Grimm Reapings

by R. Patrick Gates

  Everything.

  He abhored the images of incest, perversion, and gory violence, but they were persistent. On top of the fresh scar of his mother's death, these images tormented him and made him wish for oblivion again, but anger would not let him retreat. The anger fed on his pain, digested it, and became stronger, bigger. And as the anger grew and solidified, it also narrowed and became focused, a fine laser beam of rage burning one goal deep into his will: Kill the witch! Make her pay!

  Jackie Nailer sat at the kitchen table in the small apartment he and Chalice had rented together in Amherst, and stared at the line of words he had written a half hour ago in the notebook in front of him: Eleanor Grimm was a witch.

  He was taking a crack at the book again and had written the statement and torn it up three times already. Each time he had tried to start over again, it was the only thing he could think to write, so he finally left it. But where he went from there was a mystery. The editor wanted him to write his account of what had happened thirteen years ago, but Jackie didn't think that was enough; didn't think he could get an entire book out of it. Besides, the story of what had happened and what Eleanor Grimm did had already been told in two well-written books, copies of which were sitting on the table beyond the notebook.

  The best of the two was Grimm Memorials by James Parmenter, a reporter for USA Today. The other, The Fairy Tale Murders, had been written by a local cop involved on the case and had been written with the help of a ghostwriter. Jackie had read all of the first one and most of the second for research and inspiration, but had found neither. The books told him nothing he didn't already know, and they covered the events in such detail he had to ask, what was the point of another book? It was frustrating, and the frustration blocked his creativity.

  It occurred to him that what-if anything-he really wanted to know-the one unanswered question behind everything-was how had Eleanor Grimm become so evil? Was she born with her psychic powers or did she acquire them somehow? What was her story? Her history? What kind of twisted life must she have had to end up the monster she became?

  Grimm Beginnings.

  "That's the book I should write!" Jackie realized aloud. There was only one problem with that; it would require a lot of research, and there was only one place where he could find the information he'd need. He had to go back to Jen's house-Grimm Memorials.

  What to do about the boy ...

  It is a persistent problem she is not prepared to deal with. It is a problem neither she nor the Machine had foreseenbutt then neither had the Machine been able to foresee what the bastard, Little Jackie Ridinghood, was going to do, thirteen years ago. It is because of him that she is having this problem now. If he hadn't interfered, if he'd just died like all the other little boys, this wouldn't be happening now.

  The best-laid plans ... She can't remember how it goes. Another thing lost, like her beloved nursery rhymes and fairy tales.

  Getting rid of her host was supposed to make everything all right, back to normal. Now he's back and normalcy is still fathoms away.

  Her host's fiercesome return and attacks are a wake-up call: I will never be as I was ... not in this body.

  She sees now what she must do.

  The Machine, once again, shows the way and she follows. In an overwhelming moment of insight and clarity, she can see it all the way to the end, and far back to its beginning.

  What goes around comes around.

  She must revisit the past and reenact the last moments of her previous life, reenact the Ritual of Soul Transference, on the night of Samhain, as written in the Demonolatria, so that she may be reborn. Again. And this time, she'll inhabit her new body, alone.

  She understands now why the Machine manipulated the little mother into getting pregnant back in January when she had no desire whatever to have children and faithfully took her birth control pills.

  Yes, it all becomes quite clear. She has much to do before October 31-many children to seduce, many sacrifices to gather. She hopes she has the strength.

  But first ... and foremost, I Will have my vengeance on the little pig who used to live down the lane.

  He'll definitely be here for the Fourth of July, the young mother said.

  I'll be ready.

  VII

  INDEPENDENCE DAY

  Jack Sprat ... sat on a wall ... Jack Sprat ... had a great fall... .

  At 6:00 a.m. on the day celebrated by Americans in remembrance of the events of 1776, Jeremy Watson got out of the shower and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, regarding his naked image with shame and disgust. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of what had happened, of what he'd done.

