Piercing the Darkness: A Charity Horror Anthology for the Children's Literacy Initiative

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “Yeah.”

  “And she’s unconscious?”

  “Huh?”

  “She’s not awake?”

  “Unh-unh.”

  “Can you tell if she’s breathing?”

  “I...I think.”

  “We’re on it,” said Sam.

  “Is your front door unlocked, Suzy?”

  “The door?”

  “Your front door.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know how to lock and unlock the front door, Suzy?”

  “Yes. Mommy showed me.”

  “Okay. I want you to put the phone down somewhere—don’t hang up but just put it down somewhere, okay? and go see if the door’s unlocked. And if it isn’t unlocked, I want you to unlock it so that we can come in and help mommy, okay? But don’t hang up the phone, all right? Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She heard a rattling sound. Telephone against wood. Excellent.

  In a moment she heard the girl pick up again.

  “Hi.”

  “Did you unlock the door, Suzy?”

  “Uh-huh. It was locked.”

  “But you unlocked it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I love this kid, she thought. This kid is terrific.

  “Great, Suzy. You’re doing absolutely great. We’ll be over there in a couple of minutes, okay? Just a few minutes now. Did you see what happened to your mommy? Did you see her fall?”

  “I was in my bedroom. I heard a big thump.”

  “So you don’t know why she fell?

  “Unh-unh. She just did.”

  “Did she ever fall before, Suzy?”

  “Unh-unh.”

  “Does mommy take any medicine?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does mommy take any medicine? Has she been sick at all?”

  “She takes aspirin sometimes.”

  “Just aspirin?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How old are you, Suzy?”

  “Four.”

  “Four? Wow, that’s pretty old!”

  Giggles. “Is not.”

  “Listen, mommy’s going to be just fine. We’re on our way and we’re going to take good care of her. You’re not scared or anything, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good girl. ‘Cause you don’t need to be. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any relatives who live nearby, Suzy? Maybe an aunt or an uncle? Somebody we can call to come and stay with you for a while, while we take care of mommy?”

  “Grandma. Grandma stays with me.”

  “Okay, who’s grandma? Can you give me her name?”

  Giggles again. “Grandma, silly.”

  She heard sirens in the background. Good response time, she thought. Not bad at all.

  “Okay, Suzy. In a few minutes the police are going to come to your door...”

  “I can see them through the window!”

  She had to smile at the excitement in her voice. “Good. And they’re going to ask you a lot of the same questions I just asked you. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You tell them just what you told me.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then there are going to be other people, they’ll be dressed all in white, and they’re going to come to the door in a few minutes. They’ll bring mommy to the hospital so that a doctor can see her and make sure she’s all better. Alright?”

  “Yes.”

  She heard voices, footfalls, a door closing. A feminine voice asking the little girl for the phone.

  “‘Bye.”

  “‘Bye, Suzy. You did really, really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  And she had.

  “Minty, badge 457. We’re on the scene.”

  She told Minty about the grandmother and when it was over Officer Dana Keeley took a very deep breath and smiled. This was one to remember. A four-year-old kid who very likely just saved her mother from drowning. She’d check in with the hospital later to see about the condition of one L. Jackson but she felt morally certain they were in pretty good shape here. In the meantime she couldn’t wait to tell Chuck. She knew her husband was going to be proud of her. Hell, she was proud of her. She thought she’d set just the right tone with the little girl—friendly and easy—plus she’d got the job done down to the last detail.

  The girl hadn’t even seemed terribly frightened.

  That was the way it was supposed to go of course, she was there to keep things calm among other things but still it struck her as pretty amazing.

  Four years old. Little Suzy, she thought, was quite a child. She hoped that when the time came for her and Chuck they’d have the parenting skills and the sheer good luck to have kids who turned out as well as she did.

  She wondered if the story’d make the evening news.

  She thought it deserved a mention.

  ««—»»

  “Incredible,” Minty said. “Little girl’s all of four years old. She knows enough to dial 911, gives the dispatcher everything she needs, has the good sense to turn off the tap and hit the drain lever so her mother doesn’t drown, knows exactly where her mother’s address book is so we can locate Mrs. Jackson over there, shows us up to the bathroom where mom’s lying naked, with blood all over the place for godsakes...”

  “I know,” said Crocker. “I wanna be just like her when I grow up.”

  Minty laughed but it might easily have been no laughing matter. Apparently Liza Jackson had begun to draw her morning bath and when she stepped into the still-flowing water, slipped and fell, because when they found her she had one dry leg draped over the ledge of the tub and the other buckled under her. She’d hit the ceramic soap dish with sufficient force to splatter blood from her head-wound all the way up to the shower rod.

  Hell of a thing for a little kid to see.

  Odd that she hadn’t mentioned all that blood to the dispatcher. Head-wounds—even ones like Liza Jackson’s which didn’t seem terribly serious—bled like crazy. For a four-year-old she’d imagine it would be pretty scary. But then she hadn’t had a problem watching the EMS crew wheel her barely-concious mother out into the ambulance either. This was one tough-minded little girl.

  “What did you get from the grandmother?”

