Secret Memories

by J. S. Donovan

  Frank checked the address on the GPS. Before turning off the Jeep, he scanned the area. “Well, I don’t see any bulldozers.”

  Angela checked her pistol clip. She had six shots left. Enough to kill anyone who would be after her. A part of her didn’t want to find the killer, because she didn't know how she would respond. Would she give them time to explain themselves, or would she explode out of anger? For the most part, Angela saw herself as a very level-headed individual. Nevertheless, every person had their limit. Angela found hers in middle school when some kid made fun of her dead parents. Angela charged at them and raked her nails across his face. The boy’s skin opened from ear to chin. He screamed like a girl, but Angela kept clawing at him. It took the P.E. teacher to pull her away from the bully. Angela was suspended for three days. Don’t talk about her parents and there won’t be a problem.

  They got out of the car. The wind jostled through her bangs and whatever other hair was outside of the beanie. The gale punched right into the chest, seemingly stealing Angela’s breath. Frank put his hand on her back to steady her. His finger touched the scar, and Angela’s posture straightened up as she remembered the cold point of the knife flaying her flesh like a fine piece of tender meat. Why a butterfly? Why Angela? Why any of it? As she walked across the snowy front lawn to the house’s red door that looked like the color of blood in contrast with the snow, a flashback hit her like a two-ton bus.

  Suddenly, she was inside of a trunk. A trunk? Why a trunk? I was never in the trunk. Yet there she was, in the cramped trunk of some vehicle. Her mouth was gagged by a rag. It stretched her mouth into a painful grimace and was soggy with spit. Where was Mommy and Daddy? Were they in the car? Angela thrashed against the zip ties that bound her wrists and ankles. She made a muffled mouth noise and kicked at the backseat. The seat popped forward, but something on the other side blocked it from falling all the way down.

  Someone yelled at her. She didn’t remember who. The flashback was murky. She hit the sidewall of the trunk as the car swerved over. A door slammed. Whoever was driving was aware of her antics and what she had done. Seven-year-old Angela went quiet. She was wearing her ugly sweater that matched her father’s. Some of his blood spattered the front of it. Was he dead? She didn’t remember. Aggressive footsteps neared. The driver was furious. They struggled to unlock the trunk. The key rattled in the lock. Angela’s breathing quickened. It was interrupted by the tight cloth binding her throat. She breathed through her nose instead. That was better, but not much. One of her nostrils was stuffed because the cold and her persistent crying.

  The trunk had popped open with a squeaking noise. Why did the noise matter? Why did she remember that clearer than her parents’ fate? Where were Mom and Dad? Angela closed her eyes as the silhouetted stranger looked down on her. Like a vengeful god, it scrutinized her. Threats were made she didn’t remember, and the trunk slammed shut.

  She didn’t resist anymore. She kept so still she had to remind herself to breathe. It was easier said than done. The trunk rumbled when the car moved and stayed still when the car stopped. That’s how she knew she had reached a more civilized area. They were more stops that she assumed were traffic lights and stop signs. The car kept on. Angela shivered out of fear. Where were the police? Where were the heroes from Daddy’s book? He told her that there were good people out there that would protect her if she let them. Angela wanted to let them, but they didn’t show. It was like they didn’t care she was in the trunk of a stranger’s car. Angela matured at that moment. It was the instant that she was reminded of her own mortality. Most children lived day by day, with little fear of the future. Angela was terrified of what her future held. She was terrified about where the driver was taking her, and terrified about how she’d live without her parents to help her.

  She wasn’t a stupid child. She knew that her parents were the source of her food, health, and comfort. Without them, she was just some orphan. Heroes looked out for orphans, but there were no heroes in this story. They must’ve been off saving some other little princess or helping an old woman across the street. The car pulled to a stop and turned off. Angela knew she had reached her destination. She closed her eyes, hoping that if the heroes had forgotten her, perhaps the monsters would too.

  Angela’s eyes shot open.

  The flashback had ended.

