The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  “What were you doing? You know it’s dangerous in there.” His voice was a piercing, animalistic cry tinged with the spit frothing in his mouth. He was almost rabid, a belligerence spewing from him that I’d never, ever detected before.

  “It’s dangerous in there. In school. In gym.” My heart pounded so loudly, I swore they could hear it in the next town. My brain swirled, wrapping around memories of gym and Daddy and the picture of Mama and all that had transpired. My head pounded with fear, with memories, and with the knowledge that I’d been a fool.

  “What?” he asked, releasing my chin.

  “She scares me. Clarissa scares me. She says bad things. I need to protect myself.”

  “What were you getting from there?”

  I wanted to tell him I was getting one of the saws or one of the knives, the ones I saw cut through flesh. But I could tell even though his voice was calming, the dangerous side of Daddy wasn’t through yet. I felt for the first time in my life that if I told him what I knew, he might kill me. He might kill me and I would never know what happened to Mama. Sure, the serenity of the field was alluring. But not yet. I needed to find out about Mama first, felt driven to uncover the answers. It was like the urge to wear my red rainboots even when it wasn’t raining or the need to scratch my neck—the desire to find the answers was an unwavering siren’s song that lured me in and wouldn’t let go.

  Plus, there was Daddy to think about. Even though I was scared of him in the moment, I also knew without a doubt that I needed to save him. I needed to stick around so I could keep an eye out for him. I wouldn’t be able to protect him from Clarissa’s comments or the town or the police if he killed me. I needed to stay alive.

  “I don’t know. But you say it’s dangerous in there and I need something dangerous to protect myself.” The words flew off my tongue in a semblance of rationality. I was thankful that I could croak out the words, that they didn’t get lodged in my throat like they sometimes did.

  Daddy pinched the bridge of his nose, allowing me to finally avert my eyes. I heaved in and out, the air filling my lungs. I wanted to dash to the field, to find my tree and sit underneath it, rocking gently in the night air.

  “Fuck, Ruby. That’s not how we do things. We Marlowes aren’t like that, are we?”

  Yes, Daddy. You are.

  But I shook my head no, the obedient daughter he always knew me to be.

  “Fuck. I thought I taught you better.”

  You did, Daddy. I know how to do lots of things. I know how to clean up dripping puddles of blood. I know what bones sound like hitting concrete. I know what patterns blood makes when the saw cuts in. I know what cuts to make where and how. I know how to make the most of the trash bags.

  “It’s not your fault,” I murmur.

  “It’s that fucking girl’s fault. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, Daddy. Don’t.” Yes, Daddy. Do.

  “Get in the house, Ruby. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. But until then, look at me.”

  I froze, peering up at him, staring at his eyebrows. They had wisps of gray in them. Did he know that? Suddenly, that bothered me.

  “If I ever catch you going into my garage or trying to, it’s not going to be good. Not good at all. You hear me? It’s dangerous, Ruby. It’s dangerous having you in there.”

  I looked at him, wondering if he could see it in my eyes that I knew. That I knew what dangerous, beautiful things happened in there. His eyes didn’t give it away. They only betrayed the burning frenzy simmering in his soul, in his chest. It was the first time I’d detected that level of rage focused on me.

  “Yes,” I assured, the word punchy and terse.

  Daddy walked me to the house, up the stairs, and to bed. He tucked me back in, careful to do it just right. He was back to the familiar man I knew instead of the monstrous person who had scared me moments ago.

  “I’m sorry, Ruby.” The words were breathy and soft, marked by what I assumed was a genuine remorse.

  I wanted to ask for what, but I thought maybe I knew. Subconsciously, maybe I’ve always known.

  “Mama had pretty hair,” I whispered into the darkness once he turned to leave.

  He paused in the doorway, and maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I saw his face crinkle, his forehead scrunch just a bit like when he’s deep in thought.

  “She did,” he agreed. He leaned on the threshold, and I thought he might ask me something else. Instead, he shut the door, leaving me to my thoughts and the whirring sound of the fan for the rest of the night. But I had a story to tell. This story. It felt too momentous to let go.

