by Amity Green
Savannah cried, hating herself. She had to do it though. His eyes were black as a nightmare. It wasn’t her dad she’d shot.
Jack hit the floor hard. He smiled, letting go of confusion in exchange for relief.
“I’m so proud of you,” he mouthed.
Savannah knelt beside him. “I’m so sorry, Daddy.” She sobbed hard. “I love you so much.”
“Don’t be,” he said, wheezing.
Savannah broke down hard. She set the gun down and huddled close to him.
“Don’t cry, Vannie. He exhaled heavily. “All I really want is some sleep.” The smile faded and he looked frantic suddenly. “There’s so much to do,” he said. His gaze moved from hers to the ceiling.
He didn’t breathe in again.
* * *
Feeling like someone else, Savannah cleaned and scoured the floor some more, just for good measure, and her room was finally clean of blood stains. It was done. She’d waited until she was sure Witcher was inside her father, and ended the thing when it beat her door in. There was lots of blood, but no ethereal black cloud announcing the ousting of something evil. Angels hadn’t appeared to tell her that her dad would live on in heaven, like she’d hoped with what remained of childish expectations. She leaned Dad’s shotgun against the wall on her way out, being careful not to bump the sights. The sun was shining outside, and her soul needed warmth.
Savannah walked the hills of the Witcher Place for hours. A rough breeze gusted then died, smelling of dogbrush blossoms and loam from down by the creek. The sun was bright and warm. Two hummingbirds dove in a joust, quarreling over a cluster of bright red Indian paint brush flowers. Clouds huffed by slowly, sun rays parting and dodging where they could. If there was a time for angels to appear and tell her “Good job, kiddo,” it would be an afternoon like this one.
No heavenly voice came through the sky, but then, she didn’t really expect it. That was fine. She’d done what needed to be done, and God, or whatever force that be, would be her judge soon enough.
A call to the sheriff’s department to tell them she’d just shot her dad because he broke through her door with the worst of intentions would make them rethink things. They’d realize they should have stuck around.
She’d dragged Dad to his bedroom, although it took a couple trips to the bathroom to vomit. Perhaps she’d get a nice room in Pueblo next to Aunt Stella when she explained she’d actually cut a demon in half with her father’s shotgun, not Jack Caleman.
Taking a walk to get her head on straight before she called the police seemed to be a good idea. Tears flooded her vision. She hurled a rock as hard as she could, crying angrily. How could fate hold such a life for her? She was a good person. So was Molly, and the rest of the family for that matter. There was no measure of fairness. How could angels, or God be involved in something so horrible? That’s what made Witcher a demon. She leaned back, looking into the sky. Nothing good lived up there. If God could see and hear everything, even her thoughts, how could He allow her to hurt so much? Why would He allow her sister pain, at all?
“You’re not real,” she wailed. No wonder the lady at Sunday school couldn’t answer her questions. They didn’t know how to validate His existence, either. If He was up there watching, just standing by, when He could have prevented all the hurt and the loss of her family, then He was to blame, not one of his wayward angels who liked to play with people.
She wiped her face on her tee shirt. If God was the kind of guy who wouldn’t help when His children were being tortured, she didn’t want anything to do with Him, anyway. Pain and hate melded into a knot inside her. She’d never seen any proof that God even existed, and wasn’t one to follow blind faith. She never had been. The events of the last few months were exactly why.
She did, however, know bad things were real. Witcher was just as real as the cat picture. Dad and Witcher seemed to communicate through the painting. Maybe it was a doorway of some kind, so Witcher could come and go. Dad said he found the painting hidden away at their ranch and Stella knew all about it, which was probably why the thing had been stashed away.
Dread built when Savannah started walking back to the house. Behind closed doors lie the body of what had once been her favorite of her parents. She’d leave the doors closed, and do what must be done.
