He pointed his nose to the sky and howled louder than ever.
Lights flickered in the windows at Nettie and Floyds. The door opened and Floyd stepped out holding a lantern. Cupping his hand over his eyes to block the rain, Floyd called, “Who’s out there? Who’s out there with Ole Duke?”
Sylvie glared at Ole Duke and crumpled into a heap in a mock swoon. Soon she was surrounded by Floyd, Hank, and Jared.
Nettie called from the porch, “Is she hurt? I’ll be right there!”
Sylvie forced herself to cough, gag, and throw up. Blearily she looked up and forced herself into another coughing fit. It didn’t take long to become real and she gagged trying to catch her breath.
One of the men scooped her up and hurried her into her house. Nettie trotted alongside saying, “Oh my dear, here I’ll help, now be careful with her! Take her into her room and I’ll get her cleaned up!”
They laid her on her bed. Sylvie closed her eyes and pretended to faint. Nettie undressed her and dried her off. Soon she was tucked into her soft, warm bed.
She had worked hard all night and sleep came easily. She promised herself to sleep all day and she would finish Locum Tenens the next evening.
Dreams Become Nightmares
Bridgette yawned. Her eyes were getting heavy. Nettie had brushed her hand across Bridgette’s forehead and said she was going to lay down in the other bedroom for a while. She made Bridgette promise to call out if she needed anything.
I’m just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes then I’ll finish the journal, thought Bridgett. She refused to think how useless the endeavor would be. She knew she couldn’t do Locum Tenens. The mind numbing horror of Sylvie was too much. But she had no plan and no answer about how to let Tom know what was in his midst. Until then, she would finish the journal and decide what to do next.
A cough wracked through her but was fortunately short lived. Bridgette pulled the blanket up, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Kevin, Tom and Bridgette were in their sunny kitchen laughing. Three loud knocks came from the cellar door.
“I’ll get it,” said Kevin walking towards the cellar door.
“NO!” Bridgette shouted, trying to run towards him. Her legs moved through jello in that frustrating slow motion of a dream.
Tom was glued to his chair, “I can’t move!” He reached out to Bridgette.
Kevin opened the cellar door. A dead rotting corpse stood there. It smiled and thrust the book of Locum Tenens at him.
Kevin reached to take it. Bridgette shouted, “NO!” and tripped. She fell into blackness and landed with a soft thump.
Bridgette jerked awake. Candlelight cast a soft dreamy glow in Molly’s room. Bridgette rolled over and saw a little blond haired girl asleep in bed with her. Bridgette sat up. It was the little girl from the portrait. It was Molly.
Bridgette stared at the little girl and realized she could see right through her. She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up at the doorway. A man’s shadow stood there.
Bridgette gasped. The man’s features slowly came into view. He was tall and pleasant looking. He was holding a beautiful wooden box tied with a pretty pink bow. He smiled looking at the bed. His mouth moved, but made no sound.
‘Happy Birthday, Molly!’ He mouthed walking into the room. Bridgette could see the pretty wallpaper through him.
Molly sat up with a big smile on her face. The man sat on the bed, handed her the box and gave her a hug.
‘What is it, Daddy?’ Molly mouthed.
‘Open it,’ said her daddy.
Molly gently untied the ribbon and set it aside. She opened the box.
‘Oh daddy, she’s so pretty!’ Exclaimed Molly holding up a porcelain doll wearing a frilly pink dress and matching hat.
‘I love her!’ Said Molly hugging the doll. Molly looked at the doll closely, she stroked her hair.
‘She has eyelashes and her eyes open and close!’ Said Molly in wonder.
‘Look, there’s more,’ said her daddy.
Molly reached in the box and gently lifted a pretty pink cloth.
‘Little dishes and a bell!’ She said. ‘We can have our own tea party! Oh, daddy, it’s so pretty, I love it!’ She said giving her daddy hug. ‘
When I have a tea party you can be my first guest!’ She said as she picked up her doll again.
‘What’s her name?’ Asked her daddy.
‘Miss Lovely, her name is Miss Lovely,’ said Molly stroking Miss Lovely’s dress.
