Mary Ann Mitchell - Drawn to the Grave.html

by Drawn to the Grave (lit)

  Beverly sat up with palms outstretched in front of her. These hands did not belong to her. She looked at her breasts, which were shriveled and hung down as if her nipples were tiny weights. The hands lifted the breasts, and as they did, she spied the gashes she herself had inflicted only minutes before. The breasts were foreign to her, as were the other parts of this thing that sat in her place.

  Carl stole my body, incorporated it into his own cells so that he could entice and charm young girls, she thought. So that he could survive beyond her.

  "I want myself back, Carl," she hissed under the glow of a moon that penetrated the glass of the French doors.

  15 - Hyacinth Girl

  Megan turned over onto her side and into the glare of the noontime sun. Immediately she pulled the sheet over her head. Then the strangeness of her surroundings began to seep into her consciousness. She was not lying comfortably on her own mattress. This was not one of the pastel sheets she owned; instead, it was a dingy beige. Only a man would buy such a bland color, she thought. A man! Where the heck was she?

  She threw off the covers, sat up, and looked around the room. The wicker chair, the nightstand with the art nouveau lamp, and, yes, that sweet perfume of the hyacinths: this was Carl's abode. She blushed, remembering her last encounter with the older man. A pretty smile perked up her rosy cheeks, but as she slipped out of bed, her glance shifted to the small closet with the glass doorknob, and all of the torsos, limbs, and faces returned to her memory.

  "I've got to get out of here before I get in too deep," she muttered as she padded her way across the faded Persian rug toward the bathroom. For a second she halted, wondering whether she should close the window before taking her shower; after all, it would take a while for the fragrance of the hyacinth to fade. Odd, she thought, that a flower could so permeate a room, and she hadn't remembered seeing even a single one outside the window.

  Megan shrugged and went through the bathroom doorway. She would deal with the window later. By the position of the sun, she assumed it was late, and she wanted to be gone from this place before evening. She turned around and peeked back into the bedroom, searching the walls and nightstand for a clock. None. Guess when one lives out in the woods one doesn't worry about time, she thought. She took a step back and closed the bathroom door.

  A half hour later, Megan, wrapped in the navy robe, was tiptoeing down the hallway to the living room. She thought that she remembered seeing her backpack lying on the floor alongside some wood that was probably meant for the fireplace. There it was, exactly where she had seen it the night before when Carl had carried her into the room.

  She snatched it up and practically ran back to the bedroom. She had a change of clothes in the pack that she could put on before she went into the backyard to retrieve the clothes she had washed the day before. Quickly she slipped on her bikini underwear, pulled some baggy jeans over them, then fetched a white T-shirt out of the pack.

  The T-shirt was almost over her head when she heard the door open. She pulled the shirt down as fast as she could, and turned to see Carl standing in the hallway, a half-smile on his face, in appreciation for what was before him.

  "I've got to be going," she said. "If you don't mind, I'll just grab some fruit and refill my canteen with some tap water."

  Carl's lips tightened into a straight line.

  "Oh, yes. Don't let me forget my clothes in the backyard."

  He continued to stand just beyond the bedroom threshold. Remembering the window, she thought, With this guy hyacinths are just as good as garlic is with vampires. She wondered whether she should continue the standoff or close the window. Megan glanced at the bed and thought, Naw, even with the window closed the fragrance will last for a while. She may as well close it.

  "It got stuffy last night, so I opened the window," she said as she approached the breeze blowing into the room. Before closing the window, she took a quick gander at the yard to see if she could spot any hyacinths. Not a one in sight. The window was sticking again, as it had the previous night. Oh, no! Not another scene like what occurred then, please. Megan pushed with all her strength until the window fell, and she heard the glass shatter.

  She gave a long, guttural moan and leaned her head against the windowframe.

  ''I'll pick up the pieces of glass," she said as she raised her head. "I'm sorry. It was stuck, and I guess I pushed too hard." Megan saw the broken window cord and thought that it probably had needed to be fixed for some time. It wouldn't have happened if he had taken better care of his place. She knew she couldn't say that to him, though.

  "If you have a broom and" Megan swung around. She couldn't see him from where she stood, but was surprised that he hadn't stuck in his head to see what had happened. Out of all those women, the hyacinth gal must have been something, to cause this response to her flowers.

  Megan walked over to the doorway. The hallway was empty. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. Guided by common sense, she found the broom, dustpan, and an empty brown paper bag in the pantry closet in the kitchen. She passed no one in the hallway on her way back to the bedroom.

  After placing all the broken glass that she could find in the paper bag, she returned to the kitchen to deposit it in the trash can under the sink.

