“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” the pretty policewoman said as I staggered away from the ambulance.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
I have some friends who would dearly love to meet her.
It was that strange voice coming out of Mary Kate’s mouth that played in my head. A pain shot through my heart as I realized the demon—or whatever it was—had gone to find Lucy!
“What is it?” the policewoman said.
“I need your help!”
I convinced her to call for a patrol car to drive over to Charlotte’s house. With difficulty, I called Charlotte and warned her not to open the door to anyone except the police.
“What’s going on, John?”
“Whatever you do, Char, do not let Mary Kate or anyone else into the house. I’m coming over now.”
“Please tell me what’s happening!”
“Just keep Lucy safe.”
As I drove, my bandaged hands grasped the steering wheel gingerly. I could still see Mary Kate’s oil-black eyes floating in front of me as I drove. By the time I arrived at Charlotte’s house, a policeman was walking in.
“Where’s Lucy?” I said.
“In her bedroom,” Charlotte said. I saw that she’d been crying. She was older than me by two years and had gone through an ugly divorce. Now everything made her cry.
“Has anyone come to the house?”
“No,” she said.
Charlotte, the policeman, and I quickly made our way to the bedroom. As we approached, I heard voices.
“Lucy?” I said. “It’s Daddy.”
“Don’t come in!” she said through the door. My blood turned to ice water.
I looked at the policeman. He nodded, stepped forward, and tried the door. It was locked.
“She’s not alone,” I said.
The policeman stood back and kicked the door open. We stood frozen in the dim light of the hallway. None of us could move. Charlotte screamed, and I almost vomited.
Mary Kate was sitting on the bed with Lucy in her lap, stroking our child’s hair with fingers that were too long, the nails black. Lucy’s eyes were wide in mute terror, her body rigid. But it was what she was holding that had stopped us.
It was a severed head—probably from the transient in the park. The hair was bloody and matted, the eyes gawping uselessly. The tongue hung out like a grotesque swollen black worm trying to lick Lucy’s leg.
When we moved toward them, Mary Kate raised a gleaming knife to our daughter’s throat.
“Daddy, please don’t,” Lucy said, her eyes huge with fear. “Mommy’s mad!”
“Mary Kate, let her go,” I said.
“Mary Kate’s not here,” the demon voice said. “We want the girl.”
I watched the policeman draw his gun. It wavered as he pointed it toward Mary Kate. “Put down the knife, ma’am.” As he said this, he never broke eye contact.
“Mary Kate, please!” Charlotte said.
“Not Mary Kate!”
“This won’t work,” I said. “Either way, the officer will shoot you.”
“We want the girl.”
“You can’t have her!”
I was filled with rage now. All I wanted was to tear Lucy from the demon who resembled Mary Kate and hold our trembling daughter in my arms.
Other voices emanated from Mary Kate’s body now—agonized, gnawing voices filled with a black eternity of pain and loneliness. What they said sounded like gibberish. But one thing was clear—the things inside Mary Kate were fighting among themselves.
“Put down the knife!” the policeman said.
What used to be Mary Kate stared hatefully at the weapon, then at the frightened policeman. I wondered suddenly whether he had ever shot anyone.
All I could picture now was Lucy’s death, either at the hands of this demented creature of Satan or by a stray bullet. I closed my eyes, tears running down my flushed cheeks. When I opened them again, the demon was looking away somewhere. I concentrated on Lucy, forcing her to make eye contact. Run! I said with my eyes. Run, Lucy!
Lucy squirmed loose as only children can and slid free. The policeman saw his chance and fired twice, hitting Mary Kate in the shoulder and chest. The sound stung my ears. Mary Kate let out a deafening wail that shook the room, and tried to reach for the girl, who was now clutching my body and shivering.
Mary Kate collapsed. She lay there, breathing thickly. The voices we had heard continued in a soft babbling like the internal conversations of a lunatic. Finally, they faded into unconsciousness.
Mary Kate was declared insane and sent to Pescadero. I visited her there once, and she attacked me with a gel pen she’d found on the floor of her cell. She barely missed my eye.
