Snowball

by Andre Gonzalez

  The elf remained in the wreath, so he moved it, sitting it up on the kitchen counter in front of the cookie jar, crumbling a chocolate chip cookie to make it look like Snowball had eaten it.

  The workday dragged for Brandon, as most Fridays tended to do, teasing him with the psychological finish line at the end of a particularly trying week. Even his manager, who had been briefed on the chaos, suggested he take the following Monday off for a mental day of recovery. Brandon thanked him, but he had no interest in staying home. Sitting around the house would only lead to his mind wandering down more dark rabbit holes.

  After a calm day at the office, he drove home with the music blaring, his mind still exhausted as the afternoon lull tried to hypnotize him to sleep. He even cracked his window to let in the cold air and keep him just uncomfortable enough to not doze off behind the wheel and become roadkill.

  They rarely cooked on Friday nights and pizza was often ordered. No cooking, no cleanup, no stress. He and Erin could arrive home and immediately relax. Even for a Friday night, going to bed at eight again sounded like the most tempting of offers. He hoped Erin felt the same.

  Brandon pulled into the garage, planning to use the hour alone for a quick nap before the rest of the family arrived, and skipped to the door with anticipation.

  With the garage door closing behind, humming as the wheels squeaked on the track, he pushed open the door and immediately froze. The knife rack on the kitchen counter lay tipped over, knives splattered across both the counter and the floor as if a bomb had gone off. Nothing else was touched aside from the knives.

  “What the fuck?” Brandon whispered, recoiling back into the garage, his hands shaking. He spun around in search of anything he could use as a weapon. His golf clubs stood in the corner, tucked away and forgotten during the winter months, so he ran over to grab his nine-iron before re-entering the house.

  “If someone’s in here, show yourself right now!” Brandon shouted into the house, the only response his own voice echoing back. The kitchen table blocked his direct view of the middle of the floor where the knives lay scattered, causing him to crane his neck for a better look. He checked Nemo’s bed to his right to find it abandoned, the vinyl flap over the doggy door pushed toward the outside.

  Brandon tightened his grip on the club’s sticky leather as he moved into the kitchen. Not a single knife remained inside the rack. Eight steak knives scattered on the floor, some with the blades jutting upward from the pile that included a bread knife and a couple of Santokus. The big ones, the chef’s knife and the cleaver, remained on the counter. Next to them were shears spread wide apart. The wooden block that held all of these lay on its side, empty, and only moved about an inch from where it typically stood.

  The elf remained in the same place further down the counter, yet Brandon felt that sensation again that it was staring at him, his fake grin silently laughing at him. “Fuck you,” Brandon said to the elf, causing a nervous giggle to creep up his chest, leaving his lips as a gasp.

  He knew no one was in the house, and now wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. “What’s wrong with me?!” he screamed. Only it couldn’t be his mind’s doing—there was a physical pile of knives on the floor to account for. Someone, or perhaps something, had to put them there.

  “Did you do this?” he barked to the elf minding its business from the counter, cookie crumbs sprinkled over its lap like a toddler. Brandon chortled and shook his head, lowering his chin into his chest, his face rushing with the blood of embarrassment.

  “Look at you,” he whispered to himself. “You’re yelling at a toy.”

  He looked back to see the door still open, letting out all the warmth, and letting in the frigid winter air. The furnace hummed on, as if mocking him for being so absurd.

  “A toy,” he said again to assure himself of the fact, stepping back toward the garage to close the door. “I need a night of at least ten hours of sleep. And maybe a vacation.”

  Brandon moved to the family room, golf club lowered to his side. His breathing was the only sound, minus a couple of creaks as gusts of wind blew over the house. He gazed at the spilled knives, waiting for them to stand up and start marching toward him, snipping at his ankles like a pissed off Chihuahua.

  “Everything has an explanation.” Brandon spoke to himself, trying to calm his nerves.

  Could there be a spirit in the house?

