The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter

by L. A. Detwiler

  Something shattered, causing me to jump. There was a pause, and then finally, footsteps. I heard a door slam, and Grandma’s car pulled away. I wanted to feel sad, to feel stressed. But I didn’t. I felt happy. Daddy got rid of the horrible woman, at least for today. And I’d learned something important. She hated Mama. Why?

  When Daddy came upstairs, I sat quietly.

  “Daddy?” I asked after a long moment.

  “Yes, Ruby?”

  “Did Mama kill herself?” I don’t know where the words came from, but I’d been thinking about it a lot, even before Grandma’s conversation.

  He blinked, looking at me for a long, quiet moment.

  “Yes, Baby. It was complicated though.”

  My chest squeezed at the admittance. I guess I’d known all along but it just felt different hearing verification.

  There was a long pause. Daddy looked like he was somewhere else. I interrupted him, though. “Was it my fault?”

  Daddy’s face went pale. I felt like I’d caught him in something. He averted his eyes, and then paced around the room. He started wringing his hands.

  “No, Ruby. It wasn’t your fault. Your mama was complicated. Things were complicated.”

  I didn’t respond, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Daddy was lying. Why would Grandma say those things?

  “Are you going to disappear, too?” I asked, verbalizing for the first time the fear that’s always close to my heart.

  “Of course not. Of course not,” he whispered, looking at me intently. There was something on his face I couldn’t read. But bringing up Mama, it upset him. It made him different.

  I hope he was telling the truth. I hope he isn’t going to go away, too. I can live without Mama. But I couldn’t live without him.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  November 5, 2014

  3:47 a.m.

  Dear Diary,

  It feels weird writing in you. It’s so late. No wait, correction. It’s so early. Hold on, I’m going to light up my watch and double check.

  3:48 a.m. now. I’m at my desk, writing by the moonlight shining in. I don’t want to risk turning the lamp on, Daddy seeing. The light is on in the garage, and he’s working away.

  But not on a body. In fact, I’m not really sure what he’s doing. Cleaning up maybe? Reorganizing? I’m not certain. I’m dying to know, but I can’t sneak out without him knowing. It snowed early this year, the few inches piled around. It’s clean and fresh, and if I walked out back, he’d see my footprints. I couldn’t have that.

  Plus, he didn’t leave in the truck like he usually does. He isn’t out for his typical game. Maybe he’s just working on improvements to the game. I can’t wait until I can sneak down and take a peek at what he’s accomplishing in there. I wonder if it will make the killing game more fun or maybe just easier. I’m not sure.

  Or maybe the news scared him.

  We were watching the news at 6:00 like we usually do. But tonight, Daddy turned up the volume when a story came on about a girl with long black hair.

  Her name was Belinda Cartright. She is 26 and is missing from a city about forty miles away, Droveport. The news described her as being a drifter. Apparently, her family back in Nevada had traced her to Droveport, Pennsylvania, but no one has seen her for over a month. She never came back to check out of the motel room she’s renting.

  The newscaster quickly moved on to a story about a puppy after the picture flashed. Daddy rubbed his chin. I glanced at him from my peripherals. It looked like he was thinking hard. At first, there was a smirk, but then it shifted to something else. I’m not sure what Daddy was thinking.

  But I’m pretty sure I know why he was so interested in the story. The picture of Belinda—it sat familiar in a way. I think she was in the garage a while ago. I think that’s who the last black-haired lady in the game was, the one last month. My heart fluttered a bit. They’re looking for her. Could they trace her back to Daddy? What would happen to him if they figured it out?

  But then my fears were assuaged. Daddy’s smart. Cunning. Skilled. He’ll never get caught. Never. And if he did, well, I’d be his alibi. We learned about that in social studies. I’ll have to do some thinking on how to make his alibi airtight.

