Mother

by Patrick Logan

  The air around Arielle suddenly stirred, and a creaking sound reached her from somewhere no more than ten or fifteen paces directly ahead.

  Her heart, already pounding in her chest, doubled or tripled in speed. It was the sound of the rusted chains holding the porch swing to the roof, and the creaking stirred a memory that had been buried deep inside.

  She was sitting beside an old woman on the porch swing, spewing her guts about everything as the strange woman smoked silently beside her.

  Why had she done that? Why had she shared so much with someone she’d only just met?

  Arielle remembered the woman’s pale pink lips twisting into a smile, telling her to come inside, that she had something that would calm her nerves, clear her head.

  The milk.

  Arielle’s stomach did a backflip and she gagged. The sensation was accompanied by an image of a tall glass of milk that was so tangible that she could almost taste the sickly sweet substance. And the thickness… why had the milk been so thick, like a Plaster of Paris slurry? Milk, even whole milk, was never that thick…

  She shuddered and was about to raise her heavy foot again, to inch toward the creaking porch swing, when another sound cut through the thick night.

  It was the sound of a young girl laughing.

  “Hope?” Arielle whispered. “Hope? Is that you?”

  The only response was another giggle.

  Arielle took an immediate left and headed toward this new sound, holding her hand out to one side to make sure she didn’t bump into the porch that was somewhere just out of reach.

  She was starting to sweat, partly because of the warmth of the night and partly due to the exertion required to raise her feet. Heart still racing, she crept closer to the house, and with two more labored steps, the peaked roof loomed overhead and blocked out all moonlight, shrouding Arielle in complete darkness. Even going just from poor lighting to zero visibility was disorienting, and Arielle had to pause to catch her bearings. Eventually, fueled by another, more distant giggle, she mobilized again and carefully inched forward. Her outstretched fingers soon grazed the wooden porch railing, and she used this as a guide to make her way toward the side of the house.

  “Mommy?”

  The tiny voice seemed to come out of the darkness itself.

  “Hope? I’m coming, baby, just stay still—don’t move.”

  Arielle picked up her pace, grunting now as she raised her feet.

  When she cleared the corner, the moonlight shone once again, and in that instant Arielle saw her.

  Hope was standing twenty paces ahead of her, just in front of a door cut out of the side of the brick house.

  “Hope!” Arielle cried.

  The girl was standing completely still with her back to her, a long blond braid trailing halfway down her back.

  “Hope?” Worry usurped Arielle’s feelings of exultation.

  Why is she standing so still? Why doesn’t she turn and face me?

  Arielle reached her daughter in only a few large strides, despite the mud’s grasp. Cautiously, she lowered her hand on Hope’s shoulder, relishing the feel of her warm body even through her green t-shirt. Upon contact, the girl turned, and Arielle’s smile faded.

  This wasn’t her daughter.

  Arielle took a step backward, nearly stumbling when her heels dug into the mud.

  It wasn’t her daughter, but another girl, one that looked just like Hope.

  It was the girl with the Frisbee, the one that had met her in the park all those years ago back in Batesburg. The same girl who had given served her milk during Arielle’s months at this house.

  Madison.

  The name came to her in a flash.

  ‘We’ll stay here until you drink it. Mother won’t be happy.’

  The memory came smashing back to Arielle with such clarity that she fell backward, her ass immediately puckering into the mud.

  It wasn’t Hope; it was Madison.

  “What did you do with Hope?” Arielle whispered.

  But the girl didn’t answer. Instead, she just lowered her gaze and her pretty lips turned downward.

  “Why did you come back here?” the girl whispered. The words were strange, her voice distant, as if she were repeating words that someone had told her to say. “Mother is not happy.”

  Arielle scrambled to a kneeling posture, anger overwhelming her.

  Mother? Mother?

  “She took my Hope,” Arielle hissed. “Kidnapped her.”

  She went to stand, but the mud grabbed her and pulled her back to her knees. Her hands were buried in the stuff halfway to her forearms. She was surprised at how warm the mud was—warm, like simmering soup.

  Madison looked up, shaking her head back and forth, sending her braid whipping from side to side.

  “You made a deal.”

  “Fuck the deal,” Arielle said as she finally managed to rise to her feet.

  “You made a deal,” Madison repeated. She lifted her eyes, and Arielle saw that the girl was crying now.

  Despite everything, Arielle felt sorry for this girl, as whatever her involvement was, at only seven or eight years old, she was not responsible. Still, if she was going to get in the way of her finding Hope…

  “Fuck the deal. I will never give my child away. No one would… that’s insane.”

  Arielle took a step forward, but then a sound from her right startled her.

  It was the sound of a door opening, and as she turned, something struck her in the side of the head and she went down, her face cushioned by the mud like a molten pillow.

  As her vision blurred and her mind began to swim, she felt large hands wrap around her shoulders and yank her to her feet. A second later, she was upside down, hoisted up over a man’s shoulder, her head hanging down his back.

  It could only be one man—there was only one man that she knew was large enough, strong enough, to lift her like a damp rag.