  Brandon had watched plenty of TV shows and documentaries about ghost hunters, and they always seemed to be searching for a message beneath these types of random actions. He checked the knives to see if their pattern formed a message. Another step closer and he confirmed what he had been thinking all along: nothing. It was just a jumble of knives that had fallen off the counter. He checked the ones that remained on the counter, and again found nothing of significance.

  See, you’re just paranoid. There’s no such thing as this supernatural nonsense you watch on TV. That’s why it’s on TV and you never hear about it in the real world.

  Brandon tossed his golf club aside and sauntered over to the counter, standing the knife rack back up to its proper position. Not giving up his theory of an intruder, he checked the knives for marks or fingerprints, but found them clean, as if freshly washed. The blades scraped the counter top as he picked up the heavy knives and returned them to their spots on the rack.

  With the knife rack back in place, Brandon examined the counter for any other signs of movement. Something knocked over the rack, and there had to be a clue as to what it was. He found nothing, and even questioned the validity of the knives reaching the kitchen floor. The rack was positioned against the wall, two and a half feet from the edge, and studying the alignment made no sense.

  Brandon reached out a wavering hand and placed it on the backside of the rack, pulling it toward him, tipping it on its side. The solid wooden block rattled the counter with a heavy thud as Brandon took a step back to watch what happened.

  A knot immediately dropped into his stomach. As he feared, nearly all of the knives stayed in place. The shears did fall out in a slow-motion slide, like syrup oozing out of a bottle. Yet, they remained within two inches of the block and were nowhere near the counter’s edge. The steak knives wiggled out of place, but remained in the block. The heavy-duty knives didn’t so much as budge, solid in their slots, only to be removed by hand.

  “Fuck,” Brandon whispered, scratching his head. The rack had not simply been tipped over. Someone—or something—either knocked it over with a lot more force, or tipped it over and pulled out the knives that ended up on the floor.

  Why the knife rack? he wondered. Why not knock over the cereal boxes, or the chairs, or open the cookie jar?

  Thinking of the cookie jar made his eyes dance back to the elf. If only its eyes were real and its mouth could speak, then Brandon might know what was going on in the house while he was away. The elf, with its crooked glare, had seen it all. Brandon stepped to it, crouching down and placing his elbows on the counter in front of the cookie jar.

  “It wasn’t you, was it?” he asked Snowball. The elf didn’t respond, as expected, although Brandon still harbored a buried fear that it just might open its mouth and start talking.

  Why, yes, Mr. Brandon, it was I, Snowball, it would say in a cheery, high-pitched voice. I was just trying to start dinner for you and had a little accident. I hope you’re not too upset, I was only trying to help!

  Brandon imagined the little elf saying these words and howled laughter. His mind still raced with possibilities, but he tried to hear Erin’s voice telling him that there was an explanation for everything. A raccoon had chewed his car lines, a crazed Nemo knocked the pictures off the wall, and a shift in water pressure caused all of the faucets to turn on in the middle of the night. And now, maybe it was an enlarged rat that ran along the counter and knocked over the knives?

  Yes, a rat. That’s what we’ll go with.

  The lie felt fake as soon as it formed, but it was better than the truth. It
was believable enough to help Brandon pick up the knives and put them away. The lie pushed him through the rest of the evening, allowing a fabricated smile for the kids and Erin. The lie helped him sleep at night.

  The lie kept him sane, and that’s all he wanted heading into the weekend.

  8

  December 14

  Brandon long had the ability to lie to himself and pretend everything was okay. It was a process he had mastered during his adolescent years. First, he repeated the lie to himself at least 100 times, letting it play over in his head until it started to sound funny. Second, and most importantly, he had to keep his mind occupied. Any down time would let his mind wander, and wandering led to doubting the lie. Lastly, with the lie still fresh, he needed to go to bed and sleep away the truth. This allowed his brain to shut down, and by the time he’d wake in the morning, the line between truth and lie became even more blurred.

  Erin agreed that getting a good night’s sleep on Friday night meant plenty of energy for the upcoming weekend with the kids. Monday was also the start of the kids’ winter break, three weeks that Erin took off from work to stay home with them.

