Our Lady Chaos, page 20
part #5 of Bloodletter Series
He slid the key into the lock of the side door and grinned as it turned with minimal effort and the bolt clicked free. Eddie tore his eyes away from the garage with a grimace. He pushed the door open, but then stood staring into the darkness that blanketed the house. Now that he was home, it seemed…almost disrespectful to his mother’s memory to go inside.
But then warmth spread from his chest toward his limbs, akin to a hug from his mother, and he sighed at the memory of his mother hugging him and smiled at the feeling of welcome. He mounted the steps and closed the garage door behind him, pausing a moment to turn the lock.
The air smelled musty, disused, and a thin layer of dust covered everything. His mother never would’ve abided that, and Eddie supposed he would have a lot of cleaning to do once the sun came up and he could see better. He tiptoed through the murky house, traveling by memory, and made it to his bedroom without bumping into one single thing.
He took that as a sign.
Winter gripped the inside of the place like a dark promise. It would be a long night if he didn’t find a way to keep warm. He set down his backpack and walked back toward the kitchen. He stood there a moment, just taking in the pleasant emotions of being in his mother’s kitchen again.
My kitchen, I suppose, he thought.
He opened the basement door and flicked on the light switch, hoping against hope, but to no avail. There was no electricity in the house, and he’d forgotten a flashlight. Still, his father had kept one on the shelf next to the bottom of the steps.
He wondered for the umpteenth time where his mother had died. How she’d died. The idea that she had died alone down there in the basement's dark shadows surfaced and he couldn’t sink it again.
He walked down the steps, ignoring the spiderwebs that swept across his face. At the bottom, he stretched out his hands for the shelves that still stood there, finding them at last, right where they should have been. He found the flashlight and flicked the switch. A watery yellow beam stabbed through the darkness of the basement, and for a moment, he pretended it was a lightsaber straight out of Star Wars.
He had no doubts the pilot was out. Same as Gil would’ve shut the electricity and the heating oil deliveries off years before. But he had to check.
He walked over to the hulking heater and bent down to open the little metal door that hid the pilot light. Is that… Do I smell oil? he asked himself. He drew a deep breath in through his nose, his heart throbbing in his chest, hoping the oily odor he thought he detected was more than a mere trick of his mind.
But he smelled nothing, and no blue flame flickered from the little opening. He heaved a sigh but wasn’t ready to quit yet. Eddie reached up to the top of the old heater and patted around for the box of safety matches his father kept there. He withdrew a match and struck it, then held it inside the opening.
Nothing happened. No whoosh as the pilot light ignited. No explosion, either.
No nothing.
Behind him, something shifted the stale air trapped in the basement. He whirled, stabbing at the dark with the beam of the flashlight, and for a microsecond, he was sure someone stood in the shadowy corner. A woman.
He flicked off the light and squeezed his eyes shut, almost daring a ghost or a zombie or a monster to come get him. But that was silly. No such thing as ghosts or zombies or monsters, he told himself. And I am alone in this basement. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
Nothing lurched out of the velvet blackness that wrapped the basement tight. He flicked the switch on the flashlight, and the beam stabbed across the room. On the floor beside a stack of sealed-up boxes, sat his mother’s Tiffany lamp. Dragonflies populated the bottom edge of the shade, and the predominant color was aquamarine.
He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled to himself. He’d always liked the dragonflies. Tomorrow, I’ll clean up that lamp. Take it upstairs and put it in the corner of the living room, where it belongs. He yawned so wide his jaw creaked with it.
He climbed the stairs, exhausted and wrung out. All he wanted to do was sleep, so he made his way back to his bedroom, spread out the blanket he had brought from Uncle Gil’s, lay down on it, and folded it over himself. He was asleep almost instantly.
For once, his slumber was free of nightmares. He dreamed his mother was alive, and they cleaned up the Tiffany together.
4
September 1979
Sean walked down Union, whistling to himself. Earlier, before the deputy had gone to work, Karl had slipped him a few dollars for “an after-supper treat.” He did that from time to time, and it had become a secret they shared—one they kept from Vickie.