  She was once against standing in front of the Irving house with Frank. His brows were slanted towards one another. He looked at Angela with concern.

  Angela’s eyes were wider than normal and slightly bloodshot, with little veins crawling toward her iris.

  “I remembered something.” Her voice was laced with terror and underlying quiet.

  “What?” Frank asked, picking up on some of her terror. Flakes of snow clung to his beard and bushy brows. His forehead seemed to have more wrinkles than Angela remembered, and his eyes had crow’s feet.

  “That night… the night of the killings, I think I was abducted,” Angela said.

  “Where did they take you?” Frank asked quietly, even though it was just them on the road and no one was listening.

  Angela’s mouth dried out. She slowly twisted her beautiful, terrified face toward the old house looking over them. It stuck out in the snow like a tombstone in an open field: terrifying, gripping, and full of dark history.

  Frank looked at the house. “Carmela took you here? To her house?”

  “I…” Angela felt her chest tighten and head hurt. “I don’t know.”

  With quiet, cautious steps, they approached the front door. Snow crunched beneath her boots and followed behind them like footprints of some sinister shadow. The bony branches of the old tree waved at them. Angela saw something move in the owl hole. It must’ve just been her imagination. Standing by the front porch was the shadow that haunted her. It watched her with its voidless face and seemed to drain her life as she looked at it. Angela stared at it for a while. She hadn’t seen it for a day. Frank noticed her attention on something other than the door and looked that way. He couldn’t see it. It was Angela’s burden. It was her guilt. It was her past, not his.

  Frank knocked on the door and waited.

  Angela turned back to the Jeep parked parallel with the road’s curb. Suddenly, another flashback flickered on, like a spark in a coal mine filled with gas.

  She was back in the trunk. The stranger’s hand unlocked it again and pulled her out. The person told her to act normal or she’d cut off her nose. Angela sniffled and obeyed. She looked at her little snow boots as she shambled to the house. The stranger put their hand on Angela’s shoulder and squeezed tightly to steer her. Her sweater wasn’t cut yet, so this was before she got the butterfly scar. Young Angela continued past the same creepy tree and to the same door where she stood now.

  The flashback ended. Angela was struck with fear. She was shaking. This isn’t what happened, she told herself, remembering Hitch’s eyewitness account and police report. There was nothing about Angela leaving the house. Then again, the stranger arrived at 7:40pm and Angela wasn’t found until midnight. Nearly five hours of her life were missing. Angela watched Frank pick the lock.

  Were the answers inside?

  Chapter Seven

  The Witness

  With a soft click, the door opened into the old house. Angela wasn’t quite sure if Carmela lived there or not, but that didn’t seem to matter. Her flashbacks were much stronger here than at her parents’ cabin. Angela didn’t know exactly what that meant, but some part of her drew her deeper into the house.

  Hardwood floors and old wallpaper added to the house’s creep factor. There was a set of stairs ascending into the second floor, and the first floor had everything you’d expect: kitchen, living room, restroom, dining room, and study. Frank entered first. He scanned the hallway for a moment before gesturing for Angela to enter. When she did, Frank shut the door behind her and locked it.

  “I don’t know if anyone lives here anymore,” Frank stated.

  Angela tried the
light switch. It worked. “Someone is paying the bills.”

  The floorboards creaked beneath their feet. The house was dusty and dry. Angela and Frank fanned out across the living room and kitchen. There were squares on the wall where photographs had been taken down. The shelves were clear of books. The desk beside the piano was empty.

  “Someone cleared this place out. Recently, too.” Angela said loud enough for Frank to hear.

  Angela tapped a key on the piano, listening to the hollow sound. Suddenly, she remembered this room. There was a small Christmas tree, heavy scarlet curtains guarding the windows, and festive lights decorating the room. Angela was told to stand in the center of the room. There were people, Angela remembered. They sat on the couch, loveseat, and recliner. A few gathered by the door with drinks in their hands. They wore fancy clothes and glossy black masks reminiscent of a featureless human face. Through the eye holes, they watched Angela. The person who led Angela into the room wore a black mask too and sat on the piano bench. They started playing a harrowing tune. Tears rolled down Angela’s cheeks. She shut her eyes, wanting to wake up.