  "How could I cheat on jen?" he asked his reflection. It was the same question he had been searching for an answer to since yesterday when, like Rip Van Winkle awakened from his twenty-year sleep, he had suddenly realized what he had been doing. That in itself had been strange. Right in the middle of the day, he suddenly felt as if he had just come out of a thick mental fog. As if a weighty cloud of confusion had been lifted from him, he clearly saw his infidelity and was shamed by it. He saw how, since meeting the redheaded model by the barn and carrying on a near daily liaison with her since Memorial Day, he had been like a man in a trance, or under some kind of spell.

  He laughed uneasily at his choice of words given his surroundings.

  I still don't even know that girl's name-after almost two months! He hung his head, unable to look at himself anymore. In truth, thinking of her now, he realized that whenever he was away from her he could barely remember what she looked like or why she had captivated him so. His eyes fell on a bottle of prenatal vitamins Jen took every morning. He straightened as though the medicine had slapped him in the face.

  fen's carrying my baby and I did this to her.

  His eyes filled with remorseful tears. How am I going to make it up to her? he wondered. He didn't have an answer, yet, but he resolved to find one no matter what. Somehow, someway, he would make it up to her.

  And the best way to start-say vaya con dios! to his redheaded mistress.

  Jen was looking forward to the holiday cookout she and Jeremy had planned. She was looking forward to seeing Jackie and finally getting to meet Mom's new husband, Trevor. Before any of that, though, she had work to do, especially since Mrs. Holcromb had apparently quit her job. Jen was in the backyard planting mums along the cemetery fence. The coolness of the morning was best for this, yet the sun was beating warm and comfortably on her shoulders and back as she labored. The sun on her lower back was especially pleasant; her belly was beginning to strain those muscles. She heard the screen door open and bang shut, and sat back on her haunches, craning her neck, to see Jeremy heading across the yard toward his studio. She called to him, but he was walking quickly and didn't hear. A moment later he was out of sight behind the barn.

  What's he up to? she wondered good-naturedly. He was supposed to be getting things ready for the barbecue today. He had insisted on being in charge of the grill and cooking, claiming the grill was man's "domain." Not a lot of people were coming; they were keeping it simple: Jackie and his girlfriend, Steve and Debbie of course, and Mom and her new husband. She frowned thinking of Mrs. Holcromb again. She and Jeremy had been trying to reach her housekeeper for over a month, but there was no answer and her house looked deserted when they went there. It was so odd thatJen had planned on calling the police, but Steve talked her out of it. It seemed to make perfect sense when he said she had probably gone to visit a sick relative and hadn't had time to notify them.

  Jen had a naughty idea. Since moving into the old Grimm house, she and Jeremy had made a game of trying to make love in every room in the housewhy not christen his workshop, too? She smiled mischievously at the thought. She patted her belly. If she kept on like this, soon, she was going to be too big to have sex.

  Make hay while the sun shines!

  She struggled to her feet, using the wrought-iron cemetery fence for leverage, and wip
ed the beads of sprouting sweat from her brow. One hand on her stomach, the other on the fence, she walked to the end of the cemetery and across the stretch of yard to the barn. She paused at the corner of the building, and heard voices coming from within. From Jeremy's studio.

  Who could that be in there with him? she wondered, heading for the door.

  Jeremy was getting dressed when a piece of paper was slipped under the door of his and Jen's bedroom. Jen was already up as usual. He opened the door but the hallway was empty. He picked up the note and read it: Meet me in the studio. We need to talk.

  The note was unsigned but it had a scent to it that was as unmistakable as a signature-strawberries-the redhead. He finished dressing quickly and hurried down the back stairs, keeping a wary eye out for Jen. She wasn't in the kitchen, which meant she was either outside working or had gone into town to get something for the barbecue. He looked out the kitchen window and couldn't see her anywhere in the backyard. If he had leaned a little more to the left, he would have seen her by the end of the cemetery fence, but didn't. He quickly went out the back door and hurried to his studio.