The small convenience store on the corner of Mill and Main had a big sweets aisle, and Sean intended to make full use of the money. As Karl often said, every boy Sean’s age needed candy.
Ahead, a green Impala turned onto Union and cruised down the street away from Sean. For a moment, he thought it must be Karl, but the driver was too small, too slight of build. Even so, it looked like Karl’s Impala…
Sean broke into a jog to follow, but the car turned into a driveway and rolled toward the back. His gaze crawled over the house, but he didn’t know who lived there.
The home next door, though… A tree stood in its front yard, and the sight of it made him feel both embarrassed and randy at the same time. It was the tree where Kristy had shown him…everything. Even after all those months, Sean’s face burned with the memory.
He jogged to the end of the driveway the green Impala had disappeared down and peeked around a shrub.
The car still idled, but as he watched, the driver put it in park and killed the engine. Both front doors opened, and the teenaged boy from the tree exited on the driver’s side. A man Sean didn’t know got out the other side.
“You will love her, Dennis. Trust me,” said the kid. “She’s cherry.”
The other man scoffed. “No whore is cherry, Leif.”
That was the name! That’s what Kristy called the boy.
Leif laughed and swatted the roof of the car, and unease gripped Sean. Karl did the same thing when he wanted to emphasize something.
“I’m telling you, Dennis. She’s… Well, you’ll see in a few minutes.”
“She better be as tight as you promised, or I ain’t paying full price.”
“Oh, she is,” said Leif. “She’s broken in, but she’s as tight as a girl can be.”
The boy and the man circled around the front of the car and met at the steps that led to the back door of the home. Leif held out a hand to stop the man. “Before we go in, you got to pay me.”
The man only looked at him for a moment, then laughed and reached for his wallet. “Two hundred?”
“Yep,” said Leif. “Cash or drugs, I’m not picky.”
The man handed a wad of bills to Leif, and the two climbed the steps and went inside.
Something inside Sean uncoiled and slithered around in his guts. Not fear… Anger. Without thinking about what he would do if the two older guys caught him, he sprinted the length of the drive and mounted the steps behind them.
Peeking through the window in the rear door of the house, Sean watched them climb the stairs to the second floor. The doorknob turned in his grip, and he sneaked into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.
His heart thundered in his ears, and Sean wanted nothing more than to run, to return to his quest for sweets from the corner store. But Kristy had been kind to him, and something in Leif’s manner struck him as…wrong.
Sean tiptoed up the steps, listening with all the energy he could spare, ready to turn and sprint down the stairs and out into the night at the first sign the men were coming back.
The lights were off, but soft light outlined a door at the end of the hall. From behind the door came the muffled sound of Leif’s voice and that oh-so-familiar speech pattern, then the tinkling of Kristy’s slurred laughter.
Sean crept to the door and pressed his ear against it.
“I don’t know,” said the older man. “She seems strung out, kid.”
Leif laughed. “Who cares? She fucks like a bunny.”
“How old is she? You said she was seventeen, but she looks younger. Closer to my kid’s age than seventeen.”
“And how is young Master Cratchkin?”
Kristy mumbled something Sean couldn’t make out.
“Look, dude, you’ve already paid me, and the house policy is no refunds. Might as well take a swing. Younger’s better, no?”
“If I require a refund, kid, you’ll give it to me.”
“No, I don’t think so.” The voice’s timbre was too high, but Sean had no doubt that Karl had said the words. Somehow. He put his hand on the knob.
“…don’t want an old man!” Kristy mumbled.
“But you need more acid, don’t you? Come on, Kristy. Do it. Do it, for me, okay?”
“No, Leif. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Just you.”
“But you’re going to be with this guy, Kristy. Come on. This isn’t anything new. You’ve done it with other guys.”
Again, the volume of Kristy’s voice dropped until Sean had to struggle to make out her words. “…tricked me…” she whispered.
