by Kim Faulks
Rachel looked away. Pressing a little harder against the wall, she shifted to find another position for her aching body, trying her best to not touch the ground. She pushed the hair away from her eyes, picking the strands from her brow so she didn’t touch her face. She sniffed her underarm and pulled away, disgusted. There was nothing she could do, only pray that her father would hurry. What's taking him so goddamn long? She turned back to watch the commotion across the room.
The blonde drew her interest more than the dark-haired, feral-looking woman. There was something about her. Some spark of recognition Rachel felt when she watched her. She tried to nail down the trigger. A memory hovered close. The blonde woman caught Rachel staring, her eyes widened and then she looked away. She just seemed so familiar. Where the hell have I seen her before? Rachel ran through the list of all the people who shadowed her father. There were just too many.
Being the daughter of such an influential man, her life was difficult at times. She wore two faces. Two lives she lived—each worlds apart. Her public face was for press conferences, scheduled meetings with constituents, and the occasional gala banquet alongside her father.
Then there was the private one.
Rachel remained in the family home after her mother’s death. Her bedroom was down the hall from her father's and far away from the abandoned south wing her mother had occupied. Rachel didn’t want to step inside that room again. The door to her mother’s room remained locked. She didn’t want to think of that room. She didn’t want to remember her mother. The last memory plagued her. Rachel shivered in the heat of the room. Please God, don't make me go back there. Don’t….
The pungent scent of fresh earth came flooding back. She shivered. Her breath turned white against the freezing air. Rachel looked down at her mother’s grave. She’d been standing here for hours while others mourned a mother she never really had. Her father’s arm draped her shoulders, holding her firm against him. To outsiders, they were a family in mourning. She glanced up at her father. His stoic expression held firm as he waited for the minister to finish so the crew could lower his wife's body into the ground.
For Rachel, there were no tears. But still, she sniffled and wiped her dry eyes. Even at fifteen, she knew which part to play. The minister's voice droned on. She tuned out. Her father's arm was meant to be comforting. Rachel needed no comfort. She was finally free of her mother's hold.
Are you the lady of house now, Rachel? The sound of wet earth smacked against the rosewood timber with a thud. She jumped.
“It's okay, honey.” Her father patted her shoulder. “We’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you.”
The vision shifted. The casket was left behind, but not the pretense of grieving, as Rachel greeted those who came to her mother’s wake. It felt as though the line of mourners never ended. Rachel shook hands and hugged those who expressed their sympathies with murmured words. Did they know a woman I didn’t? They left her to descend on her father before leaving. Her father looked older today. His eyes were sunken and shadowed. His shoulder sagged when they hadn’t before. He closed the door behind the last of his staff and turned to her. She could see he was breaking in the seconds before his feet faltered. She raced toward him, taking him in her arms. “Daddy!”
He held her as though she was his anchor in a turbulent sea. His voice sounded strained and his eyes shimmered. “What do I do now, angel? What the hell do I do? She may not have been the best mother, or the best wife to either of us. But she was all we had. I don't think I can do this on my own. I need... someone.”
The thought of another woman stepping into her mother’s shoes filled her with dread. “No you don't need anyone else, Daddy. You have me. We’ll take care of each other. It’ll be just the two of us.”
She prayed he’d see sense as he squeezed her tight. They stood like that for ages, comforting one another. Then he pressed his face into her neck, kissed her, and let her go. The bark of his laughter was loud in her ear. “Look at me, some father I am. I'm the one who should be comforting you, not the other way around. Are you okay, my angel?”
She nodded. “I'm fine, Daddy. I guess Mother is finally free.”
His back stiffened and the sparkle in his eyes dulled, but he nodded. “Yes, I guess she is.”
He left her there and strode into his study. She followed him. Her heart sank in her chest as he rounded his desk and headed for the decanters that sparkled in the afternoon sun. He grabbed a crystal carafe and placed it on the desk, along with a tumbler, before turning to the window. She wanted to speak, but her words failed. Her father was hurting and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do. He yanked the curtains closed and the room dimmed to a soft orange glow. She had to do something, say something. She felt as small as her voice. “Daddy, did I say something wrong?”
