Ugly Young Thing

by Jennifer Jaynes

  Allie squeezed her eyes shut and listened. Her brother had played that very song over and over the last month of his life, as though he’d become obsessed with it.

  Oh God, I miss you so much.

  Why did I have to screw up so badly?

  After the song ended, Allie opened her eyes again and gazed at the room. The old lady had said that the bedroom was hers. But obviously the woman didn’t know Allie, because Allie would never deserve something so nice.

  She was a nobody.

  Even worse than a nobody, she was trash.

  And once the lady discovered she was, everything would vanish: the room, the hospitality. The big warm welcome into the old woman’s home.

  Never trust a good thing. It was something her mother had preached on a daily basis—and the sentiment had stuck.

  Across from the bed was a door. Opening it, she was surprised to find a private bathroom. She flipped on the light and stepped inside. Everything was so shiny and spotless it practically gleamed.

  She caught her reflection in the mirror and her hand went to her cheek. The truck driver had really done a number on her. The right side of her face was bruised and an angry cut extended from her left ear to her nose.

  “Crap,” she muttered, grazing it with a finger. She caught sight of the rest of her face and shuddered.

  Gross.

  Quickly turning from the mirror, she tried to recount everything that had happened since returning to Louisiana: the sheriff’s deputy ordering her from her brother’s room in the middle of the night and shuttling her to the hospital, the sheriff questioning her about her brother and the murders, then arriving at the old woman’s house.

  She could only remember snippets of all the events. Other than that, it was all one big blur.

  Back in the bedroom, Allie went to the bedside table. Miss Bitty had prepared a large mug of soup and left it there before leaving her alone to settle in. A small plate of dark crackers and a few pills sat next to it. Allie quickly downed the food. It was the first time she had eaten anything decent for as long as she could remember. Hell, it was the first time she’d eaten anything for as long as she could remember.

  Returning the empty dishes to the bedside table, Allie decided to take the pills, hoping they’d help with the pain. After downing them, her eyes found the window. She felt certain she knew where she was and it wasn’t very far from her childhood house. Maybe only a mile, give or take, if she cut through the center of the woods.

  Once she had a chance to rest and get her head straight, that’s exactly where she’d go. They couldn’t keep her here against her will, no matter how old she was. Once she felt well again, she’d fight them tooth and nail and they’d want to forget all about her. They would be sorry they’d even known her name.

  Kicking off her flip-flops and shrugging off her shorts, she peeled the comforter and top sheet back and crawled in. The bedding smelled sweet and fresh, like the magnolias that used to bloom outside her childhood house. The scent relaxed her. She’d never experienced anything so nice. So clean.

  Don’t you dare get used to this, she told herself.

  Don’t you freakin’ dare.

  Then she closed her eyes and plunged into a deep, dark sleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  HE HAD SPENT most of the afternoon in the young blonde’s house, rummaging through her things. Lying on her bed. Trying to only think about her and not the beautiful teenage girl who had just arrived in town.

  As he waited, he even did her dishes.

  But the dishes hadn’t been planned.

  By 3:00 p.m., he’d grown so disgusted he decided to do the dishes for her. It had begun as just simply washing one dish. Drying it. Putting it away. Then he stared at the others—all crusted with filth—and decided to do just one more.

  When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he dropped the stopper into the drain, filled one side of the sink with soapy water, and scraped and cleaned the rest. Then, when they were dry, he put them away in their respective cabinets and tucked the clean silverware into a drawer.

  He hoped he would get a glimpse of her face when she noticed his work. What will run through her mind? he wondered.

  He’d learned more about her during the visit. Her name was Hope Smith. She was twenty-four years old and worked as a waitress at a local diner. She had been born and raised in Southern California, and was an only child, newly single, and taking college classes online. The house was her great-aunt Ester’s. Apparently Aunt Ester had just been placed in an old folks’ home outside of town due to Alzheimer’s.

  Aunt Ester’s Cape Cod was less than a decade old and on an acre of land. It was pretty sturdy for newer construction but sickeningly easy to get into.

  If only people knew how easy it was to enter their homes they would surely have difficulty sleeping at night. If people knew half the things going on around them, they’d be petrified.

  Like most houses, there weren’t many good places to hide. He’d found a closet with a water heater in the kitchen that was decent. The door had vented slats and an acceptable vantage point of her cluttered breakfast nook. Then there was her bedroom closet, which had the same vented slats, but the vantage point was practically useless unless Hope was standing directly in front of her bureau.

  His favorite, though, was the four-poster bed that rested on plastic lifts. That had been a wonderful find. It was spacious enough that a baby water buffalo could probably lay beneath it, and there was a filmy skirt that skimmed the floor, which helped to further veil his presence.

  His favorite hiding spot had always been beneath the womens’ beds.

  Mostly, though, he’d been limited to hiding just around a corner from where she was. Shadowing her . . . moving along with her as she moved through rooms. He had to be light on his feet, which was sometimes difficult, but doable. After all, he’d had years of practice. It excited him to know he could be discovered at any time. The thought of it made gooseflesh rise on his arms.

