Mother

by Patrick Logan

  “Fucking A,” he said. “I mean, look at this shit. Looks like no one has been here in a hundred years.”

  Martin lifted the corner of a porch swing that hung from the rotting roof by two chains. There was a burnt smudge on the left side of the swing that looked like someone’s ass had caught fire and they had thought it a good idea to put it out on the seat. The chains were so rusty that thick flakes of coppery metal fell away when Martin let the swing go again.

  “Creepy,” Woodward muttered as the thing creaked and cawed like an old woman crooning.

  Martin turned to his friend and watched him try to navigate through the mud and up to the porch. Woodward was so heavy that his feet sunk in to nearly his ankle bones, and when he lifted that leg, it only drove the other one deeper. Martin knew that the clichéd quicksand that you saw in movies didn’t exist, but this was pretty damn close.

  “Wait! I don’t know if this porch can support your fat ass.”

  “Very funny,” Woodward replied. But when he finally managed to step on the first worn deck board, it groaned in protest.

  Marty laughed.

  Despite all of this—Arielle leaving, them at this creepy fucking place doing God knows what—he laughed.

  Laughter. Giggling.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  The porch held, and eventually Martin and Woodward found themselves side by side roughly six inches from the front door.

  “Well?”

  “Well.”

  “Do we knock?”

  Woodward shook his head.

  “No, I knock. Officer of the law and all that.”

  And then he knocked, rapping his chubby knuckles off the door with such ferocity that Martin thought he saw the rotting wood flex beneath them.

  The sound echoed through the house as if it were completely empty.

  Martin’s mind started whirring.

  So much for this idea.

  The problem was, if this failed, Martin had no idea what to do next, what else he could do to try to find Arielle. He was at his wits’ end.

  Woodward’s knocking snapped him back into reality.

  When there was no reply this time, Martin spoke up.

  “Let’s just go, man, this is fucked.”

  He could feel his hopes fading fast.

  Martin tugged at his friend’s shirtsleeve and was about to turn when Woodward resisted.

  “No way. I didn’t fucking drive two hours to turn around. And I definitely”—he alternated raising each of his mud-covered shoes and pant legs—“didn’t ruin my fucking shoes to just turn around.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m the law, remember? I’ll just kick it down. Rambo style.”

  Marty couldn’t suppress his smile.

  “Okay, first of all, Rambo was not a fucking cop. And secondly, what happened to federal crime? Going to prison and all that?”

  “Meh, fuck it,” Woodward said with a shrug. Then he raised his mud-covered shoe and drove it into the base of the door.

  Chapter 26

  Martin Reigns

  298 O’Brien Lane

  Batesburg, SC

  29006

  December

  I’m scared, Martin. One of the J’s had their baby… I’m having difficulty telling them apart for some reason… and it was fucked up. She looked fine, just kind of big all over and soft (not as big as Melissa, but close), then she said she felt sick and Mother came and took her away.

  But she came back, Martin, she came back and she was fucked.

  J was in a wheelchair and she looked dead. I’m not joking, she looked horrible. Jessie was parading her around while me and the other J were shouting at him to get the fuck out of here and get a doctor, but the man was just going about his business as if nothing were wrong. She was in a gown of some sort, and it was almost entirely soaked with blood. I don’t know if it was the wheelchair or the fact that she was just wearing a nightgown instead of the thicker clothes that we all wear—yeah some real convent shit—but she was HUGE! Her belly was massive. I mean, what the fuck, Martin. She went from just looking fat like me to having a massive belly and bleeding everywhere. Shit, she was so pale with the blood dripping onto the floor and the wheelchair leaving blood tracks… I’m going to have nightmares. I think she’s dead. But that wasn’t the worst part. Fuck, Martin, I think I could hear the baby crying, like it was faint and wet and muffled, but Jesus Christ, can you hear a baby crying when it’s about to be born? Like, inside the body? I don’t know—that sounds crazy—but I swear I heard something like it.

  A fucking baby crying after birth should be a happy thing. This was absolutely horrible.

  Please, Martin. Write me. I can’t do this on my own.

  Fuck, I hope J isn’t dead.

  Arielle

  Chapter 27

  The house stunk nearly as bad as the air outside—a thick, pungent mix of mold and staleness. And with every step they took inside, they stirred more dirt and dust.

  And more smell.

  “Fuck,” Woodward swore between sneezing bouts into his sleeve.

  “I think you’re right. I’m not sure anyone has been here in years.”

  Martin looked around the room as he spoke. They were in what was clearly some sort of family room, complete with a wooden rocking chair and a couch across from it. There was a network of spider webs clinging to the chair’s rockers, a clear indication that it hadn’t been moved in some time. The couch was much the same, but instead of spider webs, it was covered in a thick layer of dust.

  The inside of the house pretty much matched what Martin had expected based on the dilapidated exterior.

  And it was very depressing.

  Arielle wasn’t here; never had been.

  Woodward likely saw the despair painted on his features as he pushed by him.

  “Not everything is as it seems,” he said, clearly trying to comfort his friend.

