What do I believe? Do I believe she's gaining her soul, that her temples are going gray in the process?
He thought of Marc--of all the grownups--coming back aged and worn. What could do that to a person? If not magic, what could that man do to Liz that would cause that?
The answer came as a pained cry outside.
Liz. No mistaking the sound of her voice.
Real or not, the alien voice said. Are you going to allow him to do...whatever it is...to your sister? She's in pain and you were supposed to protect her. You killed that kid, who'd done nothing to her, for what? So this man could hurt her? Was that worth this?
Trent threw open the door and got out. His feet crunched over October-hardened wild grass as he grabbed the tire iron from the trunk. It was cold and heavy in his hand.
When Liz cried out again, he got moving.
He edged into the darkness beyond the headlights. Overhead, a half-moon glowed, bathing the way in front of him in blacks and blues. He could just see the corner of the house to his right, and roughly round shapes to his left that had probably been trimmed shrubs decades ago.
Liz was sobbing somewhere beyond.
"Quit crying, child," the man said in a low growl. "Behold what is before you."
Trent came around the corner and froze, the chaos in his mind instantly slapped aside.
The house's backyard was really an overgrown field, ending in mountains and forest. Liz and the man were on a stone court maybe thirty yards away, the man with his back to Trent. He held the lapels of his black trench open.
But Liz was just Liz, on her knees, the moon dripping along her bare shoulders. She was topless, the cups of her bra white orbs in the darkness, the tatters of her shirt hanging off her forearms. She hugged herself, tried to cover her semi-nakedness. Trent saw no blood, but the sight short-circuited his brain and the scene before him spoke to his nerve-endings, his biology as kin. It hadn't been like this with the rest stop boy. Not at all.
Adrenaline flooded his body and his body sprinted forward, arm already raising the tire iron, before his brain could fully process everything. Neither the man nor Liz turned, absorbed in their business, although it seemed like his whamming heart reverberated through the air.
(--and, only for an instant, the time it takes for an eye to blink, he thought he saw light, powerful light, otherworldly light, build between the man and Liz, something blindingly white in its core and icy-blue along its edges, obscured by the lapels of the man's coat. It lasted long enough for Trent's conscious mind to recoil, to think it'd been a mistake, but his nerves overruled him, his protective instincts smothered him, and he didn't even slow as he--)
--brought the tire iron down with all his strength.
It glanced off the side of the man's head and he tumbled, his blind-man's-glasses knocked askew. Trent dashed to Liz. There was no light. No light at all.
And then the man rounded on them, his corpse-white face a rictus of pain and rage, blood trickling down the side, black as ink in the moonlight.
Where the man's eyes should've been were two small, bright circles of light, blue along the edges, white in the core, blazing out of hollow sockets.
He roared, "Do you dare--"
But Trent was already screaming, already bringing the tire iron down again, slamming it dead-center into the man's face.
The vibration from the impact shivered up Trent's arm. Blood squirted. He felt that sickening give of the man's skull breaking inward, pulverizing the brains. The glow of the man’s strange eyes winked out like switched-off flashlights, leaving afterglows in Trent's vision.
His mountainous body rocked backward and Trent lurched forward, the tire iron caught on bone.
At the instant the man’s body hit the ground, it exploded into a burst of small birds, like a lunatic surrealist’s idea of a bomb. Trent stumbled, the tire-iron suddenly free, surrounded by the smell of dry-attics, the feel of stiff feathers. Thousands of wings beat the air around him, the sound intermingled with a fury of surprised, angry squawking.
Trent went to his knees, shredding skin and jeans, barely noticing the wire-thin pain. He watched the birds rise into the night sky.
Whippoorwills, he thought. The conveyers of souls. Oh shit--the psychopomps came. The psychopomps came.
They momentarily blotted out the moon, blanketing the earth in darkness, their squawks echoing over the empty spaces below.
And then they were gone. Not faded--gone.
Lightheadedness like a sledgehammer struck him. He dropped the tire iron and clutched his head.