  Whenever possible he liked to delay his gratification by spending time with them before the main event. He watched their movements, discovered their complexities, learned their scent before it was laced with fear. It made what he was about to do to them even more exciting. Usually he spent several hours. Maybe a day or two.

  But Hope was proving to be different. With anyone else, he would’ve already made his move. But, unlike the others, just being near her soothed the itch, made him feel better. More alive. The air was electric when she was around.

  He wasn’t sure what it was about her, because on the surface she was all wrong. She was nothing like the others. His gut had picked Hope. Not his head.

  He would wait to perform his big reveal until she discovered him.

  He continued to count down the minutes until she’d be home. Thankfully her patterns the last few days had been like clockwork. Her schedule for the week was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a smiley face.

  Most evenings, she brought home a Styrofoam container of food, grabbed some wine and a knife (or two), went upstairs, cleaned up in the bathtub or sink, and then crawled into bed.

  She also would leave the dirty Styrofoam container on her bedside table overnight and wouldn’t bother to pick it up well into the next day. He grimaced as he imagined the roaches that it could attract.

  He had an intense fear of the filthy insects. They were one of only three things that he’d ever feared. The other two were being trapped indoors . . . and abandonment.

  Just thinking about any of those fears made his gut twist.

  “No, seriously. my dishes were, like, done,” Hope told someone on the other end of the line.

  Pause.

  “No, I’m not shitting you. They were done and I didn’t do them. Trust me, I’d remember.”

  A longer pause. Her tone went from incredulous to defensive.

  “No, I haven’t been drinking.”

  He listened from beneath her bed as she lied to her friend. He had just
watched her pour a glass of red wine and down it in three gulps before pouring a second glass and picking up the phone.

  “Look, I’m just saying. Someone did my dishes and I’m, like, incredibly creeped out. I mean, who would do that? And no one but my aunt’s lawyer and me even have copies of the house keys.”

  Pause.

  “And tell them what? That someone broke into Aunt Ester’s house and did my dishes? Seriously. Look, forget it. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  She hung up the phone and took a seat on the bed.

  The mattress squeaked angrily above him.

  She pulled off a pair of black tennis shoes. A moment later, they whizzed across the room, hitting the closet door.

  Every nerve ending in his body was aroused by being so close. If he were to reach out, he could easily seize one of her slender ankles.

  “Like I could really forget cleaning that whole damn kitchen,” she muttered to herself. “I need new friends. Mine are complete dumbasses.”

  More wine splashed into the glass, then her legs disappeared.

  The mattress squeaked several times as she got comfortable. The television clicked on and she channel surfed, eventually settling on a reality show he was familiar with. Every once in a while he heard her chuckle.

  She had a beautiful laugh.

  After several minutes she switched the television off. Then he heard a click as she switched off her bedside lamp, bathing the room in darkness.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and listened, lulled by the woman’s presence. When he heard quiet snores, he slipped out from beneath the bed. His heart hammering in his chest, he stared down at her and breathed in her scent mingled with the red wine.

  He savored having so much power. Being the one who ultimately decided the woman’s fate. The whens, the whats, the hows. As a child he was powerless.

  But he was far from powerless now . . . and he was still making up for lost time.

  The muscles in his left cheek jumped. “Good-bye, Hope,” he whispered. “I’ll be back for you.”

  He left the room and headed home.

  CHAPTER 10

  “TIME TO GET UP,” Miss Bitty said, her tone firm. “And don’t give me any lip, young lady. Solitude can be good, but too much is damaging. I’ve been around long enough to know.”

  Allie lay buried under the covers, curled into a sweaty ball. She knew she’d been in bed for three or four days, but she was still tired. Since she’d been at the old woman’s house, she had only opened her eyes for a few minutes at a time, for food and to use the bathroom.

  Every time she surfaced, there was a new dish on her bedside table. Fragrant soups with green stuff floating in clear broth, sour breads and herbed crackers, big colorful salads, chopped vegetables with bowls of dip, pitchers of water, mugs of tea . . . and sometimes, pills.

  When she ate, she often heard voices down the hall, or the drone of a television set. A pan scraping against a stove top. The clatter of dishes being stacked in cabinets.

  Sometimes while she slept, she heard footsteps in the doorway, the old lady slinking into the room, setting down food and watching her a bit before leaving. But whether Allie was aware of it or not, new food was always waiting when she woke.

  “Allie? It’s time to get up, girlie.”

  The old bat was still standing next to the bed.

  Allie winced from beneath the covers, her head pounding. It felt like someone had kicked her in the skull while she slept.

  What did the old woman want from her? Surely to put her to work. That was what foster parents were notorious for, right? Sitting on couches, eating bonbons, watching Jerry Springer while rent-a-kids mopped their floors and washed the windows?

  “Did you even read my file?” Allie asked from beneath the covers.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then why the hell am I here?”

  A slight pause. “I don’t understand.”

  Allie didn’t respond.

  “You can’t stay under there forever. Besides, you have two appointments today. You have to meet your therapist, then I have to take you back to the doctor.”

