by Amy Cross
Slowly, I slide the knife into the side of the leg, pushing it all the way through and enjoying the sensation. After a moment, I pull it out again.
“Hey!” she says, hurrying over and pushing my hand away from the meat. “You mustn't touch it too much. Have you washed since you were out in the garden?” She peers closer at the meat, as if she's worried I've dirtied it somehow, but it's clear she can't see properly. She's pretending, doing her best, but she can't even see where I slipped the knife in. “We don't want to contaminate anything, now do we?”
Swallowing hard, I feel as if I might vomit if I have to hear one more word from her pathetic mouth.
“You seem well,” I tell her. “Considering.”
“Considering what?” she asks. Glancing at me briefly, she lets a sliver of fear into her eyes. “Annie, I really don't have time to stand around talking all day, so you must go to the garden and do as I asked.” She waits for a moment, and I can tell that she's trying to hide her nerves. Finally, she points toward the door with a trembling hand. “Annie, go! Now! We're doing this for your father!”
“How would you know what Father likes?” I reply, unable to hold my tongue a moment longer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don't know him,” I continue. “You don't understand him.” Glancing at the window, I see Father in the distance, all the way over on the other side of the lawn, near the trees. I turn back to Mother. “You can't make him happy.”
She stares at me with those ugly, scratched eyes. “And you think you're suddenly such an expert, do you?” she asks, her voice filled with disgust. “There's something wrong with you of late, my girl. Something dark and cruel.”
I shake my head.
“Did your father sleep in your room while I was in the basement?” she asks. “You don't even have to answer, I know the truth. You're foul, both of you.”
“What are you talking about?” I reply, trying to control the urge to last out at her.
“You're very close to him, aren't you?” she continues with a sneer. “Sometimes I wonder if you want to -”
“Liar!” I shout, pushing her in the chest so hard that she stumbles back against one of the cabinets and lets out a gasp of shock. “You filthy, dirty-minded whore!” I continue, slapping the side of her face as hard as I can imagine. “Is that really what you think? I'm just close to Father, that's all! I actually care about him and understand him!”
“Annie,” she stammers, “please -”
“You must have the most evil mind,” I sneer, “to entertain such awful thoughts.”
“I'm sorry,” she replies, “perhaps I spoke out of place...”
“Perhaps?” I ask, stepping closer to her with the knife still in my hand. “You don't understand Father and you certainly don't understand me! You have the heart and soul of a common beast!”
She turns to go back over to the counter, and her trembling hands reach for a bottle of oil.
“My word, girl,” she says after a moment, her voice trembling with fear, “you must learn to do as you're told. I never intended to insinuate anything untoward, I was merely remarking upon some of the changes I've observed in you of late.” She pours oil into a pan. “You must admit, you've been rather highly-strung.”
And that's when I can stand her no longer.
Hurrying over to her, I grab her by the neck and pull her toward me, before slicing the knife deep into her back until the tip pokes out from the front of her dress. To keep her from crying out, I place my left hand over her mouth; she tries to scream, but I squeeze her lips tight shut, pinching them tight so that she can't make any more noise than a muffled murmur. At the same time, I twist the knife in her back and feel the blade grinding against her ribs, but still she struggles so I pull the knife out and slide it in again, further up this time, closer to where her heart should be. It feels exactly like when I put the knife into the leg of lamb a moment ago.
“You,” I whisper directly into her ear, “are nothing but a whore with a mind full of foul and impure thoughts.”
I can feel saliva leaking out from between her lips, onto my fingers as I continue to hold her mouth closed, but something seems to have changed; whereas a few seconds ago she was struggling constantly, now her struggle seems to be in a series of short, sharp jerks, punctuated by moments of rest. I twist the knife in her back again, having to briefly let go of the handle so I can adjust my grip and turn it some more, and such is the force of my anger that I feel the blade once again grinding against her splitting ribs. Pulling her further back, I feel as if I should whisper something more into her ear, but no words really seem necessary. Perhaps, if a woman is forced to kill her own mother, the task should be completed in silence. Instead of saying a word more, I slide the knife out and then push it back in, determined to find her heart. This time, her body shudders once and then remains tense, and I feel as if she's not trying quite so hard to cry out. I wait, counting the seconds as they pass, before she starts to fall limp in my grasp and I realize that if I wasn't holding her up, she'd have collapsed by now.
Looking over at the window, I see Father still working at the far end of the garden, close to the line of trees.
Mother hasn't twitched for fully five or six seconds now, so I slowly let go of her lips. As soon as I do so, a gulp of blood slops out onto my fingers and then runs down her chin, splattering onto the counter. I pull the knife out of her back and finally look down, and I'm shocked by the sheer amount of blood that has soaked not only the back of her dress but also the front of mine, and my right hand too. I was so focused on holding her still and keeping her quiet, I had no idea that blood was not only covering us both, but had also begun to splatter down onto the kitchen floor. Taking a few steps back, I keep hold of Mother's neck and feel a burst of relief when she slumps in my arms. I cannot imagine, from the feel of her, that there can be much life left in her body at all. I set her down on the floor and look into her scratched eyes, and although they're perfectly still, I can't help wondering if there's still just a flicker of consciousness remaining, watching me as it dwindles to nothing.
