Our Lady Chaos, page 19
part #5 of Bloodletter Series
Again, Gil’s bone-saw laugh rang in the basement. “But you ain’t my blood, boy. Ain’t nothing in you that came from my family. You came from your mama and your daddy, boy, and we both know how weak your daddy was.” He glanced up at the floor above his head. “And we both know how weak—and stupid—both your mama and your Auntie Margo is.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how I let that woman trap me. She can’t even have a kid.” He made a disgusted sound in the rear of his throat and then turned his attention to Eddie. “Weakness, Eddie. That’s what we’re talking about here. Playing with dolls, lusting after other men. Hiding down here in the dark. All that’s nothing but weakness, boy.”
Eddie couldn’t help it, he shrugged. He expected another brisk shake, maybe another one hard enough to make him bite his tongue, but Gil only laughed.
“More weakness, boy. Indifference, apathy, weakness. So, I’ll ask you again, and mind me now, this’ll be the last time I ask using my mouth. Girl? Faggot? Or…”
“Or?”
Gil grinned. “Well, it just struck me. You could prove you don’t want to be a girl, and you could prove you don’t want to be a faggot. Know how?”
Eddie shook his head.
“You could show you’re not weak, boy. You could prove it.”
“How?”
Gil’s free hand swept from one end of Eddie’s collection to the other. “You could take all these here dolls outside into the dooryard, and you could burn them. I’ve got lighter fluid, and we can take a match from Auntie Margo’s kitchen box. It wouldn’t take but a minute.”
Eddie’s gaze fell to the floor and then climbed up the leg of the desk, traversed the top, and landed on the black-haired Barbie with the melted hand. Something inside him writhed and screamed, and he wondered if mind-reading Uncle Gil heard it, too.
A horrid, slimy thing crawled out of that big hole inside him. It felt like a monster, evil incarnate, but Eddie knew what it was.
Pure hatred.
He kept his eyes out of Gil’s line of sight, sure that if his uncle saw the look in his eye, the man would see that hatred. He might sense it, but as long as he didn’t see it or hear it from Eddie, Gil would still be unsure.
“Well, boy? Are you a faggot or do you want to prove otherwise?”
Without looking up, Eddie bobbed his head.
“Which?”
“I’ll prove I’m not.”
Gil’s grip on his bicep relaxed. “No going back on this, Eddie. I don’t want any bawling up in that dooryard when it comes time to strike that match.”
Again, Eddie nodded, his eyes on the dirt floor between his shoes. Inside, the black hatred of Uncle Gil seethed and gnashed its teeth.
“Well, okay then.” Gil took a step backward and handed Eddie a wooden apple box. “Let’s get to it. I want to finish this foolishness in time for Jeopardy.”
Eddie took the apple crate and set it on the desk. One by one, he picked up the pieces of his collection and placed them inside the box as though fragile. The last doll he put in was the black-haired Barbie in the red dress. The monstrous rage inside him cavorted and danced.
With his whole collection piled in the apple crate, Gil frog-marched him up the stairs, past the swirling shadows, past Auntie Margo, out through the kitchen, and into the dooryard that stretched between the house and the barn. Uncle Gil squirted starter fluid onto the pile of dolls and handed Eddie a box of safety matches. Gil stood there flashing his pearly-whites as Eddie struck a match and dropped it into the crate full of his treasures. With a whoosh, it was done.
Gil’s smile stretched wider as the first wisps of black smoke twisted up toward the sky. He smiled and smiled, and Eddie stood there, stone-faced.
Inside, though, Eddie boiled the way the lava had seethed in that volcano they’d watched the film about in school. The blackness that had crawled out of him down in the basement lingered in the back of his mind. His hatred for Gil grew unabated, it grew and grew, until Eddie thought it would fill the entire world. I wish I could burn you, Gil.
Across the dooryard, in the deepest, blackest shadows that inhabited the barn, a faint pop slithered from the darkness. Peering into those shadows, Eddie saw a feminine shape. One that smiled at him and winked.
