Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy

by Brandon Berntson

  The landscape spun, the sun blotted by clouds. Cold air dug into Seth’s bones, and he shivered.

  A depression formed in the earth, spreading outward under Jeanie, and sucked Seth’s future bride into the ground. Jeanie screamed, reaching out toward him. But it was too late. Spiders crawled over her hair and face.

  Seth tried to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound. Black wind poured into his throat. Spiders massed at his feet, crawling up his moccasins.

  Seth reached for Jeanie, but she was already gone.

  The smell of animal hide was in the air, though Ben was nowhere to be found.

  A squirming mass of bugs filled his throat. Sharp claws raked across the back of his neck, drawing blood. Looking at his feet, Seth saw he was somehow hovering over a gigantic maw as wide and expansive as the meadow itself. Animal rot wafted over him, the smell of maggoty meat. A hand grabbed his shirt collar, lifting him high into the air, like a sweet plucked from a gargantuan jar.

  Seth clenched his eyes.

  The hand let go of him, and Seth plummeted through space, cold air whipping past him into the mouth of a strange, colossal nightmare.

  His lungs collapsed. Ice coated his ears.

  Thrashing one way, then another—reaching for something to break his fall—Seth opened his eyes. The cold, rancid maw was gone, and he stared at his bedroom ceiling, sheets tangled around his arms and legs. Sunlight shone through the window. Hadn’t he closed the curtains the night before?

  He was breathing heavily.

  Just a dream, he thought, awake now.

  “Just a dream,” he said, needing to hear his own voice. “Jeanie’s not dead.”

  Not yet.

  “Jeanie’s not dead,” Seth said, again.

  He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. The dream began to fade, and he breathed easier.

  Were those spiders crawling on his legs?

  No. But his room was unbearably cold.

  vi

  Rudy McCall’s hands trembled. He shook with rage. The world had gone from perfect to tragic in a split-second. His father was strangely indifferent, his mother—a sudden basket case. He was angry because he felt—in ways (like many loved ones in the case of an unnatural death) responsible for Sadie’s death. He loved Sadie, and his love—as far as he was concerned—should’ve kept his brother alive.

  Sammy Sosa could officially retire.

  From sadness to anger, he moved in an instant, a tumultuous range of emotions. His mother and father had no desire to be a family again, or so it seemed. They’d left him to do the reconciling. Mom and Dad had officially declined the role.

  He clenched his teeth. “Bastards,” he whispered. He didn’t know to whom he was referring. Mom? Dad? Sadie’s killer? Life, perhaps? God? Let Him take the blame.

  Rudy’s rage was finely tuned. Ironically, the only thing that brought him peace were thoughts of murder and sabotage. Take those dreams? Did Sadie’s dreams mean nothing at all?

  Rudy looked at life and death in a whole new light now. He was a changed boy, and blackness moved swiftly into his heart.

  Just sit around, he thought. Just sit around like Dad, pretending nothing happened. How can they be so blind, so heartless? How can they not cope with Sadie’s death?

  He wanted to grab his mother, shake some life into her; pound some cold, hard truth into his father! Was it Rudy’s job to mend his broken family, make things new again?

  Rudy rubbed his temples. The thought only brought the anger back.

  Since the funeral, Rudy had been spending his time at the Ellishome Public Library. He was obsessed with murder. He wanted to know evil first hand, laugh in its face, look it dead in the eye, and confront it. He wasn’t afraid. He wanted to know its motivation, its insensible cruelty. If he could do that, he’d gain an upper hand, bend it to its will, and force evil to its knees.

  He’d read everything he could on pedophiles, rapists, sociopaths, and serial killers. Looking at press-released photos hour after hour, his head began to throb with macabre, blood-soaked corpses, and crime scenes. He’d read about a man who’d chopped his girlfriend into pieces, wrapped her body in cellophane, then stored her in his freezer. He’d read about sexual torture, kidnappings, cannibalism, and necrophilia. Rudy McCall even read several informative articles concerning Jack the Ripper—all in order to understand what had happened to his brother.