* * *
“Sorry, Rebecca.” The painting would have to come down and be destroyed, just to be safe. If Witcher had been able use it, something else might, too. Once the art was gone, she would call the law and that would be the end. For now, she was in control. She’d finish the job.
She stuffed wadded newspaper and kindling in the hearth and built a pyramid with small logs. Soon, a lively fire crackled. Mother’s old ladder once again stood propped against the wall so she could reach the top of the frame, where Dad had secured the canvas with two extra hooks after the last time she’d taken it down to read the artist’s name. Grabbing on to the right side, she lifted up just enough to slide a nail free of a fastener. The heavy wood cracked down onto the fireplace mantle. Savannah put one foot out to feel for the step to start down the ladder.
“It’s a little warm out for a fire,” Witcher said, at her back. She screamed, startling so hard she grabbed the ladder, jerking it off the wall. The ladder tipped sideways and she braced for the fall. He caught her, cradling her body to his chest, shifting one arm under the crook of her knees and the other gently holding her back, just below the shoulder blades.
“Careful,” he whispered, and kissed her forehead.
“No, you’re dead!” she screamed.
“You’ve been thinking about me a lot.” He smiled.
Savannah struggled for a full breath, pushing against him. He shouldn’t be there. She hit him with the butts of her palms and locked her arms, thrusting him away. He was an impossibility, but as real as any other man, holding her so tight. His arms locked around her. She tried to yell “Put me down,” but all that came out was a squawk. Her boot heels beat against his side, but he just turned toward the couch, and set her down calm and slow. She put her face in her hands, crying.
“I killed you,” she said, without bothering to look up. “You’re not real.”
“Ask yourself. Would you kill your good father because of something that wasn’t real?”
“Don’t talk about my dad!”
“You don’t believe He is real either!” He shoved an index finger upward, toward the ceiling. “But He is.” Witcher paced to the fireplace, staring into the flame. “He created me just as sure as the sun and these prisons you call mountains.” He peered over a shoulder, flames illuminating the side of his face and a muscle flexing in his jaw. “And He saw that it was good.”
“You’re a coward, hiding the way you do. My dad was a good man before you came.” She wiped her hands on the knees of her jeans.
“I never hid!” he yelled. The house shuddered, furniture dancing with popcorn staccato atop the hardwoods.
His voice tore through her head. Savannah’s stomach locked up. She clamped her hands over her ears, using her forefingers to plug her ear canals the way she’d done since she was a small child.
“I was compelled down and then entombed, there,” he snarled, pointing below their feet. “In the damnable rock and the dark, by a single man wishing to meet death before his time.” He paused, closing his eyes, breathing so hard his nostrils flared each time he inhaled. “Hell isn’t what you think. No pitchforks or flames.” He paced around her in a half-circle, eyes locked on hers. “No eternal pain. One simply knows nothing during that time. But when you find a way out? That’s when you know you’ve missed something … missed everything.” After a moment he stopped before her, continuing softly. “You love your father the way I love mine, although neither of us is favored by either. My Father loves the others more, as did yours.”
Savannah crossed her arms against her chest, cradling an elbow in each palm. She shook her head, rocking. “My dad loved me.”
“You’re correc
t. He loved you, almost as much as your sister.” He turned toward her. “Think about it. Who did he choose first?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t my dad who did that. It was you.”
“We’ve had this talk. I refuse to waste my time.”
“Feel free to leave.”
“Why must it be this way between us, Savannah?”
“You’re a bastard that should be burning in hell with others like you. If it wasn’t for you, my life would be a good one. Now my dad’s dead.”
“You shot your father all on your own, and I didn’t hurt Molly.” He looked into the flames again. “I was shocked when he chose her, I assure you. I like you better.”
A sob cut through her gritted teeth. Hearing him speak about Molly killed her inside. He shouldn’t be allowed the privilege. “I hate you.”
His expression was pained. “But I love you.”
“Stop saying that! You have no idea what the word means. You don’t hurt the people you love. You care about them, and make sure they don’t get hurt.”
