* * *
“Your name’s Bobby Jensen, ain’t it?” a voice as deep and thick as wood smoke startled Bobby awake. He was in an unfamiliar room, sprawled on an uncomfortable couch. On a nearby end table, a candle burned. A windup phonograph was on a table near the candle. The music had stopped.
The voice was close, perhaps in the next room. “I been waitin’ for you.”
He blinked several times, and yes, this was all really happening, and happening to him. He had to get out of this, but could think of only one thing to say. “Where’s Evie and Gram?” His voice was weak and his throat felt dry.
The man laughed.
“I know about them, you know. I told people about them, too.” He wanted to sound threatening but he could hear his own voice, a whimpering child on the verge of crying.
“No you didn’t.” The stranger appeared suddenly, as stealthy as a cat walking on a grave.
Bobby’s stomach dropped. The man’s eyes were set in cavernous sunken holes, like raisins floating in the bottom of a well. His forehead was as broad and square as a brick. He wore a smile full of shattered teeth. His face was sliced by a network of scars, his nose was bulbous and hooked.
“I been told ‘bout you. Been waitin’ long time.” He smelled like an open sewer and looked even filthier. “Stand up,” he sneered. “I said stand up!” The man yanked Bobby off the couch by his throat and dragged him along like a wet mop. He clamped a grimy paw over Bobby’s eyes while forcing him to stay on his feet.
“So you wanna know ‘bout Evie and Gram. You wanna save their God damn souls!” the man spit in Bobby’s ear.
Bobby could barely keep up with the man’s stride and had to grip his tree trunk arm for balance. The man slammed Bobby into a chair. Bobby flinched away as the man leaned in closer. He had no doubt he was about to strike him.
“You wanna see God damn Evie’n God damn Gram? Have at it!”
The man didn’t strike Bobby. Instead, he spun the chair on its wheels like a top. Bobby’s legs nearly hit a dining room table in back of him. When the chair began to slow, the man gave him another push. Bobby’s head was spinning and if he had any food in his stomach, he would’ve lost it. Still, he thought he could see the blurred shapes of people sitting at the table. Evie and Gram. They were still in the house. Perhaps he could figure a way out of this after all.
The man let the chair slow. When it came to rest, Bobby was dizzy and felt the room still swimming under him.
“Like I said. Been waitin’ a long time.”
The room stopped spinning. Two people wearing black lace funeral dresses sat at opposite sides of the table. Their skin was like leather and the color of dried tobacco. A dozen candles lined the table’s center. A draft shook the flames, causing light to dance off Gram and Evie’s black, motionless eyes.
“Daddy told me a Bobby Jensen’d be here someday. He said, ‘Jessup, one of these days a boy’ll come and try to take the family away.’ But none of that’s gonna happen. No boy’s gonna take what’s mine.”
Bobby was silent as the facts of this mess swirled madly about. Evie and Gram were dead, that was obvious. They had been dead long before he received the letter or even before he was born. Bobby’s mind reeled. A cart near the table held an assortment of wicked-looking tools--some sharp and narrow, others with serrated blades as long as Bobby’s arm.
Jessup stepped around the chair, wearing a heavy leather apron stained black with dried blood.
Panic surged through Bobby. He looked for an escape route but, with his stomach wedged against the table, he had no wiggle room to get away. Not with that monster standing so close.
“I like making treasures, but this time’ll be special. Bobby Jensen. Good God, I been waitin’ my whole life for this day.” Jessup hefted a menacing boning knife and seemed pleased with his choice. “All right then. You ain’t gonna make this easy are you? That’d ruin all my fun.”
His words sent Bobby into a frenzy. He shoved away from the table, just out of Jessup’s swiping hand. Bobby kept the chair between them for protection. Jessup laughed wickedly.
After all of the things Bobby’s dad had done, the abuse, the neglect, the abandonment, he wished he were here right now. Bobby could forget all the bad stuff if his dad would just come save him. But he was alone, and knowing this was the worst part of the whole situation.
Jessup slashed the knife through the air, just missing Bobby’s ear.