  Daddy got mad at me.

  I thought he might kill me.

  And now, though, I think Clarissa might be next on his list.

  Goodnight, Diary. I need to get some sleep now—if sleep will come.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 14, 2014

  10:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve never been so pissed at Dad in my life. Never. That’s why I’m late writing. So much has happened. I’ve been stewing in anger and haven’t had a chance to write until now. My hands were too shaky to hold the red pen, to scrawl down the words that were crying for escape.

  He’s in the garage now. He thinks I’m sleeping. I saw him carrying a black-haired lady from his truck. I’m angry that it isn’t Clarissa. When he said he would take care of things, he meant the normal way. Going into the school and complaining. The way that doesn’t work. It’s annoying. I thought for sure he meant he was going to chop up Clarissa. I was anxious to see her blood splatter on the floor.

  But that’s not what I’m mad about. It’s much worse than him letting Clarissa live.

  How could he do this?

  It’s Ruby and Daddy. That’s it. That’s all we need. He’s said it over and over and over. But for the first time ever, he brought home a woman. Into our house. And not to butcher into pieces, not so I could watch the beautiful blood pool and spill and then disappear.

  He thinks I need a babysitter. He thinks I need a positive female role model. I can’t believe it.

  Her name is Stacie. Stacie Grenshod. What a disgusting name. What a terrible, horrible name. It reminds me of green and shoddy, two ugly words. I hate green. She is apparently 21 and dropped out of college and needs a job. So Daddy hired her.

  It’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard. We don’t need her. I cried and fought with him about it when she showed up. He told me that he knows I’ve been having a hard time and it will be good for me to have a female in my life.

  “I have you, Daddy. That’s all I need,” I stammered through the tears.

  “I know. But Ruby, I can’t be here all the time. I have things I have to do, places to go sometimes.”

  “Then take me with you,” I urged. I wondered if the places he was referring to had to do with the killing game. But wouldn’t having Stacie here complicate things? Isn’t it dangerous to have her lurking about? What if she uncovered the game? Daddy is being an idiot.

  And I don’t need a female influence. I wonder if he found out what happened at school, what the kids said about Mama. I haven’t asked him. I don’t care. She is gone, always has been. I don’t love her. How could I love someone I don’t know?

  I love Daddy. I want to protect him, not some red-haired woman I feel nothing for.

  Daddy has been going out more after dinner. Sometimes, when Daddy is off work, he goes to a bar called Tavern 7. It’s a city over from us, about twenty minutes away. I only know this because a few times, we ran into some guys at the grocery store while we were out and they asked if he would be coming over to Tavern 7 anytime soon. I think he used to go when I was at chess club. Maybe that’s why he got so frustrated when I quit. I pretended to study the apples while I listened. I pieced together that sometimes, Daddy goes there before garage game days. Sometimes days or weeks before. He also goes there sometimes when I’m at school and he’s not working. I thought he was always w
orking. It made me angry to know there were things he kept from me.

  Anyways, apparently he met this Stacie woman there a few weeks ago. I’d heard him slip out around ten one night, probably the night he met her. I remember he came back empty-handed. I hate those nights. They get my hopes up for nothing. No cleaning. No blood. No hard work by Daddy.

  Today, at 5:03 p.m., according to my watch, there was a knock at the door. And let’s be clear—there’s almost never a knock at the door.

  Startled by the change in procedure, I watched Daddy saunter to the door as I stood in the kitchen, eating my dry cereal. I like crunchy right now. It’s the best. Milk makes it way too soggy. And that’s when I saw it. The smile. The smile Daddy reserves for two occasions: me, and for the garage. But here was a new occasion. He was smiling at something, or rather, someone else.

  The black-haired woman at the door.

  Her hair was silky and shiny, gorgeous. Not as pretty as Mama’s, of course. Skinny and tan, she had a pointy chin and high cheekbones. Her almond eyes were mysterious and pretty in all the right ways. She looked like a supermodel.