He started shaking and willed himself to stop, but couldn't. His teeth chattered. What did I just see? he thought, only partially cognizant of it. He was even less cognizant of the next thought: What did I just miss?
Liz burst into fresh, loud tears, and he stumbled towards her. He grasped her shoulders and she clung with a terrified fierceness.
He let her cry, let her calm down, and willed his own heart to slow, his own muscles to relax. Whatever it was that had happened, it was over now.
He held her, wondering what they were going to do now, wondering where they were going go.
Wondering if they'd changed like they'd always been told they would.
Wondering what they'd missed if they hadn't.
END
Gram Knows
By Glen Krisch
Glen Krisch's novels include THE NIGHTMARE WITHIN, WHERE DARKNESS DWELLS, and NOTHING LASTING. His short fiction has appeared in publications across three continents for the last decade.
He is also an editor for Morrigan Books. As a freelance editor, he has worked on books by Tim Lebbon and Lawrence Block, among others.
Besides writing and reading, he enjoys spending time with his wife, romance author Sarah Krisch, his three boys, simple living, and ultra-running.
He enjoys talking to his readers. Feel free to stop by his website to see what he's up to:
www.glenkrisch.wordpress.com
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4525598.Glen_Krisch
http://www.facebook.com/glen.krisch
Bobby hurried home from school, weaving his bike around pools of bone-chilling rain. He reached the mailbox and pulled out a heap of mail, most of it still with yellow forwarding stickers covering their previous address. He went inside, glad to be out of the rain.
“Did your Dad finally send a check?” Mom called from upstairs as she finished getting ready for work.
Bobby flipped through the mail: a drugstore ad addressed to the man who previously rented their house, a duct-cleaning company offering seasonal deals, a welcoming offer to join the local Baptist church. And an envelope addressed to Bobby. The other mail fluttered to the floor as he stared at the envelope. He never received mail other than birthday cards from his Aunt Bernice. But no, this wasn’t anything like that. This was real mail like an adult would receive. The envelope was water-stained and had fancy handwriting that reminded him of old books.
He tore opened the envelope and removed a folded letter. He began to read:
Dear Bobby,
I hope this letter isn’t too unsettling. You don’t know me. We’ve never met before, but still, I need your help. I am afraid you’re the only person who can help us—
“Bobby, is there a check or not? I need to know for when I call the lawyer.”
He hid the letter in the pocket of his raincoat, feeling an inexplicable pang of guilt.
“Nope, no check.” He looked upstairs. “Sorry.”
She stood on the top step, teasing her hair bigger with a hairbrush. Her eyes looked drawn and tired, too tired to make it through another night of waiting tables.
“Maybe tomorrow, Bob-o.”
“Maybe all the mail hasn’t found us yet,” Bobby said, knowing differently.
“We’ll see. I bet you’re right.”
While Mom finished up in the bathroom, Bobby went to his bedroom and closed the door. He flopped onto his bed to read the rest.
I’m afraid you’re the only person who can help us. It’s just the two of us and it’s so dark down here. The floor is seeping from the rain and he doesn’t give us much to eat. Gram knows you’re a good person. She’s the reason I’m writing you. See, Gram knows things. She knows you’re eleven, three years younger than me, and that you just moved to Warren Cove. Gram knows what your father did, what he did to your mother. I’m so sorry Bobby. No one should ever see something like that, let alone someone so young—
He dropped the letter. Nobody knew about the fight and resulting miscarriage. No one knew but Bobby and his parents. He went to the window, sensing prying eyes with unsavory intentions. Sure, his dad could’ve sent the letter, but that would be so unlike him. No, he didn’t manipulate people with words, not when his fists usually allowed him to get his way. Bobby shut the blinds and rushed to his bed. An uneasy rhythm throttled his chest as he continued:
...I know what it’s like to have a bad father. He’s the reason Gram and me are locked down here. I’ll soon give birth to a baby I don’t even want to see. It’s an abomination, this baby. My father’s baby. I’m so ashamed.