Her daddy gently closed the box and slid it under her bed.
‘It will be safe there. Come, let’s make the birthday girl some breakfast,’ he said standing and holding out his hand.
Molly held Miss Lovely and jumped out of bed. She took her daddy’s hand and said, ‘pancakes? Can we have pancakes today daddy?’
‘I’ll make my birthday girl pancakes,’ said her daddy smiling.
And together they walked out of the room.
Bridgette sat back. Her eyelids grew heavy. She coughed and settled into the pillow. She thought about the sweet dream and smiled. She closed her eyes and slept.
Bridgette opened her eyes. Sylvie leered down at her.
Bridgette scrambled to the other side of the bed and stood up. Sylvie continued to stare down transfixed. Bridgette followed her gaze and saw little Molly sleeping. Once again, she could see through Molly. She looked up and was relieved she could see through Sylvie too. Like a hunter marking its prey, Sylvie slowly moved to the end of the bed, never taking her eyes off Molly.
Sylvie backed away from the bed, reached down into the doll bed and picked up Miss Lovely. Clutching the doll by the head, Sylvie leered down at Molly. Molly slept, peacefully unaware of Sylvie’s presence. Sylvie backed slowly towards the door. Once in the doorway, she shifted her gaze to Bridgette. Sylvie glowered, bared her teeth and disappeared.
Bridgette’s heart pounded. Shakily she looked down at the bed. It was empty. Nausea and a wave of dizziness washed over her. She leaned on the bed and gagged. A cough rumbled out of her, followed by another and another. After the coughing fit, Bridgette sat down. Her chest was sore and her body ached. Chills rattled through her. Finally, she swung her legs in bed and covered up. She glanced fearfully at the door, but Sylvie was gone. She closed her eyes and hoped the dream would end and fell asleep.
June 21 st 1912
And Locum Tenens Never Ends
Bridgette woke up before sunrise. She looked cautiously at the door, but it was empty. The candle flickered giving off a comfortable glow. Bridgette picked up the red journal.
Sylvie stayed in bed all day. She pretended to sleep and made herself cough every once in a while. Sometimes a real cough would surface. She gagged and forced herself to throw up.
She opened her eyes to see the room was dark and the sun was almost set. Richard sat in a rocker and stared at her.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, but Sylvie ignored him and closed her eyes.
“What were you doing outside last night?” He asked.
Sylvie looked at him surprised. She narrowed her eyes and ignored him.
“Sylvie, I don’t know what you’re up to. I know you go outside at night,” he paused.
She was silent.
“And I know you leave Molly alone.” He finished.
Sylvie glared at him.
“Now, I know you’re sick and I hope you get better and I’ll do all I can to make sure you get better, but, Sylvie, I’m finished. We are finished. I’m tired of asking you to take care of our daughter. I’m tired of you mistreating her. When you are well again, we will discuss our options.”
Sylvie continued to glare at him.
“Well, I’ve said my piece,” he stood up, “Oh, and by the way, I will keep Molly with me. I will have it no other way.”
He walked towards the door and looked back at her expectantly.
Sylvie glared.
He left and closed the door.
Sylvie jumped out of bed. She heard the familiar creak/slam of the back door. She parted the curtain and watched Richard walk towards the barn.
“Live human appendage,” she said to the empty room.
She watched him disappear through the open barn door.
“He’ll do.”
Sylvie smiled and walked out of the bedroom.
Sylvie threw her now dry cloak around her shoulders. She crept quietly towards the barn in the darkening twilight. She could see Richard in there. His back was to her and he was fiddling with something. She stepped quietly inside and picked up the axe. Richard’s back was still to her. She crept up behind him, turned the axe on its flat side, swung, and hit him on the back of his head.
Richard didn’t fall. He turned around shocked. He reached for her and took a step. Sylvie swung high and plunged the axe blade into his chest.
He grasped for the axe. He gurgled and blood spewed out of his mouth.
Sylvie rushed for Richard’s hunting knife on the workbench. She grabbed it and stood over Richard. He gasped and choked and reached out for her. She leaned down and yanked his mouth open. She pulled his tongue out as far as it would stretch and sliced it off.