Bobby dropped to the floor and crawled under the table, heading down the center to the far end. He neared Gram’s dead, brittle legs, hoping he might scoot around them without actually touching them.
Jessup tossed a chair aside and grabbed Bobby’s rain slicker. He picked him up off the floor, held him out as if considering a prize.
“Ah ha, gotchoo.”
The rain slicker cut into Bobby’s throat and he could hardly breathe. He tried kicking Jessup in the face but couldn’t get the leverage to connect.
“That’s good, real good, Bobby. I like a little fight.”
Jessup slammed Bobby against the table, pinning him with one constricting hand at his throat. Blood pounded in his temples as his face turned red, then purple. Stars shot across his vision and he was seconds from passing out. He desperately reached out to grab something, anything. He saw Evie from the corner of his eye, through the struggle and the panic and the fear, he saw Evie’s lace sleeve, its delicate pattern of flowers, and the leather skin of her hand. Her garish costume bracelet caught the candlelight.
Bobby summoned his last bit of strength and lunged against Jessup’s grip for the nearest candle. His fingers closed around the candlestick’s pewter base. He thrust it like a knife at Jessup’s face. The flame hissed when it pierced his eyeball. The pewter holder crashed against the table when he let go, but the candle remained inserted in Jessup’s eye socket like a hilted sword. Jessup screamed and covered his face with his hands, both blubbering and raging as he fell to his knees.
Bobby felt life creeping back into him. He sucked in deep gulps of air as he sat up.
“Gonna kill you, fucker...” Jessup stood, his eye socket seeping blood through seared flesh.
Bobby got to his feet and ran down the length of the tabletop. Jessup dived for his legs, came up short and crashed into the table. Half the candlesticks fell over. Of those, half remained lit. Flames raced along the tablecloth in every direction. Bobby jumped from the table as the flames shot up Evie and Gram’s clothing. Fire swept through the room. Bobby ran toward what he hoped was the way out. As he reached Jessup’s writhing form, an arm reached out, barring his path. Jessup’s fingers flexed, grasping for Bobby.
He picked up speed and lowered his shoulder against Jessup’s burning arm. For a moment Bobby thought it would pull him into a tight embrace, but he broke through it like a running back closing in on a touchdown.
The heat blazed behind him as he left the dining room. He ran down a hall before coming across the room with the mounted animals. They stared at him as they had before, without realizing they were about to die once again, this time turning to ash. He left the animals behind and was three steps from the opened door when he slipped on the rainwater he had dragged across the floor on his way in. His feet wanted to do the splits but he fell on his backside before that could happen. As he took a moment to catch his breath, a thunderous vibration shook the floor. When he looked over his shoulder Jessup had turned the corner and was closing in on him.
Bobby tried to stand but lost his footing again in the small puddle. Jessup was a fiery mass of seared flesh, his good eye illuminated by the flames he still carried. As Bobby crawled away, Jessup caught his arm and twirled him onto his back.
His face was melting and bloody but Jessup was still strong, maybe stronger for all his pain. He picked up Bobby and threw him against a wall hard enough to knock picture frames from their moorings. Jessup blocked Bobby’s only way out. Bobby reached for a doorknob and used it to pull himself to his feet. He opened the door. From s
taring into the eyes of the fire and certain death, the space beyond the door was as void as a dreamless night’s sleep.
Bobby lunged into the unknown room but Jessup snatched hold of Bobby’s slicker. The floor fell out from under him and he had no time to gauge his surroundings before Jessup fell on top of him, sending them both splashing into the bone-chilling cellar cesspool. Noxious floodwater slapped Bobby’s face, filled his mouth, stung his eyes.
Jessup still had fight in him. His powerful grip found Bobby’s throat. Bobby gouged Jessup’s face with his fingers, tearing off chunks of melted flesh. Jessup no longer cried out in pain; he was beyond it, as if he only lived to kill Bobby.
