by Amity Green
Molly’s smile gaped silently as her black eyes burned holes into Savannah. The grin split with darkness, slowly spreading to take over the whole area below her nose.
Savannah covered her mouth with both hands, terrified, as if covering her own mouth would make Molly’s stop opening so wide. The popping sounds of Molly’s jaw dislocating resonated as deadly as gunfire. Air hissed from her yawning face and more blackness leaked down her neck. Her torso shook and a wail of pain screamed free. Molly’s neck twisted and bulged, the shriek cut off so all that could be heard was Savannah’s own shrieking.
Skin stretched and tore at the corners of Molly’s mouth. Her eyes rolled, half her sister’s terrified, pleading gaze and half something other, a darkness that reveled in tearing her apart from the inside out.
A shrill scream continued and Savannah forced her own mouth to close. Molly stopped, as if on cue, becoming absolutely still. The silence lasted only briefly, broken by a squeak, like a mouse or a rat. Molly’s jaw rested on her chest, her mouth chasmal. Her eyes closed and something moved in the dark tunnel leading into her throat. A long, wet insect emerged, black and gleaming. Savannah slid back as a cockroach crawled toward freedom, sliding over Molly’s torn bottom lip. It navigated the side of her face, using an earlobe to drop lower. Another scratched its way out and more chirping echoed behind it. Molly’s chest heaved and trembled. A small, grey snake fell out onto the ground, twisting in dried leaves. A tiny, clawed foot grasped the side of Molly’s lip and a soaking wet mouse ran out, climbing across her shoulder. A rat shoved a fat roach out of its way, birthed slowly from the back of her torn throat.
“Make it stop!” Savannah screamed. “Please, I’ll do anything.” She turned her face to the sky. “Help my sister. Please,” she begged to the heavens.
More greasy things crept out, vomiting forth like a sewer line broke open. The smell of rot and feces gushed with them. Molly went to her knees, one hand grasping along the truck bed and the other clawing at her throat beneath her dislocated jaw.
Savannah rocked to her knees, certain her sister was dying or dead already. A stinking, slime-dripping rat stopped to claw away a leaf that stuck to its head. It ran off into a heap of dead grass and twigs. Molly fell forward, her chest flat against the ground and face turned away. Savannah sobbed hysterically.
Witcher stepped from the side of the truck. No sounds or gasping came from Molly, but she couldn’t see her sister’s face clearly. He was silent and so was the wind.
“Please help her.” Savannah’s voice was a whisper but she knew he heard her. He’d been listening, waiting for her to break. She sat back on her heels. The world began to spin in a very slow spiral.
“I hate it when we fight,” he said, peering down at her. His eyes searched her as he extended a hand. She took it and let him pull her to standing. He smoothed hair from her face, caressing the tender skin of her jaw. A tear stung a scratch just below her right eye. He kissed her cheek. She trembled, but let him embrace her, closing her eyes.
“Please help my little sister,” she whispered. His touch had grown familiar, which was not a good thing. She relaxed in his arms, and that was worse. The pain and fear clutching her chest let go. He kissed her and she let it happen, concentrating on the feel of cool air and the rhythm of her own breathing. He rocked her in his arms and moved his lips to her ear.
“She’ll have to sleep it off.”
“Thank you,” she said. “She’s okay?” Talking to him came easily, but she knew she should still want to cry. Molly’s torn face screamed silently against the back of her eyelids.
“I made it stop. Take her home. She needs to rest.”
She peered over his shoulder. Molly’s back rose and fell like she napped in the sun.
“You need only talk to me from this point on, understand? No others need to know our secrets.” Witcher tightened his arms around Savannah and placed a kiss on her forehead, then stepped away.
Savannah went to her sister, knelt and pulled matted hair away, carefully removing brittle leaves and twigs. Molly’s face was clean, except for a couple smudges of dirt. Her cheeks weren’t torn, the skin there pink and healthy. Savannah cried, using trembling hands to pick Molly’s head up from the dirt. She slid beneath her shoulders and pulled Molly into her lap, trying to get control while she examined the lump on her sister’s forehead.
“Molly?”
Molly blinked lazily then focused on Savannah’s face. “What are you doing?” She pushed herself up and scooted back, looking around.
