by Mia Zabrisky
I stood smoking my cigarette and contemplating the possibilities, when the widow came outside a few minutes later. I heard the porch door slam shut behind her. I saw her look around wildly for a moment. I was over by the trees, and she didn’t see me standing there in the dark. She mopped her brow with her slender arm, sighed heavily, stared at the distant twilit fields, and took off across the yard. Where was she going? I had to find out. I stomped out my cigarette and watched her clamber over an old stonewall separating the Kincaid property from the neighboring pasture. Then she headed into the grassy field.
I decided to follow her. I could see exactly where she was going, so I stealthily circled around her. I didn’t want to alarm her. Between the setting sun and the full moon, it was light enough out not to require a flashlight. I hurried diagonally up the hill toward the woods, where I spotted a deer. I froze in place and watched as it paused, too, studying me. It snorted a warning, and I just waited. After a moment, the deer tensed and bounded into the woods, its tail flashing white.
I bumped into Delilah at the bottom of the hill. She was walking along in a distracted manner with her head bowed, eyes on the ground. She took brooding strides.
“Hello,” I said as I reached the dirt road.
She looked up without smiling. “Oh. Hello.” She sounded irritated.
“I was just walking off that delicious meal.”
“Delicious? Ha. You must be joking.”
We headed for the babbling brook, where something large plopped into the water as we approached. I could sense the panic of its movements—frenzied, startled. The water rippled, and we stood on the bank, looking down, but saw nothing.
The air throbbed with the sound of our silence.
I stubbornly waited her out.
She was such an odd woman, rapidly chewing on a piece of gum. She blew a gray bubble, and it popped. I stared at her upturned nose in the moonlight. I stared at her girlish hands. The more I studied her, the younger she appeared to be. “Where did you get those cuts and bruises, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, looking startled and tugging on the sleeves of her blouse. “It’s from working in the garden.”
“The garden, huh?” I couldn’t hide my skepticism.
“I grow roses,” she said nervously, popping a succession of bubbles. “I have a tendency to… cut myself on the thorns. Sometimes I… trip over things. I’m a… clumsy person.”
Wow, I thought. What is she hiding?
“Cigarette?” I offered, and she glanced around as if somebody might be watching us before she spit out her gum and nodded. I lit one for her. “It must be difficult, raising two rambunctious kids all by yourself.”
She inhaled deeply, as if she were taking in the mountain air. “It feels like my life has gone horribly astray,” she confessed.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. She left a whole lot unsaid.
“Why has your life gone astray?”
“It’s difficult bringing children into this world and then watching them suffer.”
I nodded, trying to sound sympathetic. “Yeah, that’s rough.”
Who was suffering? Oliver? Andy?
She kept her mouth shut.
I didn’t push it. You couldn’t get too nosy too soon.
“You’ll be okay,” I said in my most soothing voice.
Her lips began to quiver. Her eyes welled with tears. It was a poignant moment. She finally let her guard down. I leaned in close and kissed her.
She drew back in terror. “Don’t,” she gasped.
“Why not?”
“Because we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We just can’t.”
“We’re two adults, aren’t we?” I said, a little peeved.
She dropped her cigarette in the dirt and crushed it underfoot. She tensed all over before bounding across the field. Just like the deer.
*
I didn’t have to wait too long for the rest of them to go to bed. By nine o’clock, the kids had brushed their teeth and changed into their pajamas and crawled into bed. So had the widow. Her light remained on under her bedroom door until eleven, though. Reading or correcting papers, I don’t know. Does it matter? I waited with enormous patience for her light to finally wink out.
While I was waiting, I sat on my bed and found last month’s tabloid in my duffel bag and read the article again. You’d think that by 1971 they’d be printing color pictures, but the black-and-white’s were gruesome enough. Phoenix, Arizona. Police discovered the body of a middle-aged female victim in her home on Thursday morning after responding to a call from the paperboy, who noticed the newspapers piling up on the front porch and alerted authorities. The victim was found lying in a pool of blood, with her head wrapped in duct tape. The police chief made a brief statement yesterday. ‘We are shocked at the grisly nature of this horrendous crime and are doing everything we can to solve it. I am asking any witnesses who may have seen or heard anything suspicious to come forward so that we can prevent further crimes like this from happening in our community.’
I examined the morgue photographs carefully. The woman was thick around the middle with colorless hairs on her arms and legs. Her head was completely wrapped in duct tape, like a mummy. Duct tape covered her eyes, nose and mouth, and stopped at her chin. You could make out the shape of her face through her shroud—the triangular points of her ears and the small protuberance of her nose.
It always surprised me how easily people accepted strangers into their homes.
Sometimes I had to remind myself to be careful.
*
The old floorboards creaked and groaned as I tiptoed through the dark in my stocking feet. I got out the linseed oil, poured a few drops into the cracks and rubbed it into the wood with a rag.
I waited for as long as I could—well past midnight—before I ventured out of my room. The widow’s light was off, and the hallway’s large old-fashioned windowpanes let in plenty of moonlight. I decided to bring along a flashlight with me anyway, since the attic would be dark.