Richard convulsed. He opened and closed his bloody mouth. He convulsed again and rolled his eyes. Sylvie dropped the tongue, grasped the axe handle and yanked it out of Richard’s chest. She raised the axe high over her head and swung it viciously into Richards head, crunching through his skull. She bent down and peered at his eyes. They were rolled in the back of his head. She was disappointed she couldn’t watch them as he died. She stood up, yanked the axe out of his head and turned around. Molly stood in the doorway.
Molly’s face had drained of all color. Her eyes were wide with fear. She jerked when she saw Sylvie look at her, then she turned and ran.
Nettie and Floyd Hartman’s house was to the right of the barn. The field of flowers was to the left. If Molly had turned right, she might have made it to the Hartman’s and been safe. But Molly turned left. She ran into the flower field. The same field where she and her daddy picked flowers. Perhaps she remembered that her daddy said ‘flowers were smiles from God and the angels’, or perhaps she just ran. Either way, she stumbled and fell. Sylvie was on her in a flash and smashed the axe into her skull. Molly died instantly. Sylvie didn’t get to watch death in her eyes either.
Sylvie went back into the barn. She stood over Richard, swung and buried the axe into his chest. It smashed through his ribs with a satisfying crunch. She left it there. She picked up his tongue and walked back into the house.
Ole Duke howled somewhere in the distance.
Back in the house, Sylvie went through the cellar and slipped into her dark room. The black candle flames flickered and sputtered. The black goo bubbled in the red-streaked bowl. She dropped the tongue into the bowl and it dissolved. The brew hissed. A red mist rose from the bowl. The book of Locum Tenens shuddered, creaked, and flipped to another page with a snap.
‘On the Sixth Night’ were the words burned into the wood.
Sylvie would have to wait and come back on the sixth night.
Ole Duke howled.
Sylvie rushed up the cellar stairs. She went to her room, washed herself and changed nightgowns. She wadded the bloody washcloth, towel and nightgown and took them to the little room in the cellar. She set them near the back wall, closed the iron door and locked it with the padlock. She went back to her room, wet her face with a damp washcloth, and laid down and fell into a peaceful sleep.
The following days were a blur of happy activity. Grieving townsfolk filled Sylvie’s little house. The women brought cakes and pies and meals galore. The men gathered outside and patrolled the woods making sure all was safe.
After careful study of the crime scene, the general consensus was that someone had tried to kidnap Molly. Richard had intervened and lost his life. The killer/kidnapper had killed Molly to keep her from talking. Most didn’t know about Richard’s missing tongue. The few who did kept it to themselves not wanting to upset the faint-of-heart.
Women fell over themselves to help Sylvie. They waited on her hand and foot. Sylvie pretended to be asleep when they gathered in her room to talk about Richard or Molly. She would ‘wake up’ when the subject turned to poor Sylvie and the trauma she’d been through. Sylvie would often cry, portraying herself as the perfect wife, mother, and victim.
When Reverend Tilley sat next to her bed and gently asked about funeral arrangements, Sylvie pretended to faint from the stress. The reverend patted her hand and assured her he would take care of it.
Before the funeral, as Sylvie walked up the church path, she pretended to faint again. The doctor intervened and said her nerves were frail and she needed to rest. She was escorted home and ‘rested’ during the services.
The men emptied the barn, while Floyd and Nettie temporarily took the animals.
Superstitions sprang forth. Evil spirits were supposed to be attracted to tragedy. The men burned down the barn ‘just in case’ and promised to help build a new one. Sylvie triumphantly watched the glow from her bedroom window.
The women cooked and cleaned the house from top to bottom. Sylvie ate in her bedroom and the women nearly tripped over themselves to bring her food.
Everyone was at her beck and call. Sylvie was the reigning queen and reveled in every minute of it. If she hadn’t been ill, she would not have finished Locum Tenens. She was being waited on hand and foot. Her wish was their command. Sylvie basked in her own glory.
By the fourth day the activity was dying down. The townsfolk slowly began returning to their homes. By the fifth day, it was just Nettie and Sylvie. Nettie insisted on keeping an eye on her to make sure her every need was met.