  “She didn’t want to say a whole lot in front of the girl but I gather the divorce wasn’t pretty. He’s moved all the way out to California, sends child support when he gets around to it. Liza Jackson’s living on inherited money from the grandfather and a part-time salary at, uh, let’s see...”

  He flipped through his pad, checked his notes.

  “...a place called It’s the Berries...”

  “I know it. Country store kind of affair, caters to the tourist trade. Does most of its business during summer and leaf-season. Dried flower arrangements, potpourri, soaps and candles, jams and honey. That kind of thing.”

  “She’s got no brothers or sisters. But Mrs. Jackson has no problem with taking care of Suzy for the duration.”

  “Fine.”

  She glanced at them over on the sofa. Mrs. Jackson was smiling slightly, brushing out the girl’s long straight honey-brown hair. A hospital’s no place for a little girl, she’d said. We’ll wait for word here. The EMS crew had assured them that while, yes, there was the possibility of concussion and concussions could be tricky, she’d come around very quickly, so that they doubted the head-wound was serious, her major problem at this point being loss of blood—and Mrs. Jackson was apparently willing to take them at their word. Minty wouldn’t have, had it been her daughter. But then Minty wasn’t a Maine-iac born and bred and tough as a rail spike. Suzy had her back to the woman, her expression unreadable—a pretty, serious-looking little girl in a short blue-and-white checkered dress that was not quite a party dress but not quite the thing for pre-school either.

  When they’d arrived she’d still been in her pyjamas. She guessed the dress was grandma’s idea. />
  The press would like it. There was a local tv crew waiting outside—waiting patiently for a change. The grandmother had already okayed the interview.

  They were pretty much squared away here.

  She walked over to the couch.

  “Do you need us to stay, Mrs. Jackson? Until the interview’s through I mean.”

  “That’s not necessary, Officer. We can handle this ourselves, I’m sure.”

  She stood and extended her hand. Minty took it. The woman’s grip was firm and dry.

  “I want to thank you for your efforts on my daughter’s behalf,” she said. “And for arriving as promptly as you did.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. But the one we’ve all got to thank, really, is your granddaughter. Suzy? You take good care now, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Minty believed her.

  ««—»»

  Carole Belliver had rarely done an interview that went so smoothly. The little girl had no timidity whatsoever in front of the camera—she didn’t fidget, she didn’t stutter, she didn’t weave back and forth or shift out of frame—all of which was typical behavior for adults on camera. She answered Carole’s questions clearly and without hesitation.

  Plus she was pretty as all hell. The camera loved her.

  There was only one moment of unusable tape because of something the girl had done as opposed to their usual false stops and starts and that was when she dropped the little blonde doll she was holding and stooped to pick it up and the dress she was wearing was so short you could see her white panties which Carole glimpsed briefly and promptly glanced away from, and then wondered why. Was it that the little girl acted and sounded so much like a miniature adult that Carole was embarrassed for her, as you would be for an adult?

  It was possible. She’d done and thought sillier things in her life.

  The piece was fluff of course but it was good fluff. Not some flower-show or county fair but a real human interest story for a change. Unusual and touching. With a charming kid as its heroine. She could be proud of this one. This one wasn’t going to make her cringe when it was broadcast.

  It occurred to her that they could all be proud of this one, everybody involved really, from the dispatchers god knows to the police and EMS team to the grandmother who’d no doubt helped raise this little wonder and finally, extending even to her and her crew. Everybody got to do their job, fulfill their responsibilities efficiently and well. And the one who had made all of this happen for them was a four-year-old.

  Quite a day.

  They had down all the reactions shots. All they needed now was her tag line.

  “This is Carole Belliver—reporting to you on a brave, exceptional little girl—from Knottsville, Maine.”

  “Got it,” Bernie said.

  “You want to cover it?”

  “Why? I said I got it.”

  “Okay. Jeez, fine.”

  What the hell was that about? Bernie had just snapped at her. Bernie was the nicest, most easygoing cameraman she’d ever worked with. She couldn’t believe it. It was totally out of character. He and Harold, her soundman, were packing their gear into the van as if they were in some big hurry to get out of there. And she realized now that they’d both been unusually silent ever since the interview. Normally when the camera stopped rolling you couldn’t shut them up.

  But the interview had gone well. Hadn’t it?

  Was it something she’d said or done?

  By now the print media had arrived, some of them all the way from Bangor and Portland and they were talking to Suzy and her grandmother on the front steps where she’d taped them earlier. Flashbulbs popped. Suzy smiled.

  Bernie and Harold looked grim.

  “Uh, guys. You want to let me into the loop? I thought everything went fine here.”

  “It did,” Bernie said.

  “So? So what’s the problem?”

  “You didn’t see? You were standing right there. I thought you must have—then went on anyway. Sorry.”

  “See what?”

  “When she dropped the doll.”

  “Right, I saw her drop the doll.”

  “And she bent down to pick it up.”

  “Yeah?”

  He sighed. “I’ve got it all on tape. We can take a look over at the studio. I want to know it wasn’t just my imagination.”

  “It wasn’t,” Harold said. “I saw it too.”