The image scared him. Doctor Erikson had said the Scary Lady was all in his head—that Eddie imagined her in times of stress. He’d said it didn’t make Eddie crazy, but it showed how much stress Eddie had endured during his parents’ fights.
Compared to life under Uncle Gil’s thumb, their frequent fights had been nothing. Nothing. They’d kept him out of it, most of the time. Sometimes they’d argued about him, but they’d never made him the object of their anger.
Not like Uncle Gil.
He didn’t want to see her again. Not ever. I’ve got to get out of here, he thought. Get real. Where can I go?
He stared at the plume of black smoke that rose from the flames consuming his prized collection. His treasures. His stomach turned cold and began to hurt.
If you stay there, Uncle Gil’s going to kill you. The idea slipped into his mind like smoke through a screen. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew it for his own. He had never allowed himself to think it, but he had sensed the shape of it as he lay in bed, night after night, imagining ways to hurt Gil. To cripple him… Maybe even kill him.
With a start, he realized Jeopardy’s theme song blared from inside the house. He peeked beside him. Uncle Gil had left him with only the foul smoke of Eddie’s sacrificial pyre.
Without another glance into the barn’s darkness, Eddie turned and walked inside. He didn’t care if the fire grew wild and burned down the whole farm.
Part of him wished it would.
He walked to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. He stared out the window and let his mind wander. Eddie never even heard Auntie Margo come to check on him. He wasn’t aware of her questions, her caresses.
She no longer mattered. Auntie Margo had watched the whole thing from the kitchen window.
And said nothing.
He practiced shoving his emotions into the hole at his center. He practiced not thinking about hurting (killing) Uncle Gil.
Eddie practiced ignoring the world for three hours. Long enough for Uncle Gil and Auntie Margo to retreat to their bedroom on the other side of the farmhouse. Then he waited another twenty minutes for them to fall asleep.
Finally, he stirred.
2
September 1979
Abby stood in the shadows, watching the couples laughing and caressing one another in the parking lot next to the park at the head of Lake Genosgwa. There were so many young lovers to choose from, but none of them were right. Her project in Cottonwood Vale had drawn to an end—at least for the parents. She suspected the boy might offer additional amusements.
Behind her, the air popped, and Abby drew a deep breath in through her nose, sampling the aroma of the new arrival. “Brigitta,” she breathed by way of a greeting.
“Hello, Sylou.”
Abby shook her head. “It’s Abby, now.”
“As you wish,” said the demon behind her.
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Yes, I can see that,” said Brigitta in dulcet tones that still conveyed her amusement. “You are involved with a man—”
“I smelled you on him.”
Brigitta stepped forward to stand at Abby’s elbow, all deference. “I need him again. My father—”
“Herlequin is not your only parent!” Abby snapped.
“—wishes to play in Oneka Falls. I need my man again.”
Abby drew another deep breath in through her nose. “You want him.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion, but at the same time, damning.
“I…” Brigitta drew a deep breath. “He’s one of my favorites.”
“And yet you left him to wander alone.”
“My father—”
“Don’t refer to him as your father again in my presence! After what he did to your mother—”
“Yes, Mistress. Herlequin called me away from Owen. I did not wish to leave him.”
“Then, why did you? You have nothing to fear from one such as Herlequin—even if you insist on the pretense you are no more than he!” Abby snapped. “Besides, Owen entertains me. What I might motivate him to do to the human woman he lives with intrigues me.”
Brigitta held her tongue for a moment, then drew a deep breath. “The woman doesn’t matter. My fa—Herlequin would use his unique skills. My…association with him seems to be the best avenue to achieve the goal.”
Abby turned and squinted down at Brigitta’s black, sagging flesh. She curled her lip. “There’s no reason for you to adopt that form. Your mother—”
“Abandoned me. This is how I honor Herlequin.”
