House of Sighs

by Aaron Dries

  Jack grabbed the mother by the ankles and dragged her back inside. She screamed louder than Rena had the day he punched her neck in the darkened parking lot. He drove the knife into her back, right between the shoulder blades. The screaming stopped, which surprised him. He watched her deflate like a pierced balloon. Blood didn’t spurt as he had expected. He looked down at her disappointed.

  She was a total non-event.

  “Hubby will make more noise,” he told her, dismissive.

  Jack bent down to grab the knife from her back and stopped. His eyes caught a shimmer of silver to his left. What he saw erased the last good in him, and he knew he was brought here to do what had to happen next. It was his purpose. He smiled; to think everyone had thought he would amount to nothing, that he lacked ambition. I might just end up remembered after all, he thought.

  Next to the spice rack on the kitchen bench, a long-bladed pair of scissors was hooked to the wall.

  Jack’s shadow spilled into the living room and over Wes, who had crawled to the couch. He pulled at the cushions in a laughable attempt at getting up. “God! I’m blind, I’m blind!” Wes screamed. His voice rattled and shook. He was confused, his thoughts jumbled. There was little pain, just pressure in the dark. He could smell his own blood. He reminded himself to have an aspirin later. He fell forward and rolled onto his side, and tucked his hands into his armpits. He felt so cold.

  Jack stood over him, scissors in his hand. “Hey,” he said. “Ever wondered what it feels like to be cut?”

  Nine: Punishment

  Jack was still on his parents’ bed from where he had been thrown, facedown and eyes closed. He waited for the sound of the unbuckling belt, the signal that his punishment was about to be enforced. He strained his ears. Was his dad doing it slowly to prolong his torture? Or maybe he meant to be quiet—the element of surprise being the feature that distinguished this lashing from the others he had received.

  Nothing. In the distance he could hear his cousin’s cries.

  Jack opened his small, dark eyes.

  He saw the bulge of his father’s stomach through the apron he wore. In his hands, he held the blood-streaked scissors that Jack had used to slit open Charles’s hands and fingers.

  “What you doing, Dad?”

  “Don’t speak, boy.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you say a bloody word, you hear?”

  Jack bit his tongue and pinched his lips together.

  “Now, son,” his father began, “you’re going to learn a lesson. And it’s a lesson I don’t much like teaching. But I’m your dad, and I got to do what I think is fair.”

  Jack was frightened. He breathed hot air into the blanket. It itched against his face. He could not look his father in the eye; his focus was on the scissors.

  “Now hold out your hand.”

  Eight

  Jack looked at the thin, white scars running the lengths of the two first fingers of his right hand and realized that all sons hated their fathers for making them stronger men. It was only natural to resent the teacher, the person who dealt the cards no child wanted. But time passed and perspective drew things together. It made sense to him now. He did not hate his father as he had assumed for so many years—he loved and respected him. His scars were his father’s testament.

  The scissors weren’t cold any more. They burned.

  He knelt beside Wes and wondered where to stick him. The stomach didn’t seem vital enough. The heart? Cliché! No, Jack wanted to be original. And besides, the chest plate would be difficult to puncture. He thought about sliding the blade between two ribs and hoping for the best, but no, that would not do.

  So Jack decided on the neck.

  The twin points of the scissors punched through a thick layer of skin—an initial challenge—and then slid in with ease. Nice. Jack felt it snag on something hard; was it his spine? It thrilled him to think it was. When he pulled the scissors out, a gigantic spray of blood shot over Jack’s chest.

  He smiled.

  Wes scrambled at the gash, trying to kick himself away.

  “Don’t you go anywhere,” Jack whispered. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  Seven

  Outside, Jack screamed into the trees, orgasmic. “I’m gonna cut off your cock and stuff it down ya throat after I fuck ya, Charles!”

  He didn’t add that he planned to watch his eventual decay, be witness to the flies as they laid their eggs in his gashes and stab wounds. There was so much for him to see.