  “I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”

  She glanced over at Suzy on the steps. The girl was looking directly at her, ignoring the reporters, frowning—and for a moment held her gaze. She’s sick of this, Carole thought. That’s the reason for the frown. She smiled. Suzy didn’t.

  And she had no idea what all the mystery was about until they rolled the tape at the studio and she watched the little girl drop the doll and stoop and Bernie said there and stopped the tape so that she saw what she hadn’t noticed at the time because she’d looked away so abruptly, strangely embarrassed for this little girl so mature and adult for her age so that they’d simply not registered for her—the long wide angry welts along the back of both thighs just below the pantyline which told her that this was not only a smart, brave little girl but perhaps a sad and foolish one too who had drained the tub dry and dialed 911 to save her mother’s life.

  Which may not have been worth saving.

  Nobody had noticed this. Not the cops, not EMS. Nobody.

  She rolled the tape again. Jesus.

  She wondered about the grandmother. She had to know. How could she not know?

  “What do you want to do?” Bernie said.

  She felt a kind of hardness, an access to stone will. Not unlike the little girl’s perhaps. She remembered that last look from the steps.

  “I want to phone the reporters who were out there with us, kill the story. Dupe the tapes. Phone the police and child welfare and get copies to them. I want us to do what her daughter evidently couldn’t bring herself to do. I want us to do our best to drown the bitch.”

  They both seemed fine with that.

  — | — | —

  DEALING WITH MAMA LILA

  SANDY DELUCA

  1.

  I fell in love with Marko Lovel when I was twenty, swept away by his good looks and sweet-talking style, unaware of his blood-thirsty nature and his family’s lust for darkness; and fearing that he’d learn about my stretch in prison, but the Lovels were natural-born grifters and thieves, living without apology or morality—a family after my own heart—and people who sometimes practiced their twisted deeds beyond the natural world.

  Mama Lila Lovel was sixteen when Marko was born and she kept her figure later on, donning fitted jeans and sweaters that showed off her shapely breasts. Her hair was black and shiny; her eyes a startling shade of green and her lips were full and pretty. Sometimes I’d catch my brother, Nando, checking her out, and I’d tell him, “She’s too old for you.”

  Nando said, “What’s age got to do with anything? She knows how to shuffle those cards.”

  Mama told fake fortunes and performed bogus séances, scamming desperate women, who willingly drank Mama’s herb tea, and then claimed it gave them bad dreams. Once in a while somebody filed a complaint against her, but nothing ever stuck. She might have been a fraud, but she knew how to play with magic—the real kind—the kind that got her off the hook, but nothing ever has a one hundred percent guarantee.

  The mojo rubbed off on Marko, and he locked himself in our basement every morning, reading from a book passed down from Mama Lila’s grandmother. He memorized the words, hoping he’d have as much success as his predecessors. And every night he met with dangerous dealers and hustlers, planning robberies, scams and revenge on those who betrayed them.

  Marko got shot, robbing a gas station, by a dirty cop who claimed my husband was packing a loaded pistol and pointing it at his Sergeant. I should have been there, waiting out back in my car, but the gas gauge was broken and I thought Marko had filled the tank.
I’d circled the block a few times, knowing he would be emerging from an alley door, but I ran out of gas a half block from the robbery.

  Marko wasn’t armed that night, but Internal Affairs covered up that fact. Mama Lila put a curse on the entire police force—and she cursed me, too. Nothing happened right away, but I’ve learned that you shouldn’t underestimate the power of a gypsy curse.

  ««—»»

  Two weeks before Marko died, he sat in our parlor, lost in thought and gazing in a mirror, another family heirloom; one he claimed predicted the future—most likely an item bartered or stolen during a phony gypsy card reading.

  I looked into the glass and saw my own reflection, but Marko claimed he saw other images, and he told me, “Hey, if I die, can you go to my grave, dig me up and get the things Mama buries me with?”

  “Stop kidding around, okay?”

  “My jewelry—my valuables—should belong to you, not buried six feet under. Might sound crazy now, but…just do it if it happens, all right?”

  “You’re asking me to be a grave robber now?” I chuckled, and then told him. “You’re not going anywhere for a long time.”

  He tapped the mirror’s gilded frame, thought for a moment, and then said slowly, “I deal with a lot of bad people and you just never know what could happen.”

  “You sound like a crazy man.”

  He took my hand. “Just do it, okay?”

  His words chilled me, and a dark feeling churned in my gut.

  He winked at me, then laid the mirror face-down on the coffee table. He rose from his chair, walked away with his hands tucked in his pockets, whistling, and saying something unintelligible. I turned the looking glass over, gazed into it, and for a split second—a flash—I saw blood splattered on pavement.

  I lost it after Marko died, couldn’t function, and Dr. Gill gave me sedatives, and sleeping came real easy. Mama Lila identified Marko’s body, made the plans for his burial and brought me a bottle of Jack and some weed, telling me she knew how much I was hurting.

  We buried Marko at night, in an olden graveyard—deep in thick woods—where the Lovel family had gone for generations. Despite my protests, Mama Lila tossed my husband’s belongings in his casket—things promised to me.