  The memory ended.

  Angela’s mouth was dry. Her heart thumped. Sweat doused her body and glistened on her forehead. Frank entered the living room and paused when he saw her. Angela’s eyes watered. She trembled. Frank gently approached. He reached out his arms and pulled her close. It felt good to be held by someone, even if they did reek of sweat and alcohol.

  “There were people here that night,” Angela said into his shoulder. “The person who killed my parents was showing me off to them.”

  There was a long pause from both of them.

  “We’ll find them,” Frank said firmly. Angela latched on to that hope.

  Realizing her closeness to Frank, she slipped from his grasp, blinked away her tears, and reminded herself to be strong. Moping around wasn’t going to get her the answers she needed. She needed to take initiative. “Let’s keep moving. Carmela might’ve left something behind.”

  Frank seemed more concerned with her than working. Angela gave him a dagger-eyed look that got him moving again. He headed for the kitchen. Angela lingered on the memory, trying to see if she could remember the exact amount of people she saw. She estimated twenty and involuntarily shivered. She glanced at the shadow in the corner of the room. He wore the black mask. Angela’s lips fell open and her eyes widened as she tried to recall if the thing that stalked her always wore the mask. After all these years of seeing the shadow, surely she would’ve noticed, but maybe she was blinded to it.

  “Angela,” Frank called from the kitchen. He found something.

  Angela headed that way. Frank stood over the sink. In his palm, he had scraps of tattered meat. “I found this in the garbage disposal.”

  The food reeked and was soggy. It had spoiled but hadn’t started rot. Angela looked over it. “She was here not too long along ago.”

  “They must’ve packed up right after or before the Trent House fiasco,” Frank theorized.

  If that was true, her adversaries were quick on their feet and organized enough to be able to move within hours.

  Angela marched through the hallway and gave the bathroom a peek. She checked the mirrored cabinet and under the sink, finding both places to be empty. She pulled aside the curtain and looked into the bathtub. There was a dark stretch that ended at the drain.

  Angela backed away and joined Frank in the study. There was a heavy desk with a scratched surface and a glass cabinet that once held ornaments. It stood by another rack with the lock on it. Inside was a rack fit for various rifles and long firearms. She knew the shooter was armed, but there were places for four different guns. In the rural mountains, it wasn’t rare for the average hunter to own a shotgun or two along with a long rifle and possibly an AR-15 that could be modified with fully automatic capabilities if the weapon smith was good enough.

  Angela had her 9mm pistol that felt like a stick compared to whatever cannon they carried. A gun’s a gun, Angela reminded herself, finding some security in that. Frank pulled out a small pry bar from within his jacket and jimmied open the desk. The contents were cleared out as well. Something grabbed their attention. The same crude butterfly on Angela’s back had been carved into the drawer. Angela shut her eyes. She pushed herself to remember more of her time here as a child, but she hit some sort of mental block.

  Angela locked her jaw and told herself to focus. She remembered the trunk of the car. She remembered the living room. She remembered the masks. She could not recall anything about butterflies or their significance. Judging by Hitch’s crime reports, her “brand” wasn’t carved until she returned to the cabin. She wasn’t sexually assaulted, otherwise the doctor reports would’ve alluded to such, so what the hell did the strange people do to her? Angela felt like her head was swimming. She gave up trying to force another memory. She hated relinquishing control of her circumstance, but exposing herself to triggers might be the only way to learn more.

  They headed up the stairs, listening to the stairs creak and moan. Angela could imagine the masked strangers bustling up and down the step all throughout the night of her parents’ murders. She questioned if that mental image was true or just something conjured by her imagination. There were a number of rooms upstairs all interlinked by a single hallway. The wallpaper had geometric shapes that probably had not been upgraded since the seventies. Most of it was peeling back, revealing the rotting wood of the wall behind it. This whole place was built to rot. Angela didn’t have the evidence to prove that accusation, but she could feel it in her gut. It pitted in her belly like a parasite that grew fat on Angela’s fear. The place crawled under her skin.

