Grimm Memorials

by R. Patrick Gates

  "What ... What's going on here?" Steve stuttered. He felt like Rip van Winkle just waking from twenty years of sleep. A wave of dizziness washed over him again and he staggered back, grabbing at the metal table. He hung his head, trying to take deep breaths when he looked down and saw Eleanor.

  She was old-hideously old. Gone was the sexy, seductive siren he had fallen in love with. In her place was a gnarled, wizened old hag who reminded him of the Weird Sisters in Macbeth. For a moment, Steve tried to convince himself that it was someone else, but it was no use. She was lying right where Eleanor had fallen. He didn't know how, but it was her all right.

  "Oh my God," Steve mumbled, his expression a mixture of revulsion and fear.

  One of the boys in the cage woke from his stupor with a loud scream that jerked Steve around. He stared at the boy who screamed and realized it was Mark Thomas, a boy in his Health I class. A picture of Joe Conally with a pickaxe through his chest blew through Steve's mind.

  What have I done? he wondered. Mark screamed again and looked around. A boy next to him awoke and began to scream. Another woke sobbing. "What have I done?" Steve shouted loudly, overpowering the voices of the boys in the cage. They became aware of him and stared.

  "Mr. Nailer! Help me!" Mark Thomas cried when he realized who Steve was. He hadn't recognized his teacher at first since he was naked and had the intricate patterns of red lines painted on his face and chest.

  Steve ran to the cage door, his once-aroused cock now gone limp, and grabbed the bars with both hands, trying to yank it open. It was no good. He ran back to Eleanor's body and rifled her pockets looking for the keys to the cage. They weren't on her. Behind him, Mark Thomas urged him on with pleas to hurry, and more of the boys awoke in tears, or screaming with wild terror. "Sssh!" Steve hissed at them. He couldn't hear himself think. He had to find some way to get that cage door open.

  He began searching the room for something to pry the door with when he caught the glint of candlelight reflecting off a large brass keyring hanging on the wall several feet to the right of the cage. The long silver skeleton keys on it looked to be the perfect size for the cage's lock. Steve ran to the ring, reaching for the key, but he never made it.

  Like a marionette being jerked to its feet, Eleanor got to her knees, then stood. Mark Thomas opened his mouth to warn Steve, but Eleanor silenced him, and the other screaming boys, with a glance.

  Steve turned at the sudden silence and saw Mark and the conscious boys staring in terror at something behind him. Steve himself never had time to turn. Eleanor was at his back, thrusting the knife she'd taken from the instrument cart up into the back of his neck and into the base of his brain. He died almost instantly, his eyes bulging, blood gushing from his nose with the force of a sneeze. He crashed against the wall face first, and slid to the floor.

  The room was quiet except for the soft squishing sound of the blood still gushing from Steve's nose. Eleanor stood over Steve's twitching body and rolled him over onto his side. With a great deal of effort, she removed the knife from his neck and proceeded to castrate him.

  As she worked, Steve's lips opened and a glob of blood slipped from his mouth. She looked at the children in the cage, trying to send them back to sleep, but she didn't have the strength. Instead, she was the one to succumb. The room began to fog up as the never-ending pain rose out of control again.

  Keep the Machine going, she repeated to herself, over and over as the fog swallowed the room and her. From somewhere above in the vast house, she could hear the loud brayish laughter of Edmund mocking her. The sound pierced her flesh like a cloud of exploding glass, amplifying the pain in every fiber of her body and driving her to the floor where she collapsed onto Steve Nailer's still warm body, her hands clutching his bloody, severed manhood to her chest.

  Imagine a dry riverbed. Imagine standing on it. Imagine a river roaring through. Imagine the river's name is Pain.

  Eleanor felt that river rage through her and carry her away. She was swept through chasms of torture and canyons of hurt. She rode the Pain, and became submerged in Pain. It swirled around her and through her and pulled her down, burying her deep within herself.

  In the depths of her pain ridden existence, she saw light and swam through the river to get to it. The closer she got to it, the less the river tugged at her. She kept kicking, pushing toward the light until it collided with her eyes and she surfaced in a room full of ghosts.