  “Hi, I’m so excited. I baked some of those cookies we were talking about the other night, so I brought a batch.” Her voice was high-pitched with a scratchy quality that I hated. She spoke too loud and too fast, and I hated the way she looked at Daddy. She was bubbly and perky and dressed like she was going to a princess ball in some flashy dress.

  I stared, chewing my cereal and weighing the interaction. Daddy blushed. He never blushes. What was he doing?

  “You didn’t have to do that.” His words came out soft and lilted a bit.

  “It’s no problem. Hi, Ruby, I’m Stacie. I’m really excited that we’re going to get to know each other. Do you want a cookie?” She blinked at me, holding the plate out as she crossed the kitchen like I was some homeless dog she was trying to lure. She clutched the cookies like they were gold treasure. I didn’t move, leaning on the counter like a robot, wringing my fingers on my right hand. I kept chewing, crunching louder, like I hadn’t heard her. I stared at the floor, not wanting to acknowledge her. Let her think I’m stupid.

  “Ruby, please, can you say hi? Stacie is so excited to spend time with you when I have to go away for the evenings for work or meetings.” Daddy acted like I was a two-year-old.

  I shoved the ceramic bowl on the counter in one quick jerk that startled Stacie, brushed past her, and stormed up the steps. I wouldn’t be any part of this. I shut my door but left it open a crack.

  “I’m sorry. She’s at that difficult age. And her condition doesn’t help things.”

  Tears burned my eyes. Daddy never referred to me as having a condition. He loathed people who did. What was he trying to be? Why was he trying to impress her?

  I pulled out the picture of Mama I had stolen from Daddy’s room when I was young. I touched her pretty red hair, thought about how different things might’ve been. I flipped the photo over, looking at the words scrawled. Two words, in Daddy’s handwriting.

  I’m sorry.

  Why was he sorry? I’d always wondered. I’d always been confused as to why those words were on the picture.

  But now, I was starting to realize Daddy wasn’t perfect. He had a lot to be sorry about. Like bringing Stacie, some strange woman, into our house. Like thinking I needed a babysitter. I sighed, wiping tears from my eyes as I stared at Mama’s slender figure in the photograph.

  10.08.04.

  The date on the photograph. Underneath the I’m Sorry. Is that when Mama died? And what happened? I was two, not old enough to know. And Daddy didn’t talk about it. It was one of the walled-up things he didn’t like to mention.

  10.08.04.

  The date everything changed for Daddy. What was he like then? What was I like? Were we happy as a family? Would we be happy now if she were still here?

  After a while, I heard Daddy leave. I tucked the photograph back, swiped at my eyes, and climbed into bed, pretending I was asleep. Stacie softly knocked on the door.

  “Ruby? Ruby, I know you’re not sleeping.” She walked gently in and sat on my bed.

  “Ruby, listen. I’m sorry. I know you don’t know me. But I want to get to know you. I know this age is really tough. I want to do what I can to help.”

  I sat up slowly, turning to look at her as I wrung my hands. I thought for a long, long moment about my words. Then, I did something I rarely do. I raised my chin so I could look into her perfectly lined, shimmery green eyes.

  “Then get the fuck away,” I said. I used the word we’re not supposed to use. Daddy uses it when he’s really mad, and it usually works. I like how it punches the air when it leaves a person’s mouth. It makes a statement, a look-at-me statement that I never experience otherwise. Stacie looked startled.

  “Okay, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. I’ll check on you in a while.” Her voice was subdued. I’d killed the light in her. That made me happy. Maybe she’d quit. Maybe Daddy would get rid of this nuisance in our home.

  Daddy and Ruby. That’s all we need. Not a babysitter. Not Grandma. No one.

  A few hours later, I heard Daddy’s truck. Stacie had checked on me several more times, but I’d given her the same response. I heard them exchange words. Maybe she was quitting. Then, Daddy came upstairs. I sat up.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” I murmured, realizing he was probably disappointed. The nark certainly told him about my outburst. I was sure a goody-two-shoes like Stacie would be busting to tattle. It would be worth it, though, if it got rid of her. Anxious, I waited for him to tell me that Stacie quit.

