Sins of the Fathers

by S Gepp

  "Don't think so. Sorry," Francis replied.

  "And why not this time?" Suspicion clouded Troy's words.

  "I promised Chelsea I'd help her read her lines," he responded. "Auditions are on Friday for the undergrad play. I know it's still Monday, but she's panicking a bit."

  "Oh, that's right… Chelsea's more important than your friends, isn't she?" Troy sneered.

  "Well, she doesn't act like…" He didn't finish.

  "Like what?" Troy goaded. "Come on, out with it. Like what?"

  "Like a little kid," Francis growled. "Like a spoiled little brat. Your jealousy, mate, is really starting to grate."

  Troy stared at him, then said with a malicious grin, "So, can I ask? Is she your girlfriend? Or is she just using you to get good grades?"

  "None of your fucking business." Chelsea's voice cut through the air like a knife as she stormed over to the pair of them and, in a big show, draped her arms over Francis's shoulders and planted a long, lingering kiss on his mouth while his hands cupped her buttocks almost automatically.

  Troy rolled his eyes and shook his head as they finally disengaged. "Ready?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Oh, yeah," he smiled.

  "Hmph. Well, enjoy your reading," Troy sneered.

  "And the sex afterward," Chelsea added with a deliberately provocative grin. "Oh, we will."

  "What?" Troy stared at her while Francis looked away, embarrassed.

  "You heard, you little pissant," she returned sharply. "I willingly sleep with Francis. We might not be officially dating, but I like him, and I like his company, and I like him holding me naked when we're finished." She turned to the man in question. "And I really like that you obviously haven't told anyone about us, like you promised, even after all this time. You are so wonderful." Their kiss was passionate, and their eyes met with more than mere friendship.

  "You slut." Troy's gaze was hard and direct, his words shattering their mood as effectively as a slap.

  "At least Franky here doesn't need to get a girl plastered to sleep with her," Chelsea shot back. Francis faced her, stunned, the question of what she was talking about hanging on his lips.

  "How dare you…" Troy got in first. His face turned a bright purple-crimson, and the veins in his neck stood out like tree roots.

  "Look, Franky, I don't know about this," Chelsea said suddenly, turning her attention to the man in her arms. "I mean, I like you, I really like you, and everything, but some of your friends are just plain creepy."

  Troy started to say something, but Francis's hand silenced him. "Chelsea, I can't choose between you and my friends. We've been mates for years. But you are really special to me. That's unfair…"

  "Unfair?" She pondered that for a few moments. "Sure. And I'm sorry, but that's it. Me or them. Think about it. And I guess I'll know your response if I see you at my place some time today or tonight." She kissed him on the mouth, and there was no denying the passion in the action. "Please, really think about it."

  Furtive glances from other students watched as one of the most beautiful women on campus walked quickly away from one of the nerds, face low, cheeks tear-streaked. It would later be described to authorities as an apparent lovers' tiff, and it did not seem to make sense to any of them.

  "So, what's it going to be?" Troy whispered in Francis's ear.

  "I don't know," he whimpered pathetically. "I really don't know. I've never met anyone like her before, and I don't think I will again. But you guys have been my friends for so long. It's not fair. Why should I have to choose?"

  Troy mulled something over in his mind. Then: "We want you with us," he said. "The rest of us, we were going to try another ritual out of that book, a big one, the biggest, a ritual to get our greatest desire, and ours is power. Join us." Troy's smile was sly.

  "Why wasn't I told before?"

  "Because of her." Troy jerked his thumb in the direction of the retreating girl, barely visible outside through the large glass wall. "You in?"

  He shrugged. There was still a way out. He would go to Chelsea's house tonight. Secrets had been kept before; they could be again. He finally nodded.

  "Good. We'll do it this weekend, maybe even sooner." He slapped his friend on the shoulder. "It'll be all right." He grabbed his bag and swung it to his shoulder. "Now I've got something to organize before then."

  "Yeah, sure." Francis sat back down and watched Troy jog out of the cafeteria. Something was happening that felt very, very wrong, and yet… and yet…

  Unfortunately, it also felt so very right.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  2012

  Francis walked slowly and with some reluctance up the front path of the large suburban house and knocked firmly on the door. It only took a few moments before Julian cautiously pulled it open. When he saw who it was, he swung it wide and ushered Francis inside quickly, looking furtively all about as he did so. Barely had he got inside than Julian shut and locked the door once more.

  "Where is everyone?" Francis asked before any greeting could be exchanged.

  "Randolph and Sean are with Brandon at the hospital. I've got Allan here with us," he said. "Why? Where's your lad?"