  No kidding, Columbo.

  Martin almost said the words, but bit his tongue. He didn’t feel like joking anymore.

  “There’s nothing here, Woods. Let’s just go.”

  Woodward ignored him and continued further into the house.

  “I’m going into the kitchen,” he said as he swiped his finger along the back of the couch, creating a clear line in the dust.

  “Waste of time,” Martin muttered.

  He stood three feet inside the doorway, staring into the room, his mind wandering, trying to come up with something new. Some new way to track his wife. Some new way of convincing himself not to give up. To not get desperate.

  It took what felt like an hour of just staring before he realized that there was something amiss with the scene before him. Everything seemed in (or out) of place, depending on how he looked (or stared) at it. The dust, the old-fashioned rocking chair with spider webs, the fabric couch, the wooden table between them. Everything was exactly the way it should have been. Except for one thing… one little thing.

  “Martin! Hey, come take a look at this.”

  Martin’s eyes were fixed on the small table situated between the rocking chair and the couch.

  “Just a sec,” he hollered back.

  There was a small, clear patch on the dust-covered tabletop.

  “Marty? There’s a lock here, on the floor in the kitchen. It was under a rug.”

  Shut up, Woods.

  The clear area was the size of a—

  “Martin! Get your ass over here! I think it’s a door!”

  The size of the bottom of a pint glass.

  “What the—?”

  There was a serious of rapid, consecutive thuds from somewhere down the hall that were so quick that Martin didn’t have a chance to turn before he felt strong hands on him. Big hands. Hands so big that it only took one of them to wrap completely around his throat.

  Chapter 28

  Martin

  298 Brien Lane

  Batesburg

  2906

  Jan
uary

  Okay, I think I overreacted in my last letter—in case you even bothered to read the thing. J is fine; she came back a couple of days ago and showed us her brand-new baby girl. Like Melissa’s baby, she was tiny but super cute. And J looks okay too; still fat, but at least she has regained some color in her face. Shit, Martin, I really thought that she was dead. She told us that she had some emergency C-section that left a nasty scar, but that she is healing up nicely and will be going home soon.

  That was scary, really scary.

  Back to my baby—our baby. Fuck, Martin, why don’t you write me?—Mother says it might come early. I don’t really see her much anymore… sometimes she looks almost as bad as J did… but when she comes in, she just puts her hands on my stomach and feels around a bit. Nothing invasive, which is perfect for me. I have no idea how—or if—she can tell anything by doing that, but she says it’s her “experience.” And I guess she must be doing something right. I mean, J was nearly fifty years old and she had a baby… almost fucking died (yikes), but had a healthy baby girl. Mother must know something.

  Still, I’m scared, Martin. And I’m tired, so fucking tired. I haven’t felt the baby move in a while. It’s the milk, I’m sure of it. The stuff is nasty. I think I puked because of it. I’m not too sure, but my pillow stunk like some overly sweet cocktail in the morning. But then they brought another glass. As if they were watching me. And they made me drink it, the fucking girls—these Children of the Corn girls who always seem to be around, like they don’t have any parents of their own—just waited until I drank it. Told me they couldn’t leave until I finished it. I gagged. And then I got sleepy again. Slept. Heard the mouse. Mice. There are more of them now. And the walls here are wet.

  I tried to refuse the milk at lunch a couple of weeks back. And when I did, the girls came and sat with me. They were nice at first, but then when I said that I didn’t want it, they just waited. And waited. And waited. We sat there for about 3 or 4 hours (I don’t know for sure because there aren’t any fucking clocks in the place) and they just fucking smiled at me with their perfect little smiles. Even the one with no teeth—Madison? The one with the Frisbee from the park?—has a perfect smile. And then eventually I started shaking. Almost like I was having a seizure. And they just watched. I knew Mother was watching too, although I couldn’t see her. I just knew it.

  I drank the milk. I didn’t want to, but I did.

  I did it because I didn’t want to hurt the baby. Please, Martin, I can’t do this on my own. I know that now. I am so tired, so damn fucking tired and foggy. Can’t think straight, it’s pregnancy brain for sure.

  I thought about running away. Sneaking the fuck out of here and running to you, but I’m beginning to think that you don’t want that. After all, you haven’t replied to me yet. And Mother promised me the letters were going out.

  Have you found someone, Martin? Is that it?

  I want out, Marty. I want to take the baby and go. I need to get out.

  I need you to come get us.

  If it’s a girl, I think I’ll name her Hope, Marty. I dunno why, I guess I just like it. Hope for a new life, a new family, new beginnings.

  Please write me. Please don’t forget about me.

  Arielle

  Chapter 29

  “Marty? Marty! You okay in there?”

  Martin couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. The hand that clutched his throat was so strong that he feared that if he just turned his head even a little, let alone tried to escape, his throat would be crushed.

  Attempting to speak was out of the question.

  “Marty?”

  Martin heard his friend pull himself to his feet even amidst the heavy breathing coming from somewhere high above him.

  His own breaths were coming out in short bursts. His heart was doing the same with his blood.