The unmistakable sound of a slap was her only answer.
“I can do rough,” said the man, lust lacing his tone. “Let me in there, kid.”
“No!” shouted Kristy.
Without planning to, Sean turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. The hinge creaked as it swung inward, and the two males spun to face him.
“What’s this?” asked Dennis. “I don’t want an audience.”
“I’ll tell,” said Sean. “I’ll tell Chief Greshin.”
“Sean!” said Leif. “Get the fuck out of here. This is adult stuff.”
Sean shook his head.
Dennis took a step toward Sean, wrapping his belt around his fist. “Seems to me your dad didn’t teach you any manners, kid.” He smelled of beer and farts, and Sean backed away from the doorway.
“I’ll run and call the cops!” he shouted.
Leif squinted at him, his face expressionless, hands loose at his sides. “Sean, go home,” he said.
Sean shook his head.
Dennis took another step, and Leif put out his hand. “Stop right there, Mr. Cratchkin. He’s a kid. Nothing to worry about.”
“He threatened to go to the cops. I can’t have that.”
Behind them, Kristy swayed to her feet and stooped to grab her jeans off the floor.
Leif tightened his grip on the older man’s arm. “Come on. You came to fuck. Get to fucking.” Something in his voice froze Sean’s blood.
Kristy darted between the two men, bouncing off the frame of the door and into the hallway. “Run, Sean!” she slurred.
Sean turned and ran for the staircase, Kristy stumbling along the hall, weaving from wall to wall. Behind them, Cratchkin made an enraged sound in his throat and thudded after them.
“Go!” yelled Kristy.
“Fuck!” shouted Leif as he joined the procession to the stairs.
Sean pelted down the steps, taking them two at a time, then spun in the kitchen door. Kristy stumbled down the staircase, Cratchkin closing the distance, his knuckles white around the wide leather belt. His fist shot out and clipped Kristy on the side of the head. Leif stood at the top of the stairs, staring down on the scene with the same hungry expression Karl wore when he spoke of Sean’s dad.
“Karl!” shouted Sean.
Overbalanced by the drugs and the blow, Kristy spun and fell, tumbling down the steps. Mr. Cratchkin smiled at Sean. “You next, kid,” he said.
He sounded mean, same as his son.
As he made to step over Kristy, she kicked upward, and Mr. Cratchkin shrieked in pain, clutching his groin. She slithered out from beneath him and came down the stairs on her ass. At the bottom of the steps, she got to her feet and looked around as if unsure where to go.
Sean lifted his hand. “This way!”
Together, Sean and Kristy sprinted through the kitchen and out into the night. “Mom!” Kristy yelled.
As they crossed into her yard, Sean threw a glance over his shoulder. Leif—or Karl—stood next to his Impala, staring at Sean with furious eyes.
5
September 1979
Eddie awoke to sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window and a fresh coat of snow on the ground outside. He’d always enjoyed that early sunlight penetrating his room in the morning. Grinning, he rolled from the blanket into the patch of warmth and yawned.
The light revealed just how the house had fared in two years of abandonment. Dust bunnies lived in every corner, and there were rat droppings, too, but Eddie would see all of that put right.
He sighed and stretched, a loose smile on his lips. It was the first day since…since everything had happened that he wouldn’t have to face Uncle Gil. His stomach growled, reminding him that all the stretching and sighing and smiling wouldn’t keep him alive.
He sat up and pulled on his thick-soled boots, shivering a little at the cold. The fresh snow out in the yard looked pristine, pure. The ugly, unkept lawn he’d seen in the night had disappeared. He couldn’t see the garage from his bedroom window, and it gladdened him.
He got up, pulling on his coat against the morning chill. The first thing he’d have to do is check if any heating oil remained, and if so, figure out how to get the pilot light lit. His father had always cursed and grumbled as he did the job, but it hadn’t seemed that hard to light the furnace.
He stood right inside his bedroom door, his hand resting on the knob, imagining he heard the scrape of a wire whisk against the sides of a pan, that he smelled eggs and frying bacon and coffee and toast. His stomach growled, and the spell broke.