Gram knows you’ll help us, and if Gram knows something, I know it’ll come true. I have to go. He’s at the door. Please help, Bobby. There’s no one else,
Evie
The last words had been written quickly, as with a slashing knife. He felt sick to his stomach. Evie was fourteen. That seemed so old to Bobby but still not old enough to have a child. And by her dad? He didn’t think that was even physically possible. He slowly exhaled until his lungs were empty, waiting until his chest hurt before taking another breath. After folding the letter, he slipped it under his pillow.
“Bobby?” Mom knocked twice before entering. “I’m leaving. There’s a T.V. dinner in the freezer. Make sure you have milk. No pop. Got it?”
Bobby nodded.
“You okay?”
“Sure. Just a little tired.”
“Well, get some sleep. I can’t afford you getting sick.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight, Bob-o.” She kissed his cheek and checked his forehead for fever.
“G’night, Mom.”
Pursing her lips in concern, she closed the door as she left.
In that instant, Bobby could’ve thrown open the door and called out to her without feeling childish. He could’ve handed over the letter so he could be done with it and forget about Evie and Gram locked away in the damp darkness. He was too late; she’d unfurled her umbrella and reached her car before he realized he could still move. The moment was gone.
Now alone, a girl’s desperate words, a stranger’s words, funneled through a loop in his head:
Dear Bobby... I know what it’s like to have a bad father... That’s why we need your help... Gram knows... Gram knows...
* * *
The stone foundation acted like a sieve, letting in rainwater from the saturated ground. Gram rested on piled burlap sacks heaped across a raised wooden shelf. Her eyes were gray with cataracts that rendered her nearly blind. Whenever Evie showed concern for her failing vision, Gram would reassure her by describing how her inner eye grew stronger as her outer vision failed; she saw the world in ways she would’ve never imagined as a child in perfect health.
Gram lay motionless. Her eyes were closed and Evie couldn’t see her chest move. She leaned over to touch her cheek. Feeling warmth, she sighed with relief and crawled up from the marshy floor.
“You thought I was dead.” Gram kept her eyes closed. A smile broke across her wrinkled cheeks.
“I... no, I just thought--”
“It’s okay child. Sometimes I wake up and have to check for myself.” Gram reached out and took her hand.
They fell quiet. They spent most of their time in such a manner, sharing each other’s warmth while saving their strength. Long ago, they had given up the fight to escape. They couldn’t force the door at the top of the stairs. He was too strong. And while the dirty yellow moon spilled its light through a narrow window near the ceiling, Evie didn’t dared try to climb the precarious pile of junk beneath it. Not again. Not after she nearly tumbled from the top during her first attempt, not with her distended belly growing by the day.
“Bobby received the letter.”
Evie sat up, her eyes glimmering for the first time in many weeks. “That’s great news. It’ll be over soon!”
“Bobby’s scared. He feels he has no one in the world to trust, not even his own mother. He’s sympathetic but I don’t think he’d ever help us.”
“But he has to. How can’t he?”
“He’s too young. Maybe if he were older.”
“Then try someone else. We can’t live or die based on the fragile mind of a child!”
Gram knew better than to point out that Evie was a child herself. “I wish I could do better, Evie, I do. I wish I could keen in on someone else. When I close my eyes, Bobby Jensen is the only person I see.”
Once again, they were silent. Gram reached over and squeezed water from the hem of Evie’s dress. Above them, chair legs scraped across the kitchen floor. Evie stiffened at the sound and touched her belly.
“At least the nausea has subsided.”
“Once the baby’s comes, he’ll have no use for us,” Evie said the words neither one of them wanted to admit.
“I know. I wish it were different, but it’s not.”
“Can we at least write another letter? It might help.”
“No. I can’t. It’s out of my hands.”
“Gram--”
“I’m sorry, child.” Gram’s expression was more resolute than her words. It’s not that she wouldn’t write another letter, the strain of another letter would likely kill her. She patted Evie’s hand before curling up as best she could on the burlap sacks. Exhausted, she soon slipped into a deep sleep.