  But nothing helped. He was no closer to understanding murder than when he’d started. All it did was turn his mind into a blood-soaked chest of horrors. A million things could’ve explained why Sadie had been killed: traumatic childhood (simply not possible), brain damage, even possession, but it was all bullshit. Getting a glimpse into the black, unconscionable minds of serial killers hadn’t answered his questions.

  The material only fueled his anger, made him want to set the town on fire!

  But he couldn’t stop. Somewhere in this catastrophe of shattered lives was the answer to his brother’s death. And by God, he would find it.

  A demon lives among you, said a voice in his mind.

  Yes, he thought. But what kind of demon?

  Rudy McCall understood his own capacity for murder. And what he wanted, what he longed for was to torture and maim the madman who’d killed his little brother.

  Rudy sat in the library at a large, round wooden table. Countless books were open in front of him. The librarian had raised her eyebrows at him when he’d asked for the material.

  He’d spent hours typing key words into the computer, looking for a clue, anything that would help him understand why his brother had to die. Rudy looked at photographs of stomach churning atrocities, amazed the library—as small as Ellishome’s was—carried so many books on the subject.

  Between reading and looking at the pictures, thoughts of his mother and father came to mind, sending him into another bout of fury.

  Can you set fire to an already smoldering rage, Rudy wondered?

  Frank Allen Bimsley wasn’t helping, either. No words of comfort there. No peace of any kind. What did the man do all day: chew on pencils, sip coffee with his feet up on his desk? Those were his father’s hard-earned tax-dollars at work. He had even heard mention of a wild animal, a bear, no less. Were they serious?

  Hatred for his parents, for Sheriff Bimsley—for the town and Sadie’s murderer—drove Rudy mad.

  What did you do that night, Cannonball? Who pulled you into the dark?

  A deep, throaty chuckle issued next to his ear. Blood drained from his face. He scanned the library, but there was no one around.

  He closed his eyes, forcing the laughter out of his mind.

  Now, you’re imagining things, he thought. Perfect.

  Rudy ground his teeth together, clenching his fists. His palms were sweating.

  Justice, he thought, came with murder. He imagined himself delivering justice, smashing Sadie’s murderer into the concrete:

  “HOW DOES THAT FEEL, YOU PILE OF SHIT! YOU, MURDEROUS, BLOOD-THIRSTY MONSTER! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT GOOD, ’CAUSE THEY’RE GONNA PUNISH YOU IN HELL FOR WHAT YOU DID! OH, YES! THEY’RE GONNA BURY YOU GOOD! THEY’RE GONNA PUNISH YOU ’TIL YOU BLEED, YOU RUTHLESS, FUCKING CHILD KILLER!”

  He hadn’t known this side of him existed. He’d never felt such an onslaught of unequivocal, undying rage. Then again, he’d never had reason before.

  Were they supposed to accept Sadie’s demise as just some accident? Move on with their lives? Just the way the world was? Bad shit happens, and sometimes it happens to those you love, those who are closest to you, and that’s just the breaks. So, deal with it. You think you’re the only one?

  “Bullshit,” Rudy said. The librarian, shelving books fifteen feet away, glanced at him and frowned. “No fucking way.” He closed his eyes, and bowed his head, taking a deep breath.

  Sadie deserved more. He deserved remembrance. Hell, even honor. Just because he was dead didn’t mean he was gone!

  Rudy slammed his fists on the table, mak
ing the books jump. The librarian frowned at him again and shook her head.

  What God? What God could there possibly be?

  It didn’t make sense. Someone must’ve come into the house. Someone must’ve taken Sadie at gunpoint, then dumped him in the meadow, and whoever it was, was still out there.

  Don’t you see, Rudy, Sadie said in his mind. You’ve had Mom’s meatloaf. It’s enough to make anyone run away.

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  He had every right to seethe with rage. His parents had lost touch with reality. They didn’t know where he was, didn’t acknowledge him even when he was home. Mom still set the dining room table for four. “In case he comes home,” she’d said. Rudy wanted to slap her. He’d clenched his fists, shaking his head at his father, and bit his tongue. Blood fused his cheeks.

  “To hell with them,” he said.

  Let them have their denial, their directionless, imaginary lives. He had better things to do.