  Francis sighed heavily and walked away from his friend down the hallway of the house, soon coming to the dining room. Karyn—her face still bruised, but not as swollen—and her younger brother, Brock, were there, along with Julian's wife, Angela, and young Allan Cornelius, his leg bandaged tight, looking so lost and alone in a strange house with strange people it was almost heart-breaking. In the middle of the table were three take-away pizza boxes, Angela standing over one with a knife to cut some of the slices narrower. She smiled at Francis, but the gesture was hollow and defeated. "Want some?" she asked.

  "No thanks," Francis returned before facing Julian. "Can we talk?"

  "Sure. Come on." All niceties were dispensed with; this was serious. He led him through the back door to a wide back deck with too much outdoor furniture and a large jacuzzi covered by a piece of blue plastic. Middle-class opulence, it all looked so calm, so normal.

  Francis suddenly felt out of place.

  He stood at the railing of the deck, looking over a backyard with its cubby house, its play equipment, its bike left outside, its leaves blown across the lawn. Just another suburban home, nothing untoward here; how could this be anything but ordinary? How could everything happening actually be happening?

  Julian stood beside him. "You look like absolute shit. So, what's going on?" No mincing words, and for that Francis was grateful.

  Francis closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Luke's with our kids. They're…they're going for a drive," he muttered evasively.

  "Look, Francis, please tell me what's going on. We're all on edge here, and I honestly don't know how much more we can go through before we all just lose it." Julian was begging, near tears. This was wearing on him, but Francis only hoped that he realized he was not alone and that only together could they get through this.

  Just like he should have realized things were far from right when Troy had killed himself.

  But hindsight made wonderful prophets of them all.

  "I told Nathan and Chantelle everything that happened," he whispered, watching but not really seeing a cat skulking across the grass. "Every single thing. Every detail. So, Luke's taking them up there, where it all went down." He grimaced. "It was Nathan's idea."

  Julian stared at him with wide, wet eyes. "Buh… but…but why?" He shook his head when Francis started to answer. "No, don't. Don't explain."

  Francis turned and looked back at the house. "If we'd told the truth back then…" He swept his arms out. "…none of this, none of our lives, none of our careers, not even our kids… Shit, man, none of this would have happened." He sounded as though their lives for the last two decades were a bad thing.

  "We were successful, weren't we?" Julian said wistfully.

  "I know," Francis returned quietly. "But at what cost?"

  "What?" He shook his head. "It w
as twenty-one years ago. Twenty-one! And you're only now having qualms? What we did was just a stupid, childish…"

  "For fuck's sake, it was not just a stupid, childish prank! How can we reconcile that piece of bullshit with what we actually did? It doesn't make sense!"

  Julian turned away from his home. "We can't turn the past back now," he hissed.

  "No," Francis agreed. "Our kids certainly wouldn't want that, would they?"

  Julian gritted his teeth as he tried desperately to keep his emotions under control. "That's not fair," he growled. "Besides, what's happening to our kids…"

  "…has nothing to do with Chelsea Hartog?" Francis finished cruelly. "You know better than that. You've already admitted it. Don't go back on me now." They stared at one another, neither able to say a thing. Julian blinked first and turned his head. Francis took no pleasure in it.

  "What can we do then?" Julian asked hoarsely, looking through the back door at the family around the table, eating their pizza as though it was the most onerous chore on Earth.

  "Be honest." Francis groaned loudly at his own suggestion and thumped the railing hard enough to reverberate through the decking. "If only we'd been honest back then, then…"

  "As you said, though, none of this would have happened," Julian countered, trying to turn around the point Francis had already made. "We'd have been in prison, we'd never have met our wives. And we would never have had our children." His voice dropped. "This world, our world, would be so incredibly different."

  "So, you're saying what we did was worth it in the end?" There was no emotion in the voice, just a simple, loaded question.

  "No, no, never," Julian responded nervously. "What we did afterward, though… That…"

  "Dad!" There was such incredible terror in that one screamed word.

  His eyes widened. "Karyn!"

  Without even thinking, the two men raced to the back door and shoved it open, then bolted inside. Julian grabbed Allan and swung the horrified child up into his uninjured arm and away from the table while Francis tackled Angela to the ground, the knife in her hands clattering to the floor, and all the while Karyn and Brock screamed wildly.

  Angela turned her head, and Francis gasped.

  Those eyes, that mouth, that golden aura of hair.

  "Why, Franky, why?" the face of Chelsea whispered huskily.

  And then it was Angela once more, her lower lip trembling, her eyes tearing, her whole body shaking. "What… What…?" she tried, but her gaze fell on the knife, and she burst into heaving sobs.

  "Daddy, why did mummy try to…?" Brock started to ask, but he didn't have the words to succinctly express what he'd seen: his mother leaning across the table, her chest crushing one of the pizzas, the knife held in her hand like a poor man's version of Psycho, aiming for the young boy now held by her husband.

  Angela pushed Francis roughly off and sprinted to the other end of the house. A door banged open, and the sound of her violently throwing up reached them.