  I won’t be erased, he thought. I’m not a blur on the back of a toilet door.

  He didn’t need the voice in his head any more. He had his own.

  Tree sap stung Michael’s eyes, and his ears still hurt. He hoped he didn’t have permanent damage. Wiping rain from his face, he burst through a blockade of trees and fell into a small clearing. It was an uneven patch of ground with a fallen tree across its girth. He did not know it but this had been Liz’s personal retreat.

  Michael was faced with one of two options.

  He could just keep on running and pray to God he could shake Jack off. It was getting darker by the minute and the bushlands were thick and knotted; he could use this to his advantage. And if he came across a road—what then? The chances of a car coming by at that exact moment were little to none. Would he just end up running more? How would he know which way to go? He might choose left over right and end up going farther and farther into the valley, away from James Bridge. By that time it would be full dark, visibility low. In the open Jack would have the upper hand simply because he was faster, stronger. It was a gamble.

  The second option was to hide.

  Michael looked across the clearing to the other side. He hadn’t realized it until then but he’d been running along a faint footpath. Along it the grass was thin and the rocks were worn bald. He didn’t know if the path was for people, or a thoroughfare for livestock—but it was there nonetheless. His first instinct was to walk along it, so why would Jack think to do otherwise?

  Thunder cracked, reminding him that he had to make his decision quick, and get out of sight either way. For now he was exposed.

  He decided to hide.

  Wading through the knee-high grass was like running through water. The blades wrapped around his shins, dragging him back towards the house. Don’t fight me, he thought. Michael looked behind him—the crashing had grown so loud he was sure Jack was mere feet away. Michael understood that Jack couldn’t be underestimated; he didn’t strike him as the kind of man who only went half-insane.

  Michael threw his foot onto the fallen tree—it groaned under his weight. His sneaker was covered in mud and the green ink of crushed bushes. With a final look over his shoulder, Michael stepped up onto the tree and leapt over it. He landed on his knees—out of sight, just as Jack stepped into the clearing.

  The tree itself was long and huge. A blackened crack ran its length from where the lightning bolt had struck. Because the clearing was not even ground, the tree was propped up, creating a space between its bark and the ground, almost like a storage unit under a flight of stairs. With the branches and leaves hanging down along its sides, it made the perfect hiding spot—a convenient tent in the middle of nowhere. He slid under.

  It smelled of rot and mildew, eucalyptus and charcoal. Pain burst in his mangled shoulder—a reminder of how crippled he was. In the back of his mind he worried about blacking out again. He pushed himself flat onto his stomach and peered through the grass.

  Jack had moved into the center of the clearing and was scanning his surroundings. He juggled the scissors from hand to hand in anticipation. Michael watched Jack’s barrel chest expanding and deflating; he saw the mangled cusp of his attacker’s ear from where the father had blown it away with the shotgun. It was a paralyzing sight. Everything about Jack seemed lethal, but nothing more so than the way he had transcended his pain.

  There were gaps in Michael’s story so he tried to fill them in. He’d escaped from the hous
e when Jack attacked the father, run into the kitchen where he shook off the woman and leapt outside. Then came the Rottweiler and its teeth. Then he’d fainted. He knew he hadn’t been out for long, so at what point did Jack evolve from victim to murderer? It was terrifying to think that perhaps there had never been a distinction between the two. Michael had known Jack was a laundry list of bigotries but he never suspected this. How could a man find joy in such carnage? Michael now felt that Jack was a critical part of a larger master plan, encompassing the family and passengers alike. He started to shake. What the hell happened in that house? He remembered how the mother had been pulled back through the door.

  Help.

  The word echoed.

  She had been calling out to him.

  Jesus, he’s murdered the mother as well! He looked at Jack again and saw the joy in his face, manic and wild. The way he held the scissors spoke volumes. Jack wasn’t nervous, his grip was firm—the man was on a mission. Michael hoped the son had survived, seen reason and called the police, but he wasn’t optimistic.

