Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories (14 page)

She closes her eyes.

“When you were little, I told your dad I wanted to roll you in bubble wrap. He thought it was because you were clumsy, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to protect you from everything, from the world. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”

Hannah doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to because it
does
sound silly. You can baby-proof a house; you can’t life-proof a child. A tiny breathless laugh slips from Leanne’s lips. “You know, the last time I did this, sitting outside your door like this, you were six, almost seven. We got home from your cousin Felicity’s birthday party, and it was late and you were tired and said you wanted ice cream.

“We said no. For one thing, it was way past your bedtime and for another, we didn’t have any ice cream. We didn’t remind you that at the party, you said you didn’t like it, even though we knew you did. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that we were the meanest parents ever, and you stomped into your room and threw yourself down on your bed, crying like nobody’s business. I sat outside your room talking for a long time until you calmed down.

“The funniest part was that we offered you ice cream the next day and you said no, you didn’t like it anymore. That lasted about a week, I think. Such a goofball you were.”

Leanne shakes her head. Blinks away tears.

“I’m so sorry for tonight, babygirl. I’m sorry I didn’t listen better and let you talk. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was making light of what you said. I didn’t mean to. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your feelings or make you feel like they’re not important, because they are, and I want you to be able to talk to me about anything. Like the way you can talk to your dad.

“It was hard for me to talk to my mom, too. She always told me not to worry about things so much, instead of just listening to what I had to say. I made the same mistake tonight, and I promise I won’t do that anymore. I’ll just zip my lips and listen.

“I love you, no matter what, and I always will.”

She rakes her front teeth over her lower lip, listens for movement.

“Hannah?”

Slowly, she gets to her feet, curls one hand around the doorknob and knocks lightly with her knuckles.

“Babygirl, can I come in?”

REPENT

Richard Thomas

In the beginning, there was no pattern to the sacrifice, merely one more thing to clean up after a long, hard day—no reason to believe that I’d brought this upon myself. No, it was just another violent moment in a series of violent moments—so many mornings waking up in the city, the Chicago skyline vibrating in the distance, my knuckles tacky with dried blood, gently running my fingers over my bare skin looking for bruises, indentations, and soggy bandages. In the kitchen, the sound of laughter, my son and wife crisping some bacon, a million miles away. The decapitated squirrel on my front stoop, I stepped right over it, hardly seeing the fuzzy offering, heading out into the snow, boots on, leather coat pulled tight, the bourbon still warm on my tongue, my belly filled with fire. The blue feathers tied into a bouquet, lashed to the wrought iron fence, they fluttered in the wind, and I hardly noticed.

I should have paid more attention.

I huddle around a metal trashcan, the flames licking the rim, hands covered in dirt and grime, a black hooded sweatshirt around my head like a praying monk, my legs shivering under torn jeans, my skin covered in tiny bite marks, slices up and down my arms, eyes bloodshot, as I hide in the darkness, wondering how much time I have left. I stand at the end of the alley, three walls of faded red brick, eyes darting to the opening down by the street, waiting for something to lurch out of the snow that spills across the sky, the world around me oblivious to my suffering.

I threw it all away.

Perhaps we should start at the beginning.

It’s finally time to repent.

***

As a boy I liked to work with my hands, helping my old man repair a variety of cars—the ‘66 Mustang in Candy Apple Red, the ‘67 Camaro in that shimmering deep Marina Blue. Many a day and night were spent under a car, skinning my hands and arms while trying to wrench off a nut or bolt, oil and cigarettes the only scent. When my father would backhand me over the wrong tool, I’d laugh and grab the right one, as my blood slowly began to boil. It started there, I imagine—the anger, the resentment, the need to transfer that rage. Did I drop a wrench between his fingers, watch it smack him in the face—let the car door bang his hand, step on an outstretched ankle, as I walked around the garage? Sure I did. But I never lowered the jack all the way down, letting the weight of the car settle on top of him, crushing him slowly as our black lab ran around the yard barking at cardinals and newborn baby rabbits. No, I never let the sledgehammer descend onto whatever limb stuck out from under the cars—I placed it back on the shelf and handed him a screwdriver, a hammer, a socket wrench, and grinned into the darkness.