I open my mouth, still feeling as if I should say something, but no words come. What words could possibly be appropriate at a time like this? Better, I think, to just let her slip away. She certainly doesn't deserve to be comforted.
I don't know the exact moment when she dies, but after a couple of minutes I check for a pulse on the side of her neck and find nothing. I check the other side, just to be sure, and then I check her wrists, but still there's nothing. Worried that she might be trying to fool me, I take the knife and drive the tip into her cheek until the blade has passed through into her mouth and pierced her tongue, but she doesn't react at all. Pulling the knife out and sitting back, I realize that I'm ever so slightly out of breath, but I can't hold back a smile at the realization that Mother is finally, and permanently, out of the way.
In fact, I even allow myself a brief, contained laugh.
After a few minutes, I get to my feet and look down at all the blood that has soaked into my dress from Mother's back. Lifting the dress over my head, I drop it to the floor and then glance out the window, to make sure that Father is still working. Slipping out of the rest of my clothes, which are also stained with blood and which I must surely throw away, I step over Mother's body and head to the bathroom, where I draw some water into the bath and take a moment to clean myself. The water is cold, of course, and I start shivering a little, but I absolutely must get clean as quickly as possible. I even scrub under my fingernails and wash my hair, and finally after about half an hour I climb from the bath and dry myself, before hurrying upstairs and going to my room, where some of Mother's dresses are still hanging in the closet. I look out the window to check that Father is still working, before slipping into one of the dresses and then looking into the mirror so that I can fix my hair. It takes a while to get everything sorted but I want to look my best, so I don't rush. The worst thing in the world would be for Fat
her to see my when I'm not all fixed up.
By the time I get back down to the kitchen, it must have been an hour at least since Mother died. She's still where I left her, and her dead eyes are still staring up at the ceiling. Stepping closer, I look down and see that the scratches from the sandpaper were deeper than I'd realized, and it's hard to believe she could even get from one room to another without bumping into things. Still, this isn't the time to start feeling pity. I have to get on with the job of making this roast, although first I need to clear the kitchen.
Heading out to the porch, I watch for a moment as Father continues to work. I can't hide a faint smile as I make my way across the lawn, and my heart is pounding in my chest as I reach him. At first he doesn't look at me, preferring to keep chopping wood, but finally he turns and waits for me to speak.
“Is something wrong?” he asks finally.
“No,” I tell him, “nothing's wrong. But we need to bury Mother.”
Thirteen
Today
“Mom!” I shout, sitting up in bed and listening to the sound of something bumping downstairs. “Mom, what's wrong? Mom!”
It's midday and while Dad and Scott are out in town, Mom stayed behind to keep me company and get started painting the front room. With no internet and no TV, I've spent the morning reading more of the old books that Mom found from her boxes, while waiting with increasing impatience for her to find my boxes with my books. And then, about thirty seconds ago, I heard the sound of someone banging into things in one of the rooms below.
“Mom!” I call out again. “Are you okay?”
I wait.
Silence.
“I'm fine!” she calls back suddenly, sounding distracted. “It's nothing, Annie, really.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing!”
“More nothing, huh?”
I wait for a reply, but none comes.
Frowning, I listen to the sound of her moving things around in the room directly below. I guess maybe she's been shifting furniture and knocked something over, but for the past couple of days Mom has been acting increasingly strangely, and this morning she seemed positively jumpy. I've tried asking her what's wrong and she always says it's nothing to worry about, but she also tells me not to mention anything to Dad, which I definitely take to be a sign that I should be concerned. Even now, listening to her clattering about down there, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something. I've started to lose count of how often I've heard that word 'nothing' lately.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and Mom comes into my room with a sandwich on a plate and a glass of milk.
“I thought you might be hungry,” she says with a forced smile.
“You're not fooling me, you know,” I tell her as she sets the plate and glass down on my bedside table.
“What's that, sweetheart?”
“I said you're not fooling me. Something's wrong.”
She sighs.
“Something's wrong,” I say again, figuring that I need to force the matter a little. “You can either tell me now or tell me later, but we both know you will tell me at some point, so...” I pat the bed next to my right leg. “Spill the beans.”
She stares at me for a moment, before making her way around the bed and looking out the window. She seems worried.
“Have you seen something?” I ask finally.
I want her to tell me that no, of course she hasn't seen anything, but instead she glances at me and I can immediately tell that I'm on the money.
“What did you see?”
She hesitates, as if she's worried I'll laugh at her.
“Was it that woman again?” I ask.
