“Your pregnancy test came back negative, Mrs. Slade, but your vitamin B-12 levels are down. If you’d like we can start you on a birth control course and a course of B-12 shots.” The doctor hadn’t even looked at me yet, instead he was staring at a tablet, flicking through screens.
“No, that will not be necessary. Also, I will be finding a doctor that actually has time for his patients and can look them in the eye. If you’d be so kind please have my records ready when the new office calls.”
I walked out of the office, paid the receptionist, and then left the office. I was not going back into that office. I do not know why I had put with the man for so long. My patience was worn far too thin to look over it now and I would be looking for a new doctor when I found the time. Stopping by the pharmacy I spoke with the pharmacist to find that Mom’s pills were ready and to find out that the shots were the best way to supplement my vitamin levels but he recommended a sublingual liquid I could take until I could get to a new doctor. The pharmacist also recommended a doctor and I left the pharmacy far happier than when I had gone in.
On the drive home I decided that tomorrow would be a better day to ask my Mom about my father. We’d be alone and there would be no interruptions. It would be a much better time to ask about the man that left that look in her eyes and this time I would not take silence for an answer.
The next day I set up the table for our lunch, fixed our favorite kind of salad, grilled chicken Caesar salad, and sat Mom down with some garlic toast and a glass of sparkling water. She was lucid today and we’d spent the first half of the day watching old television programs she loved. I downloaded a bunch of them from Amazon and we had quite a bit to watch.
“Oh this looks lovely, Clara. I wish you hadn’t gone to so much trouble.” Mom said as she took her first bite and gave a hum of enjoyment.
“You love it Mom and so do I. It was no trouble at all.” I told her as I ate my own salad.
I let her have her meal in peace but my own nerves were ratcheting up for the conversation that was coming. Would she go silent again as usual? I had been around 12 years old the last time I asked; surely, she had had time to get over her hurt to answer me truthfully now without theatrics?
I looked over at her and took her hand as she put her fork down and pushed her bowl away.
“Momma, I love you and I always will but I have to ask you something. Before it is too late you have to tell me.”
Mom tensed and pulled her hand away, clasping both of her own hands together nervously. I guess she knew what I wanted to know.
“We are running out of time Mom. I hate to do this but you have to tell me the truth about my father. I deserve to know.” I rushed through the words, wanting to get them out before I lost my nerve. “This time you do not get to stop talking to me or ignore me, you have to tell me the truth before you lose that information.”
“No, Clara. I do not have to tell you and you can’t make me. It is just too painful to recall.” Mom began wringing the napkin into submission as she spoke, the fragile paper tearing to shreds under her fingers.
I lost my patience, I was not pleased about it but something just snapped and I slammed my hand down onto the table with enough force to rattle the dishes.
“Mom, you have to tell me.” I said as I stood up, my anger growing. “I have a right to know.”
Mom began to wail then, her hands going over her ears as if to shut out my words. Her body began to tremble and instantly I regretted my aggression.
“Mom, please, calm down. I just need to know who he is not what happened or how it happened, or any of the details but I need to know.”
Mom only wailed louder and then ran off to her room. I regretted my actions, my insistence, and ran after my mother, wanting only to comfort her now. I held Mom after curling up on the bed with her. Mom’s body was wracked by great deep sobs and she just kept repeating the word "no" over and over again.
I brushed at her hair with my hand, wanting only to soothe her now. I should have known better, I told myself. I felt like a horrible daughter at that point for upsetting her so much but I just wanted to know who the man was. Surely that was not wrong of me?
Mom’s reaction left me with only one conclusion though. Something terrible had happened. Either to my father or to my mother and from this reaction I would have to say it was my mother. I did not know any of her family; maybe they’d done something to her? Or maybe the father had taken advantage of Mom? Maybe I was the product of rape?
But how could my mother love me so much if that were true? Wouldn’t she hate me?
I got up after she fell asleep and went into the bathroom.
I looked just like my mother had at my age, the only real photos I had ever seen of her coming from soon after I was born. Mom had had my blonde hair and green eyes, my upturned nose and heart-shaped face. We’d both had high cheekbones that gave us a pretty face but Mom’s eyes had somehow always been more womanly, more seductive I thought. I was pretty enough, I supposed, but Mom had been beautiful and still was.
I did not see anything in me that could have been from my father. Maybe that had made it easier for my mother to live with me? I could not imagine hating a child, not after bearing two of my own, but the product of rape? Would I be able to love such a child? How had my mother, if that is what had happened to her?
The girls came home later that day and I almost had a nervous breakdown when they wouldn’t stop screaming at each other and their invisible friend. Apparently he wanted them to draw but they did not want to.
“Girls, what have I taught you? Compromise!” I insisted.
They agreed, their faces sullen, but they picked up pieces of paper and began to write, acting like they were listening to what the invisible friend told them. I thought it was sweet that they both listened and wrote at the same time. They must be taking their cues from each other. My girls were fascinating creatures and watching them sometimes revealed the most amazing things.