  Jack scanned the trees once more.

  Just keep on walking, follow the path, Michael thought, his eyes pushed shut, brow breaking into creases, as though concentrating hard enough would implant the idea in the head of his pursuer. I went THAT way.

  To his surprise Jack continued down the path.

  Michael started nodding. Yes-yes-yes, he wanted to scream.

  I can win this!

  And that was what it had become. Winning. There could be no draws after a game like this. Someone had to lose because one of the final contestants dictated the situation remain competitive. They had descended to blood sport.

  Hunter and hunted.

  Jack disappeared.

  Oh my God, I did it. Michael smiled, allowing his head to fall into the grass beneath him. It was inviting and cool. I beat him.

  Minutes passed, and still nothing.

  So what now? He parted the curtain of grass in front of him, slow and steady, careful to not draw any attention. The calm eye of the storm had passed above and the weather was starting to churn again, bringing first the howling wind. The trees, which ringed the clearing like a pack of hungry wolves, shook and buckled under the rain. Freezing water started to well up underneath him, sloshing up over his chest. I’m going to die of pneumonia in here. The cold penetrated deep, reaching into his throat and lungs until it hurt to breathe. The strong torrent of rain churned the soil and turned caked dirt into a foul-smelling sludge.

  He lay there for another five minutes, shivering. And then he started to feel the legs crawling over his arm.

  Lots of legs.

  A foot-long centipede slithered out of the bark and onto his forearm. He was too shocked to recoil. A hundred legs tickled his skin. It reared up to reveal a pair of fangs underneath its flat, brown head. Two twitching antennae waved. You should be screaming. You should be flinging it off your arm, banging it against the thick wood above your head—anything! Move now—run!

  He couldn’t move, didn’t dare make a noise.

  The centipede seemed to look at him. Did it understand the fear it evoked? He wondered if it were poisonous. What? Are you kidding? Michael, this is Australia—everything here is fucking poisonous!

  Its fangs were protracted, clipping together. Snip-snip. Between them was a triangular mouth, a warm home for rows of teeth. It inched closer. He could hear it chattering.

  The grass curtains spread in a V from the outside and Jack’s bloodied face stared in at him, mouth wide and roaring.

  In a flash of ice-blue lightning, he saw chunks of stringy meat wedged between Jack’s teeth. Michael screamed, reached up and with a courage he didn't know he possessed, grabbed the centipede by its middle and flung it at Jack’s face. The wriggling insect landed on his cheek, the legs dug into flesh. Strong jaws slammed shut as the insect’s fanged head slipped into his mouth. It was a clean cut, and the remainder fell into the mud where it wormed and flipped, legs gnarling together. Jack spat the head out.

  Michael swung his leg up and kneed Jack in the chin, sending his attacker back through the veil of branches and into the grass. Michael saw the soles of clay-covered sneakers pointed up at the sky and dodged out the other side of the trunk.

  “I got you! I got you!” Michael said, diving across the clearing. He spearheaded into the trees, and was gone from sight. Taking the path didn’t even cross his mind.

  Six

  He splashed through running water and followed the fast-flowing stream to a narrow cliff face on his right. Michael couldn’t tell how steep the drop was. Past the bluff he saw the valley writhing under the storm’s onslaught.

  His shoes slipped on the mossy rocks. Behind him, Jack jumped through the trees.

  “I’m going to get you for that, you shit! I swear to God—” he screamed. Michael watched him twist his ankle on a loose boulder. The stumble gave Michael enough time to disappear into the thicket. Branches snagged on his shirt, wrapping around his arms. Trying to move his legs was like trying to run in quicksand—the more he threw himself about, the more he was dragged down.

  Jack walked towards the trees, limping. Drool strung from his chin, his face a mask of blood and shit-smelling mud. “Don’t you move, Charles,” he said just above a whisper. “Got a lesson to teach you, and you ain’t going to like it.”