  But Stacie wouldn’t. Stacie could tell everyone how Daddy was gone. Could that hurt his case? We should’ve got her to the garage when we had a chance. Anger bubbles. Daddy was so stupid having her come over. So, so stupid. He really needs to let me help him so I can tell him when he has stupid ideas. I could really, really help him be better, safer at the game. I’m a good observer, and I’m good at spotting things most people miss. Why doesn’t Daddy see how helpful I could be to him?

  Belinda’s family will probably stop looking after a while. If she’s a drifter, well, who’s to say she didn’t just move on out of town, like Stacie did?

  It’s funny because looking at Belinda’s picture, she looks kind of like Stacie. Why did Belinda get picked for the game and not Stacie? Was it a moment of weakness? Did Stacie just manage to get away in time? Or was she too risky for some reason? I love thinking about what goes through his mind when he chooses, when he kills. It’s like a really intense, live game of chess, but I don’t quite have the rules all worked out. It’s like a puzzle trying to figure out how and why and when.

  Daddy’s still working, still perfecting his latest project in the garage. I bet the next woman he picks is in for a rude awakening. I bet she’s going to be better than ever. I bet he’s getting better and better, and whatever he’s making will make the masterpiece even more fun to watch.

  I’m itching with anticipation. Just itching. And not just my neck. All over.

  Who says you learn everything at school? I learn a whole heck of a lot more studying Daddy. Maybe he should’ve been a teacher.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  Fingers shake as she glances out the window.

  The rain drops pelt against the glass, and the day is murky.

  She is tired and worn. She is scared.

  Where does he go? When will he come back?

  And what will happen to them all?

  Will their lips stay glued, frozen like dandelions in December?

  Or will the tiny, wispy seeds float away and mingle with the frost,

  Waiting to thaw in the spring,

  For everyone to revel in their sparkling, glistening dew?

  She saw a rabbit once, alone in a field.

  Who waited for it to come home?

  Who will wait for her?

  She is alone and cold, but something else is building in her.

  Hunger. Starvation. Joy.

  She just needs him.

  But they need him, too.

  Part VI

  2017

  15 years old

  September 2, 2017

  8:57 p.m.

  Dear Diary,

  Daddy is Jack. That’s what I’ve come to figure out in Mr. Pearson’s English class. And being Jack isn’t exactly a good thing. I mean, sure we all have a little Jack in us. That was William Golding’s point. We all have that savage side that thirsts for pig’s blood. But I’m beginning to understand that Daddy’s pull towards Jack is stronger than most.

  I asked Daddy at the dinner table tonight if he’d ever read Lord of the Flies. He shrugged, said he didn’t remember it. Fascinating. Mr. Pearson’s right, I suppose. We sometimes don’t see ourselves as we really are. If Daddy did read the book, he doesn’t even remember Jack or connect what he does with him.

  I stayed after class today to talk to Mr. Pearson. I wanted to discuss my assessment of Daddy. Wouldn’t that be a fascinating essay? I didn’t, of course. I love Mr. Pearson. His slicked back hair, his tie knotted perfectly, every button on his shirt done up. He’s a bit quirky and knows a lot of different facts. He has some interesting ticks, too. Like how he has to tap his hand on the desk after every two sentences—I’ve counted—and how he always has a mint in his mouth. Always.

>   But he’s smart, he loves literature, and he loves poetry. Best of all, he doesn’t make me present to the class. He seems to understand that I’m on the fringes of the class. He doesn’t try to make it better or force me to socialize. He lets me be, lets me be different on the edges where, in truth, I flourish. Even better, he tells Clarissa off when she smart mouths me. I don’t think he likes Clarissa at all, which is an added bonus if you ask me.

  Yes, she’s of course in my class again. You’d think the overtly sexy party girl would be too busy flirting with her football team boy toys to get good enough grades for Honors English. But somehow she pulls it off. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that her Daddy is on the school board. I don’t know. But I never get rid of her and those red lips and nails. I swear, it’s like she knows red is my favorite color so she tries to ruin it by wearing it all the time. I’ve sort of gotten used to her constant antics, I guess. Stealing my stuff. Saying horrible things about me. Calling me retarded. Tripping me, slamming into me, the list goes on and on. I almost don’t notice.