  It was the night of Edmund's and Eleanor's thirteenth birthday. It was also the night Edmund was to leave for boarding school. They were in the front waking room, saying good-bye. His bags were all packed and sitting in the front hall. A carriage sat out front, ready to take him to the Springfield train station where he would just make it in time, five hours later, to catch a rail for Boston and the Patrician School for Boys. Eleanor was crying and pleading with him not to go.

  "I have no choice," he said to her. "Father is making me "

  He may have had no choice, but Eleanor knew he was not sorry to be going. She saw it in his face, half-lit by the gas lamps on the wall, and read it in his mind. He was happy to be escaping from the lonely, boring confines of Grimm Memorials. He was going out into the world where he could really use the Machine. Eleanor even detected a hint of gladness that he was escaping from her, also.

  She didn't think it was fair of him to leave her behind with their father, who almost never spoke to her anymore. By that thirteenth birthday, Eleanor had a very good idea of what had started their mother's madness long before either of them had been born. With Edmund around, her father's neglect was merely annoying. With him gone it would make her as batty as her mother had been.

  The first time she had ever felt hatred for Edmund had been at that moment when he walked out to the carriage and climbed in to be carried off to a new world of adventure, condemning her to a living Hell. It was that moment which was to be the spark of all that happened later.

  As Edmund rode off, with never a look back, the scene slid sideways, changing color and brilliance. It shifted to later that same August evening. She lay in her bed staring out the window, crying softly into her pillow, when her father crept into the room. She watched him approach by the feeble glow of the hall lamps turned low.

  He reached her bedside and knelt next to her. Without a sound, he reached up and began massaging her budding breasts with both hands. He pinched her nipples through the thin cotton nightshirt and grabbed a handful of the material in each hand. With a quick tug he created a tear at the top. One quick motion and her nightshirt was laid open to reveal her naked breasts the size of small apples with the nipples indented, and the tuft of dark hair floating out from between her legs.

  Eleanor never moved as he bent over her and began licking her skin from her toes to her neck, then back to her crotch where he buried his face and went to work on her with his greedy mouth. This wasn't much different from the games she'd played with Edmund to pass the time; games they had made up after continuing to spy on Father and his dead mistresses.

  For the rest of the night Father played with her and Eleanor never voluntarily moved a muscle. He moved her around, manipulating her to whatever position his desire to put his thing in her called for, and she remained near catatonic, not caring what he did. Not even pushing his fishysmelling thing in and out of her mouth and making her drink a sour-tasting liquid from it could bring her out of it.

  After that night, Father's nightly visits to Eleanor's room became a part of their regular silent routine. And every night she lay unmoving, uncaring, as he did whatever he wanted to her.

  The bedroom scene blackened and faded, melting away as she sank into nothingness. At the bottom of the river she again plummeted through, there was another light, pulling her like a magnet. She swam through it and immediately knew where she was and what day it was.

  She was in the kitchen the day Edmund returned from Housatonic University after being away from Grimm Memorials for most of eight years. He had managed to get himself
invited to a classmate's summer residence seven out of the eight years he was away, first at boarding school then the univer sity, and had gone on a solo secret vacation somewhere the other summer. He had returned home three times in those years, once for a weekend, the other two times just overnight. Not once had he written to her, and on his visits home he lied to her. Now he was home to stay, a certified mortician and medical examiner, ready to take over Father's business. In spite of all that he had done to her, she awaited his arrival anxiously.

  Eleanor stood by the stove, watching a pot of water boil. Not wanting him to see her, she'd run in there from the front hall, where she'd been watching out the door, when Edmund and Father rode up in a motorized hearse that Edmund had convinced, with a little help from the Machine, a rich friend to buy for him. It was the first one Eleanor had ever seen.

  She heard him come in the front door and call to her. She felt the presence of his mind, as she had for the last hour as he'd gotten closer and closer to Grimm Memorials, only now it was actively seeking her out. It led him to the kitchen.