“I...” She pauses. “What woman?”
“You know, the -”
“Describe her to me,” she continues. “The one you thought you saw the other day from this window.”
“She was wearing a white dress and she had black hair,” I reply. “That's really all I could see. She was standing out there, looking down at a spot on the lawn. I didn't see her face or anything.”
She stares at me for a moment, before looking back out the window. I swear, the cold morning light is making her look so pale right now.
“Where did you see her?” I ask.
“Annie...”
“Where did you see her?”
She continues to look out the window for a moment.
“The basement,” she says finally, her voice so faint it's almost impossible to hear.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“It's silly, really...” She looks back at the door, as if she's worried we might be overheard. “Your father doesn't like me going down there,” she continues, turning to me. “He says it's not safe, something about exposed wires.” She sighs. “I don't even know if that's true, but he's got the place locked up like Fort Knox, and then yesterday morning I had to go down there to take a look at the fuse box. Your father was out and I couldn't wait, so I found the spare keys and...” Her voice trails off for a moment. “There are no lights down there,” she explains, “and I only had the light from my phone, but you know where the fuse box is, right?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not,” she mutters. “You've barely seen outside this room. Well, it's about halfway along the basement's far wall. There was light coming down the stairs from the open door, obviously, but it was still kind of creepy being down there alone. Not that I was getting paranoid or anything, I definitely didn't get worked up and imagine the whole thing.” She pauses again. “I was replacing one of the fuses when I heard a noise. At first it seemed like something scraping across the concrete floor, but after a moment it seemed more like it was coming from the ceiling, like someone... So I looked over, thinking it was a rat or something, but I didn't see anything. I got back to work, and even though I heard the sound a few more times, I told myself it was nothing. And then...”
“Then what?”
“There's a meter on the fuse box case, with a glass panel. I kept checking it to see if the dial was turning properly, I could see my own reflection in the glass but that didn't really matter, and then one time when I looked...”
I wait for her to continue.
“What did you see?” I ask.
“There was... I thought there was someone standing right behind me. A woman in a white dress, with black hair, and as I stared at the reflection I saw her hand reaching up to my shoulder.” She reaches up and touches her right shoulder. “I was too shocked and scared to move, I just stood there and watched as her hand moved closer and closer. I stayed completely still until...”
“Until what?”
She pauses. “I felt her.”
“What do you mean, you felt her?”
“I felt her hand on my shoulder,” she continues, indicating a spot at the side of her neck. “Right here. Just lightly, but... I didn't just see something, Annie, I felt it. It touched me!”
“Did you turn around?”
She nods.
“And?”
“And there was nothing. It was gone, but I swear...” She shivers as she looks at her shoulder. “It's probably nothing, but that combined with the nightmare -”
“Tell me about the nightmare.”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“Because it's all just dumb,” she continues, clearly exasperated. “It was just a creepy dream about a woman with scratched eyes -”
“Scratched eyes?”
“Like...” She points at her own eyes. “They were both scratched to hell, with lots of little lines criss-crossing and... It's not something I really want to think about, I've only just started to get it out of my system.” She pauses, as if she wants to say something else but can't quite get it out. “She was staring at me with this intensity, like she expected me to know something or do something or...”
Her voice trails off.
“Mom,” I say finally, “are you starting to
worry that this house is -”
“No,” she says firmly.
“But if it's -”
“Don't say the word.”
“I don't believe in ghosts,” I continue, “I mean not really, but if you think the place is haunted, then that's something we should talk about.” I wait for a reply. “Has anyone else seen anything?”
“I don't think so,” she replies. “Your father's being a little odd, but I think that's just the stress of the move. Scott seems quiet, but he's probably picking it up from me. Your father was worried that might happen, maybe he was right.” She pauses again. “What about you, Annie? Have you seen or heard anything, stuck up here in your room?”
“Not really,” I tell her. “Not apart from that woman I saw from the window.”
“She was probably just one of the neighbors.”
“I hope so.”
“Mom,” I continue, “do you know about -” I stop myself just in time, figuring that maybe this isn't the right moment to tell her about the murder that took place here seventy-one years ago. Dad said she's better off knowing, and I think he might be right. “You should talk to Dad about this,” I tell her. “Seriously, don't let him brush you off. If you've got concerns, you need to air them.”
“This has gone far enough,” she continues, forcing a smile as she gets to her feet and pats my knee. “Eat your lunch and I'll be up later, we can watch a film before your father and Scott get home. Does that sound like a good deal?”
“Sure,” I reply, feeling as if she needs the company as much as I do. As she heads out of the room, I can't shake the feeling that she's way, way more on edge than I've ever seen her before, but I honestly don't know how to help. Everything she told me can be explained away as the result of her being spooked and a little impressionable, but then there's the woman I saw from the window. Leaning across the bed, I look out and watch the lawn for a moment, half expecting to see someone, but of course there isn't a soul out there.