Abby drew her head back as if Brigitta had slapped her. “She did no such thing! And Herlequin looks nothing like that—not his real shape. It demeans you to play among the low caste—whether others choose to do so or not. The quality of your breeding—”
“She abandoned me! She came here and left me alone! And this is how he thinks of me, so this is how I am! How I remain! If my mother wishes something different from me, let her come to me. Let her tell me.”
Abby darted a glance at the cars in the parking lot, but no one seemed disturbed by Brigitta’s outburst. “Keep your voice down, or I shall take it from you.”
Brigitta dropped her head. “Yes. Of course, Mistress.”
“Oh, Brigitta,” sighed Abby. “You’ve always been as a daughter to me. How can I make you see that your mother had as little choice—”
“Let’s not speak of my mother,” grated Brigitta. “I’m here to ask you to release Owen. I marked him first, after all, and our conventions dictate—”
“Don’t speak to me of the meaningless rules of the untouchables, girl.” Abby’s quiet tone contained a promise of pain and more than a hint of iron.
“He was mine before you laid eyes on him,” snarled Brigitta. “He is mine!”
“Is he?” The ire had left Abby’s voice, replaced with melancholy. “Why do you care so much for a meat animal?”
“Owen’s more than that. He has unique talents, abilities.” Brigitta crossed her arms over her breasts, and a woman built from pure fire reflected in her green eyes. “Not all humans are fit only for food. Some desire to be like us—and Owen is one such. I would change him myself, had I the power.”
“Then it’s good you don’t!” snapped Abby. She crossed arms of flame over a chest burning bright in the night, unconsciously mimicking Brigitta’s stance. “Your mother would not find it pleasant to hear you say that.”
“As if my mother has even heard my voice in centuries.”
A sigh escaped Abby. “Child, why do you continue this way? You could be so much more than you are.”
Brigitta sneered, but then her expression softened. “She doesn’t want me. She never has.”
“That’s not true. She—”
Brigitta chopped her hand through the air. “Enough of this. We have the same discussion every time we meet, Syl—Abby. And between our conversations, my mother continues to turn her gaze away from me, to ignore my very existence.”
“Let us hope you never understand the burdens—”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before, too. Will you give Owen back to me or not? Your heat is uncomfortable in this form.”
Abby raised an eyebrow of flame. “Then change.”
Brigitta refused to meet her gaze. “Owen? Yes or no?”
After a moment, Abby sighed and forced herself to relax. She had fed on Owen in her own way, had inspired him to greater cruelty than he might have reached otherwise, but she had no real vested interest in him. “He’s yours, child. He always has been. I did nothing to change that—he amused me, is all. I ask, though, that you complete my work with his…family in Oneka Falls.”
“Thank you, and I promise he’ll kill the skanky bitch before all is said and done,” said Brigitta without looking up. “My fa—Herlequin wants to play with the child, so he will suffer more than you plan him to in any case.”
“One more thing, Brigitta.”
“Yes?”
“If ever I want one of your conquests…”
“Of course. Ask, and he will be yours.” Brigitta’s voice was distant, cold. “I’ll leave you to tonight’s amusements.”
Abby lifted a hand, but the air popped next to her and it was too late. “Don’t go,” she whispered.
3
September 1979
Eddie climbed out his window into the yard, and with the acrid smoke of his doll collection still lingering in the depths of his throat, Eddie hunched against the wind and walked away from Uncle Gil’s farm. For the last time, he promised himself. I’m never coming back here. Never. Not ever.
Eddie had a blanket, a bit of bread he’d tiptoed into the kitchen and stolen from the bread box, and a change of clothes in the school backpack slung over his shoulders. He didn’t have any money, and no way to get any, but he had the perfect place where he could sleep.
It had come to him while he stared out the window.
Uncle Gil had wanted to sell it, of course, but Auntie Margo wouldn’t let him, despite the black eyes and the days of limping her refusals had earned her. Gil had been livid for weeks, and Eddie had hidden his grin with care, but the deed required Auntie Margo’s signature, and she’d refused to give in no matter how dire Gil’s threats had grown.