  “Stacie said you weren’t very nice to her.”

  “Sorry,” I said again, picking at my nail.

  “Ruby, I know this is hard. It’s just—I worry about you. I’m trying to be the best Dad, I am. Sometimes to do that, I need to get out of here and take care of things so I can support our family. I need to take care of you, but I can’t always be here. You know? And Stacie seems nice.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “I know Ruby. But please give her a chance. I think she could be good for you. The only other woman in your life is your grandma, and I know she’s not always the easiest to handle.”

  At that, in spite of myself, I laughed, thinking about the time Grandma fell down the stairs when she was watching me. I shook my head.

  “Okay, Daddy,” I replied. “I love you. Sorry I’m so bad and difficult sometimes.”

  “And I’m sorry I’m not perfect. I’m sorry sometimes I make bad choices.”

  “You’re perfect to me. You don’t do bad things. You do beautiful things,” I replied. He looked at me puzzled, and for a moment, I wondered if he knew that I know. I fantasized that he knew, that we could play the game together.

  However, dreams don’t always come true. Daddy brushed the words and perhaps the inner awareness he had aside. “I’m not perfect. But I’m glad you think so. I love you.”

  He offered me a fist bump. He knows this is what I prefer to hugs. I smiled. This is what I mean. He’s perfect. He knows me. He respects me. Daddy went down for TV time, and so here I am writing in you.

  I’m still mad about Stacie. I’m still pissed at Daddy. As I’ve been writing this, though, I’ve noticed the anger subsiding. Writing really is good for the soul, just like my teacher said once. Besides, I know I just have to be patient. I know that Stacie won’t last.

  I hope that eventually, maybe Stacie will end up in the garage, right where she belongs. And oh, what fun that will be to watch. To see those almond-shaped eyes staring blankly ahead as he cuts every perfectly toned, tanned limb to pieces.

  I’m sitting at my desk now. Daddy went outside after he thought I was asleep. I peeked out my window to see him opening the back of his truck. He has a cover for it now, so you can’t see in. He keeps it locked. So many locked and secured pieces in Daddy’s life. He’s a man with lots to hide.

  He pulled out a bunch of bulking bags before reaching way, way
, way to the back. I saw him pull out a woman. A black-haired woman. My heart leaped.

  It’s long, black hair, from what I can see here. I’m going to head down now. This must be why he had Stacie come over. He must have had to go pretty far to get this lady. Maybe he was worried that he wouldn’t be back in time to tuck me in, and he knows I don’t like it when I’m completely alone at night.

  I’ll write more later. I’m going down to watch.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 17, 2014

  6:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  When Daddy picked me up at school today, he had a surprise for me. Really, surprise isn’t the right word, though.

  Torture. Punishment. Hell. Nightmare.

  These are words that fit what he had in store for me.

  Stacie was coming over again. Apparently, he needed to go out for the night, and he felt like Stacie should come stay with me again. He thought I could give her another chance.

  “Hi, Ruby,” she said with a smile when I got home and she showed up. She proceeded to babble on and on and on about how she would make chicken nuggets for dinner and the cake I like and how she got me a present and she knows I don’t like surprises so she told me it was a clock and . . .

  I stared out the kitchen window, trying to drown out her voice. It was hard to ignore the grating squeaks. I thought about the garage and the killing game and how stupid Daddy was being. Even I could see how risky it was to have someone in our home. Why was he suddenly going out so much? And farther away? And earlier? I didn’t understand. But I did know one thing. I wanted Stacie gone. She was trouble. She was annoying. And I didn’t want her with me.

  Nonetheless, Daddy insisted I sit at the table, talk to her. I could see it was important to him. I couldn’t risk making him mad at me. It wouldn’t be good to push him away from me. If Daddy needed me to make Stacie work, I would try. I would have to let this problem solve itself. Or I’d have to solve it for us. Either way, it would take some patience.

  Once Daddy left, Stacie started making me dinner. She hummed songs while I sat on the living room floor, watching her and getting angrier and angrier. Over dinner, I asked Stacie a few questions. She was elated to tell me about her ridiculous life.