Grimm Memorials

by R. Patrick Gates

  He went through the house slowly, methodically checking each room upstairs and down. The Eameses' house, which was an exact structural duplicate of the Nailers' house, was similar in another way. All the closets, bureaus, and cabinets upstairs were full of clothes and items one would normally take on an extended trip. In the closet of the master bedroom he found a complete set of luggage. On the night table in that same room he found an address book. He sat on the bed and opened it shining his flashlight on the pages as he searched for a clue to where the Eameses were.

  Mrs. Eames had told him she was going to Vermont he remembered, but, embarrassingly, that was all he could remember. He had no memory of her giving him a name of a town she was going to, or of any relatives through whom she could be reached. He was sure she had given them to him, he remembered writing them down, for Christ's sake, but when he had pulled out the card to show the sheriff, it was blank. The memory of what he'd written there had dissolved like the bottom of a Styrofoam cup left too long with station house coffee in it. There were no Vermont addresses in the book, but he pocketed it anyway to check through all the names later and try to track the Eameses down.

  Vitelli went downstairs and looked around. He turned up nothing but more evidence that the Eameses had left on their supposed trip in a hurry. The television and radio were plugged in. A timer to turn on the living room lights automatically had not been set. A pack of cigarettes and a personalized silver lighter left on a coffee table, and winter coats (certainly mandatory wear in the cold autumnal wilds of Vermont) still hanging in the hall closet convinced Ken Vitelli that something was amiss.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The smell of sour milk floated out to him. The fridge was by no means full, but it did contain items, like a full bottle of soda, a half-empty gallon jug of milk, and a bottle of orange juice, less than half of it gone, that were perishable.

  Vitelli didn't know about the Eames but whenever he and his went on a trip they took any half-empty bottles of soda or milk with them to drink on the road rather than leaving them to spoil. Of course, he had to consider that the Eameses were still very distraught over their daughter's disappearance, but he couldn't believe that they could be so distraught as to go a long trip without any luggage or clothes.

  In the refrigerator light playing across the kitchen table, Vitelli noticed a long pad of yellow legal paper. He went to the table, sat, and shined his light on it. There appeared to be a list scribbled on the paper, but he couldn't make out the handwriting; it was so cramped as to be nearly illegible.

  Playing his flashlight around the room, he located the light switch on a wall near the back door and turned on the fluorescent light over the table. He went back to the paper, glancing at his watch as he did. He was into some heavy overtime tonight. He knew he'd better produce something to justify it the way the sheriff was acting lately.

  The first word at the top of the list appeared to be a name. He could make out the letters Marg before the scribble became undecipherable, and assumed that to be Margaret, which made sense since that was the Eameses' girl's name. Next to the name was a date, which looked like either October 14 or 19. Vitelli realized it was the nineteenth, the day Margaret Eames had disappeared. The next word written under the name and date appeared to be Thursday, though it could be something else, too. Vitelli had always thought his handwriting was bad, but this was the worst he had ever seen.

  Vitelli got up from the table and went to the cork board hanging on the wall next to the telephone. He checked the calendar pinned there and confirmed that the nineteenth had indeed been a Thursday. He went back to the table and looked at the paper again. He couldn't make out the next two words, though he guessed that one of them might be moving or morning. The fifth word in the list was written larger and clearer. It was another name, Puffin, with triple question marks after it. Below that was written: Where is Puffin??? It was underlined twice. Vitelli assumed correctly that Puffin was a pet, either a dog or a cat. The next word was a clearly written, police! Next to that was something about woods.

  The last item was written so hastily that he couldn't read it at all. It was two words and each was capitalized, the first with a G or a J, and the second with an M or a W, suggesting it was another name of someone, or something. Vitelli mused over the name, but could make neither head nor tails of it. He finally gave up and folded the paper, pocketing it for further analysis at the station.