  The redhead was waiting inside.

  "I need you to do something for me," she said urgently as soon as he set foot in the barn. The next moment she was in his arms, her hot lips on his neck, face, and mouth. Despite her overwhelming beauty and enchanting scent, Jeremy found the will to push her away. He was surprised, and encouraged, by his selfdenial; she was so beautiful, so perfect-how could he resist?

  But wait ... looking at her now, she was ... different. He didn't know if it was the lighting or what, but he now noticed subtle things about her appearance that he hadn't seen before: tiny flaws and imperfections that, taken individually, were easily overlooked, but as a whole added up to something less than the ravaging supermodel beauty he had thought she was. Her eyes were too close together. Her nose was too long. Her ears stuck out and her teeth were gray and crooked.

  "I can't see you anymore," he said, his voice strong. If he was surprised at his will power, the redhead was doubly so. She gaped at him, her face a portrait of shock and disbelief.

  "You're not supposed to say that. I need you to help me," she said, her voice soft with incredulity. "How can he do that?" she added, giving Jeremy the eerie feeling she was speaking to someone he couldn't see.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I never should have ... I'm just sorry, is all. It's my fault. You're a nice girl, but I'm married and my wife is pregnant and ... I don't know what I was thinking but-"

  His words were cut off when she abruptly dropped to her knees in front of him and had him unzipped and in her hands before he could react.

  "But, darling, I need you to do something for me," she cooed to his penis as if it were a microphone, before engulfing it with her mouth.

  That sounds like Steve, Jen thought, approaching the barn door. She chuckled-Did Steve just call Jeremy "Darling"? She reached the open door and stopped. The scene before her didn't make sense at first. She saw Steve on his knees in front of her husband, but it didn't click on first glance that Jeremy's pants and underwear were down around his ankles since his shirttail covered his butt. When that fact registered, it staggered her.

  She fled, stumbling and reeling along the outside of the barn, choking on sobs as she ran. Crossing the yard between the barn and the house in a mad dash blinded by tears, she tripped and fell heavily on her stomach. An excruciating pain shot through her belly and the fetus inside her kicked hard.

  "My baby!" she gasped. Another, stronger pain ripped through her. With a strangled cry, she fainted.

  Jeremy pushed the redhead away and took a step back, pulling his pants up awkwardly as he did. "I told you, no," he said.

  The redhead was literally rocked by his denial and swayed unsteadily on her knees. Dazed, she wiped a trickle of spittle from her lip. A moment later her shock turned to rage and she glared at him.

  "No!" she screamed, standing. "You are not supposed to be able to do that!"

  Jeremy backed farther away. She was making him very nervous the way she was acting. She was also starting to annoy him and he wondered why he had ever been infatuated with her.

  "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he said.

  Her reply was superseded by a scream of pain from outside the barn.

  Jeremy ran to the window.

  "Jen!" he cried. The redhead completely forgotten, Jeremy raced from the barn to his wife lying unconscious in the backyard.

  What the fuck is going on?

  It's getting worse.

  The incident with the idiot artist is just more evidence. If ever there was a weak-willed person perfect to do her bidding, it is the artist, but see how he can just walk away.

  I needed him to help me when Jack Candlestick arrives.

  I'm losing it.

  The Machine is weakening. Its all coming apart.

  What's that?

  Laughter?

  No. Don't even think it. She has enough to worry about; there is no time for the past, for time is of the essence and she has just enough of it to settle the score with Jack-beblue.

  She's been planning for over a month-all was set and in place until the artist's rebellion. No matter. She doesn't need him. She'll deal with his treachery in good time.

  She can already sense a shift of focus in the Machinean adjustment. Yes, just like before, the little mother...

  Here we go round the mulberry bush.

  I remembered one. How lovely!

  It's a good omen for the day: Independence Day-independence from the past, from the boy in herhead, and from the thirst for revenge. She has waited so long for that satisfaction and nearly drools with anticipation.