The attic door was locked, but that never stopped me before. Navigating those stairs was something else, though. They were narrow and slippery, and I almost tripped. The higher I climbed, the hotter and more stifling it got. I flicked on my flashlight at the top of the stairs. The dusty floorboards were covered with dead flies, and I could hear wasps buzzing lethargically in the eaves.
The old Victorian had a square rooftop, and the attic was wide and long. I spotted a room at the northern end, an enclosed room with a door. It seemed to take forever to navigate through the crazy obstacle course of boxes, tennis rackets, Christmas lights, mothballed winter clothes and hallowed childhood artifacts. Finally, I stood before the enclosed room, switched off my light and opened the door.
The room was all lit up with moonlight and smelled like fabric softener. I could hear a child breathing inside. There was a single curtainless window, and a blanket of moon dust fell over everything. There was a large four-poster bed in the middle of the room, a nightstand crowded with pills and medical supplies, and a bureau off to one side. I could hear a child breathing at the center of the bed. I could see the outline of a small body. She wore a long white nightgown with a pattern of tiny pink roses. She looked about ten years old. She breathed and behaved as if she were living inside a cloud—it’s hard to describe it any other way. She appeared to be floating, although I could plainly see she was rooted to gravity, same as me.
I moved cautiously into the room and noticed that her wrists were bound by velvet straps to the bedposts. The same with her ankles. It was weird beyond belief. Why was she trapped here? Was she being held prisoner? What for? What sickness was this?
I moved closer to the bed and heard something crunch underfoot. More dead flies. The girl had a round unblemished face and pale unscarred skin. She looked like Olive’s twin sister, only she wasn’t half as pretty. She had the same delicate feat
ures and dark hair as her sister, but I couldn’t see her eyes. They were closed, although I was sure they were the same startling blue. She had a low forehead that made her look slightly paranoid, and a severe mouth with thin lips. Although she was restrained, she didn’t appear to be uncomfortable or suffering in any way. She was clean and tidy. Her hair was neatly combed.
As I stood there, I felt my worries beginning to slip away. I began to lose the tension in my body. It was the opposite of what I’d expected. In my travels, I’d found proof of mankind’s sins and weaknesses everywhere, buried in the hearts of perfectly normal families. Greed, hunger, longing, pride, obsession, desire, envy, you name it. The American dream could so easily turn into a nightmare. Sometimes I helped those nightmares along.
The girl didn’t wake up. She slept soundly, her ribcage moving gently up and down. It was hypnotic, watching her sleep. I kept expecting something to happen. The truth was, I wanted something to happen. I examined the sheen of perspiration on her face and reached out to tickle the bottom of her foot, wanting to provoke some sort of response. Would a monster wake up and growl at me? Would her head spin around? Would her eyes glow hellfire red?
But nothing unusual happened. The little girl stirred in her sleep, shifted her foot away from my hand, and continued sleeping soundly and grinding her teeth. I panned the flashlight beam across the bed and noticed the extra toe on her left foot.
She had thirteen toes.
Now that really resonated with me.
I stood a while longer, hovering like a worried parent, wondering what the big mystery was. Why was she tied up like this? Why did they keep her up here? What was wrong with her? What was wrong with them? I exhausted myself with these questions.
Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching and froze in place. It sounded like somebody was coming. I raced downstairs to my room and stood listening behind my closed door. After a moment, I heard someone going up the attic stairs and wondered who it was. I wanted to peek outside, but my heart was racing too hard to do anything. I heard footsteps above my head, and a soft voice. Female. Kind. Delilah Kincaid.
And then a harsh whisper. “No, Isabelle!”
Followed by silence.
A few minutes later, I heard movements, like the clinking of pill bottles, and more whispered words. Then footsteps tracking across the attic floor and back down the stairs. I heard the attic door quietly open and close. I heard a key click in the latch.
And then nothing.
I went to my door and peeked out. I saw the light wink off in Delilah’s room.
I killed the remaining couple of hours with a flask of whiskey and waited for dawn to arrive.
*
The next morning over breakfast, I noticed fresh scratches on Delilah’s wrists. Red and raw. She covered them up with her long-sleeve blouse, but it was a hot humid July morning, and as she fanned herself with a napkin, I caught glimpses of exposed skin.
She was gravely courteous this morning. Her eyes were flat as a lake and her hair was the color of ditch water. “I’m going to the grocery store, Mr. LaCroix,” she said stiffly. “Is there anything I can get for you while I’m there?”
“Just some beer.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t drink in this house.”
I took the news with practiced calm. I prided myself on being able to soothe my victims—that was my special gift. I was good at it. “Well, okay. I guess I’ll visit the local tavern at some point.”
“What’s a tavern?” Olive asked, her hair in two pencil-thin braids.
“Bar,” I told her with a wink.
“What’s a bar?”
“A place where people go to get artificially happy.”
“It’s a very sad place,” Delilah corrected me.
Andy came downstairs wearing another crazy outfit—a pair of purple shorts with a silver belt, a flowered vest, and cow-brown suede boots. “Like my outfit?” he asked, and I just rolled my eyes.