On the sixth day, Sylvie told Nettie she wanted some time to grieve alone. She wanted to spend the day and evening remembering the good times. Nettie said she understood. She promised to return the next day with some homemade chicken stew.
As the sky darkened, Sylvie walked into the living room and picked up the family portrait. She admired her beautiful self. Next to her, Richard and Molly were ugly simpletons. Sylvie giggled and pointed at them. She chuckled and rubbed her finger on their faces. She laughed and twirled and came face to face with Nettie’s daughter, Sarah.
Sarah stared, wide-eyed and shocked. Sylvie forced herself to cry and hugged the portrait in grief. Sarah narrowed her eyes and didn’t say a word. She picked up her mother’s sewing and walked out the back door.
Finally, it was fully dark. Sylvie didn’t light any candles. She slowly walked down the cellar stairs, relishing the musty dampness. In the pitch black, she walked over to the small iron door, and unlocked the padlock. She entered the room and sat in the dirt at the base of the triangle.
The flickering black candle flames still pointed towards the bowl in the middle of the triangle. The air was heavy with anticipation. She held her left hand over the book of Locum Tenens. The book shrieked and shuddered. A page rose and snapped down. Sylvie read the burned words.
‘In the Apple’
Sylvie immediately jumped up and hurried to the kitchen. Sylvie didn’t remember or care who, but someone had set a bowl of fruit on the counter. She grabbed the largest apple and hurried back into the dark cellar.
Back in the coal room, she carefully picked up the bowl from the middle of the triangle. Sylvie tipped the bowl above the apple. The black liquid poured over the apple and immediately began bubbling. The apple soaked it up with a loud SLURP. Sylvie set the empty bowl down and stared at the apple. It was a little bigger but otherwise looked the same.
The Locum Tenens books creaked and groaned. A page lifted and snapped down. ‘13th hour’.
Sylvie ran her hand across the burned words. A vision of a clock formed in her mind. The hour hand swung around thirteen times and stopped on the number nine. Sylvie sat back and smiled. It was done. She would eat the apple at 9:00 in the morning.
Sylvie stood. Through the dark recesses of h
er mind, she knew that after Locum Tenens she would be nearby, if not in this same house. She would bury the book here and dig it up when she was in the future.
Pleased with her plan, she looked around the little room. One by one the black candle flames flickered and died. The hand of glory toppled over. Its candle rolled into the glass eye and stopped.
Sylvie went upstairs and got the shovel and Richard’s waxed rain coat. She returned to the little room and dug a hole near the back wall. She unceremoniously picked up every item in the room and dropped it into the hole. The book of Locum Tenens was last. She carefully wrapped the book in Richard’s coat and set it in the hole. She filled the hole with dirt and patted it firmly down.
Sylvie paced through the dark house all night.
The next morning, at 8:45, Sylvie wrote the last sentence in her journal. At 8:58, she lovingly fondled her journal, said a sad farewell, and shoved it into the fire. At 9:00, she bit the apple.
But A Small Hope
Wearily, Bridgette closed the journal and set it on the table. Defeat crushed any hope for an answer. Fear and hopelessness settled into the pit of her soul. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would never see Tom again. She would never be in her ‘real’ life again.
She felt hollow and empty. Her numbed mind skittered into a chaotic jumble of depressing images. Her, on a bed, gasping for air, breathing her final breath before dying alone. And then, she saw her own somber tombstone under a cloudy sky. It crumbled under the weight of the ages, unnoticed and unvisited. She thought of her hopes: of growing old with Tom, of having children and grandchildren. And she thought of their dreams: visiting new places, of turning their few acres into farmland, of living a full life surrounded by friends and family.
Her throat constricted. Her lungs ached as she breathed. Pain stabbed through her head. Her eyes hurt and her ears rang. The consumption had spread since yesterday. It had taken over her body and was killing her off.
Despair settled onto her like a cold, wet blanket. Her grief ran too deep for tears. She was detached and drifting into an immense, incomprehensible horror. Her mind simply shut itself away from it. To do otherwise would push her into a meltdown.
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