  Brandon had no issue falling asleep. He was still beyond fatigued from the week of interrupted sleep or early morning chaos. Erin was snoring before her head even hit the pillow, and within minutes Brandon dozed off, thinking about how he just might get more than eight hours of sleep, a rarity since becoming a parent over four years ago. The kids normally woke around seven on weekends, jumping on Brandon and Erin to wake up and feed them cereal, laughing as they did so.

  * * *

  They enjoyed nine hours of continuous sleep. The kids didn’t wake up until 7:45, and even still, stayed out of their parents’ bedroom. Brandon heard them giggling down the hallway, Riley whispering in her softest voice, Jordan copying her every word in between banging what sounded like a toy car against the wall and laughing each time. Erin had a knack for floating at a level just below consciousness, her eyes swimming behind closed eyelids as her brain heard the kids, but refused to allow her to wake up.

  Brandon remained half-awake, half-asleep, his head heavy as his eyeballs rolled back into his head, sleep reaching out for another grasp to take him back under for a few more minutes. Jordan banging on the walls kept him from falling all the way under, but he still enjoyed lying in bed with no physical interruption aside from his raging morning erection. When he fell into this trance, time became fuzzy. He had spent other mornings like this to see a whole hour pass, while others was only five minutes—even though it felt like an hour.

  This particular Saturday was one where they enjoyed the extra hour in bed, the kids’ voices distant.

  It wasn’t until Nemo started barking downstairs that woke Brandon all the way, his body seemingly glued to the bed in complete relaxation. The bark echoed throughout the house, traveling up the stairs and directly into Brandon’s ears, causing him to moan as he stretched himself awake. Erin rolled over and folded the ends of her pillow over her ears like a teenager when their mom barges in to wake them up on Monday morning.

  The kids stampeded down the hallway, tearing into the bedroom in a cluster of laughs and giggles.

  “Daddy, it’s time to wake up!” Riley cried out.

  “Time ‘ake up, Daddy,” Jordan copied.

  They ran to Brandon’s side of the bed, and he kept his eyes closed to feign sleep, cracking them open just enough to see their grinning faces as they stood a whole twelve inches away from his face.

  Jordan reached out with his little fingers, jaw hanging open as he used great concentration to reach over and pull open Brandon’s eyelids. Brandon could no longer contain himself as he burst into laughter, prompting more giggles from Jordan and Riley.

  “What are you silly monsters doing?” he asked, sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed. Riley grinned so wide her gums appeared larger than her teeth. Her hair stood in a static, frazzled mess. Jordan pulled his hand back and promptly placed his thumb in his mouth where he seemed to think it belonged.

  “Daddy,” Riley said as if she was about to make a grand revelation. “Me and Jordan are hungry for cereal.”

  “Bwekfess,” Jordan said, his version of breakfast.

  “Yeah, I think Nemo is hungry, too,” Brandon said, standing from the bed. Nemo had kept on barking, stopping suddenly when Brandon’s feet hit the ground.

  A sharp thump came from downstairs, sending slight vibrations up to the bedroom, the sound like that of a bowling ball dropping on the slick lane.

  Erin bolted upright, hair in messy tangles just like her daughter. “What was that?”

  Brandon’s heart immediately raced. It’s the spirits, he thought.

  “I’ll go look,” Brandon said, hurrying out of bed, the kids still giggling at each other, oblivious to their parents’ panic. He left the bedroom without grabbing his baseball bat, not wanting to spark any unnecessary curiosity from the kids. Besides, Nemo probably just knocked something over; he had been barking uncontrollably.

  Keep telling yourself that, that’s good. Start the lie before you even see what damage is done. Nemo was barking and knocked something over, perfect start to another lovely lie.

  Brandon barreled down the stairs, his heart wanting to leap out of his throat. He nearly slipped on a step that would have sent him tumbling, but managed to keep his balance by squeezing the handrail. His feet hit the hardwood and he immediately looked left into the family room, saw nothing of significance, then looked right into the living room where the Christmas tree was toppled over on its side, a couple of ornaments shattered on the nearby coffee table.