  A few seconds later, Woodward stumbled into the room. When he raised his head and stared at Marty, his eyes went wide. Then his eyes kept traveling upward, and upward, and upward, until it seemed as if he was staring at a spot near the ceiling.

  And then something snapped in him and Woodward stumbled backward while at the same time grabbing at his gun on his hip. It took several attempts before he managed to free it from his holster.

  Martin’s eyes bulged so much that he feared they might pop from their sockets. If what Woodward saw, a cop for more than eighteen years, caused him pause, then he could only imagine what kind of man gripped him.

  Woodward put two hands on the gun and pointed it at a spot above Martin.

  The hand around Martin’s throat tightened.

  “Put him down! Put him down, now!” Woodward shouted.

  Someone, or something, grunted above Martin.

  “Why are you in my house?” The voice was deep and scratchy, the consonants melding together in a mumble.

  Woodward seemed to have collected himself, and the next time he spoke, his voice was strong, assertive.

  “Put him down, now!”

  Martin had never seen his friend like this—the entire time he had known Woodward he had never seen him like this. His soft, doughy friend had suddenly gotten hard.

  “Why are you in my house?” The man’s voice was like sandpaper stroking a bassoon.

  Woodward seemed unfazed.

  “Put. Him. Down.”

  And then, miraculously, Martin felt the hand on his neck release. Air suddenly rushed into his mouth and throat, burning as it traveled all the way down to his lungs. He fell to the floor in a heap.

  “Now step back.”

  Martin, still gasping on the floor, heard a shuffling noise as the thing behind him receded, making the stale air easier to breathe.

  “You broke into the house.”

  The words were stated matter-of-factly, and Martin cringed. He tried to turn and look up at whatever had gripped his throat, but his body failed to respond.

  “Look, I’m putting the gun down, okay? But if you move, I’m going to raise it again, and this time I’ll use it.”

  There was no response.

  “You have to nod or say something, or else I’m going to keep it aimed at your head. Do you understand me?”

  There must have been some sort of nonverbal exchange, because Woodward eventually lowered his gun.

  “What’s your name?” Woodward asked, shuffling toward Martin.

  “You broke into the house. Mother will not be happy.”

  Mother? What the fuck?

  “We were called here, some disturbance,” Woodward answered quickly. “We thought someone was in trouble. I can see that it was just a prank. We’re going to leave now.”

  There was a long pause, and then there was a series of footsteps behind Martin. He instinctively buried his head in his hands, fearing that he would be picked up again. But when someone touched him, it was from in front, and not from behind.

  It was Woodward.

  “Get up,” his friend muttered.

  With Woodward’s help, Martin obliged, pulling himself off the dusty wooden floor.

  “My name is Jessie. I’m the gardener.”

  Woodward hooked his arm around Martin’s waist and together they stood.

  “Okay, Jessie, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. Like I said, it must have just been a prank. Happens often.”

  “Mother said I’m not allowed visitors.”

  It was clear that there was something wrong with this man, but Woodward did an expert job of masking his feelings. He nodded.

  A few more steps and they reached the door.

  Martin coughed and cleared his throat, and then he turned and caught his first glimpse of what had grabbed him by the throat.

  “What the—?”

  But Woodward yanked him and they stumbled onto the porch before he could get the words out. Before he could fully comprehend the tall, spindly creature that was standing in the doorway.

  With linked arms, they hurried backward past the rusty porch swing, and then back into the mud.
When Martin felt the familiar sucking sensation of his shoes in the soft ground, he regained use of his limbs and separated from Woodward. Still, he stayed close to his friend; he felt safer walking backward with Woodward, knowing that if something went wrong, the man would be able to quickly whip out his gun again. He just didn’t know how many bullets were in there, or if they were enough to take down that man.

  By the time they were within spitting distance of the cruiser, the shape of the man that had eclipsed the top of the doorway had been completely enshrouded in shadows and was no longer distinguishable.

  Maybe Martin had imagined him. It.

  A hard swallow, and the pain that accompanied the normal physiological action, was proof enough that he hadn’t.

  His heel struck something hard, and he immediately jumped to one side, a curse clawing its way out of his raw throat.

  Martin looked down in time to see the rusted, dented mailbox spinning in the mud, the number 1818 twirling like a pinwheel flower.

  “Fuck, man,” Woodward whispered in his ear. “What are you looking at? Let’s get in the car and get the fuck out of here!”

  Chapter 30

  Martin

  298 Brin Ln

  Batesbrg, SC

  Feb

  Baby is coming soon Mother told me . I m gonna be a mo ther soon.

  You do nt care u hhhate me .

  Whe nthe baby s born I am going to leave this place and never come back . I m sorr y abo t vererythig

  Good by Marti n I lov u

  Arielle

  Chapter 31

  It was nearly a month after what happened at Coverfeld before Martin reached out to Woodward again. It was strange, really, how those events had somehow set Martin free. It was coming on three months that Arielle had been missing now, and as with most things—like pain, especially pain—the acuteness of reality faded with time.