Anathema (16 page)

Jim and Diane, who was still dressed in her nightgown, were down the steps and out the front door before anyone could stop them.

Chapter 21

Sheriff Ebert led the caravan down Main Street and toward the park. He was uncomfortable knowing the vehicle behind him was Jim Anderson's Suburban. Knowing what he did about Molly, about what happened to her, the sheriff wished Jim and his wife would've stayed home. But the Andersons insisted they tag along, and nothing would convince them otherwise. Ebert prayed they'd be able to handle what they'd see.

Jim and Diane didn't say a word to each other during the entire trip into town. Diane was shell-shocked as she looked out the window and mumbled incoherently. Jim's thoughts were focused on the ranting of the old gypsy witch:

Your daughter has secret desires ... her will is not her own ... it will drive her insane.

Jim felt the hairs on his arm stand on end, and even though it was plenty warm inside the Suburban, a cold breeze whispered across the back of his neck.

Hordes of people gathered at the park, and while Andy tried to control the group, gawkers still came out of nowhere to gaze at what was beyond the yellow police banner. They filled the sidewalk and spilled into the street. The officer didn't think there were this many people in the entire town.

The caravan pulled up to the curb opposite the park. Before Jim even got out of the vehicle, he saw Molly's bicycle stranded near the bronze statue.
This is bad, very bad.

...it will drive her insane.

His wife close behind, Jim pushed his way through the crowd. He felt the eyes of the onlookers bore into him and heard their muted whispers behind his back.

The park looked like a battlefield. The lush, green grass was black with gore. A tarp covered, what Jim presumed to be, the body of Bill Daily. Blood flowers blossomed red on the white canvas.

Molly leaned against an oak tree. Her jeans and panties were pulled down to her ankles. Her blouse was torn open, exposing her small breasts. Grunting sounds emitted from her throat. Spittle dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

...it will drive her insane.

Blood was everywhere—smeared across her chest, caked in her hair. Gore coated the inside of her thighs, glistening like crude oil. In her hand, she held a lollipop.

But that couldn't be. And as his mind began to process the scene in front of him, his stomach churned with sickness. Molly wasn't holding a sucker, she was licking a severed penis, using it like a tube of macabre lipstick.

"Oh, dear Lord,” Jim whispered as his world pulled back like a taut rubber band. ��Oh, dear Lord, what has she done!"

Now the screaming began. Diane's shriek pierced Jim's brain like an ice pick. She attempted to run to Molly, but Jim managed to hold her back.

"
You
did this to her! Let me go to her!” Diane hissed and cracked Jim across his face with her fist. Diane's ring gashed Jim's cheek, but his hold remained steadfast. Diane kicked and tried to bite her husband. “First, Travis, and now Molly! What kind of a monster are you!” Her robe came open, exposing her lacy bra and white cotton panties. But she was oblivious to all of it.

Things were moving fast now, almost too fast for Jim to follow. The crowd parted, and a pair of men in white smocks entered the park. Between them, they wheeled a gurney. On top of the gurney was a strait jacket. The extra-long sleeves dangled over the edge, and the silver buckles reflected the yellow glow of the streetlights. The rubber wheels made a squishy sound as they rolled across the blood-soaked turf.

Molly stood and hooted as the hospital men came closer. She clawed at them with her hands.

Jim pulled Diane's face to his chest and closed his eyes. He couldn't watch his little girl being taken away. But he heard, oh how he heard. He heard Molly's confused wails as she was strapped into the jacket, then strapped onto the gurney. She barked obscenities as she was wheeled out of the park and loaded into the van that waited curbside.

"Where are they taking my daughter?” Jim asked the sheriff in a voice no louder than a whisper.

Ebert looked into Jim's red, agony-filled eyes, “To Honeybrook. They'll take good care of her there."

Honeybrook. The nut house.

Jarvis put his hand on Jim's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Jim."

Jim spat in Jarvis's face. “Fuck you, Jarvis.” He broke from Jarvis's grip. “Fuck you!"

