Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories (28 page)

Before the car accident, which had stolen Marcus, five years before. Before the unexpected heart attack claiming Carlos a year later. Suddenly, he and Maria had been rendered childless, having survived their children, which no parent should ever have to suffer.

But it was all right, now.

They were together again at last. Whitey had been worried, initially, how the boys would fare. This, after all, wasn’t the cool and dry catacombs of Mexico. The cement floor and brick walls had helped, and it never got hot here, even in the summers, but there had been spring thaws to deal with. He’d a mess to clean—simply from seeping fluids and general decay—the first several springs. Also, Marcus had suffered a maggot infestation which had been . . . unpleasant. Since then, however, they’d weathered the years well.

He hadn’t been able to stand them against the wall, however, as done in the catacombs. The embalming process had made them too rigid. He’d managed to prop them, seated, backs against the ofrenda, hands folded in their laps, sightless eyes gazing at him . . . somewhat accusingly, which did bother him, when he was honest with himself. For what could they accuse him of? What had he done wrong? He was only honoring Maria’s wishes, after all. Bringing them together as one family, forever.

He turned and grasped the rope hanging from the rectangle opening above, attached to a stick propping the door he’d installed into the floor when he’d dug out the cellar. With a quick tug, he pulled the stick into the cellar. The door swung shut with a
thump
and the
click
of the special latch and lock he’d recently installed. A lock which could only be opened from the outside, which he’d also fused shut with an acetylene torch. He’d fastened a throw rug onto the hatch, concealing it from passing eyes. Perhaps, when he turned up missing, someone would eventually discover them down here like this. Perhaps for them, it would be like Maria descending into the catacombs so long ago.

Regardless, Whitey made his way in the flickering candle light—which cast shadows on his family’s faces, and in those shadows he saw them gazing at him—to Maria’s side. He lowered himself to the dry concrete floor, gathered her stiffness into his arms, and waited for the Day of the Dead.

***

Uncountable hours later, candles long since extinguished, a heavy presence—an intangible weight—filled the small catacomb. Whitey smelled Maria’s perfume. Her rich chestnut hair, before it fell out. The warm baked-flour odor of fresh empanadas. Whitey sat up and stared into the darkness, heart pounding with joy as he whispered, “Maria? Is . . . is that you? Maria? It’s
me
. I’m here, darling. I’m . . . ”

Her head—light from decay—shifted against his neck.

Whitey cried, fear squeezing his heart (because her dry touch was so cold) as he pushed weakly off the wall to his feet, tottering away into the darkness, stiff joints screaming. Hands out, searching the blackness, he felt brick, turned and flattened back against the far wall. He frantically dug into his pocket for his lighter . . .

And heard it.

Scratching.

Dragging. Something . . . several somethings . . .

carlos

marcus

if I believe in it, it will happen

wasn’t supposed to be like this

. . . shifting and crawling toward him.

Whitey’s hand closed around the lighter in his pocket. Squeezed it, feeling the cool metal housing a flame that could . . .

No.

Fear drained away.

He tottered several steps toward the dragging, clicking, sliding. His legs trembled, knees buckling, and he fell to his knees. Opened his arms.

Waiting.

Maria reached him first. And she didn’t smell bad at all (not like her perfume or hair or freshly baked empanadas, but not bad, either) as she nestled her withered mouth at the base of his neck. Sighing, he craned his head back and, gently holding the back of her desiccated head, pressed her to him, so her teeth could get a better grip on his jugular.

And with his other, he welcomed his sons as they came together, at last.

As he’d believed they would.

HEY, LITTLE SISTER

Maria Alexander

Childhood memories wind through my thoughts like the fire trails burned into the surrounding foothills. I marvel at the destruction of the summer blaze as I head up Highway 50. My wife Allie’s getting her drink on with her fellow bridesmaids in San Francisco this weekend. Since the bride made it clear “No Boys Allowed,” I said
au revoir
this morning and took off in our black Prius to see Sophia, my severely disabled sister. She lives just three hours away at the old homestead in Placerville. Or “Hickville” as I like to call it.