I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to our home, so I sold it and bought a condo at the beach. Charlotte moved there with Lucy and me.
Now we spend a lot of time by the ocean. Lucy loves playing in the waves and building sandcastles. She never talks about what happened, and neither Charlotte nor I ever bring it up. Strangely, Lucy never asks about her mother.
I mentioned Mary Kate once, and she said, “Real Mommy’s in heaven.” Some things are better forgotten and buried, I guess.
One cool, crisp Sunday, we decided to pack a picnic lunch and eat on the beach. Charlotte and I read while Lucy played. It was a good day—a day without anxiety or nightmares. That night, as usual, Lucy had her bath after dinner. I read her a story in bed, and she drifted off, her spin-shade night-light casting images of the cow jumping over the moon.
I remember Charlotte was exhausted and had gone to bed around ten. I followed around eleven.
After three, I heard a noise. Immediately, I went to Lucy’s room. She was gone! Frantically, I turned on lights all over the condo and searched for her. I found the front door open and, my heart constricting, I went outside.
There she was in her Supergirl pajamas, standing in the deserted road and staring motionless at the moon. Both arms were scratched and bleeding.
I nearly called her name. Don’t wake her!
As I approached, I looked up, and, in that moment, I saw what she saw. Dear God! Demons were circling like buzzards!
Gently, I guided Lucy back into the house and into bed, where she remained still. I fell asleep in her chair and didn’t awake till Charlotte gently shook me in the morning. When I saw the empty bed, I got to my feet.
“She’s having cereal in the kitchen,” Charlotte said. “Everything’s fine.”
“Char, she sleepwalks,” I said.
My sister’s face went white. “What are we going to do?”
“I have to protect her,” I said. “I lost Mary Kate, but I still have my daughter.”
“John, you can’t be there her whole life. What if—”
“I will protect her.”
That morning after my shower, I got out the razor to shave. Standing in front of the steamed-up mirror, I examined the deep scar that ran from my right eye down to my jawline, where the demon had marked me. I knew that a plastic surgeon could fix it. And I still think about that each time I see that face in the mirror. But I have decided it’s better to keep the scar as a reminder of what I have to do—of who I have become.
Every day I gaze at that grim, disfigured face, and I think of Lucy and her future. Every day I pray that the soul God gave her will stay safe in that small, delicate body with the sandy hair and her mother’s blue-green eyes. And every day I ask for forgiveness for having failed Mary Kate. There is nothing else in life for me now. Nothing to distract me from my true purpose.
There is only Lucy.
Afterword
Thank you for reading Come As You Are and Other Stories. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. Will you take a few minutes to post a review and tell your friends? Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and is very much appreciated. Peace and love.
— Steven Ramirez
And now, check out this free preview of Chainsaw Honeymoon, a y
oung adult novel featuring comedy, horror, and romance, as told by a precocious fourteen-year-old girl named Ruby.
“In this tale of a daughter literally trying to scare her estranged parents back together, Steven Ramirez combines the horror/slasher film and literature genres with the light comedy/romance of a Cary Grant film. Both genres present challenges on their own. What is amazing about Chainsaw Honeymoon is how Ramirez surmounts both of these demands. Added to these accomplishments is his ability to present the viewpoint of a fourteen-year-old girl. In the form of Ruby, Ramirez imparts to readers all the confusion brought about by puberty; the emotional neediness camouflaged by sarcasm; the obsession and continuing frustration with boys; and the bonds female teenagers forge with one another.”
IndieReader
Chapter 1
“I just can’t take no pleasure in killing.”
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974)
They never get it right in the movies, the things going through your head at the very moment your killer bursts into the room, ready to chop up the party guests—including you and your family—into kibble. It isn’t your life flashing before your eyes like a silent movie or your favorite stuffed animal or the car you thought you’d own when you turned eighteen. And it isn’t the realization that you’ll never marry and have kids or visit Europe.