  Almost.

  Except when she says stuff about Daddy. Then I notice. My hands start to tremble, and I have to chant to myself to stay strong and calm and flexible. Still, there are many days when I picture her, blood trickling down as her eyes stare blankly ahead. I picture what she’d look like in that grassy field, where her lips would be red from blood instead of lipstick.

  I’ve had to stay strong and quiet and just deal with her for so many years—but not anymore. Mr. Pearson notices what she does, and he makes sure she gets in trouble. There’s no sweet smile or charming words that get her out of it, either. He’s immune to her in all the best ways, which makes him even more of a favorite teacher to me.

  So tenth grade isn’t so bad. I’ve actually started to like school, if only for Mr. Pearson’s fifth period English class. I love hearing his ideas on the works we’re reading. I love hearing his feedback on my poetry. He never says it’s too dark or asks where it comes from. He just tells me what he likes and what could be better. I appreciate that. It feels good to have someone get my work, to get me.

  As much as I like Mr. Pearson, though, I know I like Daddy more. I can’t betray his trust, can’t tell Mr. Pearson about him. In truth, there’s not much to tell these days. Daddy seems to be done with the killing game. The last time he brought a lady back to the garage was almost three years ago. Three years. What made him stop? I’m not sure. Maybe he’s just done with it, like how I outgrew my red boots and didn’t want another pair. Sometimes we just change. We stop feeling what we used to feel, stop loving what we used to love, no matter how hard we fight against it. Change is hard, but sometimes staying the same is impossible.

  Sometimes I think I imagined it all. Sometimes, I think maybe I hallucinated the whole game, that maybe I am crazy or retarded like so many seem to think. Did it really happen the way I remember?

  I know that it did. Deep down, I know. You don’t just make up those images. You also don’t just forget something so epic, so glorious. I don’t know what snapped in Daddy to make him stop. He’s tried to stay away, or at least I thought he did. For three years. I think Belinda Cartright’s news story scared him at first. I thought he was worried about getting caught. Maybe he was. Or maybe it had something to do with Mama, about his promise to not disappear.

  Maybe Daddy just thought I needed him. And I did. I still do.

  The past years haven’t been easy, as you know. Even though Daddy has set aside the garage, there’s been something palpable in him, something scary. It bubbles to the surface once in a while. I see it when he’s sharpening the knife in the kitchen, the metal on metal sound singeing the edges of my awareness. I see it in the way he looks at certain women that pass us in a store, an almost undeniable, uncontrollable surge of hunger that is reflected in his trembling hands. I see it in his months of quietness, of remoteness, of aloofness.

  He’s worked so hard to suppress it, but he’s losing the fight. I guess the dark need in Daddy eventually won out.

  Maybe, though, in those three years, the thirst for the killing game was just somewhere else. It was in his dreams as he worked on the garage, on making it better, stronger, more intoxicating. Because it’s been quite a remodel. To outsiders, it might not look that different. It looks like the well-oiled garage of a man who works in construction, who loves building.

  There are new tables and straps. New saws. And even a lounge area. But the lounge area isn’t for kicking back, for watching television and drinking beer. It’s something much darker, if I know Daddy at all. There’s something else, too. Daddy’s hands have been shaking again, the tell-tale sign that I’m about to see what the garage is really for, what secret weapons he’s stored, and what hidden lusts he’s going to quench. Maybe tonight.

  I should be scared or appalled or nervous. But I’m not. If I’m being honest, which I always am with you, Diary, I’m thankful. I need a release for all of this anger, besides my poetry. I need somewhere to let loose, to let go of some of the rage I feel for the girls at school. Daddy’s not the only one with a darkness surging within. Because each year that passes, each month that things are hard at school, my anger intensifies. Each year that passes, I understand more and more what the garage is all about. And each year, I realize more and more that I’m not so different from the man I call Daddy.

  Daddy’s killing game helps with the feelings that grow within me, even though I’m just experiencing it from a distance.