“You don’t understand the things I’ve done for you.”
“You ruined my life!” There wasn’t reason to continue living without her family. Molly was her best friend. Chaz looked up to her. She’d killed their father to no avail. Tears tore down her cheeks at the thought of her father. She clamped her eyes shut as Jack staggered back in her mind’s eye, the blast from his own shotgun ripping through his chest and stomach.
“Stop shouting, Savannah. I’m standing right here.”
She glared. “That’s right, you are.” She got up, crossing the room with slow, determined strides. She stopped and faced him. “Too bad you’re not a real man. I would have shot you, instead.” Brazen. But what did she have to lose? He’d kill her and it would be over.
His mouth clapped shut, eyes squinting. “Not a real man.” He shook his head. “You’re right. Real men are a sad attempt at my likeness. Men are nothing more than curiosities—pliant and easily played. But you, the daughters of man, you are much more. Well worth dropping from heaven.”
A sick feeling spread through her blood. Bible studies from childhood niggled at the back of her mind. Daughters of man. “You’re not an angel. If you once were, you’re certainly not anymore,” she said. “You’re a killer, a corrupter of good men like my dad. All because you’re jealous.”
Witcher let his head loll back to gaze at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. “My Father didn’t think to offer us the same boon as He did His pets down here.”
When he opened his eyes they gleamed, the brown so deep it was nearly black. For the first time since he’d returned Savannah really looked at him. The old suit was gone, replaced by an Aerosmith tee shirt and faded jeans. He looked younger, possibly nineteen or twenty but still bore the same handsome face.
He stepped closer, reached and let a strand of her hair slip between his fingers. “We were given nothing like you. No beautiful things.”
“Don’t touch me.” She slapped his hand away.
“You’re so different from the others. Why can’t you see me as they did? I’ve changed for you. Do you not think I am beautiful, too?”
“You’ll never be anything more than the monster that tore apart my family and murdered my dad.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what you look like.”
“Savannah, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Without thought, her hand shot out, slapping his left cheek with haymaker force.
“Ouch.” He lowered his chin, glaring. “You want to beat me down, Savannah? I can stand while you to strike me. Will hurting me make it all better?”
She didn’t answer, just watched him walk to the front door and let himself out. When the handle clicked shut, she ran to the ladder, climbed up, and reached for the painting, intent on finishing the job before he came back.
Something thumped against the floor in the hallway upstairs, then slid along the floor for a second. She held still, listening.
Thump … slide. Thump. The sounds continued, growing slightly louder and more defined at the top of the stairs. Something scratched into the floor above head, preceding each new thud and slide. Savannah let the heavy frame fall to the floor and stepped down beside the busted up painting.
“Witcher? I hear you up there.” She kicked at the frame to break it into pieces that would fit in the hearth.
Scrape. Thump … slide.
Savannah pulled a piece of splintered wood from the canvas and tossed it into the fireplace. Varnish hissed. She leaned a long piece of beveled wood on the pedestal and snapped it with her heel like a twig, then hastily tossed the pieces into the flames. The fire popped, green and blue flames brought to life by the chemicals in the wood finish. She’d have to cut the canvas apart to get it to fit in the hearth. That was next.
“Vannie?” a dry voice called from the top of the stairs.
Savannah dropped the canvas mid-yank.
“Savannah?” Daddy’s voice slithered downstairs, sinewy sounding and slow, but her father’s, nonetheless. “You know better than to try to burn my painting. Come here.”
She turned, hating that she had to look. Fingers grasped the edge of the top step. Thump … slide. Her father’s face, then shoulders appeared. One hand came forth, the palm slapping down on the step below, elbow locked, raising his torso from the landing. Frayed remains of his workshirt hung, but failed to conceal his buckshot organs and spine. Denim clung to one hip, strapped in place by his leather belt.