  Denise, his girlfriend from a year ago, had come over once to watch Sadie and Rudy play pitch-and-hit. She sat on the back porch, blonde hair in a ponytail. Sadie had developed an instant crush on Denise, which Rudy found amusing.

  “You gonna let your little brother beat you up like that?” Denise said, after Rudy had fouled off several pitches.

  “You just stay out of it and mind your manners,” he’d said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “Come on, Sadie, give ’em hell,” Denise called from the porch.

  Rudy swung and got a piece of the ball, fouling it away. “Still alive, still alive.”

  After they retrieved the ball, Sadie threw again. Rudy swung, barely clipping it for another foul.

  “I think he has your number,” Denise said.

  “Put a sock in it,” Rudy told her, and Denise chuckled.

  Sadie laughed and pitched again. Rudy swung, striking out. He threw the bat down in disgust.

  “Yee-haw!” Denise cried, and stood up. She walked over to Sadie and gave him a high five. “You can pitch for my team any day,” she said.

  “Like watching your boyfriends get the crap beat out of them, huh?” Rudy said, slightly stung.

  Denise nodded. “Yep.”

  “Like to go to the movies by yourself, too, I suppose?”

  “Wanna go to the movies?” Denise asked Sadie. “I seem to be a date short.”

  Sadie blushed and nodded, and all three of them chuckled.

  Revenge and murder, Rudy thought, back in the library.

  Memories, he thought. He had a million of them.

  He’d been sitting up with Sadie one night after they’d watched He Knows You’re Alone. The movie had been on The Big Chill Theater, which aired every Saturday night at midnight. Sadie sat and stared at the television with wide, terrified eyes long after the movie was over.

  “I don’t want to go to bed,” he’d said.

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” Rudy told him.

  Sadie’s face paled. Rudy thought the movie a little cheesy for his taste, but Sadie had been terrified.

  Rudy smiled. “Wanna watch The Road Runner?”

  Sadie grinned and nodded.

  The Road Runner was Sadie’s favorite cartoon. Rudy thought The Road Runner was along the same lines as He Knows You’re Alone. The coyote’s futile attempts to catch that little bird drove him crazy. If he could afford to buy all those ACME Company products, why didn’t he just get himself a cheeseburger?

  Sadie had the Road Runner cartoons scheduled to record on the DVR. After He Knows You’re Alone, Rudy had sat up with Sadie watching The Road Runner until three o’clock in the morning. When Rudy drifted off to sleep, Sadie nudged him in the ribs.

  “I’m awake! I awake!” Rudy said, rubbing his eyes.

  He didn’t know why these memories kept coming back, but they did. Between thinking of the past, he saw the mug shots of kidnappers and serial killers.

  He’d helped build a robot for Sadie’s science class once, too, spray-painting cardboard boxes silver, then tying them together with twine. If wasn’t supposed to be a real robot, Sadie had told him. It only had to look like one. They used wheels from Sadie’s old baby walker, and fixed these onto the lower section, so it could roll. They stuck light bulbs in its face for eyes. When it was done, it looked like a cheap rendition of R2-D2.

  Sadie had taken the robot to school and given a presentation on how it moved, filtered air, responded to human commands, among countless other random, mechanical functions. It was supposed to be a hypothetical presentation.

  But it must’ve looked more comical than the other robots, because when it was Sadie’s turn, all the students erupted in laughter. Sadie had been humiliated. Standing at the front of the classroom, he could hardly speak. He couldn’t answer a single question the teacher asked him about the robot. He couldn’t remember the robot’s name. He didn’t know how it filtered air, because it didn’t have a mouth. He didn’t know how it interpreted sound because he hadn’t built ears for it. He could have improvised everything, he supposed, but he’d been so nervous standing in front of the classroom, he hadn’t even thought of it. By the end of the presentation, Sadie was openly blubbering, his face in his hands.

  He kicked the robot to pieces after school, smashed the silver-painted cardboard, and threw it in the dumpster behind the cafeteria.

  Rudy walked into Sadie’s room later that day, anxious to hear about his presentation.

  Sadie was sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, his face in his arms. It took Rudy almost ten minutes to find out what had happened.