  I'm home, Edmund's thoughts reached her as he swept grandly through the door. Ta da! he tooted, spreading his arms in presentation of himself.

  Eleanor didn't turn around. She continued staring at the simmering water and kept her mind quiet. From out back she could hear the chugging of the motorcar as Father drove it around the house and parked it in the barn.

  Aren't you glad to see me, Eleanor? Edmund asked. She shrugged. He crossed the kitchen and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her around. What's wrong? She kept her eyes down and said nothing. Edmund persisted, coaxing her with his thoughts until she gave in.

  You left me alone here. Tears came next as all the pent-up anger, hurt, and loneliness she'd been collecting since he'd left came welling to the surface. Without a spoken word between them, she conveyed it all to Edmund, playing it in his mind for him like a silent movie, complete with every sordid detail from the first night he left her, through all the years of abuse and degradation she'd suffered under her father from then on. As it poured from her, she wept, until she grew weak and collapsed into her brother's arms. He embraced her and soothed her.

  It's all right now, he reassured her with soft mind whispers when she was done, exhausted. Things are going to change now I've learned so much! That's why I haven't been home. I had to use every moment I was away to learn everything I could so I could come back and teach you, and give you what I had without you. And such knowledge I have gained! Now we can start together and live for power and pure pleasure.

  He grinned fiercely and his eyes widened. I've gained the powers of Hell, and the secret to immortality itself.?

  The word immortality echoed in Eleanor's head as she floated through the pain, rising to semiconsciousness. Somewhere-at times they sounded near, then far away-several children's voices were crying for help. Eleanor tried to open her eyes but they felt nailed together. She tried to move, but the air was like glue and she stuck to it. All the while, the pain burned throughout her entire being, becoming heavier and heavier until it was immense. It became the river again and carried her away until nothing else existed.

  CHAPTER 32

  What is the news of the day?

  Jackie woke to the sound of many voices, and the rancid choking stench of stale shit and urine. His head hurt. He rolled over and gingerly felt the bump on his head, wincing at the pain. "Help! Somebody help!" a voice was wailing nearby. Other voices were sobbing. Two voices very near him joined in crying for help several times before stopping. "It's no use," one of those voices said. "No one can hear us "" Groaning with the pain in his head, Jackie sat up and looked at the speaker.

  The boy was taller and bigger than Jackie, obviously older. He had brown hair, large brown eyes, and a face spattered with many freckles. Jackie looked past him, to the other boys in the cage. Against the bars, farthest from him to his left, a pair of twins, dark-haired and red-eyed from crying, were clinging to each other as they huddled near a filth-stained, lidless toilet. They had been yelling for help, also, but stopped when the older boy said no one could hear them. Against the bars to the left of the twins was Timmy Walsh from school. The memory of the Pied Piper and his rats flashed in Jackie's head, making him wonder what had happened to Betty Boone.

  As far as he could tell, there were only boys in the cage. Timmy was crouched, arms wrapped around his knees, hugging himself, and rocking on his heels, not looking at anyone. Beyond him, Jackie recognized the four boys who lived on Route 47 from the pictures that had appeared in the newspaper after they'd disappeared. They were supposed to have drowned in the river. On the other side of the cage two short boys, one blond, the other brown-haired, stood with their backs to him, grasping the bars in their hands and staring out at the candlelit room. In the rear corner nearest him, a darkhaired, dark-skinned boy was slumped unconscious.

  For a few minutes all the boys were quiet. Jackie's stilldazed eyes slowly took in the rest of the room, eventually settling on the nightmare vision of the old woman sprawled over his naked stepfather, Steve, who had a stream of dried blood frozen in mid-flow coming from his mouth and nose and a slow steady trickle coming from the horrible gash where his private parts should have been.

  Jackie couldn't see much of the old woman slumped over Steve, just the top of her head, her long white hair splayed out in all directions, and her bony, age-spotted hands at the ends of her black-sleeved arms laid out to the sides. What he could see, he didn't like. She looked like the witch from his dream, the witch who had carried him here. This must be the gingerbread house, he thought.

