by Ed Kurtz
BLEED
Ed Kurtz
Copyright © 2017 Ed Kurtz
Originally published as Bleed: Ausgeblutet
Translated by Stefanie Maucher
Voodoo Press, February 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Trepidatio books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting: Trepidatio Publishing, an imprint of JournalStone
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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN:
978-1-945373-59-6 (sc)
ISBN:
978-1-945373-58-9 (ebook)
JournalStone rev. date: March 24, 2017
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017934032
Printed in the United States of America
2nd Edition
Cover Design: 99designs – Semnitz
Image: AdobeStock_122038160
Edited by: Jess Landry
For Paul and Donna
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to Christopher Payne and Jess Landry of JournalStone for bringing this gruesome darling of mine back to life and making it a much better book. Much gratitude is also owed to filmmaker Paul von Stoetzel, who first expressed interest in Bleed when we met in Amberg, Germany, in the winter of 2013, and who never stopped hounding me about it until we became neighbors in Minneapolis, where he began work on the webseries adaptation. Without Paul’s encouragement and enthusiasm, I doubt this book would ever have risen from the grave. Thanks, pal.
BLEED
1923
Papa comes back at night. Three days he’s been gone and she is beginning to see a glimmer of hope that he’d never come home. Everything would be just fine if he didn’t. Agnes is old enough and in just a few more years she will be, too. Without Papa around the time will fly like a hawk. But he comes back in the moonlight—the darktime when Papa gets dark thoughts to do dark things.
She hears him come inside, the creaking hinges on the door and the groaning floorboards as he pounds loudly through the house. He grumbles and moans and sings a little ditty he makes up as he goes along.
Ah’ma teach ‘at girl ev’rything Ah know, as soon as Ah finish this drink…Ah’ma open ‘nother bottle and take a drink, as soon as Ah teach that girl…
The words come out wet and syrupy as though the liquor has filled him up too much and now it’s bubbling out of him. He sounds maybe a little happy, but that’s the worst time. He never does anything as bad as when he’s feeling good. Anger only makes him sulk and drink and go to sleep. Feeling good makes him visit in the darktime, all reassuring whispers and scratchy, sandpapery hands. Still singing and crashing around the house in the dark, he must be feeling good.
She shudders and pulls the quilt up to her chin. Her eyes bulge despite the blackness in the room. Beside her, Agnes does not stir. She’s dead to the world, long inured to Papa’s darktime fumblings and doubtlessly relieved that she is no longer the only one. In the hall he stumbles over some timber and tools, the supplies he’s collected or stolen to build his attic. Wood scrapes against wood and an iron instrument clangs sonorously. Papa shouts and curses.
She holds her breath, listening. Maybe he’ll grow too angry for what he came to do. Maybe he’ll turn mad and drink some more, kick a hole in the wall and black out on the floor. Please God, please. Make Papa madder than he’s ever been before. Make Papa forget all about darktime and Agnes and me.
She squeezes her eyes shut until they are replaced by small pink mounds of wrinkled skin, begging the Lord to intercede, but she expects nothing in response. God does not listen to her, never has. A thousand times she beseeched the almighty to strike the foul old lush dead, take him out of this world and out of their lives. Surely no loving and personal God would suffer a sinner like him to live. In her heart, she was sure she heard Him laugh at her request.
Suffer like Job, He jibed her. Suffer and be saved.
She does not want to suffer. Not anymore.
Ah’ma teach ‘at girl…ev’rything…Ah’ma teach…
Oh no. Papa is not angry at all. He is happy as a pig in shit. Though Papa is both the pig and the shit.
Tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes and she sinks further down under the quilt. She moans Agnes’ name. The older girl fails to respond. Is she still asleep in spite of all this racket? Or is she deliberately ignoring the miserable, terrified child beside her? Agnes! Agnes! A hundred thousand darktime nightmares have turned out this way, with Papa on the prowl and Agnes frozen or dead and unable to help her. This is no nightmare, though. This is the real thing and it is darktime now and Papa’s black sinister shadow is looming in the doorway, leering at her with tiny too-far-apart eyes that glint in the gray moonlight coming in through the window. She shuts her eyes and remembers Agnes telling her to play dead if she ever comes across a bear in the woods. Just play dead, just play dead, just like Papa was a grizzly come to gobble me up. She doesn’t open them even when she hears the heavy steps stagger into the bedroom, compounded by the chilling jangle of Papa’s belt buckle unfastening and clanging against his leg.
Gunna teach ‘at girl…gunna teach her good…
Her spine sends a trembling shiver up to her shoulders. But her eyes remain closed. No sense in opening them up anyhow; it’s dark as a pocket in here. She waits for him, for the bed to sink down on one side with a sickening squeal, for the coarse sandpaper hands to start their business.
She hears the springs squeal, but she feels nothing at all.
Agnes stirs. Moans softly. Papa lets out a gurgly wet chuckle, sounds like he’s drowning in his own spit. Agnes! Oh, Agnes, poor Agnes!