Savannah got to her feet. “Can you stand up?”
Molly nodded. “I feel like crap.” She pulled herself up with a hand on the wheel-well of the Toyota.
“We hit some trees and you got knocked out,” Savannah lied.
Molly put her hands on her knees. “I feel sick.”
“Can you get back in the truck? I need to back it out of here.” Savannah went to the hood and pulled the branches away. The paint was a little scratched, but the big dent she expected to see wasn’t there. She looked around, removing anything behind a tire. Witcher was gone, just like the last time he appeared from the nearest, darkest shadow.
Molly climbed into the cab and shut the door. Savannah got in the driver’s side and prepared to be let down if the engine wouldn’t fire up.
“Ow,” Molly said, hissing when her fingers grazed the lump above her eye. She swiveled the rear view mirror, examining the damage. “Holy heck.”
“I’m so sorry, Molly.” Savannah held her breath, waiting for a response.
“Did you get hurt?” Molly continued to poke at her lump, turning her head a little to see how far it stuck out in her reflection.
A big sigh of relief broke loose. Her sister was back. “No. Just got the heck scared outta me. You had a stomach cramp and I should have just pulled over, or kept my eyes on the road.” She shook her head, frowning. “I want to get you home and get an ice pack on that goose egg.”
Savannah held her breath, floored the clutch, and turned the key. The starter fired but the engine didn’t come to life. She tried again, listening to the rrr rrr rrr as the truck struggled to start. Molly turned the mirror back around and looked at her. Finally, the motor grabbed and roared. Both girls breathed in a long, full breath. Savannah looked behind them, adjusted the rear view and started backward. The peppy little four-wheel-drive crept over rocks and branches. Soon, they backed onto the gravel drive and continued toward the house.
“I need a shower,” Molly said, when they were inside. She put the groceries on the kitchen counter. Savannah tried to hide her alarm at having Molly out of her sight. Judging from Molly’s face, she had failed.
“Okay, gosh.” Molly dug into the sacks and started putting the food away. “All you had to do was ask me to help.” She didn’t look up, just grabbed into the second bag.
“It’s not that.” Savannah pulled the brown paper bag away. Molly looked at her, curious and a little snippy.
“I just worry about you and the bump on your head. Go on up and shower. I’ll put these away.” She smiled, but it was really hard to do.
Molly didn’t say anything, just turned toward the kitchen door.
“I’ll be up to check on you in fifteen minutes if you don’t come back down, okay?”
Molly stopped and looked down. She turned and gave Savannah a what-the-hell look.
“The hot water might make you dizzy. Don’t lock the bathroom door.”
Molly didn’t respond for a long moment. “All right,” she agreed, finally. “I’m getting a sore throat.”
“I’ll make us something soft to eat and we can just watch movies all day.”
“Pancakes?” Molly asked.
Savannah nodded. Suddenly her little sister was young again, excited about the little things. “Sure.”
“Cool.” Molly tossed the response over her shoulder on the way out. “I’m starving,” she called down the stairs.
Savannah went to the table and sat heav
ily. The water came on upstairs. She rested her head on her arms, trying to get it together. She could do it. She’d make breakfast and soak up a day in front of TV with Molly, trying to act like nothing was wrong, like their parents were coming home with Chaz and his dumb dog. As if they were a happy family without any secrets.
***
Chapter 19
Savannah penned the last mare back in the horse’s usual stall and tossed three flakes of hay into her feeder. The ranch animals doubled as pets, right down to the last chicken. They all thrived on security and feeding schedules, and that’s what Savannah intended to provide for them. The hens that survived slaughter pecked happily in their coop. The cattle needed counting and the farrier was due for a trip out for new horseshoes. For the time being she could look around and feel good about mock normalcy. The hay stack would run out by fall unless she started up the tractors herself. On such a bright, sunny morning she felt like she might do just that. She craved stability and routine just like the other denizens of the Witcher Place. Two of the horses slept in their pens, warm in the sun while reflex kept their tails swatting at flies. They needed her and she needed them.
Molly would sleep late, which was expected after the latest incident Witcher put her through. Savannah pulled out of her mucking boots and padded into the house in socks. The shower was running upstairs, which was a surprise. Coffee sounded wonderful so she set a pot to brew, poured some cereal, and waited for Molly to come downstairs.