Nope. It’s something random. Like socks. In my case, it was a nonspecific cheeseburger—juicy and rare—with crispy fries in a cute, little, shiny metal cup. Oh, and a tall vanilla shake with twin barber pole straws. The thought of never experiencing that meal again brought down on me a deep sorrow difficult to describe in words. All I can say is, it felt like getting clobbered with Thor’s hammer.
I can tell you what the movies do get right, though. Everything. Slows. Down. And the air gets thicker than fireweed honey. You can’t move because your fear has you trapped like a mosquito in amber. So, you might as well relax, jefe. The entire experience is like a dream really, only you know in your soul it’s not a dream—but you wish it was, because the reality that’s about to turn you into fish food is too horrible to imagine. And I’m all about horrible, so.
They say in dream time you can live an entire life in only a few minutes. If this was a dream, I wished I could wake up, hug my dog, and pound down a whole package of Pecan Sandies. But as I cowered against the wall, half-broken from being flung back like a shaving cream pie in a silent comedy, I wondered why I thought I could take on my nightmare of an enemy. It’s preposterous. I mean, I can’t even do ten push-ups! But there I was. And there he was.
Chainsaw Chuck.
Okay, so Chainsaw Chuck was the crazed killer I invented, only he was no longer a character in my machinima project, and he only recently had acquired that name, courtesy of a movie I was involved with. So much to explain, so little time. Anyways, this creature was flesh and blood, and he had come to kill his creator. Standing in front of me, big and scary, he wore his signature black high-crown, wide-brim hat—designed by me—and his weapon of choice dangled darkly from his left hand. An impressive monster, if I do say so myself.
Staring at me in surly silence, he gathered himself up and revved the deadly chainsaw, which echoed up and down the shadowy corridor. Sort of like what old dudes on Harleys do when a pretty girl walks by. I could see his teeth, which were gray and pointy, and I could feel his hot, deadly breath. Yep, I was going to die for sure. It wasn’t fair! Ed Wood, our over-caffeinated Shih Tzu, had followed me from the party and stood between the killer and me, barking like a maniac and tearing at his long black duster. I guessed my dog’s fate was pretty much sealed, too. At least, I wouldn’t die alone.
Why? That is the question. No normal person would have chased this demon, let alone tried to take him down. That only ever happens in the movies—bad movies. No, in real life they would have gathered up their family and their two best friends and would’ve run like hell out of the stinking building while dialing 911 on their phone. Common sense, people!
Not me. I had to be the hero.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I sat on the floor, frozen, my knees tucked up under my chin. It was like I weighed a million pounds. Maybe if I made myself really, really small—like Ant-Man—he wouldn’t see me. Everything was slow and dreamy now, like “Last Kiss” by Pearl Jam. I love that song.
I noticed the gleam in Chainsaw Chuck’s tiny, savage eyes, and I knew this was it. The End. Fin. Fine. But I couldn’t help but feel this was a dream after all. A pernicious nightmare I was incapable of awakening from. Talk about your random thoughts. For some reason, I was picturing that poor idiot replicant Leon from Blade Runner. I could hear him in my head now, his eyes intense, his voice close and menacing as he was about to shove his fingers through Deckard’s eye holes.
“Wake up! Time to die.”
Chapter 2
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
House of 1000 Corpses
Horror is my life. Seriously. My idea of a Best Birthday Ever is to be at the Nuart when they screen the original 1977 version of Suspiria (we don’t show movies in LA—we “screen” them), munching on a large popcorn—thank you very much—drenched in Log Cabin syrup (I have to smuggle that in), and guzzling a Jarritos Tamarind soda (also smuggled in). Next stop, The Apple Pan for a steakburger—rare with extra onions, please—and a single cup of black coffee, accompanied by a slice of warm apple pie topped with a humungous scoop of Danish vanilla ice cream.
What, too hipster, you say? Hey, I’m talking burgers here, people, not artisanal lawn furniture. Hipster, puh-leeze… Well, maybe a little.