He opened the door, and for a moment, only a moment, he could have sworn the wire whisk sounded again. But there was no such thing as ghosts, and no one lurked in the house except Eddie, so he supposed his imagination had run a bit wild.
Even so, he stomped his feet and took his time getting to the kitchen.
He hadn’t thought to check if the City had left the water running. He hoped so because his parched throat burned after his exertions of the night before.
A thin rime of dust covered the counters—the same counters that his mom had always kept clean enough for surgery. Eddie shook his head and added it to the list of tasks he would have to do that day. He didn’t think it fair to the memory of his mother that all the things she had loved and worked hard to keep nice had been left to rot.
One more reason to hate Uncle Gil.
He crossed to the faucet and pushed the lever up. The pipes rattled beneath his feet, but after a moment, water gushed from the nozzle, splashing into the dirty sink. With a little grin, he bent forward and drank from the stream of water, slurping it as fast as it came. His mother would’ve never let him get away with that and, abashed, he pulled back and swallowed the water in his mouth.
He checked the cabinets, but only dust lingered in them. Auntie Margo had taken everything not nailed down. He pursed his lips and glanced at the faucet again, but one more thing remained to check. His mother had kept a sheaf of paper plates and a stack of plastic cups in the cellar. “For emergency cookouts,” she had always said. Eddie smiled at the memory.
He crossed to the basement and pushed the door open with his pinky. The hinges creaked like the lid of the casket in a vampire movie. Eddie shivered again, this time not from the cold. He climbed all the way down the steps before he remembered that he’d taken the flashlight up with him.
Shaking his head, he glanced back up the stairs, but it was his house. His first home, the house he’d grown up in, and he knew the proper place for each item inside it, dark or not. He was safe there, and basements no longer scared him at any rate.
He peered into the stygian shadows of the basement. They seemed to close in on him, to beckon, to reach for him. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Don’t be a baby, he thought. There’s no such thing as ghosts or monsters or vampires or…or anything.
He tiptoed forward into the gloom, and something across the room clattered. Eddie froze. His imagination painted leering faces, smirking, black-fang-filled faces, onto the shadows. He shook his head, unwilling to picture her face—not down there in the gloomy shadows and cobwebs. The place is empty. No such thing as ghosts, remember? With great deliberation, he strode away from the penumbra at the bottom of the stairs.
Holding his hands out in front of him as a blind man would, Eddie shuffled farther into the dark vault. His imagination kept right on painting those faces into the shadows, kept right on making him think the sound of scuffing footsteps on the concrete floor approached him from behind, but Eddie knew what all that was: just nerves, and he didn’t have time for nerves.
He found the metal racks at the far end of the basement, and they were shockingly cold under his fingertips, and slick, as though iced over. Eddie patted his way across the contents of the shelves, the old paint cans, his mother’s stock of cleaning supplies, the ancient cardboard boxes, and the bags of rotted holiday tissue. He stared at the wrapping paper for a moment, and his dream—his nightmare—about Christmas resurfaced in his mind, bringing the icy-tang of fear with it.
Everything is normal, he thought. Just normal junk.
He wondered what treasures lived in that basement, what extraordinary things his mother kept down there in the dark. His fingers crawled across the shelves like spiders, but Eddie hated bugs of all kinds, so he pushed that idea away.
From behind him came the distinct sound of someone breathing. Eddie whirled toward the sound, his eyes wide, and his hands rising to shoulder height and balling into fists out of pure instinct.
But there was nobody there.
Of course there isn’t, he chided himself. I’m the only person here, and there’s no such thing as ghosts. You know that, Eddie, so just stop it.
He couldn’t shake the feeling someone watched him from the shadows as he swung back to the shelves and continued his blind man’s search for plastic cups and paper plates. He found them after a few more minutes, and tucking the stack of plates under one arm and carrying the cups in his other hand, he turned back to the warm, welcoming light shining down from the kitchen.
