dead husband’s body. She wondered absently how many of her ribs Mark had broken when he was kicking her.
Glass from the ruined chandelier crunched and tinkled under Jonathan’s sneakers as he ran across the room to his mother. She tried to tell him not to go near his father’s body but discovered she couldn’t manage to form the words. She was tired, so tired.
Jonathan stopped in front of Deb and kneeled on the floor, not even seeming to notice the devastation in the room. “I did it, mommy! I did it! It’s okay now. Daddy was really mad but now the mad man will never bother us again, mommy.”
Deb reached out with a shaking hand and pulled her son close, brushing shards of the deadly glass off his jeans from where he had kneeled in front of her and hugging him fiercely. Blood sprang instantly from her hands and agonizing pain from her broken ribs ripped through her as she held him but she barely noticed and didn’t care. Tears rolled down her cheeks; tears for what she had lost and what she had gained and what her son would never have.
“That’s right, baby,” she said. “That’s right. The madman will never bother us again.”
Dead and Buried
The first time I ever heard Nickleback’s song, “Follow You Home,” the inspiration for “Dead and Buried” popped into my head almost fully formed, and all I had to do was write the story down. In the song lyrics, a guy is so enamored of a young lady that he won’t stay away from her, no matter what horrible punishments she inflicts on him. He’s a stalker, in other words. My story, though, is a little different. Imagine a wife anxious enough to get rid of her husband that she orchestrates his murder. Everything goes according to plan, except the hapless victim just won’t . . . stay . . . dead. It can turn into a real problem, as you might imagine. “Dead and Buried” first appeared at the very cool website, A Twist of Noir, in October, 2010.
The moon’s dirty grey light struggled to penetrate the ground fog as it swirled and twisted, illuminating the forest weakly, like an old-time black and white television show. In an isolated clearing, a man knelt at the edge of a freshly-dug three-foot-deep hole, hands fastened behind his back with nylon cord, damp earth crusting the knees of his blue jeans. The man was still but keenly observant, seeming to acknowledge the hopelessness of his situation. He knelt and waited.
The hole—the gravesite—had been constructed roughly six feet long and three feet wide, the approximate dimensions of its prospective tenant. The earth excavated to form this makeshift resting place was piled neatly at one end, conveniently located for its return trip.
Behind the soon-to-be victim a second man paced, agitated and clearly nervous. He sucked on a cigarette and held a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum Model 60 revolver in one hand and a shiny Easton aluminum baseball bat in the other. The silvery reflection of the moon’s light offered a jarring contrast to the monochromatic dimness casting the rest of the scene.
The man with the dirt on his knees waited patiently, warily eyeing the nervous man next to him as he paced back and forth. He was not anxious to hurry things along; he was perfectly happy to let the other man deal with his inner demons for as long as necessary. Every breath he took was one more than he had expected to get after being forced to the ground by the handgun barrel pressed to the back of his head.
Finally he spoke. “Why the baseball bat? Planning to sandwich a little batting practice between putting a bullet in my head and moving in with my suddenly available wife?”
The man with the gun and the bat stopped pacing for a moment. He almost seemed to have forgotten his victim was even there. He licked his lips nervously. “No bullets,” he said. “I’m going to do you with the bat instead.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking the obvious question, but why?”
“I’m not stupid. A bullet lodged in your head can be traced back to the gun it was fired from and used as evidence if you’re body is ever discovered; not that it will be. The baseball bat will be buried in a different location as soon as this is over, and will never be seen again.”
The man kneeling at the edge of his own grave considered this information and then nodded. “I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought—or Maura has—although from my perspective I have to tell you that a home run swing to the side of the head sounds much more painful than taking one in the hat from that cannon you’re holding.”
“Sorry about that,” answered the man holding the weapons. “I know it’s not ideal, but I’ve got to do what’s best for me.”
“Clearly. You do understand I’m going to make you pay for this, right?”
A soft, high-pitched squeal erupted from somewhere in the back of the agitated man’s throat and he turned and raised his bat and swung from the heels, connecting with the other man’s head. A wet noise that sounded nothing like a bat hitting a ball exploded into the heavy night air and the man with the dirt on his knees tumbled slowly, almost gracefully, into the bottom of the shallow pit.
The other man dropped his bat like it contained an electric charge and puked into the grave, neatly extinguishing his cigarette with the acidy yellow contents of his stomach. He dropped to his knees and reached down and yanked his victim’s wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He then produced a pocket knife and sliced the cord holding the dead man’s hands toget
her, rose unsteadily, and staggered through the silence of the killing field back to his car.
Tossing the incriminating bat and length of cord into the back seat for later disposal, the man grabbed his shovel and steeled himself for one more trip into the forest, this time to toss the pile of dirt over his victim and hide the evidence of his treachery forever.
***
Maura Stapleton pulled her Mercedes into the driveway of the home she shared with Vince Gower, talking on her cell phone and driving much too fast, as usual. She slowed just enough to squeeze under the garage door still rumbling up on its tracks, then screeched to a stop in the middle of the stall.
It had been ten long months since Vince completed their nasty business—at her insistence—and Maura, for one, had never been happier. Her marriage to Jim Stapleton had been a sham, at least from her perspective, and she had finally prevailed upon Vince to dispose of her pain-in-the-ass husband once and for all.
She would have been free of Jim months earlier if Vince, the man with whom she had been having an affair practically since saying “I do” six years ago, hadn’t been such a frigging wuss. Maura kept pounding into Vince’s thick skull the fact that the only way the two of them would be able to live together in a comfortable manner would be for Jim to disappear. Permanently. The sooner the better. Eventually he had come to see things her way, as she had known he would.
Coming into the marriage, everything had been Jim’s: The business, the cars, the investments, even the house, which was much too big and ostentatious for the two of them, but which Maura loved because it trumpeted to the world in no uncertain terms her new status.
Divorcing Jim would never work, Maura had explained to Vince, because then the prick would get to keep virtually all of the stuff—those goodies which she loved so much and which, to her astonishment, she had discovered Jim didn’t seem to care that much about. She had foolishly agreed to a very restrictive pre-nup before marrying Jim Stapleton and then regretted it almost instantly.
Postcards from the Apocalypse Page 9