  Therapist?

  Her caseworker had mentioned she would need to see one. But, as far as Allie knew, only rich people saw therapists.

  Maybe it was a ploy to get more information from her about her mother and brother. The sheriff had been awfully curious when he questioned her at the hospital.

  Allie found it almost insulting that so many people were suddenly interested in her. Now that they realized she was the daughter and sister of murderers, she was finally worth their time. Where had everyone been all those years when she and her brother were suffering at the hands of their mother? Were they not worth saving back then? Did it really take people dying for her to finally be worth saving? It made no sense.

  “How’s your stomach?”

  Allie’s hands went to her middle, and she was surprised to realize the rawness had subsided. “Fine.”

  “Good. Then, after your appointments, I’m taking you shopping.”

  Shopping? “What kind of shopping?”

  “We’re buying you some decent clothes to wear.”

  Allie frowned from beneath the covers. No one had ever taken her clothes shopping.

  Was this some sort of trick?

  Still, she emerged from the covers, blinking against the morning sunlight filtering in through the window.

  “C’mon now. I don’t have all day. We have a lot of territory to cover,” the lady said, a metal watering can in her hand. She shot Allie a quick once-over and frowned. “And a lot of work to do on you.”

  Allie had always wondered what it would be like to own new clothes. Instead, once or twice a year, her mother would come home with black lawn bags filled with clothes from the Salvation Army. They were always full of faded hand-me-downs that never fit quite right.

  “I need you looking presentable if you’re going to live here with me,” the woman said. “You’re showing way too much skin for sixteen.”

  “Says you. I like how I dress.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t, so get up. You’ve been in bed for three days. I need you in the kitchen in an hour.”

  Allie wasn’t sure how to feel about the old woman barking orders. She’d never had anyone tell her what to do or care what she did. She would have expected to be furious, but for some reason she wasn’t. She was only curious.

  When she was younger, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to go several days without even seeing her mother. Allie would hang around the house, hoping to tag along with her brother as he went on with his days. On those rare occasions when she did get stuck at home with her mother, Allie would hole up quietly in her bedroom as strange men came and went, or she would walk the woods alone with one of her brother’s books in hand.

  He’d had so many.

  Toward the end of his life most of them had been true crime: books on Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, the Hillside Strangler, and more. It seemed as though he had some sick fascination with the way their minds worked. Either that or he was just trying to understand his own. Unlike her brother or mother, Allie had never had the desire to kill, and she hoped to God that she never would.

  Allie studied Miss Bitty as she walked around the room watering the plants. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but she was still very beautiful for her age. Her thick gray hair was piled messily in a mound on top of her head, but it looked nice on her. Fitting. Her skin was smooth and her green eyes were bright and intense.

  Her beauty is effortless. It’s so unfair.

  Allie felt a twinge of jealousy. If only she could look that good without all her war paint, without all the effort and strategies, life would be much, much easier.

  From what she’d witnessed so far—the clean, comfortable house, the good food, the confident way the woman carried herself—Miss Bitty really had her shit together. Allie had never met a woman like her before. She found her fascinating.

  With a start, Allie
realized that Miss Bitty was finished with the plants and was now staring back at her, her old, bright eyes twinkling. Most people found it insulting to be scrutinized so openly; this woman obviously didn’t. Allie narrowed her eyes. “I’ll go with you, but don’t think for a second that I trust you.”

  The lady didn’t bat an eyelash. She actually looked amused. It made Allie uncomfortable, so she shot the old woman one of her fiercest looks.

  “Be in the kitchen in one hour,” Miss Bitty repeated, and left the room.

  CHAPTER 11

  MISS BITTY STOOD at the center island of the kitchen, trying to shove certain memories to the back of her mind.

  She kept many horrible secrets. Secrets that ate away at her on a daily basis. Secrets that had eventually forced her to assume a new identity and become a new person entirely.

  In the early ’90s, her life took a devastating turn—and for a while she lost faith in God. She also lost all faith in herself and her values.

  But a decade later she decided to turn her life around. She switched careers and became a wellness coach. She made sure that her home environment was in alignment with her health goals. She ate only high-nutrient foods to nourish her body and she was mindful about only thinking positive thoughts . . . although the negative had an insidious way of creeping in.

  She practiced meditation, yoga, and energy work and was nothing but positive and helpful when interacting with others. She’d also been caring for foster children for almost sixteen years.

  It was part of her repentance for all the devastation she’d once caused—and the only way she could manage to sleep at night.

  Now she had three big projects to focus on. Three special callings. One of which, a little less than a year ago, required her to pack up her business and personal life and move from Southern California, where she was born and raised, to southern Louisiana: a place where people were far more likely to own an AR-15 assault rifle than a high-powered blender.

  Her colleagues thought she’d lost her mind, but she’d managed to keep over 80 percent of her clients via phone sessions. On top of that, within months she found herself also overwhelmed with local clients through word of mouth alone. People were dealing with health issues everywhere, especially in places like Louisiana.