  The trees were his webs, and instead of fangs the spider had scissors. Jack crept closer and closer. He wanted this to be drawn out—he enjoyed the chase so damn much. “You’re just too easy,” he told Michael, who scrambled in the knot of thorny boughs. Strips of skin hung from finger-like branches.

  Michael watched his murderer approach. He was so close he could smell him now. This is it, I’m going to die, I’ve thought it so many times today but this is it for real now, oh sweet Jesus, I hope it doesn’t hurt. In his mind he saw his parents and his friends. No, don’t give up. Don’t give in to him. Don’t let him win. You’ve got legs. Use them. You can get one leg free at least. Kick, bite, scratch, do anything. But don’t you dare give up!

  Jack was within inches. He even considered letting the boy go so the chase could continue. He could not wait to torture him, to bleed the bad from his flesh. He held the scissors in his right hand, stretching them towards the squirming, screaming mass.

  “Here we go,” Jack said.

  A burst of primal energy surged through Michael’s body. He grabbed a tree branch and swung both legs up off the ground. The tree held his weight and Michael lashed out—his feet slammed into Jack’s throat.

  The branch gave way and snapped, sending Michael crashing headfirst to the ground in a rain of leaves. Without looking to see where his enemy had fallen, he started to crawl.

  Jack was still fumbling. His twisted ankle landed on a rotted log. It shattered under his heel. He lost his footing and tumbled into the strong-flowing stream. Brilliant, cold water splashed over his face and up his nose, forcing his shirt up around his neck in a chokehold. He twisted, rocks jabbing at his stomach. Jack’s head emerged from the stream. The scissors were gone.

  Michael slid under the branches, bugs crawling over his fingers and into his hair. The smell of soil and decay was rich. He kept on kicking with his legs, trying to pull farther away.

  Jack looked around for his weapon. It was then that he realized how close he was to the narrow cliff face—ten feet at most.

  “Oh, you bitch, you bitch,” he yelled at the boy.

  Jack dragged himself out of the stream and collapsed in the mud. He looked around. Nothing. “Oh, I’m going to cut you up so bad.” Hope drained away as he said it. He looked over the lip of the bluff. Loose earth fell away under his grip and he shuffled away from the edge, but not before seeing the scissors in a flash of lightning. A thorned bush fifteen feet below had broken their fall. The stream of water ran into darkened treetops.

  “Fuck!” he screamed. He picked up loose rocks and threw them at the water, kicking mud into the air. Fury gave him a second wi
nd. Without the scissors he felt like he had lost a limb. He could sense its phantom weight in his hands.

  He clenched his fists and looked at where Michael had disappeared. “I’m going to make you hurt, you faggot bitch. I don’t need the fucking scissors.” He ran to the trees, bent low and followed the trenched divots Michael left behind. “I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands.”

  Five

  The rain stopped and night fell over the valley. Michael still ran. Jack followed, clothed in shadow.

  Birds flew through the air.

  Somewhere The Beast came out, from under the bed. It lurched and limped and craved meat.

  I do exist; I’m not rumor or myth. I’m not a fairy tale told by parents to keep their children obedient. I’m no longer caged. I shake off the clothing you keep in your closet. I wipe the dust from under your bed out of my hair. I will make you bleed and you will know how real I am. I will be heard. I’ll lift up your skirt and see what lies beneath, teacher. My hand is raised and this time I know the answer. And there is only one answer.

  Don’t turn back. Do not walk.

  Run!

  The trees cleared again. Moonlight shone across a field. At its far end there was a steep incline. At the top a yellow streetlight shone through the grass.

  It was the road that led to Flagman’s Bridge, and the town beyond it.

  Michael tried yelling for help but his voice was completely gone. Every step drew him closer to passing out again. He was sixty-odd feet from the incline, which itself was as tall as a five-story building. He knew this was the combined distance between him and hope.