But the seed had been planted. Yes, it had.

I played baseball all through high school, outfield mostly, and on the days that we took batting practice inside, claustrophobic in a slim netted cage as the rain fell on the ball fields, I’d watch one of the boys pitch me closer and closer, edging me off the plate, laughing to his friend outside the cage, as I started to sweat. I’d squint and tighten my grip, ripping line drives back up the middle, as he kept getting closer and closer until he finally beamed me in the shoulder. The coach watched from a bench on the near wall, chewing his dip, spitting into a plastic cup, a slow grin easing over his face. He loved this kind of shit. They all did. The boy pitched again, and I smashed the ball right back at him, the netting in front of him catching the line drive, a sneer pulling at his upper lip. He pitched me inside, clipping my elbow this time, and I dropped the bat, cursing under my breath. As I slowly walked toward him, massaging my elbow, my arm a jumble of nerves, trying to get the feeling back, the coach said, “That’s enough,” and my time in the cage was over, the pitcher smirking as he tossed a ball gently into the air, then catching it again, muttering an insincere, “Sorry, man,” under his breath.

The garden slowly grew.

And the girl—I can’t forget the girl. The most stunning blonde I’d ever held in my arms, part of my church group, delicate and pale, and as mean as they came. She knew the power she held over young men, and she wielded it like a sword. I did anything she asked—writing her paper for English class, driving her to the mall, giving her money for a movie or clothes, never asking for much in return. She’d laugh as she walked away, but I was oblivious. All I needed was her pressed up against me, a wash of flowery perfume, her lips glossy on mine, her soft wet tongue sliding inside my mouth as her hand rested on the bulge in my jeans, her blue eyes sparkling as she pulled away. I was hypnotized. Which is why I didn’t see them, the others, the phone chirping, constantly distracted, as she kept things relatively chaste between us, while spending nights with other young men. All it took was one party, an event she didn’t tell me about, walking around the house with a beer in my hand, searching for her, excited, only to head out onto the back porch, her mouth on his, tongues intertwined, his meaty paws all over her ass, my heart in my throat.

The weeds and flowers commingled, until they slowly became one.

It seems petty now, looking back, the ways I boiled over, the ways I was betrayed. Screws slowly turned into one wheel after another, until the car blew a tire, my father in the hospital—a broken arm and two black eyes, as I stood beside his bed while he slept, shadows in the corner of the room. Funny how a baseball player always seems to carry a bat, one in the trunk, for a quick round at the batting cage, nothing more, of course. I guess that pitcher shouldn’t have been trying to buy weed in a sketchy part of town, right? High as a kite, leaning against his shit-brown Nova, a quick rap to the back of the skull, my swing improved, busted kneecap, and his hands now useless for holding much of anything, let alone a baseball, trying to work his curve or slider. Spirits danced in the pooling blood. And the girl—I should have left her alone, I know, but her pretty mouth just set me afire. She liked her drink—it was easy to drop a little something extra in her cup, and later, to undress her so gently, leaving her in the bedroom of that frat house, so perfect in every way. I never touched her, and neither did the other boys. We didn’t have to. The rumors were enough. Gibbering words haunted the hallways of our school, ruining her for anyone else.

Up in a corner of my garage there was a bundle of twigs wrapped around a dead mouse—a dull red ribbon and metal wire wringing the wad of hair and fur, holding it tight. At the ball field, up under the dugout, was a wasp’s nest, filled with birdseed and glass shards, a beetle at the center, a singular red hourglass painted on its back. Tucked into my wallet, behind a bent and faded picture of the girl, was a piece of yellowing paper, covered in hieroglyphics, a tree of life in dried blood at the center, my name etched into it with a razor blade. I brought this all to me, but I never saw it coming.