  Vitelli yawned and got up from the table. He stood stretched, and noticed something he should have seen before: a black-leather, phone-number record book lying on the counter next to the wall phone. He went to it and picked it up. He began flipping through it when he noticed another piece of paper on the floor, under the table. He got down on his knees and reached under for it. After banging his head twice on the underside of the tabletop, he grabbed it and pulled it out. It was in the same illegible handwriting as the paper on the table, but not as bad. At least he could read this:

  Judy, Have gone to Grimm Memorials.

  Rog

  Grimm Memorials! Vitelli looked at the name, his lips pursed in thought. His men had checked that place when they were searching the woods for Margaret Eames. They'd reported that a nice old lady lived there and she hadn't seen any sign of the girl. He realized now that he had never asked them if they had looked around the place.

  If Roger Eames had gone to Grimm Memorials, where was Mrs. Eames? Did she find this note before or after she called him, or at all? If she did find the note, did she go there, too?

  "Curiouser and curiouser," he muttered absentmindedly. "I guess I'll take me a look at Grimm Memorials," he said with a grunt and headed for the door.

  "Five, six, pick up sticks!"

  The witch was back. Jackie cowered against the bars hiding his face, but peeking between his fingers at her. He prayed she wouldn't come for him. Her terrifying voice filled the cage as she counted off her victims with the glee of a schoolgirl. Her horrible figure stood in the doorway of the cage, surveying the boys like a butcher in a slaughterhouse.

  She was an even more hideous sight now, covered with six layers of blood from head to toe. It caked on her hands and arms with the ashes of the six dead boys and mingled with her sweat, becoming liquid again and running down her body as if it were she that was doing all the bleeding. Her face was something out of a nightmare. Fresh blood smeared her lips, but the rest of her face was a dried mask of reddish black blood. Only the whites of her eyes shown, making them more horrible to behold than before. Bloody sweat dripped from her nipples as she went to work over the sleeping twins, rolling the shorter of the two onto the collapsed gurney.

  The oven behind the witch was working furiously. It roared like a strong wind each time it was fed the sliced remains of another boy. The room was stifling hot with the heat their burning had produced, and the circle of ashes and bones around Jackie's mother had grown taller. The arched oven door was glowing a dull red. Tiny wisps of smoke rose from it and seeped from around its edges into the room. It curled against the ceiling, mingling with the smoke from the candles until there was a thick cloud of stinking smoke hovering lower and lower in the room. The air began to smell like burnt hamburger and hot metal.

  The witch grunted as she put her hands under the gurney and lifted. The collapsible legs, that looked to Jackie like an accordion, straightened and snapped ramrod straight when the body was as high as the witch's waist.

  When is she going to take me? The thought terrorized Jackie as he huddled, trying not to look at the witch's face.

  I'm saving you for last, my kitten, the witch said in his head a second later.

  Jackie shuddered, crying out at the presence of the witch in his mind; then she was gone, preoccupied with locking the cage door and wheeling the boy, with the help of zombie Jennifer, to the bloody metal table. But the feeling of her remained, like a greasy residue that will only wash off with scalding water and steel wool.

  Jackie tried to draw completely
into himself once again, driven to escape by the witch's invasion of his mind, but the twin on the table woke screaming as the witch strapped him to it and began cutting away his clothing. None of the six boys between Mark and this twin had screamed as the witch made quick work of them. Each of them had drunk too much of the drugged milk, or were too deep in shock to react except to groan, or fart hideously when the witch drove her knife into them.

  The screaming had an odd effect on Jackie. Instead of pushing him closer to the edge of total shock, it snapped him back to the realization that sooner or later the witch was going to get to him. Mark's words: "If we lose control, we're dead!" echoed in his mind. Mark's dead! the part of him that wanted to give up and veg out, reminded. But they had almost escaped, too. (Almost is only good in horseshoes and hand grenades, his mother always said.) Jackie knew with sudden certainty that no one was coming to save him. If he wanted to live and get out of there, he'd have to do something himself.