He took a long time to look up at her. His eyes shimmered, making Rachel sink lower into the floor. “No, angel. You just reminded me of something your mother used to say to me. I guess it shouldn't affect me anymore. But, I could never understand, why her life with me was such a damn burden.”
His words made her hate herself more. Why couldn’t she just think before she spoke? Hadn’t he suffered enough? “I'm sorry Daddy. I didn't mean—”
He tried to smile, and this haunted her, as a lone tear slid down his face. She’d never seen him look so defeated before, so lost. “It's okay, angel. Your dad just needs a drink to clear his head. I'm sorry to worry you, honey. You go off to your room, I’m fine, really.”
Her father raised the glass to his lips and swallowed. The amber liquid seemed to give him something she couldn’t, as he closed his eyes and sighed with relief.
Rachel left him there, to find peace at the bottom of his glass, and climbed the stairs to her room. She trailed her hand along the banister. The texture felt smooth, familiar. Her mother had loved this wood. Rachel remembered the smile on her face and the delight in her eyes as she climbed the stairs, dragging her fingers behind…. She stopped. The memory was cruel. It was a slap to the face—a betrayal to her father. She snatched her hand back and lunged away, hugging the wall until she scrambled to the top.
Rachel stared over her shoulder at the shimmering marble stairs. Her heart thundered and her mind raced. To think of her mother like that, happy, smiling, was cruel. Not just to her father, but to herself. This wasn’t the memory she wanted. This wasn’t the memory her mother deserved. The soft touch of a finger trailed its way up her arm, leaving her skin to pucker in its wake. The finger was ice cold. She cried out and spun, covering her mouth with her hand to stop from screaming. But there was no one there. There was nothing but the empty hallway of the south wing... where her mother's bedroom room lay.
The vision of that moment should’ve ended there. But Rachel’s memories were no longer her own. In the filthy room surrounded by strangers, the vision moved right when it should’ve moved left, like a prism that distorted her memories in new ways. Rachel should’ve run to her room and locked the door. She should’ve cried and screamed into her pillow in muffled rage. But none of that happened.
This… possessed Rachel stood at the head of the stairs and stared along the darkening hallway of the south wing.
Her feet made no sound on the carpet. She wouldn’t have heard them, even if they had. Her heart was thundering inside her head like a savage storm, driven by turbulent emotions and vengeful hate. She wanted this done… she wanted this over, and for her mother’s ghost to finally leave her in peace. Rachel glanced over her shoulder and down the hall to the bright lights of the stairs landing. There were no servants left in the house. They’d been asked to allow the family time to mourn in peace. No one knew she was here.
Don’t be a baby, there’s nothing here. Just open the door, look inside, and then leave. The thought filled her with dread. She shivered. If I do this, then she’ll stay dead. She’ll leave me alone, right? Rachel waited for the answer. She waited for what felt like forever, before she turned to her mother’s b
edroom door.
This time she didn’t look at the re-creation of The Last Judgment. The colors now seemed not as bold, its appeal not as alluring it’d once been. Rachel was focused on the carved wood of her mother’s door, and the closure that waited inside. The scent of earth filled her nose, and then vanished as quickly as it came. She clenched her fist, and forced her arms to stop shaking. This was a sign she was doing the right thing.
She gripped the cold metal handle and froze. The room would be empty, cold, dusty, but it’d be empty. Just one look was all she needed, and then she’d leave and never, ever return. The handle gave way under her force and the click of the lock sounded before the door swung in. Cold, musty air rushed out to greet her, leaving her breathless and trembling.
“Is anyone in here?”