  It could only be Jessie.

  As her vision blurred, Arielle was spun around, and she caught a final glimpse of Madison staring at her, the wet tracks on her cheeks reflecting the pale moonlight.

  “You made a deal,” the girl whispered almost forlornly. Arielle didn’t know if she heard the words, or if she only read Madison’s lips. “Mother is not happy. Filius obcisor. A life for a life.”

  Arielle’s body went limp and her world faded to black.

  Chapter 45

  “There! You see that? It… it looks like a car.”

  Martin squinted hard, trying to make out the license plate. It was a Georgia plate, but still… it could be her car. After all, it was an Audi A4 and the swamp didn’t strike Martin as a place where people drove Audis. Tractors, dirt bikes, maybe even alligators, but not Audis.

  “You see it?” Woodward asked again.

  Martin shut off the headlights.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “You think it’s hers?”

  Martin shrugged.

  She’s here. She’s definitely here.

  “Yeah,” he said again, slowing the car and then bringing it to a stop by the mailbox that was still buried in the mud; the mailbox with the numbers 8181 or 1818 or whatever the hell was written on the side of it. The mailbox that marked the lane to a house that Martin was beginning to think had a past far darker than he could have ever imagined.

  Martin took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, but Woodward’s voice stopped him short.

  “Martin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s your daughter’s name—I mean, if you really have a daughter and all that.”

  Martin hesitated, and he mulled the question over.

  If. If Arielle has a daughter. If this daughter is mine. If I find her or them. If she’s here in this godforsaken place. If. If. If.

  “Hope,” he replied at last. “Her name is Hope.”

  Woodward nodded.

  “A beautiful name.”

  Martin would have said ‘thank you’, but h
is throat was suddenly too dry to produce any words. Instead he opened the door and gulped in the stinking, foul swamp air.

  “If they’re here, Woodward, let’s find them. If they’re here, let’s find my wife and daughter.”

  * * *

  “Take this and keep the beam low. Don’t be shining it up into the windows. We’ll scope out the outside first, then head indoors. Remember the lock on the floor in the kitchen I told you about?”

  Martin took the flashlight from Woodward and shook his head. The only thing he remembered was being choked by some ogre—Jessie—before Woodward saved him.

  “Well, there was a lock in the kitchen… on the floor.”

  Martin nodded.

  “Stick to the outside first. Beam low.”

  Crouched, with the flashlight aimed low as instructed, Martin made his way up the muddy driveway. With every step, his shoes became increasingly covered with mud, restricting his pace to slow and methodical. Woodward seemed to have an even a harder time, what with his immense weight pressing him deeper into the mud with each step.

  The swamp was active, with bullfrogs, crickets, and other night insects singing their nocturnal theme song. Martin tried his best to force these noises into the background, and instead tried to pick up other sounds—like giant men running through the mud at us—like someone talking or crying out for help.

  As they approached the porch, Martin realized that while there was no speaking to be heard, there was another sound that didn’t quite fit in the swamp. Underlying the night noises was the sound of creaking metal.

  The chain—the chain holding the porch swing to the roof.

  Martin raised his foot to ascend the first porch step, but Woodward reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Outside first, you take the left and I’ll—”

  A loud creak from the porch interrupted Woodward, and Martin instinctively sprayed his flashlight up the porch.

  There, sitting upright on the swing, was the blackened corpse of a woman.

  “Oh fuck!” Martin shouted, as he tried to take a step backward. The mud grabbed his shoe and held him in place.

  As he watched, the woman’s head slowly turned to face him, her eyes a startling white against her crispy flesh.

  “Please, not my child. Please don’t burn her.”

  Her voice was calm, almost soothing.

  This time when Martin tried to pull his foot from the mud, he started to fall backward, a scream stuck in his throat.

  Woodward grabbed his arm and yanked him back to his feet. Martin’s flashlight beam had strayed during his half-fall, and it fell on Woodward’s face. The man’s eyebrows were knitted, his lips pursed.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Martin whipped the flashlight back to the porch.

  The burned woman was gone.

  “What the fuck?”

  The bench was empty, save a burnt smear where the woman had been sitting.

  “Lower the fucking flashlight!” Woodward hissed, bringing his hand down on top of Martin’s, forcing the spray of light back to the mud.

  “Did you see that?” Martin whispered.

  His heart was racing and his entire body suddenly felt slick with sweat.

  “See what? The fucking porch swing?”

  Martin shook his head so violently that he felt momentarily dizzy.

  “The woman… the burned woman on the swing.”

  Woodward’s grip tightened on his arm.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Martin squeezed his eyes closed.

  Get it together, Martin. You’re freaked out because of the church woman—because of seeing Jennifer burning beneath you.

  When he opened his eyes again, Woodward’s big face was illuminated by the ambient glow from the dual flashlight beams aimed toward the mud at their feet.

  “Get your fucking shit together, Marty. Now.”

  Martin swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Good, now you take the left, and I’ll head right. Go around the house, stick close to the wall and keep low. If you hear anything fucked up, you holler and I’ll make it to you. And for God’s sake Martin, keep the flashlight low.”