“Jazzy,” Olive told him brightly.
He rocked his prideful head sideways, while beads of sweat collected along his hairline. He was a big kid, tall and bulky. “What’s for breakfast, Mom?”
“Pancakes,” she said. “Did you wash your hands?”
He held them up for inspection.
I passed him the maple syrup and he thanked me with an effusive grin.
I turned to the widow and said, “By the way, I heard something in the attic last night.”
Delilah held her fork just inches from her open mouth.
“It sounded like a squirrel. Or maybe a rat. Well, anyway. You told me to tell you if I heard anything.”
She swallowed hard. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.”
She smiled with fear in her eyes.
In the Alaskan woods that day—after the girl died, her lips gradually turning as pale blue as her powder-blue snow boots—I began to cry. I sobbed with self-pity. I wept for my own pathetic wasted life. I wanted to die. It was the Alaskan wilderness. The vastness of it, the isolation. The woods were silent except for the creaking trees, which made a sound like many rocking chairs.
The wind whistled multiple notes through the leafless branches, and snow collected in the crotches of the maple trees, their trunks like human torsos bulging with veins. Little baseball-sized clumps of snow slid down the feathery cypress. If you stared long enough into the woods, you would see more colors than you ever imagined possible in the landscape. Blue ice crystals, pink kisses of fungus, gold flakes of birch bark. And the snow drifted down over everything.
That day I discovered the truth about myself. I was a killer. A vicious predator. Since then, there have been other victims scattered across the United States. Right now though, while I sat inside the widow’s kitchen, eating pancakes with her and the kids, I wondered if I it was possible to leave the past behind and lead a normal life? Just erase it all? Maybe if I got treated for my compulsions? Or maybe if I turned to Jesus? Could I keep the monster locked away in the closet? Was there any hope?
I didn’t want to kill again. I was sick of feeling that way.
But the cynic inside me laughed. And the laughter took over.
The little girl was counting the blueberries on her pancakes. “One, two, three…”
I held up my hands and counted. Ten fingers. Ten victims.
And then I remembered—three more would make it thirteen.
A perfect number.
13.
There was a symmetry there I couldn’t resist.
Except for one problem. There were four people in this family.
I suddenly heard a noise like the beat of a fly’s wing close to my ear.
The little girl was asking questions. Babbling on the way some kids do.
“What?” I said, distracted by the fly or the bug or whatever it was.
“What are you doing?” Olive asked.
“Doing?”
“With your fingers?”
“Counting.”
“Counting what?”
“My accomplishments.”
“What accomplishments?”
“Just stuff I’ve done in my life.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Grown up stuff.”
“What kind of grown up stuff?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in.”
She sighed. She grew frustrated, because I wasn’t going to be more forthcoming.
I winked at Delilah, who frowned. She didn’t trust me. Smart woman.
13 victims. I liked the sound of that.
I could feel the compulsion bubbling up inside me, and my scars throbbing in agreement. But there were four people in this family. Not three. So the question was—which one should I spare? The lovely and mysterious widow? The dimwitted boy who wouldn’t be able to identify me? The girl trapped in the attic? Or the normal one?
Then I heard it again. That noise.
I turned and swatted at the air. I stood up
and listened, then heard it again.
Tick tick tick.
“What’s wrong?” Delilah asked, wrinkling her upturned nose.
“I thought I heard something,” I muttered, sitting back down and finishing my pancakes.
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing.” She asked too many questions. I needed to change the subject. “Hey, Olive, I got you something.”
“Me?” The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Really? What?”
“Stay here. Don’t move.”
Delilah leaned forward and said, “Please don’t give her anything.”
“Not a problem.” I went upstairs and dug the thing out of my bag. I hurried back downstairs and gave it to her. Wrapped in inky newsprint was a stuffed toy fawn—a baby deer with pink speckles on its tan back. It had tiny hooves, long painted eyelashes and an innocent smile on its adorable cartoon face.
“For me?”
“For you.”
“Oh! It’s so pretty!”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Delilah spoke intensely, as if some part of her was grateful, but an even bigger part might be jealous.
“Thanks!” Olive said, hugging her new treasure. “I love it!”
Now I heard that sound again. A flickering, awful sound.
Tick tick tick.
What was that? I looked around the kitchen but couldn’t see a thing.
That day in the Alaskan wilderness, while I was sitting in the snow and playing with the dead girl’s fingers, I saw a whiteness beyond the mountains that filled me with fear. A whiteness ten times as bright as the sun. A great absence. What was that? It was the shimmering whiteness of finality. Death was coming for me. One day, in the beat of a fly’s wing, I would be gone.
*
After breakfast, Delilah finished doing the dishes, fetched her purse, issued a few instructions to the kids, and then drove into town. Olive and Andy ran outside to play. At last, I had the house to myself.
I immediately went upstairs to the attic, a strange fear squeezing my stomach. The girl was lying in the exact position as before, her dreamy eyes closed, and I could see her ribcage moving slowly up and down. I stood in the doorway and said, “Hello?”