Here are some things you should know about me. So, my name. Ruby Navarro. I turned fourteen this past March and somehow made it through ninth grade with a 3.85 GPA. I’m an Aries, which means I am eager, dynamic, quick, and competitive. At least, according to those astrology websites, which I never visit. Mostly. I am also precocious and well read, which explains why I skipped a grade. My two best friends in the whole world—and the ones I would totally take a bullet for—are Claire Tran and Diego Rivera.
Claire is like my sister. Her Vietnamese name is Hang, which means “moon.” She’ll be fifteen at the end of November, which makes her a Sagittarius. She is inquisitive and energetic, and a traveler of the Zodiac. Diego, a Leo, will be fifteen in August, which makes him almost “driverable.” He is dramatic, creative, and outgoing. Not that I believe in any of that astrology jazz. But I will say the three of us make an awesome team. Claire and Diego are the only people in the universe who get me.
Back to me. I sleep like the dead, truly. It’s a medical fact. When I was a baby, doctors at Elm Street Pediatric Research for Effective Sleep Outcomes—or ESPRESO—which is a tad ironic, if you stop to think about it—had marveled at how vampire-like my “mimis” was. I mean, I hardly breathed. And when I did, it was in these huge, irregular, gulping gasps that scared my parents half to death.
According to my mother, the pediatrician had recommended everything: swaddling, SIDS pillows, behavior modification. Even a slowly spinning mobile hung over my crib, which, instead of rainbows and unicorns, featured tiny, gleaming silver daggers and gently tinkled the theme to The Addams Family television show. Yeah, Mom’s a “horrorista,” too, which is probably where I get it. Anyways, none of it worked. So my parents, the long-suffering Alan and Stacey Navarro, eventually gave up, and…surprise! I’m still here. Moving on.
School had already let out—whoo-hoo!—and summer was upon us. It was Tuesday, and a pretty important one at that. For the eleventh time that morning, Mom was climbing the stairs to the second floor of what some snoopy realtor once referred to as our “upscale suburban home” in Encino, CA. Ed must’ve had enough cardio for the day because I could hear him snoring peacefully somewhere near my bed. As Mom marched into my room, I braced myself. She was about to resume what the Navarro clan likes to call—Dunt-Dunt-DUN—The Beggar’s Sideshow.
So, all you derps out there who are heavy sleepers, you’ll get where I’m coming f
rom. The Beggar’s Sideshow, which was shorthand for “How to Get Ruby Out of Bed Without Losing My Freaking Mind,” was a masterwork of music, yodeling, and found art that had been honed to perfection over a period of, well, fourteen years. It required, among other things, several large clocks of both the battery-powered and wind-up variety (each with an ear-splitting alarm), a creepy clown doll named Mr. Shivers (purchased at a yard sale when I was three that bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp in a blood-stained party dress and mysteriously repeated the phrase Nuts to you, Wes! in a Swiss accent whenever you pulled its string), an iPhone-Bluetooth speaker combo with the volume turned way up, and wait for it…
A cowbell.
You heard me right. I think Mom believed the cowbell was a stroke of genius because she was very fond of it. She had purchased it, as well as a cowbell beater, at a local music store owned by a nice family from Minnesota by the name of Swensen. When my mother first told this story, I lost it. Apparently, the pimply-faced kid who sold her the items had made an awkward pass. He, in fact, had said to her—and I quote—“Want me to come over later and show you how to use those?” Oh my gosh, so Chad Radwell!
Fortunately, the store manager overheard the horny little dweeb and said, “I told you boyce about talkin’ to the customers. Go checksie da toilet and give it a good scrub.”
Reportedly, “Chad” made a frowny face. “What, now?”
“Yup.” The manager turned to my mother and said, “Sorry. You gotta stay on ’em. Give me a jingle if you got any questions.”
Like a scene out of Fargo, am I right? Yer dern-tootin’!
Anyways. I was lying in bed, fully awake, thanks to some thoughtless jerk outside who felt it was a good time to fire up a chainsaw. But I will admit, I do possess a bit of an evil streak and wanted to catch Mom’s performance. So, I played dead. Standing just out of my reach, she raised the cowbell beater and launched into “Honky Tonk Women.” Usually I let her get about eight bars in before cracking an eye open.
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