“This is gonna hurt me more than it will you,” he gurgled. Blackened blood showered from his lips with the articulation, a trickle running from the corner of his mouth and another dangling from his lower lip.
“No … Daddy,” she wailed. Pain surrounded her heart, the sorrow and terror so strong they could burst from her chest. “You’re dead. Up in heaven.”
He laughed, a sick, wet sound emitted from a smile that was too big for his bloodless face. Hands that she used to trust walked down the steps, pulling the rest of him along like a jackrabbit that was hit by a car, still living, but trying to run because that’s all shock would allow it to do, rather than just die.
Shock. She had that, standing traumatized, unwittingly screaming, and realizing her father’s corpse was picking up speed as it came to the bottom of the staircase. Lots of speed. She turned to run, too late.
One hand caught an ankle and she slammed down hard. Air left her lungs. The thing crawled up her body as she struggled to inhale. It propped a locked arm on either side of her head, Daddy’s clouded eyes staring down at her. She twisted, trying to get her face away of steamers of bloodied drool. He grinned and sunk his teeth into her shoulder.
Pain and adrenaline kicked in and Savannah screamed, kicking hard and shoving the torso into the air above her. One of her feet struck against a hip, causing a loud snap as his spinal cord gave out. The release caused the top half of him to shoot forward. He growled, screamed and laughed as they fought. One of his hands caught in her hair and the other around her neck. Her grasp was slick with fluid leaking from the open chest cavity, so each time she grabbed a part of him to try to push it off, it slipped away like a fresh-caught trout. Using her feet, she shoved herself backward, twisting, looking for anything she could use to save herself.
Warm, wrought iron met her grasp as she knocked over Mother’s neat rack of fireplace implements. A handle of one of the tools fell into her grasp. She balled her knees to her chest, pushing him away. His severed spinal cord twisted, beating against the couch. The familiar weight of the fire poker was in her free hand, the other pulling at slick fingers around her throat. With every bit of energy she could muster, she lifted the poker and slid it beneath her father’s chin, pushed up with her feet, and bucked him off to the side. While he was off balance, she tore free of the hand in her hair, feeling strands snap off in his grip.
Coming to a knee, she flattened the half-man to the floor and trapped his neck with both hands on the ends of the iron
rod. Now kneeling over the thrashing corpse, she replaced her left hand with the heel of her foot, stomping down hard.
The flat of the poker sank into his throat, but not deep enough. Frantic, Savannah came to her feet, stomping and swinging the sharp end of the poker at the gash in his neck. Before long, she had separated the head full of snapping teeth from the chest and reaching, clawing arms.
She grasped a handful of the thing’s bloody hair and tossed the head into the hearth without looking at the face.
“Vannie!” it whispered, but she didn’t look.
Far from the rest of the corpse’s reach, she fell onto the floor.
A new sound came from the hearth as the skull cracked apart like a beer bottle tossed into a campfire. Fluids boiled and sizzled on the burning wood.
Savannah blinked hard to reset a stray contact lens. The room was a grotesque mess, along with her clothes and hair. Daddy’s hands no longer reached for the unseen. Rather, the fingers touched the fabric of the couch, testing like a baby petting a kitten for the first time. Strong muscles worked, reminding her of the hundreds of times she waited, watching the same thumb and forefinger peel the backing off a Band-Aid. The hands had clapped hard, Daddy hooting away, when she’d won first place in the long jump during field day when she was little.
She sobbed angrily, pounced on the poker and used it to hook the back of her father’s shirt collar and drag the torso into the hearth. She kicked his stray arm into the flames and reached for kindling.
It took a while, but she burned all of him, right down to his work boots. Once the soles melted against orange-hot logs, she pulled free of her slimy, cold clothes, which was oddly liberating. Even her underwear went into the fire. Warmth comforted her while she stood in front of the fireplace, wrapped in the afghan off the couch. The scent of burning hair, clothing, and flesh thickened the air.
