“Game’s up,” said Rachel. “We don’t have a choice.”
“I need to stay,” said Alma. “I need to find out what happened to Ben.”
“Alma, we don’t have a choice,” said Paul. “They caught us.”
“No!” Alma pushed her way out of Paul’s arms and ran to the kitchen. She pulled a steak knife out of a butcher’s block. It was old and rusted, but she placed it against her palm and cut herself.
“Alma, stop it!” Paul tried to run to her, but she swiped the blade at him.
“No, you’re not stopping me from doing this. No one is!” She fell to her knees as her palm gushed blood, and pressed her hand against the white tile. Alma scrawled 314 in blood on the floor and then sat back as she stared at it. “I don’t care if it’s too soon. I have to try.”
“Holy shit,” said Stephen. “What is she doing?”
“Alma, stop it,” said Paul.
“Get away from me! Leave me alone.” She stared down at the number and started to hum in an attempt to focus. She rocked back and forth on her knees as her hand bled in her lap.
Paul was going to try and stop her. He reached out, but then stopped. He caught sight of the number on the floor and his body froze. He felt a bone-chilling cold on both shoulders. Something had its hands on him, and he could feel the fingers wrap around his clavicles. Then the chattering began, a sound so distinctive that Paul could almost sense the teeth hitting one another.
“I’m going to show you,” said the voice beyond the chattering teeth.
The world around him was silenced, although he could see the chaos happening without him. He saw Alma on the floor, rocking as she stared at the number, and felt Stephen try to pull at his arm as he headed outside with Rachel. Paul turned to watch Stephen leave, and then saw the flash of gunfire.
Stephen fell dead as Rachel screamed, though Paul heard nothing but the chattering teeth as time slowed to a crawl. “I’m going to let you see the truth. You’ll know why we have to protect Alma,” said the voice behind the teeth.
Widowsfield
March 14th, 1996
Ben got up to answer the door as his sister stayed on the couch. Terry’s dog, the mangy, one-eyed creature that she insisted was a good dog but just hated kids, was in his cage in the kitchen. The dog barked and growled as someone knocked on the front door.
“Shush, Killer,” said Ben as went to the door, but his command seemed to incite the dog rather than calm it.
“Hello?” he asked as he opened the door.
“Hello there little man,” said the chubby stranger. He was older, with a buzzcut and beady eyes. His lower jaw jut forth and when he talked his lower teeth stuck out like a cartoon of a dumb dog. “My name’s Desmond, and this is Raymond.” He put his hand on the back of a boy that was standing slightly behind him.
“Hi,” said Raymond, who looked remarkably similar to his father.
“I’m looking for my daughter, Terry. Is she here?”
“Who is it?” asked Ben’s father as he descended the stairs. He saw Desmond at the door and exhaled as if disappointed. “Oh.”
“Hello, Michael,” said Desmond, his tone darker.
“What do you want?” asked Ben’s father.
“I need to talk to Terry.”
“Well, she’s busy.”
“I’m not trying to pester her, or you. If you two want to rot away in this place, I just don’t have the energy to care anymore. I just need the keys to our cabin in Forsythe. I’m taking my boy out there for a fishing trip.”
“Yeah, well, I think she’s already planning on heading out there tomorrow,” said Ben’s father. He stayed on the stairs, and Desmond stayed outside. Ben was caught between the awkward standoff.
“Well, she’s just going to have to change her plans.”
Ben’s father smelled his fingers, and then wiped them off on his already dirty t-shirt. “Maybe you’re going to have to change yours.” He put his hand on the wall, where the alcove from the stairs met the ceiling of the first floor. He tilted forward and then back again as he spoke. “We were going to take my kids fishing out there.”
“No you weren’t,” said Desmond. “All you two ever do is sit in her room and smoke dope. Don’t try to pretend like there’s anything else going on here than that.”
“You know, you’ve got a big mouth old man.”
“Raymond,” said Desmond to his son, “go to the car. We’re going to leave soon, just wait for me.”
“No, Daddy,” said Raymond. “Can we please just go? We can use the key in the rock, out by the river. We don’t need Terry’s key. Please, Daddy, I just want to go. Can we please go?”
“Yeah, Daddy,” said Ben’s father with a mocking tone. “Go see Grace.” He flipped Desmond off with both hands as he bit his lower lip.
“You’re scum,” said Desmond.
“Get the fuck off Terry’s property,” said Ben’s father as he kept his middle fingers raised.
Desmond walked away, and Ben closed the door while Killer continued to bark. “Sorry about that, Daddy,” said Ben.
“What did I tell you about answering the door?” asked his father.
“You never told us not to answer the door,” said Alma from the couch. She put her hands over her mouth after daring to speak up. Their father glared down at them both, his eyes wide and his fists clenched.
“Do you guys want me to make you walk the dog?” he asked with a malicious grin.
“No,” said Ben as he looked at the growling beast behind the bars. “He bites us.”
“Then don’t disobey me again,” said their father. “And don’t come upstairs. Terry and I are busy. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Ben.
“Yes what?” asked their father.
“Yes, sir,” said Alma and Ben simultaneously.
“You’d better understand,” he said as he slowly went back up the stairs.
They waited for the bedroom door to close, and then sighed in relief.
“I hate him so much,” said Alma.
Ben went back to the couch where they had a hoard of snacks and empty juice boxes. He hopped on the cushions and a mess of pretzel pieces flew into the air. “Don’t say that,” said Ben. “He’s our Dad. You only get one Dad.”
“Well, I wish we got a different one.”
Ben reached across their mountain of wrappers and juice boxes to take his sister’s hand. She was younger than him by two years, and suffered their father’s rage more frequently than Ben. Over the years, he’d tried to protect Alma, but their father seemed intent upon scrutinizing the girl’s every move. Nothing Alma ever did was good enough for their father, and Ben was always trying to convince the eight-year-old that she wasn’t worthless like their father said.
“You’ll always have me.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
Killer continued to growl as he spun in his cage, trying to get comfortable on the worn towel that he was given as a blanket.
“Do you want to watch Toy Story again?” asked Ben.
“Sure,” said Alma, forlorn and distant.
“It’ll only be forty five minutes until the school lets out,” said Ben. “Aren’t you happy about that?”
“I guess so,” said Alma.
“I wonder if Jim and Laura are going to be holding hands,” said Ben as he got the video tape out of the basket beside the television stand.
“You don’t even know if that’s their real names,” said Alma.
Ben always knew when Alma was upset by the way she refused to play along with his games. Their annual vacation in Missouri was a boring exercise for them, spent watching the same movies over and over while their father stayed upstairs with the red haired girl named Terry.