After texting the public guardian for permission, I pick up Sophia for her usual Saturday afternoon hair appointment. The caregiver waves to us as we pull out of the driveway, her brows scrunched together with worry. Whether she’s worried because I’m wearing a black Nine Inch Nails t-shirt with equally dark jeans, or if it’s because she has some other phantom fear, I can’t tell. My sister’s soft, crooked smile lights up my passenger’s seat.

“Why don’t you wave back, Sophie?”

“I’m not . . . a child . . . you know,” she says in her halting speech. Not in years, anyway. She’s just over forty, but mentally she’s about six. Maybe seven.

“I know!” I wink at her. “So, yer gettin’ yer hair did? We going to the barber?”

“Nooooo,” she laughs.

“I dunno. It’s cheaper. I think you should give it a consider, there,” I reply.

Laughing harder, she tells me how to get to the salon. I’m shocked she remembers. Then again, before our mother died five years ago, she took Sophia to that same salon every week for twenty years to get her gorgeous sable hair washed and styled. Brain-injured folk like Sophia don’t like to bathe. It was probably the only way Mom could guarantee at least Sophia’s head didn’t stink. Since they went regularly for so long, Sophia’s injured synapses must have been able to forge a rare path to that destination.

We find the tiny island of business buildings tucked halfway up one of those charred hills. Sophia’s disability placard lets us park near the door, and we enter the busy salon reeking of rummy suntan lotion and Fukushima-brewed hair products. The woman at the front desk unleashes a hundred-megawatt smile at Sophia. She’s the sort of gal that would have scared me to death in high school. Bronze skin, blond highlights, pink manicure, perfectly straight teeth, v-neck tee dipping into a hint of cleavage and khaki shorts that reveal her tightly sculpted limbs. I was the nerdy goth boy in the computer lab who could barely manage to look a girl in the eye through my overgrown black bangs, much less court one of these leonine goddesses that prowled the campus in basketball uniforms or cheerleading skirts. Even at six-foot-three, I can still be that knee-knocking little boy around women.

“Hi, Sophia! Who’s your friend?” the woman asks.

“Hey, I’m Barry.” I shake her limp hand. “Sophia’s older brother.”

“Ah, yeah, I see the resemblance. I’m Carol,” she replies. Did her smile just dim? “It’s good to meet you. Come on back, sweetie! Lane is waiting for you.”

Sophia wobbles off, her leg braces and poor balance binding her eager stride. I sink into one of the seats by a table piled with fashion magazines, checking photos on my phone from Allie’s celebrations. God, I’m a lucky sonuvabitch. Amazing wife who puts up with weird-ass, mopey me and my damned obsessions. She says the glass is half-full even when I insist there’s no glass at all. I chuckle at a photo of the bridesmaids lined up doing the Amy Schumer pose for the movie
Trainwreck
, beer bottles to lips, fingers wagging at the camera. It’s barely lunchtime and they’re already at it.

“Uh, Barry?” Carol bites her thumbnail, hip leaning against the front desk, and she glances at the front door. “Can we talk?”

Crap. Something must be up with my sister.

We step outside into the bracing heat dusted with the scent of burned grass. When the sunlight strikes her face, I notice faint lines around her mouth. Man, I suck at ages. She’s older than I originally guessed.

“You look so much like Sophia,” she says.

“Yeah. Too much like our dad, I’m afraid.” My nerves start dancing a jumping-bean jig. Something about her look tells me this is going to be awkward. Does Dad owe them money? I can take care of that. I make plenty doing database programming for a telecommunications startup.

She crosses her arms, struggling to find my eyes. “I’m sorry you lost your father.”