  She moved. The first door opened into a bedroom with twin beds and a small desk with a lamp on it. It was the type of lamp that had a slinky neck and bent downward like a dying flower. Angela moved into that room while Frank pressed on ahead, checking out the bathroom.

  Angela found some things that she found particularly disturbing. The bedsheets and covers had Disney princesses on them. The walls were painted sky blue. In the door-less closet was a trunk full of children's clothes for both male and female. There was nothing here that alluded to something sinister, but the room had a presence to it that hung heavy like a fog cloud. Angela swallowed some spit and moved deeper within the children’s room. She checked the desk and under the bed. She slid her gloved hand between the mattress to see if she’d feel anything or if there was some clue, puzzle pieces, or… Angela glanced up to the ceiling above the bed, finding what she was looking for. Carved into the white ceiling with the fine edge of a knife was a butterfly. It stretched over both twin beds, and Angela could imagine that it was the last thing whatever children slept here saw each night.

  She searched the room, top to bottom and left to right for anything else. It was fruitless. She opened the drawers of the desks, only to find them empty. She glanced outside at the backyard. There was nothing but snow-covered grass, an outside table with a few chairs around, and an old fire pit that had looked like a lump of sugar on this wintery weather day.

  Angela returned to the hall at the same time Frank did. By his anxious look, he didn’t find anything. They headed to the final door together. It opened into a gallery of sorts. There were glass cabinets pressed against the four walls. Pedestals with glass cases on them lingered in the sides at the back of the room. Out of all the walls in the entire house, the ones in this room were the only ones that had gotten a fresh coat of paint in the last two decades. It was an off-white color with some dimly lit lights that pointed down at the various displays. Angela and Frank approached. Inside the glass were preserved butterflies. Angela didn’t know their scientific names. The insects were all different species. Some had black and blue wings. Others were yellow with tiger stripes. Some were a mix of black and white. There were few that were easily recognizable, like the Monarch with its distinct pattern.

  Angela and Frank walked about the room, impressed and horrified by the
elegant collection of butterflies and moth trophies that seemed to be in direct juxtaposition to everything else in the cruddy house. Frank tapped on the glass on the display cases. Angela knew that this was the work of a lifelong collector.

  A quick Google search confirmed that these beautiful butterflies were from all over the United States. She wondered if Carmela bought them or if she captured them herself. Angela didn’t have the answer to that question. She wished she did, but she’d need to talk to Carmela Irving personally. Angela wondered what the woman was like when she wasn’t impersonating someone else. Did she still cry a lot or was she as cold as stone? Was she friendly as she was with the Trents, or was that just an act? Angela assumed the worst and believed the woman to be a spawn of the devil, or at least, that was what she thought when she looked at the way the woman broke families. It was horrible to leave a child out in the world without parents. Angela got lucky because of Hitch’s big heart, but she still felt a dreadful feeling when she thought about all the women and girls without the same privilege.

  Angela reached the last glass case. She popped the latch and pulled it open. Too little “arms” helped support the top of the glass case. There were no butterflies in here, but there was an envelope with Angela’s name written in cursive.

  Angela felt nauseous. She opened the letter, revealing a small note with an address at Buckreed Road, located high in the mountains. The note read, “Come and learn the truth. It will die if you don’t.”

  Frank examined the note from over Angela’s shoulder. His face had lost its color. “This might be a good time to call the cops.”

  “Finally growing a conscience, Frank?” Angela asked as she re-read the note in search of any hidden meanings. It was pretty straightforward

  “We have the address to the killer’s house. They want us to come alone. They want us to play into their hand. I say that we make them come to us,” Frank suggested. “The easiest way to do that is to chase them out.”