Pulling into a tighter ball, her knees touching her chin, she trembles and cries but is careful to not make a sound. Papa might hear. He might change his mind. Got to let him take it out on Agnes, leave me be for one night just one night of peace please God just one night. Her brain reels. Guilt fills her up, sours her stomach and leaves a nasty taste on her tongue. It is not right to wish that kind of thing on her sister, not Agnes who takes care of her just fine when Papa’s away, who’d be the best Mama she ever knew if only Papa would disappear and never come back again.
Huffing, snuffling. Papa grunts like a hog. Agnes sniffs.
She wants to scream. But she is quiet as a mouse when she slips out of bed and pads softly out of the bedroom, through the hall, into the kitchen. Even there she hears the horror in the bedroom.
Huff, huff, huff. Grunt, grunt, grunt.
The pig and the shit.
She climbs onto a chair, steps higher yet onto the table. She can reach the ironware from up here. Old and rusty, mostly. Mama’s old Dutch oven, the one that belonged to great grandmammy, and the griddle and the pots and the big black skillet. That is the one she wants. She needs both hands to get it down from the sixteen penny nail in the wall and it’s heavier than sin but she gets it and carries it carefully, quietly back down to the floor.
Clutching the cold iron to her chest, she pads back to the bedroom, frowning at the nauseating, soul-crushing noises she walks toward. But she needs the noise, needs it to find them. Him.
She follows it, rounding her own narrow bed until her hip bumps Agnes’. The thin,
soiled mattress shakes and quivers. She feels the heel of Papa’s boot brush her side. With a grunt of her own she heaves the massive skillet, hoists it over her head. It is only the work of a moment to send it crashing back down—its own weight does most of the labor. She expects it to ring out like a bell but there is only a dull crack as the heavy edge sinks into Papa’s skull like it was nothing but pudding. He does not even cry out.
She lets the skillet drop out of her hands and it bangs loudly on the floor, cracking the wood. Agnes screams. She presses her body against her sister’s and the tears flow. Agnes is splattered with Papa’s blood and hard bits of bone.
Only family now. Only love. It is done.
SUMMER
The Stain on the Ceiling
1
The house was a fixer-upper, at least in Walt’s eyes. It was a Gablefront house—a cottage, really, due to its single story—that the realtor claimed was built in 1930. There were ornamental brackets on almost all of the doors and windows, and a small crawlspace attic under the sharply angled roof. Upon seeing the house for the first time, Walt immediately fell in love with the double-hung sash windows and the clapboard siding. It was all so quaint and lovely, perfect for his needs. The realtor, a dowdy schoolmarm sort of woman, had not even tried to skirt the truth of the house’s less than ideal condition. The walls needed patching, the moldy wallpaper had to be stripped, and all of the rotted baseboards were going to have to be replaced. Both bathrooms suffered from leaky toilet seals that had all but annihilated the subfloors, which needed to be ripped out and completely resurfaced. There was no carpeting in the house—another selling point for Walt—but the hardwood floors were terribly scratched with deep, dark grooves that would require refinishing.
And that was just the interior—the roof was another can of worms altogether.
Nonetheless, Walt was inspired by the work that lay ahead of him, and he got the house for a song. By the time the school year began in late August, he figured he would be well on his way to having the place right where he wanted it. By Christmas morning, when he finally got around to unburdening himself of the secrecy of the diamond ring in his sock drawer, Walt thought the house would be in perfect shape for a young couple with modest family ambitions.
Things were looking up.
***
Walt moved in on a Tuesday. The apartment in which he lived for the last three years had become crowded with his growing catalogue of belongings, but the square footage of the house far exceeded that of his former residence. Now he had space to spare and, as he looked at it, space to fill; quite a lot for a guy living alone. For the time being, he simply unloaded box after box from the truck he rented, stacking them against the walls of the dining room. With the exception of his meager furniture—a bed, a sofa, and a small antique writing desk—the entirety of his worldly possessions fit into that single room. He smiled at the hoard, imagining where everything would end up and what odds and ends he would need to pick up in order to fill the gaps.
In the meantime, he hopped into his aging hatchback and drove to the hardware store in town. In his head, he had a massive list of repairs and the supplies needed to make them, but he was far from overwhelmed by it. Rather, with every tube of caulk or foot of baseboard he set in the cart, he felt more and more like the real-life grown-up he never thought he would actually become. While he pushed the cart up one aisle and down the next, he conceived of every minute detail of his life for the next year or so. For some, he realized, this would be anathema. But for Walt, it was terrific. He knew he was going spend the remainder of the summer working on the house, begin his new career as a ninth grade English teacher in the fall, and with a little luck, complete his short story collection before the end of the calendar year. Then, on Christmas Eve, he would present the ring to Amanda (to which she would almost certainly say yes), and the spring would be taken up with plans for their eventual wedding. Walt could have danced to the register to pay for his overfilled cartful of supplies as he pushed them out to his hatchback in the parking lot, and then drove home, unaware of his own joyful humming along the way.