Jim pushed his way back through the crowd and dumped his hysterical wife into the passenger seat of the Suburban. He leaned against the fender, and then the tears came. They rolled down his cheeks like a springtime rain. The gypsy witch was right. One by one, he was losing his family.

Through the windshield, Jim looked at his wife. She had become a broken woman.

"You were right, Diane,” Jim wept. “Just like always. I never should've brought you here. None of you."

Jim staggered around the front of the vehicle and crawled into the driver's seat. Through tear-blurred vision, he drove home.

Two of the onlookers were Carleton Green and his wife, Alice. They had just finished eating at Hamburger Hut and were about to stop at the Stumble Inn for a quick drink, when they heard a commotion from down the street. They hurried down the three short blocks to the park and were shocked at what they saw. Alice's face turned pure white and Carleton had to grab hold of her to prevent her from falling to the ground.

Carleton, however, found a sick pleasure at the sight of the blood-soaked canvas covering Daily's body. Pleasure turned to ecstasy when he heard the others in the crowd talk amongst themselves.

"Must've bit down awfully hard."

"Painful, mighty painful."

"Heard it was bitten clean off."

"Hell of a blow job. That's all I've got to say."

Judging from the amount of blood that had pooled in the wrinkles of the canvas around Daily's crotch, Carleton didn't have to ask what “it” was. He had a pretty good idea.

Carleton pulled his wife close. He felt her quivering next to him as her tears dampened his shoulder. Then, he whispered into her ear, “Well, I guess you lost your fuck buddy."

Alice pushed herself away. Surprise was etched across her pained face.

"Please, don't play innocent with me, Alice. I've known about your affair for quite some time."

Alice dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief she'd taken from her bosoms. “I'm sorry, Carl. I wanted to break it off, but Bill wouldn't let me.” She tried to smile. “Can we start over? Can you forgive me?"

Carleton pressed his wife's head against his chest and stroked her fine flaxen hair.

The grief you feel for your lover is only the beginning.

Larry Taft sat in darkness and watched the events from his office window. On the desk in front of him was an open bottle of gin. It was half-full; the other half was in his belly.

He saw Molly Anderson loaded into the back of the green Honeybrook van and watched Jim lead his broken wife back to the vehicle. He saw Carleton Green comfort Alice, but also saw the smirk on the man's face as he helped his wife into the car.

Larry grabbed the bottle of gin by the neck and brought it to his lips. Some of the piney-smelling liquor dribbled down his chin. He wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve.

"What have I done?” he whispered to himself, his words slurred by booze. He was almost crying.

Exactly what you were supposed to do,
a voice in his head answered.
Exactly what you were supposed to do.

Chapter 22

Jim dreamed of dead whores. There were four now. His daughter had joined them. She was still laced into the strait jacket, but the sleeves were free and dangled to the floor like grotesque arms. Her eyes were glazed and milky. There was dried gore smeared across her face. Her lips were blood red; her skin, translucent.

Jim was naked and tied, spread-eagled, to the bed with strips that resembled human flesh.

Molly approached the bed and straddled her fettered father. The whores looked on, smiling and hissing their approval.

Molly ground her hips into Jim's groin, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Her young, firm breasts pressed against him, and as she did this, Jim felt his organ grow hard between his daughter's legs. A forbidden warmth raced through his immobilized body. He was both repulsed and intrigued.

Molly gyrated faster. Enough friction was generated that sparks flew from their thighs. She tossed her head back, arched her spine. Then, her face peeled away to reveal the innocent Travis.

Jim awoke with a start. He was drenched in sour-smelling sweat. The blanket was twisted around his legs. There was semen on the sheet. He ran his fingers through his matted hair and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Diane's side of the bed. She had refused to come upstairs. She said she couldn't sleep with a man who murdered her son and institutionalized her daughter. She was probably asleep on the sofa downstairs. Jim was only able to fall asleep by pilfering a couple of pills Doc Addlerson left for his wife.

Jim got out of bed and wandered into Molly's room. The cold shaft of moonlight that streamed through the window allowed him to see the headless porcelain figurine on the floor. He bent and picked it up. He remembered the carnival.