For instance, Twilla did not speak until she was three. She would look at Lindy and Lindy would watch Twilla, as though Twilla were actually speaking. Then Lindy would turn to me or her father and tell us what Twilla wanted. For others it could prove freaky but I knew it had more to do with Lindy looking for nonverbal cues than anything that others might consider psychic. My girls had their own way of communicating and it was fascinating.
Mom slept for the rest of the day, waking only to take her pills when it was time. I put the girls to bed early and cleaned up the watercolor-covered papers left on their craft table in their room. I gasped as I looked at the papers. The girls had written the same words over and over.
“The Shadow Man is coming.” The words were written in red paint and the paint had run, making the words look like dried dripping blood. I looked over at my sleeping daughters and felt a shiver go down my spine.
There was something terrifying in this little display, something that made me very afraid. I took the papers down to Wes but he dismissed it.
“The girl’s favorite color this week is red, honey. That is all it is.”
Wes and I sat up talking quietly in the living room and I explained to him what had happened. We’d discussed the matter before but he had always left it up to me to handle the question. He knew it was only something I could ask her, after all.
“I have to admit, I am just as curious Clara, and I believe you have a right to know either way. If your mother was raped it may be hard to get the answer from her but you are right to ask. You have so many unanswered questions that need to be answered before she gets worse. Just try to be gentler next time.” Wes kissed me on the top of head as we rested on the couch together.
“What did the doctor say?” He asked quietly, his question hopeful.
“Do you want another child?” I asked, surprised.
“We are getting to a point where we should think about it again, I believe. We are getting older and we are stable financially. I kind of miss having a baby around, don�
�t you?” Wes said, murmuring into my neck as his hands began to roam under my shirt.
“We will have to start trying then, baby, because I am not pregnant now. We could change that though.” I said urging him to explore more by pushing my body up into his hands.
“Is it the best time for it?” Wes pondered, and I knew what he was thinking about.
“With Momma here you mean? No, it might not be the best time but when is that? After she has gone and I am heartbroken? Or now when she would have a chance to meet them and I would have something to comfort me? No, I think we should start trying. Tonight.” My words had been serious but I giggled as Wes jumped up from the couch and picked me up to carry me up the stairs.
“Your wish is my command, madam. Let impregnation commence.” We both giggled as the sun finally went down for the day and our clothes disappeared, our bodies comforting each other as the day ended. Later, when the house was quiet and the moon was high, I thought I heard a man laughing but dismissed it as part of a dream. I turned to Wes, needing his comforting presence to ease the fear that had shot through me. Asleep and deep within a dream I did not see the shadow of a man leap from the doorway of my daughters’ room to stand by the bed, staring down at me as he watched me sleep, his laughter bubbling out into the air.
Chapter Five
Somewhere in Georgia, 1982
Betty Taylor drove through Georgia, keeping an eye on the sky and the crawling traffic in front of her. She had driven straight into a raging storm and the rain was pouring down so fast the wipers could not keep up. She wanted to pull off of the road, onto the emergency lane and stop, but it was full of cars at three in the afternoon. She was not going to be able to get off the road until an exit finally showed up and she hadn’t seen one for miles.
Pushing a hand through her blonde hair, now kinked up because of the storm, Betty wished she had tied it up earlier. Applying her foot softly to the brake Betty slowed the car once more, seeing only more cars ahead of her. After twenty more minutes she finally spotted an exit and took it.
The storm was letting up by now but she still needed a break. An hour of pouring rain and tense driving had left her wanting a cup of coffee and stillness. She pulled into a roadside diner and ran in, shaking out the droplets of rain from her hair. It was still raining but nowhere near as bad as it had been.
Betty could see the diner was almost full but there was an empty booth near the left side. She aimed for it and smiled at the waitress as she followed Betty down the counter, holding up a pot of coffee with a smile
“Yes please!” Betty said gratefully as she sat down at the booth.
“That was some rain we had. Are you travelling?” The waitress asked as she poured the coffee into a white mug. Her name tag said Denise.
“I am heading down to Florida; I am starting a new job tomorrow. That rain has slowed me down some.”
“Do you want a menu or would you like a piece of pie or cake? Anything with the coffee?” Denise asked, reaching for a menu from a table behind her.
“I saw pecan pie on the way in, some of that might be nice.” Betty answered, pouring milk into her coffee. Testing it she found it was not too strong and held off on the sugar. She only put sugar in when the coffee was too strong.
Betty looked out of the window as she waited, thinking about the day so far. She had left her home in Charlotte, North Carolina around five hours ago. Another hour or two and she would be in Florida. Saint Augustine was just another hour or two from there. Two to four more hours of driving, that would get her there later than she had planned but she would just have to deal with it.