Bobby tilted his head back as he thrashed about for air. The fire raged through gaping cracks in the old hardwood floor. With his strength draining, Jessup pushed him under. The burnished light wavered above them. He kicked hard, catching Jessup in the chest and squirmed away to break the surface and gain a gulp of air.
Part of the flooring collapsed as the cast-iron stove broke through above their heads. Jessup let Bobby go and they both kicked away as the stove came crashing through the floor. Bobby continued to kick to get away, even after the stove splashed down. If he could get away from the crashing stove, maybe he could also get away from Jessup. He reached a junk pile big enough to support his weight. He climbed from the water and waited to see where Jessup would surface. His heart throttled and he couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together. The waves diminished and Jessup still didn’t surface. Other parts of the floor had started to fall in, sending ash and burning debris into the water.
When several minutes had gone by and Jessup still hadn’t appeared, Bobby had recovered enough to try to think his way out of the cellar. He saw no stairwell and didn’t think he could reach the window perched high above. The ceiling beams gave off a wicked cry as they strained under the force of the fire. This was it. All of it was coming down. He dove into the water and swam as hard as he could, flaming debris splashing all around.
The roof was collapsing, there was no doubt about it. As the roof beams came crashing in, they tore through the floor of the first level. It felt like the world was ending. A block of wood smashed into Bobby’s shoulder and he couldn’t swim any more. The whole house was falling in on itself and he couldn’t move to save his life.
From below the surface of the water, two glowing shapes grew and drew close to Bobby. When they broke the surface, he saw the living images of Evie and Gram cast in a heavenly white light. They looked young and vibrant and their smiles brightened the cellar.
Bobby could neither speak, nor move. Evie and Gram arched their arms over his head, forming a protective web from the falling debris. A sonorous humming filled his ears and he felt himself rising from the stagnant black water. The white shroud of light surrounding Evie and Gram repelled the crashing floorboards and every spec of smoldering ash as they lifted Bobby to the surface.
When they reached the muddy yard, they released Bobby to the living world. Without a thought stirring in his head, he ran through the slick mud; running not because he still feared Jessup catching him but because he didn’t know what else to do. He fought the mud until he reached the tipped-over tree trunk that he would have to climb back over.
He caught his breath and watched as the fire consumed the house. Swallowed by the forest and forgotten by the world, now defeated by flames. The rain had slowed to an icy drizzle and did little to stop the flames. The chill was working through Bobby’s skin, digging deep to find his core, when the remaining structure collapsed. Sparks and ash flew into the air, and heavy smoke billowed from the remains.
Bobby grabbed a handhold in the fallen tree and began to climb. His whole body ached and he wondered if he would have much of a voice after Jessup’s strangling. He reached the top of the trunk and was ready to make his way down the other side, when he glanced back.
He saw his saviors walking from the remains of the house, hand in hand, their bodies translucent and fading. They wore soft, simple smiles. Evie was more beautiful than Bobby ever imagined. Gram looked fit enough to give him a run for his money in a tree-climbing contest. They waved to him, but the more he tried to focus his eyes, the more they faded from view. When he thought to wave back, they were gone for good, moved on to some happier and saner place.
END
Hazel’s Twin
By Tracy L. Carbone
Tracy L. Carbone is a Massachusetts native living with her daughter and a house full of pets. She works full time for a bank and does most of her writing on the train or late at night.
Her horror and literary short stories have appeared in several anthologies and magazines in the U.S. and Canada.
She is former Co-chair of the New England Horror Writers and edited their Bram Stoker Award nominated anthology, Epitaphs, a creepy collection of horror stories and poems by the group's authors including a handful of NY Times bestsellers.
Tracy’s novels include RESTITUTION, HOPE HOUSE, and the medical thriller THE PROTEUS CURE co-authored with F. Paul Wilson. Her most recent novel is the spectral mystery MY NAME IS MARNIE.
Feel free to visit her at http://www.tracylcarbone.com/
A team of surgeons excised Hazel’s Siamese twin from her left side on their seventh birthday, leaving a nasty red scar that ran from Hazel’s neck all the way down to her left ankle. Shortly after, her family followed suit and tore apart. Hazel often wondered how things would have turned out if the surgeons and documentary filmmakers hadn’t singled out the Rubio girls, hadn’t called Mom and offered a windfall and free surgery.