A knock sounded at the front door. Savannah’s stomach leapt into her throat. What if it was the sheriff’s department? She’d cleaned out the fireplace after burning the remaining bone in there for another day, but only given a half-hearted attempt at the stains in the den. Afghans covered the bloodied couch and floor. She hurried to the door to get it over with before Molly came downstairs.
Mr. Williams was on the porch, sporting a warm smile beneath a John Deer ball cap. Seeing a friendly face sent a flood of relief her way, and she jerked open the door with a grin of her own.
“Hi Mister Williams.”
“Good morning, Savannah.”
“Dad’s not back yet,” she said, wondering about his unannounced visit.
“He’s here to get me,” Molly called as she came down the stairs. She jogged through the den and plopped onto the mud room bench to put her shoes on. More sweats and a clean tee were her chosen attire. At least she was clean.
“Oh.” Savannah peered down at Molly, waiting for an explanation. “Aren’t you a little tired?”
“I’m fine,” Molly answered while she stomped her foot into a shoe.
“What were you girls up to yesterday? Playing with some old tractor horn? We heard you guys clear out by the barn,” said Mr. Williams, casually. He watched Molly tie her shoes.
“No idea,” Molly said, not really caring or paying attention.
“Yeah, that was me,” Savannah said. “Sorry.” She gave him a half smile. “So Molly, what’s going on today?”
“I’m going to see Kim. She started Four H. I’m thinking about joining.” She whipped her last shoestrings into a bow and sped around Savannah to the door. “Ready?”
Mr. Williams walked out and down the front steps. “Ready when you are.”
“Well, I guess it’s okay if you go,” Savannah said. “When will you be home?”
“I’ll bring her back tonight, if that works. She said she talked to Jack last night and he okayed skipping the last day,” Mr. Williams said, half asking. “I gave in at our house, too. Heck, it’s summer.” He moved out of Molly’s way and she didn’t look back, just headed out to his truck.
Savannah watched them go and found herself waving to Kim, who jumped out grinning at her, holding the truck door open for Molly.
“I guess I’ll see ya guys tonight then.” Savannah shook inside, both from anger at Molly’s actions and from adrenaline from when he’d knocked. She had no idea why Molly hadn’t said anything after apparently calling Kim. They should be a team and be working together since the parents were gone. Molly gallivanting where and when she pleased wouldn’t work out.
“Alrighty, see you,” Mr. Williams called, and he was off the porch and walking away, her little sister firmly planted on the bench seat beside Kim, not even bothering to wave to Savannah. Savannah stood in the doorway watching them go, a little numb and hurt. After the dust settled in the driveway she closed the door and looked around the living room, greeted by silence.
The timing was perfect for Witcher to show up and give her hell for letting Molly out of her sight. He didn’t appear to be around, but it wouldn’t have surprised her, for once. His fascination with Molly’s well-being troubled her. Why did he care if Molly lived or died? She was only a pawn to him, a way to keep Savannah under control. If Molly wasn’t around, he’d surely find another tool. But the way he was so adamant that Molly was kept safe, unharmed, didn’t set well. What could he have to lose? He didn’t complain when Jack died and it was his idea for Mother to run away with Chaz.
Savannah went back to the kitchen. The coffee was done, so she heaped three big spoons of sugar in a mug and sat stirring. She wasn’t worried about Molly’s safety when she was over at the Williams’. They were good people, and the girls had known Kim since kindergarten. She flipped decomposing corn flakes around in warming milk. Maybe 4H was best for Molly. It was a normal thing that normal kids did. Savannah had competed in horse shows for years but didn’t join back up during her senior year. Molly wasn’t much into animals or livestock. Maybe she’d choose some kind of craft. It wouldn’t cost much, and she could sign their dad’s name on more checks. A permission slip for 4H would be no different. Molly would be sixteen in August. She needed something to do, a club to belong to. It would be a good thing, she decided. Molly should have talked it over with her first, though. It would be okay. And besides, there was a day of cleaning ahead.