  I don’t know how he’s stayed away this long, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. I can close my eyes and envision the swirls of red, the beautiful paintings I would do anything to mimic, to recreate, to put on display under a spotlight in my room.

  But it’s a relief, too. It’s a relief not having to worry about the worst thing—Daddy getting caught. I know what could happen to him. His killing game might be fun to watch, but it’s life or death, too—Daddy’s life or his death. If something happened to him, I don’t think I could go on. I know I couldn’t go on, and even Mr. Pearson’s English class couldn’t give me a reason to stay.

  These past years may have been empty of the killing game, but Daddy’s still been going through a lot. There’s a brooding, mysterious quiet surrounding him, even more than usual. He’s not the smiling, social person in public anymore. He’s squirrely, wiry, antsy. He rarely sits still. It’s like this weird force is driving him, like he’s on some kind of mission. Or maybe he thinks if he keeps busy, he won’t have time to play the game. Why is he stopping? Why does he feel the need to quit? Did something happen? Did he almost get caught?

  All these years, and I still don’t know the answer.

  All these years, and he doesn’t know I know.

  Apparently, I’m a good secret keeper. I can even keep secrets from Daddy.

  He does spend a lot of time in the garage still, but it’s a different kind of time. He’s always building something in there, organizing, reorganizing. I tried to peek in once. He shuddered when he heard my voice.

  “Ruby, what are you doing in here? It’s dirty. You don’t want to get dirty.”

  I guess he realizes I’m older now and it’s harder to use the “it’s dangerous” excuse.

  “Nothing, Daddy. What are you doing?” I stood at the door, trying to calm the excitement rising within. It felt good to be on the hallowed ground.

  “Just tidying. Listen, I love you, but this is my workspace, okay? It’s my sanctuary, just like your room is yours.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” I replied soberly, trying not to let the disappointment be too transparent.

  When would he let me in? When would he let me be a true part of his life?

  It’s frustrating. I wish I could talk to Mr. Pearson about it.

  I just can’t stop thinking about Jack from the story, and how Daddy is just like Jack. Smooth and cunning when he needs to be but driven by a blackness that the other boys only get a taste of. Jack owns the blackness, though, c
onsumes it. It’s admirable, in a sense, the way he takes on the evil, the Lord of the Flies, and wins, in some ways. But in class, we talked about how Jack is the villain.

  Is Daddy the villain in our story? Is his life not what I thought it was?

  I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. I’ve been considering my life, too. What will happen to me when school is over? Will I become like Daddy? Will it be my turn?

  I shudder at the thought—but not because it scares me. I shudder because a big piece of me is utterly convinced I would be really good at it.

  Maybe even better than Daddy.

  Stay Safe,

  Ruby

  October 2, 2017

  1:27 a.m.

  Dear Diary,

  The killing game drought is over. It’s begun again.

  What prompted it? After three years? I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Maybe he couldn’t fight the hunger for the red. I understand that. I’ve missed the pretty patterns, too.

  Or maybe the final piece of Daddy snapped in half because he’s started back to the same killing game with a new form of passion. It’s the same as I remember, but it’s also different. Darker. Hungrier. More wickedly wild. And more satisfying to watch.

  It felt like old times, hearing the truck pull in, waiting for Daddy to get in position, and then sneaking downstairs. I’m smarter now, though, older. Wiser. I know I can be sneakier. I also know I have to be better. Because I’m older now—there would be no talking my way out of it.

  If Daddy caught me, what would he say?

  However, it’s worth the risk. It’s definitely worth the risk.

  I wandered behind the garage, the familiar hole still in place. Thankfully, Daddy’s remodelling of the garage left it for me. It’s like fate, or like maybe, just maybe, Daddy subconsciously wants me to have a window into his world. I’d like to think that in my naïve mind even though I know it’s not the case. More likely, it’s just an oversight. Regardless, I’m thankful. It gives me a viewpoint into his inferno of rage, one that bubbles faintly within me. My heart beats wildly in anticipation, as if I’m at a concert waiting for the main act to come on stage.