Eddie had a key. That had been simple. His aunt and uncle had kept the keys in the little wooden bowl with a carved duck for a handle on the lid. It had been easy to steal the key. He’d done it a year ago after Gil had forgotten about the house and its key.
Once Auntie Margo had refused to allow Gil to sell it, his uncle had lost all interest in it. The place sat empty—Gil didn’t care to rent it, he’d wanted the lump sum from selling it for yet another get-rich-quick scheme he’d read about in one of his magazines.
The way Eddie saw it, he owned that house, and he had every right to possess the key.
Even in the frigid fall wind that seemed to announce the coming of winter, the walk would take less than twenty minutes. Eddie wore his wool hat and a thick coat. He had on a pair of brown cords, and he wore his work boots. Eddie reckoned he’d stay warm enough.
He hoped so because it was doubtful that the furnace had heating oil or that the pilot light was lit.
Anyway, that’s why he had the blanket.
Hiding out in his parents’ apartment wouldn’t keep Gil from finding him, but then again, he didn’t believe Gil would mind that he’d run away. Auntie Margo might, but she was Gil’s creature through and through, and if he didn’t care to look, he wouldn’t let her come looking either.
The town was dark, as it often was after ten o’clock at night, especially once the weather started to turn cold. A few early fall leaves skittered across the road like massive bugs, and the shadows seemed to loom from the yards of the homes he passed, but no one spoke to him, no one accosted him. No one saw him.
No one made him go back to Gil’s farm.
He hadn’t been home since the day his father… Not since his parents had died. Not even to pick up clothes or toys. Auntie Margo had taken care of all of that. Gil had gone along “to help.” As if, thought Eddie. He probably came to look for jewelry or cash or something he could sell to make money. That’s all the man cares about.
Eddie let a sigh of relief gust out of him. It felt good to be out from under Uncle Gil’s thumb. It felt good to be free. He could collect dolls now if he chose. Who would be there to stop him?
No one, that’s who.
He turned onto that familiar street, and a dark thing stirred in his belly, something that tasted the same as fear or maybe dread. He still didn’t know what had happened that day, and he wasn’t sure he wished to, but from the way people talked—or rather stopped talking when he came into the room sometimes—it must’ve been horrible. Eddie’s father had committed suicide, no one had ever disputed that, and despite what Auntie Margo had said about kids not needing to learn that word, people had no qualms about using it in front of him regarding his father.
At times, curiosity about how his mother had died vexed him. He didn’t believe that she had suicided. That wasn’t in her. No, Daddy did something to her, he thought. Something bad. Daddy and Gil—two peas in a pod. At least Gil hasn’t killed Margo…yet.
He shook himself, chilled, but not from the cold wind. Ghosts weren’t real, so there was no issue with him being inside the building where his father had… Where his parents had died. No, the only danger came from the neighbors, and only if they called the police.
The house crouched before him in the darkness, a barren skull, its uncovered windows glaring into the street. He stood in front of it, staring into the impenetrable blackness that wrapped the interior. The yard had gone to seed, as had the planting beds his mom had always maintained with meticulous care.
A twitch of pain at the sight of the flowerbeds shuddered through him. He and his mother had spent many hours weeding those beds, planting new annuals, and maintaining the perennials. They had laughed and thrown dirt at each other, they had shown each other silly faces, silly grins, and hugged.
His eyes began to sting and itch.
Eddie shook his head, trying to force the emotions away and then sighed. He trudged up the drive, almost dragging his feet along, allowing the thick soles of his work boots to scuff against the asphalt. He walked around to the side of the house, to the door closest to the free-standing garage. The door his mother had always called “the garage door,” although it opened on the dooryard rather than the garage.
He stared at the outbuilding for a moment, as though trying to peer back through time, to see the events of that fateful day that had ended with his father hanging by an old rope, knotted from the rafter above the hood of their car.
Gil had told him that, and he couldn’t help but picture it. A chill raced through him again, causing goosebumps to shiver to life. No such thing as ghosts, Eddie, he thought. It’s only a building. An empty building, now.