  Nemo lay in the corner, his face buried into the ground as his tail wagged violently. Brandon immediately took this as a sign of guilt, not considering how a dog of Nemo’s size could knock over a seven-foot-tall tree.

  “Nemo!” Brandon shouted. “Get outside right now!” He shot up a hand that pointed to the kitchen where the doggy door waited, and followed his dog toward it. Brandon returned to the living room to find a dark patch of carpet where Nemo had just cowered and pissed himself. “Goddammit!”

  “What’s wrong?” Erin called from the top of the stairs, the kids snickering behind her.

  “Nemo knocked the Christmas tree over.”

  Once the words left his mouth he realized how little the explanation made sense. Of course Nemo didn’t knock over the tree. That would be like Brandon knocking over the massive pine tree in their backyard with nothing but his bare hands.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get it cleaned up, it’s not too bad. We’ll just need to vacuum around it.”

  The tree stand, though sideways, remained in the same location. Brandon squatted toward the middle of the tree and reached both arms into the thick, plastic shrubbery, the fake tree branches and bristles scratching his arms as his hands grasped the pole that held it all together. He nudged the tree, lifting it a couple of inches before his arms gave out and dropped it back to the floor with a quiet whoosh.

  The tree was much heavier than it looked, so Brandon planted his feet in the carpet and reset his grip before hoisting it upward with a loud grunt through his gritted teeth. He could barely move the tree on his own, so how was a dog a tenth of his size supposed to do so much as nudge it a centimeter?

  The tree stood back in its place, dozens of green bristles scattered on the carpet where it had lain. Brandon retrieved the trashcan from the kitchen and swept the shattered ornaments into it. Fortunately, none of Erin’s specialty ornaments had been damaged, only a couple of the basic shiny balls that graced almost every Christmas tree in the world.

  Erin ran down the stairs, the kids tiny footsteps trailing behind her.

  “You sure you don’t need any help?”

  “It’s fine. Nemo is outside now. I just need to vacuum up these bristles and clean where he pissed on the carpet.”

  Brandon nodded to the corner where Nemo had marked his territory.

  “What’s gotten into him lat
ely?” Erin asked, putting her hands on her hips as she studied the Christmas tree. A few ornaments had been moved out of place, but she could adjust those later. “First the stuffed animals, and now this. Maybe we need to take him in to get looked at.”

  I’m sure it’s all the Christmas music making him suicidal, Brandon wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut and smirked instead.

  “I don’t know,” he eventually said. “I’m sure he’s just stressed because he hasn’t finished his holiday shopping yet.” This earned a chuckle from Erin as the kids wandered off to the family room where their pile of toys awaited. “Go start the kids’ cereal and I’ll finish cleaning up this mess.”

  Erin offered a lopsided grin before turning to the kitchen. Brandon’s lie worked. He had already convinced himself that Nemo had somehow knocked the tree over. He finished cleaning up the mess, ready for a relaxing weekend with the family, unaware of the hell that awaited him before Monday would arrive.

  9

  December 15

  Brandon didn’t let the tipped-over tree eat away at his mind like the events earlier in the week had. His shift in attitude helped him relax during the weekend. They had spent most of Saturday at home, not going out until the evening to see the Christmas lights display at the downtown zoo. The kids grew hypnotized with the displays, lured into a trance until they were able to meet Santa before leaving.

  Sunday passed quietly, a heavy snowstorm starting to dump after noon, keeping Brandon glued to the couch to watch football while the kids scattered their toys across the family room for an inside day of fun. Erin lay on the couch most of the day, falling in and out of naps depending on the kids’ noise level. She had also kept Snowball alive, moving him both Saturday and Sunday morning, first to dangle off the front door’s knob, as if he was trying to leave, and secondly at the dining room table, where she also staged a dinner for him with some of the kids’ toy silverware and food.