Evie needed sleep as well, but her mind wouldn’t slow down enough for drowsiness to overtake her. The light paled through the fogged window as the sun rose outside. Shadows shifted across the molded and muddied surroundings as if they were creatures come to life. Water bobbed around the remains of a coal pile from a chute sealed long ago. Several generations of broken furniture littered the cellar like bones in an overturned graveyard.
She brought her knees as close as the baby would allow. She tried to rub warmth into her stiff limbs, but the effort brought nerve-jarring shakes to the surface of her skin. It was not the cold; she had long ago grown accustomed to the frigid air and interminable dampness. She was not exactly scared, for she had also resigned herself to her fate. It was the baby growing inside her that she was fearful for. Or, more precisely, she was fearful of it.
She’d heard stories of how children of such unholy unions would manifest themselves. Mutated limbs, unformed skulls with exposed, pulsating brains. If all looked well on the outside, the child would most certainly be deranged, prone to torture baby animals, to burn families within their own beds. She shuddered at the thought.
The baby would be born soon. She already felt the pains of her body preparing for the trauma of delivery. Her father had wanted her to take her mother’s place. He wanted a son and would do anything to make it happen. Even if it meant destroying the innocence of one child to create another. She wondered how she could let herself be so stupid for so long.
The door at the top of the stairs flew open, jolting Evie’s nervous system. Wispy strands of Gram’s hair flew about her face as she abruptly sat up. Lamplight suffused with cigar smoke illuminated sodden mounds of old newspapers. Evie gripped Gram’s arm.
There was a pause at the top of the stairs, as if he were listening expectantly. Dust motes spiraled, coalesced and died in the spoiled light. He broke the tense silence by slapping gamy beef stew from a dinner pot to the rotting stairs. Three tepid ladlefuls of his leftovers would be their food for the day. He slammed the door shut.
Gram let out her pent-up breath. “I’m sorry, child. So sorry.”
* * *
&n
bsp; After school, Bobby was the first kid at the bike rack. He was pedaling down the street before more than a trickle of kids had left the building. He’d made his decision during Mrs. Henson’s boring geography class, he was going to help them. How could he not? He wanted to head straight to Maple Road. He knew where it was, just around the corner from his house, then two blocks down. From the letter’s return address, he knew Evie and Gram lived on Maple Road. However, Mom would be getting ready for work, waiting for his return home. As soon as he walked through the door she would ask about his day and if he made any new friends (one would be a good place to start). He couldn’t get away with being even five minutes late without arousing suspicion.
When he reached the driveway, he stopped at the mailbox and opened it. It was empty. It would be foolish to expect another letter. Selfish even. He’d brought the letter to school and read it from start to finish a number of times while camped out in a bathroom stall after lunch. Every word resonated with him. It was as if Gram really did know him, and as a result, he knew her as well. The letter was safely tucked inside his front pocket, feeling weightier than the paper of its construction. He left his bike and went inside. The day’s mail was stacked next to the living room T.V. He rifled through the ads and other junk mail, without finding anything addressed to him.
“Mom?” he yelled down the hallway.
She turned off her hairdryer and hollered back, “Yeah, honey?”
“Did I get any mail?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondering.”
When he came upstairs, Mom asked her typical Mom questions. He answered his typical Bob-o answers, then went to his room and turned on his second-hand T.V. He watched the screen, but didn’t take anything in. His mind was busy making plans. When darkness came, he would sneak out to help Evie and Gram. Not until then, not until he had the house to himself.
* * *
Pain ripped through the swell of Evie’s belly. She wanted to cry out in agony but knew that would bring her father into the cellar. If he thought Evie was in labor, he would just as likely gut the baby out of her as allowed her to deliver. Just when she thought the searing pain wouldn’t go away, it began to ease off. She gently moved Gram’s head from her lap. Her eyes never strayed from the window’s taunting glow as she hobbled into the knee-high water.
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 24