***

Being a cop meant I could channel my rage into official business, and I was good at it, for a very long time. And then I took one shot too many, the kid blending into the darkness, his hands full of something, pointing my way, a gun fired, and then we fired back. In those moments I was never a father, forgetting the face of my son. It was all a mistake, the kid never held anything but his cell phone, his hands out the window showing surrender, the pop in the night merely firecrackers down the street, my partner and I flying high on cocaine, eager to dispense justice, when none was needed—our offerings hollow and filled with hate. It was over before it began, both of us on the street, and I would have been bitter if it hadn’t been a long time coming. It was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back—running heads into the door frame of our cruiser, planting drugs on people we didn’t like, broken taillights, speeding tickets, young women frisked and violated in so many different ways, backroom deals over packets of white powder, promises made, seething eyes set back into black skulls, curled lips made of brown skin, the glimmer of a badge, the feeling of immortality, and none of it was anything good. I turned a blind eye to pyramids of broken sticks, smoldering leaves and smoking sage, barbed wire and antlers fused to skulls, flesh turned to sinew, bone to dust—evil incarnate, the deeds I’d done manifesting, coming home to roost.

***

How quickly I fell, the lies I told to cover up my losses, growing bolder and broader every day.

I had a new job now, fixing the problems of whoever would come to my new office. I’d taken over a crack house down the block from where I used to live, the doors boarded over, the windows too, squatting on the property because the daylight offered me no solutions. I’d sit in the living room, surrounded by torn and beaten down couches, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, candles burning down to nubs. There was no heat, no electricity, and no water. I had my gun, and a thin layer of filth over my skin, taking what I needed from those that were too weak to fight back, hired out by men and women, drug dealers and cops, tracking me down to my rotting homestead, or catching me out at whatever dive bar I could walk to. Around me the ghosts of my family flickered like a television set on its last legs, snow roughing up the faded screen, their voices haunting my every choice.

I’d stay sober long enough to take the pictures, showing the hubby diddling the babysitter, the wife turned to stone, lips tight, a few folded bills tucked into my swollen hands, her mouth opening and closing, chirping like a bird, hesitating, and then asking what it would take for that thing, that finality, not wanting to say it out loud. I’d nod my head, and say I could make it happen, but there was no turning back, she’d have to be sure. She’d sip her red wine or her gin or her espresso and I’d watch the gears turn, the innocence slip out of her flesh, pale skin turning slightly green, her eyes sparking, flecks of flame, the buzzing getting ever louder, her head engulfed in a dark ring of flies, until she’d open her mouth and the snakes would spill out, the deed done, as my heart smoldered black inside my chest. I never said no.

I’d sit inside the back seat of a white Crown Victoria, radio crackling, the men in the front seat wrinkling their noses, the back of the car reeking of vomit, urine and death. We knew each other once, I imagine, my descent into madness one slow step at a time, so gradual and inevitable, that I hardly noticed the noose slipping over my neck, the poisoning so subtle that the bitter taste on my tongue never overtook the lust and hunger, my mouth filled with blood and bourbon, cigarette tar coating it all, as I rotted from the inside out. They’d hand me various things—ammunition, directions, names, addresses, knives, wire, rope, tasers, and envelopes stuffed with cash. Sometimes they would say he was guilty, off on a technicality, a botched Miranda, or nothing but circumstantial evidence. Sometimes they’d talk about witnesses that disappeared, the case ready to go to trial, suddenly the courthouse filled with ghosts—all charges dismissed. And sometimes their silence would fill the car, their dark blue uniforms a color I’d come to hate, nothing said but the place and time, the need for something they couldn’t do themselves, telling me to be careful, as they remembered what I used to be, the envelopes thick, telling me to take a shower, Jesus Christ, eyes watering, as they tried to look away, tried to pretend I didn’t exist.