  Martin nodded in agreement, then glanced downward and realized that Woodward had drawn his revolver.

  He wished his friend had brought two.

  Without the comforting weight of a gun, he allowed his free hand fall to his pocket where his fingers met the turquoise stone therein. It wouldn’t protect him from anything, of course—no amount of demon talk would convince him of the power of some benign talisman—but it offered him solace none the less.

  Something to hold on to.

  “Okay,” he murmured.

  Woodward squeezed his arm again their gazes locked.

  “Okay,” Martin repeated more forcefully this time.

  Woodward nodded.

  “If you see or hear anything, just shout. Shout loud, and I’ll get to you. Get it the fuck together, Marty.”

  With that, Woodward turned in the mud with a slurping, suckling sound coming from his shoes, and was gone.

  And Martin was alone.

  Chapter 46

  When Arielle finally opened her eyes, she was surprised that she was somewhere inside. The left side of her face was stiff and caked, and when she finally managed to raise her hand to touch it, her fingers came back brown and red.

  Her head hurt, but not as badly as she might have thought given the speed at which she had hit the ground. She had no idea what had struck her, but she vaguely recalled being picked up by someone strong, and staring into the face of a young girl—

  Hope. I need to find Hope.

  Arielle pulled herself to her feet, but did so too quickly and dizziness took over, forcing her back down. Hovering a few inches above the floor, she took this opportunity to catch her bearings. She was in a cell of some sort, a room made of cold, sweaty bricks that looked a dull gray in the light that shone from the bare bulb up above. There was a cot in the corner, a striped, uncovered, and veritably filthy mattress lying on top. A lone bucket sat in the corner, the purpose of which was plainly—and disgustingly—obvious.

  Arielle was back here, after four years of being away.

  She was back in her room.

  “No,” she moaned, slowly pulling herself onto her elbows, and then into a seated position.

  “Welcome back, Arielle.”

  Arielle’s head shot up.

  There, outside a set of thick metal bars, was Jessie.

  As usual, the man’s head was high above her, making it difficult to clearly make out his features in the dim lighting. Even seated on the barren floor, the man was nearly as tall as she was when standing. Beside him was a tall glass of milk.

  “No,” she moaned again, her eyes focusing in on the milk. Fearing that she was going to be forced to drink it, Arielle shuffled away from the bars. Instead, Jessie brought the milk to his shadowed face and took a sip. The sight made her stomach flip.

  “Yes, welcome back to your room,” Jessie replied, misinterpreting her pleas.

  Memories came flooding back in waves, and Arielle was brought back to the first time she had arrived at Coverfeld Ave.

  ‘Do you want to see your room?’ Mother asked as they shuffled through the dark hallway together.

  Arielle nodded, taking another sip of the sour-tasting milk. It didn’t really agree with her, but Mother insisted, and it had an addictive quality that was difficult to describe. It was kind of like trying not to grit your teeth after drinking something very sugary. You could do it, but it was much more satisfying to gnash your molars together.

  The hallway that Mother took her down was old, with dated flower wallpaper, but it was nice enough, and her room, albeit plain and nondescript, was at least clean.

  ‘Do I have to stay here?’

  Mother nodded. The woman wasn’t big on words, that much was clear, even though they had met only a few hours ago. Which was fine by Arielle;
after all, the most important words had already been spoken.

  ‘Drink, sweetie, drink your milk. You’d be surprised; the more you drink, the better this place looks.’

  Arielle looked around at the filth that she had stayed in for the better part of a year. The fact that she had brought a baby into the world in a place like this made her stomach curdle, and the scar that ran the length of it itched like crazy.

  “You want some milk, Arielle? You always drank your milk, even more than the other women,” Jessie continued. Then he laughed—a horrible, grating sound.

  Arielle shook her head as she tried desperately to figure out a way to get out of this cell that was, and had been, her room.

  The cell door was locked, of course, and the only key dangled from Jessie’s belt. The party line might have been that the tall, lanky man was the gardener, but the truth was Jessie was anything but—he was the jailer.

  Arielle squinted and tried to clear her head.

  Think, Arielle, think.

  She pushed her body with mud-caked hands to the back of the cell, and as she did, something dug into her breast. Her hand immediately went to the spot, thinking that maybe a piece of glass had lodged in her bra from her fall in the mud. But it wasn’t glass; it was the sharp edge of a folded photograph.

  Her eyes immediately darted to the glass of milk clutched in Jessie’s massive hand.

  Could I—?

  Something scampered over her leg and a gasp escaped her lips.

  It was a mouse—a fucking mouse had run over her leg.

  Jessie laughed.

  “You never liked the mice, Arielle. I don’t mind them. Sometimes when I’m bored, I—”

  But Jessie never finished his sentence. Instead, a muffled shout drew him to his feet.

  And then the man was on the move, his lanky frame lumbering quickly out of sight.

  Again Arielle’s eyes fell on the glass of warm milk, left unguarded on the cold, damp floor.