  She carried her backpack over one shoulder, removed the canteen from the pack, and refilled it. Then she stuffed several apples and the canteen inside the bursting pack.

  "How am I ever going to fit the extra clothes inside?" She pressed down on the springy contents, then dropped the backpack on a kitchen chair and went out the door to the yard.

  Her clothes were gone. Could an animal have taken them during the night? she wondered. Megan stomped the dirt with both feet.

  "Didn't we agree that you looked better without these things?"

  Turning to her right, Megan spied Carl leaning against an old shed. In his hands were her clothes.

  "I wouldn't be welcome in civilized company without them."

  "I'm not civilized," he said, and casually flipped her clothes through a paneless window of the shed.

  "Ah, come on. I just washed those things." The shed looked filthy from the outside, and Megan figured the inside wouldn't look any better.

  Megan marched to the door of the shed. It was padlocked.

  "No joking around, Carl. I want my clothes now." She stomped her right foot for emphasis.

  "You told me you would stay, Megan."

  She didn't want to admit that she had been nosing around in the boxes.

  "Life's too short to stop at any one place for too long, Carl. I have to be on my way."

  "Why are you leaving? Did I frighten you?"

  That sounded like a good out, but his expression was so sad that she couldn't use it.

  "No, Carl. We're too different and"

  "I'm too old."

  "No! I found you fascinating and was dying to see the journals you told me about."

  "Didn't I meet your expectations last night?"

  Uh-oh. This was getting sticky. She had planned to avoid the topic of sex altogether.

  Her cheeks were burning. "Actually, you were the best lover I've ever had." She needn't tell him she had been with only two other guys.

  "Why leave?"

  He said so damn little; yet it was so difficult to walk away.

  "Because I doubt I could ever compare with . . ." There was a moment's pause; she had to be careful here. "With your previous relationships."

  "How can you say that when you know nothing about my past?"

  "I know about the hyacinth woman." Megan saw Carl's body tense. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up again. Obviously she hurt you very badly."

  "No, she's the one who suffers," he said placidly.

  "But you're stuck here with her memories, while she's moved on with her life."

  "She gave me something special, Megan, and I wouldn't have given up my experiences with her for any trail that might take me away from here."

  "Sometimes it's better t
o leave before you get hurt."

  "How could she hurt me? She loved me."

  "But now you can't stand a beautiful flower just because it was this woman's favorite. That comes from pain."

  "I won, Megan. I'm still here. She's the one who had to go."

  "You think I'm running away, too, don't you? You think I'm afraid of you and my feelings."

  "Afraid of your feelings for me. I don't believe you're afraid of me."

  Megan chewed her bottom lip. Should she confront him about the sketch pads? Maybe he'd have a reasonable answer. Perhaps he hadn't had one sex orgy after another. Listen to yourself, Megan. When did you become a prude?

  "Carl, I couldn't sleep last night."

  He smiled. "I would have thought you were exhausted."

  Her cheeks didn't sting. Maybe she was getting used to his innuendos.

  "There was nothing to read, and I didn't want to disturb you, since you had sounded so keen on working. I thought you might have had some important project to complete." Megan saw Carl's head nod. "So I kind of have this thing about doorknobs. My grandparents had glass doorknobs on all their doors." She was dragging this out. He'd be dozing by the time she finished. "So I noticed that your bedroom closet had a glass doorknob." His body stiffened. You're in for it now, thought Megan, but she couldn't stop. "I opened your closet and found the boxes."

  "You opened them."

  "Yeah." Her head was bobbing. She felt like a car ornament. "I sort of flipped up the flaps and noticed all those sketch pads."

  Carl's eyes were no longer a clear blue; they seemed muddied by anger. Oops, she thought. Maybe honesty was not the best policy.

  "I guess you're an artist." He was too angry about what she had found to be an artist, but she wanted to give him an easy way out.

  "No."

  Megan's eyes widened. The lecher was going to admit to all of his philandering.

  "The woman who planted the flowers was the artist. She left piles of her work behind. I was emotionally unable to discard them."

  "You mean the hyacinth girl drew all those naked women?"

  "She left me for one of her models."

  Megan's heart sank. How could she be so cruel as to bring up all these bad associations? Yet a single doubt lingered.

  "This place is so out of the way. How did she get models to come this far?"

  "We didn't always live here. We moved here toward the end of our relationship. Her last model followed us and posed down near the water several times."

  Near where the hyacinths grow, no doubt, Megan concluded.

  "I'm sorry, Carl. I wish I hadn't brought any of this up. You look so pained. What can I do to help?"

  "Stay, Megan. Please."

  16 - A Taste of Death

  The twit was going to accept the explanation, Carl could tell. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes. Come on, Megan, say yes. Agree to stay, at least for a few days.