Betty was finally on her way to Florida, something she had been dreaming about for years now. Her parents were gone, her siblings, an older sister and an older brother, were married off and spread across the country, there was nothing holding her in North Carolina anymore. She had applied for a job in a hospital in Florida and had been offered the job immediately.
A little over a month ago she had gone down for an interview and had accepted the offer on the spot. She had found a house that she could afford on her salary, and close to the beach, rented out the house her mother had left her, and finished out her notice at the hospital she had been working at for so long now.
She was going to a place where it was always warm, where it never snowed, and to a new and exciting job. She had not worked with psychiatric patients before but she saw it as a challenge and a field that was often overlooked. Her friends at home had asked her if she was crazy, going to work in such a place, but she had told them about the pay and the benefits of living in a warm climate and they’d soon come to envy her instead.
The hospital was not just a psychiatric hospital, after all. This place was a mental institution for the criminally insane. Sighing deeply Betty felt a moment of worry but remembered how much she was going to be getting on her pay check every week. That helped ease the fear quite a bit.
Betty finished off her pie and had one more cup of coffee before she left the diner. She left the server a generous tip and waved as Denise called out to her.
“Good luck with that new job and the rest of your drive, sweetie! Come on back when you are driving this way again!”
Betty got into her car, an old Pontiac that had seen better days but ran like a dream, and smiled as the car started up. She did not know if she would ever be coming back this way again but she would make sure to stop if she did.
Betty drove into the parking lot of the facility the next morning and stared up at the intimidating building. Three stories tall and made of brick the facility had very few windows and those were covered in wire and iron bars. The building was intimidating and gave off an uninviting air. It was not a place that welcomed visitors or curiosity seekers; it was functional from the concertina wire on the roof to the pointed cast iron gate that enclosed the bottom floor all the way up to the wide veranda at the front. The entire building screamed stay away, I am designed to keep the world safe from the dangers I hold within.
Betty suppressed a shiver of foreboding as she stepped out of her car and looked up at the dark sky overhead. Yesterday’s storm in Georgia had followed her down to Florida and now the sky was dark and grey. Not the best way to start off her first full day here but she knew what was waiting for her when she got home.
The house she had rented through an agency was far more than she had expected. She could hear the ocean crashing into the coast from her front porch, smell the salt water even, and see the beach from her bedroom upstairs. The two-floored house had two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, living room, and a very wide front porch. It was far more than she had had in Charlotte and the fact that it was fully furnished made the whole thing even better.
Betty rounded her shoulders and marched up the six concrete steps to the front door of the hospital. Pushing in the double doors she walked into the lobby, as she had been instructed to do, and let the receptionist know she had arrived.
Betty inspected the area seen by most visitors and found it the same as the building, functional but secure. No color to alleviate the air of tension barely contained and no artwork to give the place some class, just functional green walls and a plain, cheap desk in the middle of it all. There was not even a chair for visitors to sit in while they waited.
Betty heard quick but muted footsteps approaching and turned to see an older woman, in her late forties or early fifties approaching. The woman wore the no-nonsense shoes most people associated with nurses in the time period, white leather with thick brown rubber soles, and the dress that seemed to lend the woman wearing it an air of authority. Betty found that often happened when nurses put their uniform dresses on. People responded to that authority and obeyed, as if the dress was some kind of magical talisman.
Betty liked the woman on sight. She was a no-nonsense kind of person herself. Serious, focused, and with little time for games and silly notions Betty was a good nurse and her skills had been complimented many times. At 30 years old she had little
time for romance and sex, she wanted to succeed, and so far she was living out her dream. In another ten years she wanted to own her own home and have her retirement planned out. By the time she was 60 she planned on having enough money in the bank to retire here in Florida and live out her days in peace and quiet.
A much different way than her life had begun. Betty’s parents had often argued and her father often beat her mother. Betty remembered many nights spent under her bed, hiding from the angry words of her father and the frightened pain-filled screams of her mother. Betty did not know if her mother was just neglectful or if she did not have the money but the kids often went hungry, dirty, and without because of their parents. Drunk and unruly, both parents had been poor examples for their children and neither Betty nor her siblings had mourned for long when the pair died in a car accident when Betty was 18. She had learned one thing from them; love was a waste of time because it would just turn to hate and resentment in the end. She was never going to marry and if that meant she would never have children, so be it. She did not want to end up like her parents.
“Hello, you are Betty Taylor I presume?” The woman said with a smile. Betty saw that the woman’s white hair had been pinned under her stiff cap and though her eyes were an ice blue they were warm and filled with a smile. “You are quite pretty, are you not?”
Betty took pains to hide her looks, tucking her own hair away and wearing no makeup when she was at work. She had to wear it sometimes when she was out but most often it was only on special occasions. She wore a loose uniform to hide her figure and avoided flirtation. She did not have time for flings or dates. She had goals and kept to her path.
Thriller: Horror: Conceived (Mystery Suspense Thrillers) (Haunted Paranormal Short Story) Page 34