  The twin's screams ceased suddenly. The witch grabbed the knife stuck hilt-deep in his chest and began cutting, splashing herself with a fresh coat of blood, and chanting her strange words.

  Jackie tried to think of something to get him out of this mess. Mark had said something earlier, before devising his plan to get the keys, but Jackie's short-term memory had been shocked until it had fragmented, letting his mind handle only pieces of the horrors that had befallen him, instead of the whole, terrifying, mind-destroying dose at once. That combined with the fact that Jackie hadn't listened very well to anything anyone had said before because he had been too busy listening for the return of the witch and being terrified, made it difficult to remember what Mark had said. It might have been something about a weapon.

  The witch was at the reclining chair, feeding his mother. Jackie tried to blot out the smacking, chewing sounds she was making as she ate the revolting meal. He looked outside the bars for something within reach that he could use as a weapon. From where he was crouched, he could see the right side of the floor outside the cage. There were a couple of tall brass candle stands nearby, but Jackie doubted he could get them in the cage without the witch noticing. A smaller one he might have had a chance with, but there were none close enough on his side.

  Quietly, so as not to draw the witch's attention, Jackie crawled to the other side of the cage. A loud, airy roar made him jump. The witch had just spun the wheel that opened the oven door. Jackie froze in horror as he watched her feed the twin's body into the oven. His hair ignited from the pilot flame and went up around his head like Fourth of July sparklers. The witch pulled the lever and the oven door slammed closed with a resounding clang.

  After removing and sprinkling the ashes around the star/circle, she turned and came toward the cage.

  Jackie skittered to the rear left corner and cringed there, ready to fight tooth and nail should the witch come near him. He tensed, wild-eyed and certain that she had heard his thoughts of a weapon. She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and wheeled the gurney inside, but she barely glanced at him.

  She can't hear every thought, Jackie realized. Or maybe she can but she just doesn't pay attention to them, like when Jen would do her homework in front of the TV Maybe if he just kept his thoughts quiet, they wouldn't disturb her.

  The witch rolled the gurney over next to the second twin and lowered it. Jennifer had followed her into the cage this time and helped roll the body onto the gurney and lift it into its upright position. With Jen at the foot of the table and the witch at the head, they wheeled the twin's body out of the cage. As she went through the door, the witch grabbed it and pulled it shut behind her. It closed with a crash that shook the whole cage. Jackie could feel the bars vibrating against his back.

  The door!

  The crash of metal on metal rang in his ears.

  The door is heavy! Mark had said they could use the door as a weapon!

  The witch turned quickly and fixed him with a curious gaze. Jackie's skin turned clammy cold with the certainty that he had let his thoughts get too excited and the witch had started paying attention to them. After gazing at him for what seemed a hideous eternity, she locked the door and told Jennifer to help her put the body on the bloodsoaked metal table.

  Jackie relaxed a little, then stiffened. The memory of Mark's plan to slam the door on the witch wanted to charge full of excitement through his head, but with great will, he tried to suppress it. Don't think about it. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Somehow, he had to keep his thoughts hidden and still plan the act and muster the courage to carry it out. He began counting the bars in the cage, starting with the one he was leaning against, and ticking them off in his head as he slowly slid from one bar to the next until he was in a position along the left wall of the cage to run at the back side of the door when it opened.

  CHAPTER 40

  Hark, hark, the dogs do bark!

  Deputy Vitelli was excited. The more he thought about it the more it seemed to him that he was really on to something. He trotted back to his car, got in, and started to pick up the radio mike to report in what he'd found. On second thought, he decided to check Grimm Memorials first, just in case this was a wild-goose chase. He didn't need to give any of the clowns at the station more fodder to ridicule him.