  Carl played it like Russian roulette. Of course, with his strength he could physically prevent Megan from leaving, but that wouldn't set him free from guilt. He needed her consent, her collaboration in the deed even if the final outcome was unknown to her. Carl hoped it never got to the point when he would be forced to drug and tie someone down, because he didn't think he could do that. No, he would die then, for it would be time.

  "I'll stay, Carl, only to keep you company. We won't make love again. I don't think either of us is ready for that kind of commitment."

  That resolution won't last long, Carl thought. He knew she would change her mind. She was obviously malleable and naive.

  "But I'll only stay for another week, two weeks at the most. Understand?"

  Carl smiled; a few days would be all he needed.

  "I understand, Megan. I wouldn't force you to stay if you really wanted to move on, but I think it is too soon for both of us to part."

  "Sorry about the window. Is there some place we can go to get a new pane? I'll pay for it."

  "Don't worry about the window. I'll go into town later this afternoon."

  "Great! I must have passed by it somehow. Maybe we can have dinner there. Is there a decent restaurant?"

  "I'm afraid it's rather small and boring. Nothing there would interest a young girl like you. Why don't I give you some of my journals to read while I'm away? Believe me, they would be a lot more interesting than the hardware store."

  Megan's bottom lip protruded in a sulky pout, but Carl didn't want anyone to know she was there. Already he would have to tell the local merchants that his tenant had to leave suddenly because of illness in the family. Everyone knew Beverly had a brother with a drinking problem, who could conveniently have had a bad attack of cirrhosis.

  Carl rubbed the back of his index finger across Megan's bottom lip. Her lips started to pucker before she pulled back her head.

  "So where are the journals?"

  "In the study." Carl dropped his hand to his side. As he turned toward the house, he felt Megan's hand grab his left forearm. He looked at her inquisitively.

  "My clothes are in that filthy shed." Her tight fist waved back and forth while her thumb extended in the direction of the shed. "I hope you still have the key, because I don't think either of us would care to crawl through the window."

  "It's not locked."

  "What do you mean? There's a padlock on the front door."

  Carl went over to the shed and lifted the door off the rusted hinges.

  "You know, Carl, you mentioned fixing up that rental place down the river. Ummm, have you given any thought to starting here first? I used to help my dad sometimes, although I guess I acted more like a gofer than a repair-person. Still, I did spend a lot of time watching him and could probably be very helpful."

  He laughed. She definitely would be helpful. She'd save his life. Carl went into the shed and found Megan's clothes lying on top of some old newspapers. When he lifted her jeans, he saw a black widow spider scurry down the side of the yellowed newspapers. Cautiously, he lifted her denim shirt. Nothing moved, but he shook both garments out to make sure they were free of vermin.

  "Megan, it might be better if you didn't poke around in this shed," he said, crossing the threshold. He handed the clothing to her. "Lucky there are no glass doorknobs to intrigue you here." Carl replaced the door on the orange-brown hinges.

  "Sorry about that, too. I shouldn't have been so nosy, but you can trust in one thing, and that's that there's no way I'm going to pry into that mess . . . or whatever you have stored in that shed. It has no appeal for me."

  Carl decided to shift the last journal from under the back porch to the shed.

  "I guess they don't need another washing," she said, inspecting the faded blue material in her hands.

  Megan was holding her jeans up in the air. The shirt hung over one of her extended arms. She shook the jeans violently.

  "I did that already, Megan." Then, to ensure that Megan would not be drawn to the shed, he added, "After I found the black widow under them."

  The jeans almost fell from her hands.

  "Thank you, Carl. Did you check the pockets, too?"

  Carl watched Megan squeeze the outside material of the pockets together tightly. She gingerly used one hand to open the slit of the pocket so that she could peek inside.

  "Any squished arachnids?"

  "Spiders always give me the queasies, with their long legs and sticky webs. Did you know that for mobility they make parachutes and blow around in the wind?'' Megan's shoulders visibly shivered. "Never mind. I don't want to think about it."

  "What kind of archaeologist would you make?"

  "Well, Indiana Jones was afraid of snakes."

  "It's getting late. If I'm going to go into town, I had better leave soon." Carl could hear her stomach growl. "Seems like you frequently forget to have your meals."

  Megan must have decided that her clothes were safe, because she hugged them close to her body.

  "I had planned on stopping down the road from here. I w
as going to have some dried beef and an apple."

  "How about some waffles with strawberries and cream, instead?"

  Megan nodded enthusiastically.

  "You'll have to make them yourself, though, because I've got to go. I left some batter in the refrigerator and the waffle iron is still on the kitchen counter, cleaned and ready to use. Don't mind eating alone, do you?"