In his mind's eye, he saw the congestion of visitors that milled about the street. He saw the people that waited in line for a corn dog or a basket of deep fried cheese curds. He saw the Jaycee's display on air pollution and handmade quilts displayed beneath enormous canvas canopies. He heard the noises of the midway. The gleeful screams of children. His nose caught the sticky sweetness of cotton candy and the oily goodness of fried foods.

The carnival.

That was the one time his family was truly happy. That one time, everything was right in the world. That one time, he felt love for his wife again. But all that changed in less than a heartbeat.

An icy breeze caressed his ankle, rippling the hairs on the back of his legs. Riding on that breeze, Jim thought he heard his daughter's voice.

Daddy.

The figurine slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, where it shattered into a dozen pieces. A shiver crept up his spine. He backed out of the room and into the hall, and closed his daughter's bedroom door.

Then, he realized the house was too quiet. He should've heard the drone of the television filter up the stairs. He should've seen the occasional flicker of light from the tube. This was not the peaceful kind of quiet that a person managed to snatch when the kids were all still asleep and you had the entire house to yourself. This was the kind of uneasy silence that told you something was dreadfully wrong.

Jim stumbled into the bathroom and snapped on the light. These sentences were written across the mirror:
You're too late. Our time is near.

At first, Jim thought the words were scribbled with lipstick, but the heavy smell in the room told him they were scribed in blood. The question was: Whose blood was it? He had his answer before his mind finished processing the question.

Diane was in the tub, soaking in warm, pink water. Her skin was a pale alabaster, and her lips were blue. Foggy orbs, once her eyes, stared, unblinking, at the ceiling. Diane's left arm hung out of the tub, and a bright red stream trickled from her wrist and dripped into a pool of drying blood beneath her fingertips. In the eerie stillness, Jim heard each drop echo in the room as it dripped into the crimson puddle. A bloody razor blade floated on top of the stained water.

"Oh, God, Diane. What did you do?” Jim's voice quavered. He'd heard Diane run the water earlier, but he thought she was preparing for bed. He never expected ... this. But if Diane's life was draining away, how did she manage to write the message on the mirror?

Who said it was Diane that wrote it?

For an instant, a dozen eyes peered at Jim from behind the mirror. And the laughter began.

Jim ran to the toilet, dropped to his knees, and vomited. He slowly stood up.

The eyes in the mirror were gone, but the cryptic message remained. And his wife was still dead in the bathtub.

He ran out of the bathroom and bolted down the stairs, holding the handrail for support. He was still asleep. That was the only explanation. This was all a continuation of his nightmare.

A branch scraped against the window. But that was impossible. There were no trees near the house, only the wooded area beyond the yard.

Now the walls flexed and the floor began to breath. The television snapped on and Travis's face filled the screen. But it was not the son he loved. This Travis had yellow slits for eyes and skin as white as bone meal. Its teeth were chiseled to needlepoints.

The Travis-thing spoke. “You're too late. Our time is near."

Its voice boomed through the house. It came from everywhere. It came from nowhere.

Jim ran into the kitchen and tried to get out through the back door. It wouldn't budge. Someone or
something
was holding it closed. From the living room came chilling laughter.

Oh, dear God! He was losing his mind. It was ebbing out of him like the tide washes out into the ocean.

Wake up! Wake up! Dammit! Wake up!
But he couldn't because he wasn't asleep.

Jim spun on his heels and sped across the kitchen. He snatched the phone from the switch hook. He'd call Jarvis. He'd know what to do. He'd help.

Another wave of laughter echoed from the living room.

Jim strained to remember the number of his friend, then pressed it into the key pad. The phone on the other end rang ... and rang ... and rang.

The kitchen heaved. A thick, twisted root punched through the floor. Faces of the whores pushed into the room, the liquid walls filling in their features.

A panicked Jim yelped and was about to hang up the phone when he heard Jarvis's sleep-heavy voice.

"Thank God.” He was crying now, barely holding on to his sanity. “I need your help. I'm at the house. Please come!"