  “It was the wheels, wasn’t it?” Rudy asked, putting a hand on his brother’s knee. “The wheels looked funny because they were from the walker, huh?”

  Sadie shrugged.

  “You know why they’re mad, Sadie?” Rudy asked.

  Sadie wiped his nose and shook his head.

  “Because you’ve got the best damn arm in this whole stinking town. Dad brags about you all the time. Word gets around. You’re gonna play in the big leagues some day, Cannonball. And everybody knows it. You’re gonna strike out Sammy Sosa. And everyone’s mad because while you’re out there traveling the country, they’re gonna be stuck here in this stupid town with their stupid, miserable lives. They’re jealous, Cannonball. So, they’re gotta knock you.”

  Sadie tried to smile.

  “I’m sorry about the robot,” Rudy said, putting his arm around his brother.

  Sadie wiped his eyes and looked at his brother. “I liked the robot,” he said. “I thought it was cool. Thanks for helping me with it. The teacher gave me an A, but I think she just felt sorry for me.”

  Rudy chuckled. “I love ya, Cannonball.”

  “Love you, too, Rudes,” Sadie said, and hugged his brother.

  Back in the library, for the first time since the funeral, Rudy felt Sadie’s death. It was permanent. It was real. His brother was dead, and he wasn’t coming back, no matter how many memories he conjured.

  It felt like someone punched him in the stomach. A sharp, acute pain flowered outward from his gut.

  Rudy pushed the books away across the table—enough macabre images cluttering his brain for one day—and put his head in his hands. “Goddamnit,” he said.

  You took my little brother, he thought. Goddamnit, you took my little brother! If I could see your rotten, stinking face, I’d kill you right now! I swear to God, I’d kill you so many times over if I could…

  But his words were empty. He didn’t have the strength. It took too much energy to stay mad all the time. He thought about his mother and father and shook his head. Rudy McCall was drained.

  For the world and everything in it, however, he did save some hatred. He would continue to hate the world, he told himself—

  His stomach hurt. His head hurt. Pain overshadowed everything. The unfairness! The stupid, unnecessary unfairness of it all!

  It wasn’t his mother and father; it wasn’t life, or even
Sadie’s killer he was mad at.

  It was God. God and His pathetic rules, His senseless cruelty, His lack of insensitivity, His great, divine plan! Rudy focused his anger on God like the hot point of a knife. It made Rudy hate Him more, knowing he could do nothing about it. God didn’t care. God wouldn’t listen. God had killed his little brother and betrayed his family. God had ruined everything, and that was just typical of the way the world was, the way God was! No wonder so many people couldn’t believe! He could understand that. Because if God didn’t care, and if there was no God, then what the hell was the point of living?

  The loss wrenched his guts apart, and when the tears came, Rudy let them. He fell forward over the table, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed like a child.

  vii

  On the outskirts of Ellishome, Colorado, Algernon Percival Alister, a retired writer and alcoholic, lived with his grandson, Malcolm, in a large Queen Anne Victorian. The house lay silent and alone at the end of a two-mile stretch of dirt road called Shadowbrook Lane. The road was lined with large oak and cottonwood trees, making a canopy of shade like a long tunnel. Algernon had purchased the house at the height of his career in the mid ’80’s. Made of wood and stone with a wide, wrap-around porch, and countless windows, it looked—to the unfamiliar eye—not only daunting and ominous, but flat-out haunted. The windows had lost their luster long ago. Some were cracked and broken now. Thistles and high weeds overran the yard and walkway, and piles of moldy leaves gathered in the corners of the porch.

  Algernon Alister (according to rumor) was an evil, overbearing old man who forced Malcolm to care for him hand and foot. Malcolm did care for Algernon, but was far from subservient. He was Algernon’s protégé, (at least according to Malcolm), though Algernon would admit no such thing: Malcolm simply liked the word and agreed to the rumors he’d heard. When people (mainly kids in school) asked him if he was the kid who lived in the haunted house at the edge of town, and if his grandfather was the evil, overbearing old man everyone talked about, Malcolm nodded not only proudly, but eagerly.