Her voice sounded pathetic. She sounded like the baby she was. Rachel took a step inside. Shadows claimed this room. Their hold reached from the bed, to the cupboard, to the thick curtains. Rachel fumbled for the light switch. The dull yellow light grew too bright, too quickly. The loud pop sounded, before the darkness claimed the room once more. Rachel ran to the bathroom, stubbing her toe on the doorway. The room seemed to swallow her cries of pain. It was too late to turn back, too late to do anything but moan in pain and anger. Her fingers slipped on the doorframe. Something wet stuck to her skin.
The fluorescent light clicked on, off, and back on again, and finally flooded the bathroom with a white light. Rachel blinked and stared at her fingers. They were covered with… mud?
No… no. Get it off. Get. It. Off. Me. Her feet slipped as she stumbled toward the sink, the scent of the mud now strong and pungent.
Your place is with me, Rachel.
She spun, as the cold water burst free, splashing against the porcelain basin. There was nothing behind her. She closed her eyes and whimpered. There was nothing there. She looked at her arm and scrubbed the mud, leaving her skin red and raw. But, how did the mud get there? Tears blurred her vision. Fear made her weak. But she had to look. She lifted her gaze to the bathroom mirror and stared at the dark brown sludge, which stuck to the doorway—sludge in the shape of a hand.
Movement in the mirror caught her eye. She glimpsed a dark shape and spun. The white bathroom tiles were a blur. She moved too fast. The momentum spun her out of control. Rachel grabbed the edge of the basin, but it was too late. She slipped, cracking her forehead on the white porcelain.
Pain split her head as she tried to open her eyes. The glowing tube above her buzzed like an insect. Where am I? She trembled. She was cold, so cold. She dropped her hand beside her, feeling the icy tiles. Rachel took a breath, rolled to the side, and pushed herself up. Her head throbbed with a pulse of its own, and each beat had the force of a hammer’s blow. She whimpered. The gold trim around the white titles told her this wasn’t her bathroom—it was her mother’s. What am I doing in here?
She touched her forehead, feeling a lump the size of a lemon, followed by the sharp sting of pain. She pulled her hand away and stared at the dirt stuck to her fingers. Dirt…. She snatched her gaze up and cried out, at first seeing a mark on the doorway… a handprint… until she blinked and the mud was gone. Rachel stared at her fingers, which she swore, a second ago, were covered in mud. They now glistened with blood. The memory of why she was here came back to her. Her actions now felt childish, stupid. She pushed herself off the floor and gripped the hand basin. Her knees felt weak and her hold on reality unsteady.
A sound came from the bedroom, a rustling of paper which seemed out of place, although she couldn’t remember why.
The windows aren’t open. There’s no breeze. “Hello… is anyone out there?”
Fear kept her from moving. She gripped so hard her fingers ached, listening to that sound. Flick, flick, flick... Her lips trembled. She swallowed and whispered. “Mother, is that you?”
The dead didn’t answer. Rachel headed for the doorway. The darkened room was almost black. Night had come. She clenched her jaw to ride the pain and turned to the door to the hall, which was now closed. The door had been open when she came inside, she was sure of it. Her memory mocked her.
Flick… flick, flick, flick.
She cast her gaze in the direction of the sound as she entered the room, and caught a glimpse of an open book. The door to the hall was only a few steps away. She could be free of this room in the time it took her to take a breath… and yet, the book…. the book disturbed her.
She’d never seen it before. She’d never even known her mother to read. She took one last look at the closed bedroom door before she stepped deeper into the darkness. Her curiosity was caught by the splayed pages. It was as though it’d been left for me to find.
The book was thick, the pages exposed at the halfway mark. One page fluttered helplessly in the air, as though neither side wanted its words. Rachel picked the heavy volume and turned it over. The golden cover was covered with elegant filigree markings and at the corner it was embossed with her mother's initials—MB. A journal?
How many years had her mother spent alone in this room? From out of nowhere, a rogue wave of sadness crashed over her. She turned the book over. Her mother's elegant handwriting drew Rachel closer. She walked to the light of the bathroom and stared at the page.
6th of October, 1998…. The page was dated last week. The day she died….