  He started the cruiser and turned on the headlights. He drove to the opening of Dorsey Lane Extension and guided the cruiser onto the narrow dirt road. He drove slowly, the road was just wide enough to permit a car. The headlights barely illuminated the twists, turns, and ruts of the dark road before him. With no street or house lights, and the thick trees overhead blocking out any moonlight, the road and surrounding woods were black as pitch.

  In his excitement, Vitelli had to fight the urge to drive faster. He definitely did not want to wrap the cruiser around a tree or rip up the chassis by bottoming out on the bumpy road that certainly wouldn't do much toward soothing things with the sheriff. He continued on carefully, at times slowing to a near halt as he maneuvered the cruiser through several deep ruts and over large bumps until the road opened up at the front of Grimm Memorials.

  Vitelli parked the car near the porch steps and got out, leaning against the door as he looked up at the dark house. The smell of garbage burning wafted over him and he wondered where it could be coming from. He looked up and saw smoke coming out of a chimney at the top of the house. Except for that, the place looked deserted; worse, it looked haunted. Every window was dark. Vitelli could half imagine ghosts looking out at him, eager for him to enter.

  He shook the feeling off and closed the car door. The three-quarter moon lit the front of the house well enough for him to notice tire tracks going around the side of the house. Clicking on his flashlight, he started round to investigate.

  Jackie crouched in the left front corner of the cage, head down, feigning shock but actually very aware of what was going on. Outside the cage, the witch tossed the second twin's private parts into the hot, smoldering bowl on the floor and prayed over it as before. Her voice rose and fell, running on with its litany of unintelligible words. When she got to her feet, she wheeled the twin's body to the oven and fed it in. More smoke, thick and black, seeped into the room.

  "Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four .... Jackie was counting the candles in the room now in an effort to keep his thoughts hidden while he waited for the witch to finish sprinkling the bones and ashes and return to the cage for another boy.

  When she finally did, he tensed, ready to leap.

  The witch unlocked the door and pushed it open. She leaned wearily against the iron jamb and waved at Jennifer to wheel the gurney in. The witch came through the door on the other side of the gurney, keeping it between her and the door as she helped to guide it in, making it impossible for Jackie to slam the door on her. He'd have to wait until she was leaving.

  The witch and Jennifer put the unmoving body of Timmy Walsh on the gurney and lifted him. As they wheeled him out of the cage, Jennifer went first, and the witch last. J
ackie got ready to leap. He was going to lunge against the door and smash it into the old witch. He was going to crush her with it, knock her out with it.

  He was ready.

  He was going to do it.

  Do it now!

  Do ... do ... nothing!

  No matter how much he wanted to, he was too scared to do it. His legs wouldn't respond. He tried forcing them to push him forward but they were paralyzed with the fear of what she would do to him if he failed.

  She'll do it to you anyway, sooner or later, stupid, he told himself. He gripped the bar with his right hand, pulling himself up to make the lunge when the witch looked at him, freezing him in terror.

  "Nine, ten, big fat hen," she said playfully, as if talking to an amused child. Jackie fell back into the corner. The witch closed the door and locked it. "Girl. Get over here and help me," the witch bellowed at Jennifer who eagerly ran forward to assist. Together they transferred Timmy Walsh to the metal table.

  Jackie relaxed a little and counted candles again. He began psyching himself up for the next time the witch came in the cage. By the way she was still happily going about her gruesome business, Jackie guessed she was still ignorant of his plan.

  He cowered through the dissection of Timmy Walsh, trying not to think that his failure to act had cost Timmy his life, holding onto his sanity by the barest thread of hope that his plan would work. He glanced at his sister several times, hoping to see some spark of the Jennifer he knew instead of the mindless robot the witch had turned her into, but he was disappointed. He could expect no help from her. He hunched tighter into himself and waited.

  There were only two boys left before the witch got to him: the boy in the corner who had warned them about the milk and the stew, and redheaded Jeff Best. That meant he had two more chances to escape, but if he did and blew it, he knew the witch would not give him another try. If he was going to do it, he had to do it right the first time.