I shrug. “Thanks. We didn’t exactly get along, so . . . ” Understatement of the year. He was an abusive monster who’d made our childhoods nightmarish with physical and verbal abuse, not to mention the ongoing sexual comments he made to Sophia that perpetually freaked her out. After Mom died, I’d tried to get the county people to step in and take Sophia out of the house. I failed because there wasn’t enough evidence that Dad was abusing his disabled daughter to interfere. Dad hated me for it and cut off contact between me and Sophia. I didn’t even know if they were safe during the fire. I had friends cast runes and do tarot readings to reassure me when relatives didn’t respond to my calls.

“I want to apologize,” she says at last.

“For what? Taking care of my sister’s hair? I should be thanking
you
. She can be a handful with her tantrums.”

She looks down. “We should have reported him.”

Darkness squeezes my vision, heart kangaroo-kicking my throat.

“After your mom passed away, he continued to bring Sophia here. Every week, like clockwork. But he’d make all kinds of . . . inappropriate . . . comments to the girls working here. And to your sister. He’d . . . kiss her. On the mouth,” Carol winces. “I once saw him put his tongue in. And his hand went —”

Rage rears up like a viper, twisting and spitting. I turn away from her, hands balling into fists, and walk off into the scalding parking lot.

“Barry! I’m so sorry. We talked to him, and—”

“You
talked
to him? Why the fuck didn’t you
report
him?” God, I’m shaking. Nausea spikes my throat.

“I don’t know. We just didn’t want to—”

“What? Interfere? FUCK YOU! YOU SHOULD HAVE FUCKING INTERFERED. Can’t you see she’s defenseless?”

People stare at us through the windows of the other shops. Carol scurries back inside the salon. My breakfast comes up, spattering the curb, scorching my mouth. I kneel in the weeds by the parking lot, sinking in molten grief.

I knew it. God-fucking-dammit,
I knew it.

Since childhood, you see, I’ve had dreams. Not telling the future, but rather, seeing
through
people and events. If someone lies to me, does something miles away, I see the real events in a dream. It’s how I found out about Dad’s illegal activities. And other things. Mom called me her Superman because of my “x-ray” vision.

After Mom died, I’d had nightmares of Dad molesting Sophia. Nothing graphic, thank God, but there was no question what was happening. Unfortunately, you can’t take a dream journal into a courtroom and ask the probate judge to give you conservatorship. Allie and I had even talked about kidnapping her, but decided against it. I lost weeks of sleep to anxiety.

But does Sophia remember any of it? Maybe her brain injury is a blessing for once. Twenty-five years after the car accident, her memory is still so bad that it dances a constant box step between reality and fantasy. Unless a witness like this woman had come forward, Sophia would never have brought charges against Dad. Her memory was too weak to register trauma unless it was an event that everyone around her discussed repeatedly.

He would have gotten away with it. He
did
get away with it.

Storm clouds rumble behind my eyes as I pay for Sophia’s hair wash and style. I leave without saying goodbye to Carol. Before I unlock Sophia’s car door, I crush her in a big brother hug, my heart breaking. “I love you, Booger.”

“Don’t call me that, Mary!” she says, pushing me away. Mary and Booger. She remembers childhood nicknames.

I take her home.

Sophia shows me how her caregivers have cleaned out the master bedroom and moved in her bed. I still picture the piss-stained mattress that they found Dad on when he died, but that’s been tossed. We watch some TV and play a game of Scrabble, Dad’s favorite game. It’s amazing how good she is at it. I go through some spider-infested boxes in the garage for the caregiver and do some maintenance on Sophia’s ancient computer running Windows 98. But the whole time, the storm clouds in my head keep thundering. I consider texting Allie, but I don’t want to spoil her celebration.

Besides, it’s all done. Past.

After the dinner I barely touch, a new caregiver arrives and starts her overnight shift. I say goodbye to Sophia, who’s already dressed in her flowered cotton pajamas, and plant a big kiss on top of her misshapen head. I then make the American Sign Language symbol for “I love you”—two middle fingers bent down into my palm, fingers and thumb extended. It was how she talked to us before she got her speech back. Sophia’s wide brown eyes twinkle as she returns the gesture.