I am weak and a coward. I fear that anything I say or do now, will be too late. I can see her hatred for me. Her disdain is evident in her tone and in her eyes. I’ve failed you Rachel, and for that I will be eternally sorry…
Rachel's breath caught at the mention of her name. She couldn't stop herself from following her mother’s words. I wonder how many mothers think about killing their only child? How many are forced to endure a burden like mine? My Rachel has grown, soon to be a woman herself. I wonder if he has come for her yet?
The book slipped. The pages fluttered. The bound leather hit the floor with a thud, taking those words along with it. Words that rebounded inside her skull, corrupting every thought she had. The he could be no one else… it had to be her father. Why would her father come for her? She stared at her Mother’s words, soon to be a woman herself… Rachel felt as though she’d been slapped. Her mother’s words painted a picture no daughter should ever have. No, she’s a liar… she lies!
Rachel stumbled to the bedroom door. She yanked the handle with everything she had, screaming in rage when the door refused to open. No… let me out! She pushed down harder, listening to the lock give way. Then she was out of that room and she was running.
She didn't stop until she reached her room and slammed her door shut. Her hands trembled and her courage left. Her throat felt thick with tears and words she could no longer say. Words meant for the woman who’d been dead for almost a week. I hate you. I wish you were dead.
She felt sick to her stomach. Tonight her dinner would go uneaten. All she wanted to do was sleep. She cleaned and dressed the cut on her forehead, forcing herself to stay awake as she taped the dressing. Her legs trembled and her chest hitched, leaving an aching hollow where her heart once sat. She stumbled to the safety of her bed and kicked off her shoes. It wasn't sleep that called to her, it was release. She wanted to leave this day behind and that forget it ever existed. Her eyes closed as her head hit the pillow. Emptiness unfolded its midnight wings and took her under.
Her room was still dark when she woke with a start. Her thoughts were scattered, haunting. She licked her lips and sat up. She lay on the covers still dressed, with one knee-high sock in place, the other missing. Her skirt crumpled around her waist and her bare legs were cold in the night air.
“Did I wake you?”
Rachel jumped at the sound and gripped the covers. A shape moved in the dark.
“Daddy, is that you?”
The shape moved toward her. “Yes, angel, it’s me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”
His voice sounded strange, deep, and slurred. Her heart sped as she slid toward
the edge of the bed. “Daddy, is everything okay?”
Her father didn't answer. The dark shape moved to tower over her. The sharp smell of alcohol was thick and heady as he leaned down and whispered. “Are you my girl, Rachel? Are you Daddy's girl?”
She had no time to answer. She had no time to think, before emptiness unfolded its wings and this time, it didn’t let her go.
Her head whipped to the side as a crack sounded. Fire burned the side of her face.
“Rachel, are you okay?”
She tried to say something, but her throat was scorched like her face. She could do nothing as she was struck again. The jarring impact sent shockwaves of agony through her jaw. Rachel lifted her hand, reaching for her assailant, and felt a thick roll of fat. She opened her eyes to stare at the mountainous breasts squashed against her.
“Oh, thank God you’re okay. Thank God you’re okay. Thank God—”
“I’m fine. Please, shut up.” Her throat burned like a scald and she tasted blood with the effort. But if she had to listen to this woman again, she’d beg for the nightmare to return.
“You were screaming.” Dee released her and combed her fingers through Rachel’s tangled hair. “You were screaming about your mother coming back from the dead.”
Rachel wanted to slap this woman’s hand. She wanted to slap her goddamn face. “No. I wasn't.”
“Yeah, you were. You were screaming about a book, about your father, how he—”
“No. I. Wasn’t!” She snarled, cutting her off. “Please, I have a headache. I just want to be left alone.”
Dee looked as though she was the one who’d been slapped. Her expression fell and she sat up straight. When tears shone in her eyes, Rachel looked away, finding judgmental stares wherever she turned. She pushed herself upright, not caring anymore that she touched the fucking floor. Her priorities had shifted. It felt good to move around. It felt good to be in control of her body once more.