  He looked away from the witch and saw his mother sprawled on the reclining chair set in the middle of the circle within the star painted on the floor. He let out a yell. "Mom!" he cried. All the boys in the cage looked at him as he leapt to his feet and flung himself against the bars, arms reaching out to his unconscious mother.

  "Mom, wake up!" Jackie cried. She gave no response. It was no use. She was out. Maybe she was dead. Jackie gulped back a panic of tears and slid to his knees, his head resting against the bars.

  "Is that your mom, kid?" the older boy asked Jackie.

  Jackie nodded his head, fighting back tears, unable to speak.

  "I think she's still alive," the older boy added. "I saw them carry her in here. If we could wake her up we could get out of here"

  Jackie looked at the boy, then his mother, then Steve. "That's my stepfather," he heard himself say ridiculously, as if he was pointing out his skateboard or his bike and not his stepfather who lay naked on the floor with his private parts cut off and blood flowing from his nose and mouth and eyes wide open, staring at some faraway spot on the floor in front of him.

  The shock of it settled into him.

  It was the older boy's turn to look upset. Tears formed in his eyes. "He was my teacher," he said brokenly, adding angrily, "he brought me here!" He looked away, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

  "What does she want?" one of the boys, a redhead, spoke up, asking in a trembling voice. No one said anything. They avoided looking at each other for fear of seeing the same sense of terror they felt reflected on another face.

  The older boy thought for a few minutes, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said in a low voice, as if speaking his thoughts aloud. "She's dead. Someone will come and find us, or the kid's mother will wake up and get us out. We'll get out of here somehow. We just have to wait and be patient. There was a girl with the old lady when she brought you in, I think," he added, pointing to Jackie, "but she left. Maybe she'll come back."

  "Jennifer!" Jackie cried. "That was my sister Jennifer." His mother turning into a troll then the witch flashed before his eyes and he trembled with a fearful chill. But what had happened to Jennifer? Hope surged in him and he jumped to his feet.

  "Jennifer!" he shouted as loud as he could. He repeated it several times, most of the children joining in. After several minutes, and no answer, they stopped yelli
ng and Jackie slumped again to the floor.

  "My name's Mark Thomas," the older boy said, sitting next to Jackie and introducing himself.

  "I'm Jackie Nailer," Jackie answered in a dull whisper.

  Mark looked around the cage at the other boys, some of whom had begun to cry again, then looked out at the bodies of the old woman and Mr. Nailer. "Who is she?" he asked.

  Jackie glanced sideways at her through the bars and tried to speak, but a sob rose into his mouth instead of words and he couldn't.

  "She's the Wicked Witch of the West," a pudgy boy behind them said.

  "No, she's the Big Bad Wolf!" another boy spoke up. Suddenly all of them began talking at once, gibbering about what each of them had seen the old woman as.

  "Whoa! Wait a minute," Mark said, standing and holding up his hands for quiet. "One at a time. You first," he ordered, pointing at the pudgy boy who'd spoken first. "What's your name?"

  "Jason Grakopolous," the pudgy boy said, resentful of being ordered around by Mark.

  "Who did you say she was?"

  "The Wicked Witch of the West," Jason replied belligerently, as though this were the hundredth time he had to repeat it. "I was watching The Wizard of Oz on TV and Glinda the Good Witch landed in my backyard with the Munchkins, then she turned into the Wicked Witch of the West"

  Mark looked doubtfully at the boy, who stared sullenly back at him, then pointed to the redhead next to him. "What about you?" he asked.

  "My name's Jeff Best. This is my brother Jimmy, and our friends Bobby and Danny," he said quickly before his voice began to falter. He continued haltingly, as if he doubted his own words. "She was the Three Bears. We found Goldilocks, too" A sob escaped his lips. "She was dead," he finished, giving way to silent tears. His brother slid over next to him and put his arm around Jeff's shoulder. The friend he had introduced as Danny, nodded over and over in shock while the other boy, Bobby, sucked his thumb and stared into space.