Restoring normalcy to a living room where she’d hacked apart her father’s animated corpse as it tried to strangle her was a challenge even Lysol wasn’t up to. The preliminary cleaning she’d tried to do days ago wasn’t very thorough, which is why she resorted to covering it up so Molly didn’t see. The not-so-fresh scent of chemicals and pine was overwhelming but better than the mixed aroma of charred remains and dried blood. Stain spray helped the bottom of the couch along with a good scrubbing.
After a couple hours of scouring, the stairway gleamed, the wooden steps swept and scrubbed shiny. The washer and dryer hummed dutifully while she worked, bedding stripped from every room after she threw open curtains and windows to let in sunshine and fresh air.
Savannah stood between the two eastern windows, drying sweat saturating her tee shirt and shorts as she surveyed what a full morning of cleaning could do for a murder scene. Every place she’d seen something horrid was first bleached and then disinfected again with more cleaners from beneath the kitchen sink. Lemon scented furniture spray was a nice finishing touch. A trash bag of empty cleaning products sat by the back door, reminding her of a bigger problem than keeping the house clean. The household supplies would need to be replenished, and she had no idea how much money was left in the parents’ checking account.
If she was going to make everything work, she’d have to take responsibility of the household. That would require a certain hardness she didn’t know if she’d developed just yet. She could keep writing checks from their parents’ account, but who knew how long that would work out. One room she didn’t spend any time in was that study off the back hallway. That room was always so dark and quiet, she and her siblings didn’t like it. Daddy spent his nights in there, taking care of ranch business after everyone else was in bed. The small, ornate room was the likely keeper of all the family business.
After one last attempt to wash the smell of bleach off her hands, she walked to the back of the long hall, the smell of old tobacco growing stronger as she neared the thick wooden door. It swung open with a heavy groan. She hit the light switch beside the door.
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br /> Doing her best to ignore the way the room smelled of Daddy, of leather and sweat, love and guilt, Savannah walked around his giant, dark desk and gingerly lowered into the hardened leather desk chair. The room was constructed mainly of wood. Everything was carved and expensive looking. The hanging light from above was the most modern of the features, the trio of light bulbs behind a cheap, glass plate etched with flower petals barely lighting the desk and ritzy, Victorian looking area rug beneath.
Savannah pulled the chain on the desk lamp, which helped a little. The metallic sound of the pull chain barely clicked. There was no noise from outside, or from anywhere for that matter, like the room was insulated by extra thick walls. To the left was a small fireplace, framed by a gilt mantle. Old ash lumped over the grate and a round, metal caddy held a small store of logs and kindling. The rest of the walls were comprised of floor-to-ceiling bookcases that stretched up into the darkest part of the walls. She spun in the chair, searching out detail. An 8X10 family photo from about three years ago hung on the wall behind the desk, and her parent’s wedding photo was up there too, just above it. She spent a moment looking at that one, her parents childlike faces appearing far too young, her age maybe, not old enough to be married. Innocence reflected in their eyes, along with promise and ambition, virtues too good for what their joint future held, especially Daddy. She forced herself to move on.
Another switch was mounted to the wall beside the bookcase to the right of her, so she reached to flip it on. Small light sconces blinked to life above every section of shelves, about a dozen in all, with one centered to illuminate the hearth. Light enlarged the study, rows of books heavily coated with dust arranged and held by a menagerie of animal shaped bookends.
Something tickled the top of her left knee, like a piece of hair blew across her skin. She scratched at it and found a piece of Scotch tape hanging down from the well of the desk. Without much thought she pulled it off, looking beside the desk for a waste paper basket. Something flat and cold landed on her thigh as she pulled the tape free. She pushed back in the chair, the wheels rolling a few inches. A small silver key was stuck to a piece of overused Scotch tape. There were no etchings marking it and nothing was written to say what it went to. She set it on the desk beside the lamp. Curiosity emboldened her and she yanked open the desk drawers. A quick ransacking turned up a couple boxes of pens, an envelope of photos of her and her siblings, random receipts for the farm equipment, and a bill organizer which held utility bills, among others. Two of the drawers were file cabinets full of labeled files for everything she could think of from the veterinarian to receipts for groceries and gas. Daddy’s address book was in the flat, middle drawer, holding familiar business cards for livestock auctioneers and cattle trucks. There was a ledger book with lots of small numbers written in too many titled columns. Dates for entries stopped on May 18th.