For a time it was blissful. Their family had been dirt poor before the operation. Hazel’s parents were high school dropouts who married when Mom got pregnant after Prom. Dad worked sixteen-hour days, eight at McDonalds and eight as a school janitor. Mom made all their clothes, since Wal-Mart didn’t sell outfits for Siamese twins. They ate generic macaroni and cheese for most meals, but Friday was pizza night. It was the one day a week the girls went out in public. Sal, the owner of Pico’s pizza, would sit them in the corner booth and provide the girls and their parents with two large cheese pizzas, free sodas, and two orders of French fries. Hazel thought fondly of pizza night. Life was difficult back then, but they were a family.
After the surgery though, it all changed. A cameraman filmed the operation, and the story of the Siamese Sisters dominated the tabloids and medical journals for months. Highlights from their separation surgery appeared in a documentary on a major network. Paparazzi followed them wherever they went. Strangers yelled, “We love you!” and mailed cards and letters, many including cash. It was wonderful. Hazel barely remembered the pain of the incision now, but never forgot how happy she was for those few months.
There were endorsements and television appearances, paychecks and adoration. Rosie and Hazel’s photo, for the first time as separate people, appeared on the cover of Time Magazine. Publishers fought for the book rights.
They went from white trash with freak daughters to a rich family in a matter of months. Mom began dressing up and wearing makeup because, “The public can’t see me like that. I’m somebody now.” She traded Dad’s worn flannel shirts for blouses that accentuated her figure. Hazel had never seen her look so beautiful. With all the money they received from the network, Dad quit his jobs and signed up to go to college. He was going to be an executive, he said. He was going to work in an office, and travel, and wear a suit. It was magical time.
As much as Hazel reveled in their new life, the separation killed something in her sister Rosie. Mom bought them their own beds, carved canopy beds with pink lace. Nightly, Rosie snuck in with Hazel and pushed their bodies together. “Sister,” she’d say as she fell asleep. “Still my sister.” Then she’d hum Greensleeves until she drifted off.
Hazel enjoyed having a bed to herself, liked the freedom of tossing and turning. “Mom, make Rosie stay in her own bed. She keeps me up all night,” she’d said. Damn, she wished now she hadn’t. Wis
hed she could go back and—
Mom spanked Rosie and forbade them from sleeping together. Rosie begrudgingly stayed on her side of the room, pushing stuffed bears and pillows against her scarred side. “Sister,” she’d say quietly in her sleep. She was so innocent and loving back then, Hazel recalled wistfully.
Despite the emotional struggles Rosie had, Hazel reveled in being in their body alone and transforming into an ordinary child. When the wounds from their physical separation healed, and they had enough physical therapy to walk with canes, the girls were allowed to enter public school. Until that day, they had been homeschooled by Mrs. May, a retired English teacher with a scratchy voice, whose salary the state funded. But that first day, when they walked in the front door, two girls each on their own two feet, the other kids cheered.
What a time it was, reflected Hazel as she drove to the prison. A perfect time in their lives.
“Hand over your purse, please,” the prison warden said, breaking Hazel from her thoughts. She endured the usual search, and followed the guard to the visiting area. Reality set in as it always did. Hazel and Rosie’s days in the sun had been limited to a handful before it all soured.
Hazel passed a window along the way to the interrogation room and brushed brown spongy hair from her face. She had applied make up this morning but her shame and exhaustion shone through it.
The guard opened the door into the small room reserved for her weekly visit with her sister. “See if you can get her to talk today. Get her to sign or write something down” He pointed to a corner of the room. “We’ll be filming just in case.”
“I understand.”
“Sorry we can’t give you privacy,” he said as he placed his hand on the doorknob.
“She doesn’t deserve it,” Hazel said as she walked into the somber room, with its clammy gray walls and painted gray concrete floor.
Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction Page 26