By dusk, he had already ripped out every inch of baseboard with his new crowbar. He replaced most of it before midnight, but he underestimated the amount needed. Another trip to the hardware store in the morning.
He located the box marked kitchen among the stacks in the dining room, unpacked his coffee maker for the morning, and then, finally wearing down, dragged himself to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Shuffling into the bedroom, he sighed at the unconstructed mess that was to be his bed. He meant to assemble the bed frame earlier, but he had not gotten around to it. He certainly wasn’t about to fool around with it now—he was just going to have to sleep on an unraised mattress. No big deal.
He switched on the small rice paper lamp he had plugged in beside the bed. He figured on reading a little M. R. James until his eyelids grew heavy and then call it a day, though he imagined he’d never make it through a single paragraph. So he crawled beneath the sheets and fluffed the pillows and took in the musty smell of his new, old house. It was then that he first noticed it: in the hall, just beyond the bedroom door, there was a tiny brown stain on the ceiling.
The stain was barely visible in the dim light of the lamp, and he couldn’t make it out all that well. After a moment’s hesitation—Christ, he was just so tired—Walt threw his legs over onto the floor and heaved himself up. He stumbled groggily to the bedroom door, leaned against the jamb, and squinted up at the mark on the ceiling. No bigger than his own fist, it was splotchy and the color of rust. Water damage, he concluded, due to the leaky roof. Another mental note for the pile, he thought, and headed directly back to the mattress on the floor.
By then he was definitely too tired to focus on reading. Walt switched the lamp off and was asleep in minutes.
2
The attic was small and stuffy, the hot, suffocating air ripe with the odor of mildew and mold. The pink insulation on the attic floor had gone almost white with age and it was spongy from the moisture let in by the holes. That was also going to have to go. Looking back up at the roof, he could detect no sign of flashing having been installed. No one had ever taken steps to waterproof the roof at all, from the looks of it. He pursed his lips and sighed. This one was beyond his ken as a home-improver. Walt was going to have to call in a contractor.
The roof had more holes than Walt bargained for. Most were tiny; scattered dots of morning light sneaking in from above. Hail damage was a distinct possibility, but he bet on nothing more than age and neglect as the culprit for the constellations of miniscule chinks in his castle’s ramparts. A few of the holes, however, were startling sizeable, big enough for a child to crawl through. If there was a problem with nine-year-old cat burglars in the neighborhood, he was in trouble.
Barring that, he was going to have to address the issue before the next rainfall.
In the meantime, he aimed his flashlight at the attic floor. He challenged his memory to recall the house’s floor plan so that he could determine what was underneath each patch of moldy insulation and every supporting beam. He was standing directly over the guest bathroom by his reckoning, which put the hallway outside the master bedroom on the other side of the attic. Tentatively, he bent and stepped on the sideways beams until he traversed the unventilated space. On that side, most of the cottony insulation was missing, taken up and away by some previous owner and never replaced. He decided there was a good ten by ten area of naked rafters and warped board flooring in that part of the attic. There were a couple of pinkish rolls of insulation jammed into a nearby corner, but these too were damaged beyond usefulness by the moisture. Still another item for the shopping list that would not die.
Walt smiled and shrugged, perfectly happy in the role of the hardworking homeowner. The smile diminished, however, upon looking closer at the bare floor before him. This was indeed the part of the attic just above his bedroom and its adjacent hallway, but there was no water damage of any k
ind. He glanced up, and to his puzzlement discovered that the roof there was intact. Probably an old surface stain, he decided. An expense he didn’t need.
Back in the kitchen, Walt plugged his phone into the jack on the wall and began flipping through the Yellow Pages in search of a roofer. He chose the first one with a kitschy ad (it featured a cartoon roofer with the crack of his ass peeking out of his pants) and arranged for an estimate the next day.
Feeling satisfied with his efforts, he poured a glass of ice water and ambled out to the front porch. He sat on the steps and enjoyed the clean, warm summer air.
The realtor had mentioned the nearest house to his new property was several acres away, far enough that he could not see it through all the intervening trees. Someday, the realtor had confided to him, people from all over the state would be moving here in droves, sucking up every square inch of this land for their respective retirement villas. A good deal of money was going to be made. He narrowed his eyes and peered into the dense woods beyond the edge of his property, trying to imagine old people in bright colored clothes laying down Astroturf on their backyards and yelling at the mail-man. Someday, he mused, that would be him and Amanda. The thought elicited a chuckle.
When he got up from the steps to dump the remaining ice cubes in the grass, Walt heard a soft panoply of desperate mewling. He padded across his dry, overgrown lawn and gazed into the woods. There, on a sunlit patch of dead leaves and twigs, he saw a black cat on her side with five anxious kittens struggling at her teats. He brought his brows together and smiled awkwardly, wondering if these animals belonged to anyone or not. Had he been in the city he might have given a call to animal control, but in the sticks he couldn’t imagine anyone much caring about a cat and her kittens. Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he walked back to the porch and went inside.