  Jennifer felt as if she were drowning. The water was as thick as syrup and clung to her pulling her down, holding her down. But the real anchor weighing her down, dragging her to the bottom, to her death, was the baby in her belly.

  There's something wrong with my baby ?

  The fear stirred her to consciousness and the first thing she felt was pain in her stomach: severe, stabbing, scalding, slicing, make-you-grit-your-teeth-until-theycrack pain. It built to a crescendo, then, thankfully, subsided and she could breathe and think again.

  She groaned and opened her eyes. Her vision blurred, images swam and slid to a stop, gaining focus. The first thing she saw was the ceiling, far above her, giving her a feeling of vertigo. The ceiling was blocked by a blurred figure leaning over her. She blinked and refocused. Jeremy's face became clear.

  The pain returned with a vengeance, bringing with it the memory of what she had seen in the barn.

  `Jen, are you okay?" Jeremy asked, his voice full of concern.

  She looked at him and saw her brother on his knees and Jeremy ...

  She let out a scream of such agony it made Jeremy shudder. He reached for her and she squirmed to keep his hands from touching her.

  "No!" she shrieked at him. "Get away from me!" She struck out wildly at him, her right hand catching his cheek with her fingernails, furrowing the flesh with three short scratches.

  Jeremy recoiled, stung physically and emotionally. "Jen, what's wrong?"

  "Get out! " she screamed with every ounce of strength her anger and disgust could lend her. The effort increased the awful pain, squeezing her womb with it.

  "Oh God! " she groaned, her voice a whisper. Despite the intensity of the pain it didn't keep her from pulling away from Jeremy when he reached for her again. `Just ... get ... out. Please ... get ... out!" she managed to grunt between pulses of pain.

  "I think we should call you an ambulance," Jeremy said. Such an intense pain seized her that she writhed with it. Jeremy stood mute and helpless, watching.

  "Maybe you should leave her alone," she heard a voice say. It was Jeremy's sister, Debbie. "I already called the doctor. He said he's on his way," she went on. She came into Jen's tortured line of vision and gently steered Jeremy away from the bed and toward the door. As soon as she did, the
pain lessened. By the time Debbie got Jeremy out of the bedroom, the physical pain was completely gone. The only pain remaining was that of the memory of what she had seen that pervert do to her poor little brother.

  Little Steve! Oh my God! That poor kid!

  She felt like weeping. She tried to get out of bed to see if Steve was okay, but Debbie reentered the room and gently, but firmly, pushed her back onto the bed.

  "But Little Steve-Debbie, you don't know what that monster did to him." She looked at her sister-inlaw and burst into tears. "I'm so sorry, Debbie. I know he's your brother, but you don't know what he did to Steve-"

  "Shh! It's okay," Debbie said. "I know all about him. I've known about him for a long time. He used to abuse me, too."

  Jen's tears flowed stronger. "Oh no! You poor kid! Not you, too!" She closed her eyes and sobbed loudly for several moments. "We've got to do something," she said, her voice trembling. "We've got to call the cops and I've got to make sure Little Steve is okay." She thought a moment and sobbed out, "Oh God, what am I going to tell my mother? She's coming back today! She expected me to take care of Steve and look at what happened." More sobs followed.

  "Easy," Debbie said soothingly. "You know, I really doubt she'll make it back today, but I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

  "But-"Jen started to argue.

  "But what?" a deep male voice from the doorway asked. A tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man in a three-piece gray suit entered the room and came to the bed. He carried an old-fashioned black doctor's bag and a bedside manner that immediately put Jen at ease.

  "No `buts,' young lady," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I heard everything and, rest assured, as a medical doctor it is my duty to report these heinous acts and make sure the culprit is dealt with so that he can never hurt anyone again."

  His voice was like the soothing strains of a nocturnal lullaby, lulling her into agreement. She felt warmth emanating from the good doctor that was akin to the baking, reassuring heat of a summer sun.