  Francis looked helplessly at Julian. He was just staring back, ignoring the child in his arms, who squirming frantically to get away from these people he didn't know, the pain from his damaged hip clearly running through him like an electrical storm.

  "What was… Why did… Holy fuck, what just happened?" Julian finally whispered in panic.

  "You saw it. You must have seen it," Francis uttered softly.

  "Wha…what do we do?" Julian whined. "She was here! She was… She was…was in Angela!"

  "Lemme go! Lemme go! Lemme go!" the boy in Julian's arms suddenly squealed.

  "Shit," Julian groaned, setting the child down on his back on the floor, where he rolled over and crawled away, dragging his injured limb behind him as though it weighed more than the rest of his body together. The professor watched him go, then looked up as he heard his wife throw up once more, followed by loud, gut-wrenching sobs that echoed throughout the rest of the house. His own children were also crying and staring at him, the man they knew and loved a stranger to their eyes, their mother just as bad.

  In less than five minutes, his entire family had been damaged, maybe beyond repair.

  Just like that.

  "Worth it," he mumbled pathetically, rubbing his still-bandaged shoulder. "So worth it." Karyn slid out of her seat, away from him, and took her brother by the hand, the lad never once taking his eyes from his father. They crouched down near Allan, and he went directly to the teenager and curled up in her lap, weeping softly, while Brock hid behind her.

  Francis finally stood. "Call the others. We're going to go up with Luke and the kids." He looked at the three on the floor. They shrank back. "And for their safety, we should bring Karyn and Allan as well."

  "What? We can't… and Brock… I should stay… Angela…"

  Francis ran his hand over his face; Julian was losing his grip on reality right before his very eyes. He strode across to the man who was a doctor of physics and grabbed his wounded shoulder.

  "Fuck!" he screamed. "What was that for?" The children winced again.

  "You back with me now?" Francis growled.

  Julian stared at him, rubbing the wound carefully, then dropped his head. "Sorry," he sighed. "What do we have to do?"

  "Call the others. Get them to meet us up there." He looked at the youngsters on the floor. "I'll get Brock to stay here and get the other two in the car."

  "No…" Karyn whispered.

  Francis squatted but didn't move closer to them. "Why not?"

  "What mum did was…" she started, then paused. "What happened?" she asked. Brock hid his face behind her, but Allan watched Francis curiously.

  "You do know that wasn't your mother that did… that just did that, don't you?" he asked carefully, deliberately using a leading question.

  "But I saw…" she tried to explain, then stopped. Francis was looking at her quizzically, like her math teacher when she knew Karyn had the answer. The degree of familiarity, however small, made the connection that important a bit easier. "That wasn't mum's face," she finally said. She cocked her head to one side. "She was beautiful. Who was she?"

  "She's…" He sighed again and shook his head. "She's someone we knew a long time ago." He risked inching forward. "Now, you need to… We are asking you to help us, please, so she won't do anything to anyone again."

  "But how could she be on mum's face? That's like, not real." The language was youthful, the sentiment, adult. Francis was relieved.

  "I know," he sighed. "Lots of things that are happening can't be real, yet, unfortunately, they are. But I need your help now to stop it. Please, Karyn." He smiled. "Oh, and I think it's time you met my son. He's Captain of your school, and right now he's trying to stop this. What do you say?"

  "How can I help?"

  "If we've got all of you together, we know exactly where she's going to be, so we can…well, we can face her." He was thinking on his feet, but it made sense. Wasn't that their original reasoning in gathering the kids all in one place? It had been to keep their children easier to watch, but was there also the concept to attract trouble… Was this really the right thing to do?

  "I don't understand," she murmured.

  "I know. And I know you don't know me, and what I'm asking is pretty big, and that is that you trust me. Please."

  She stared at him for what felt like a long time. The child-like panic was replaced by the surprisingly profound wisdom of the fifteen-year-old she was. Then: "Dad said that at school you were the one friend everyone knew they could trust. My dad was the one who could organize, Allan's dad could write anything, all the rest. But you… So, yes… I'll trust you because dad trusts you."

  Francis managed a smile, casting a quick glance at Julian, questioning his description of his abilities as a youth. He turned back to Karyn. "Good," he said. "But I need to be honest here. This is going to be… Well, it's going to be scary."

  "Is it going to help dad as well?"

  Francis shrugged sadly. "I don't know," he finally whispered.

>   She nodded. "Good answer," she replied. "I think I can trust you as well." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "So, what do you want me to do?" Fifteen going on twenty-one was how Julian had described her to him, and Francis thanked the powers that be that that was the case.

  1991

  Francis felt a hand yank him back even as Troy let himself fall forward.

  The sound was surprisingly soft.

  Chelsea's head was thrown backward.

  "No…" Francis whimpered. "No…"

  Her eyes searched him out, wide and pleading. She reached a trembling hand across to him as the first bubble of blood burst at the corner of her mouth and ran down the side of her chin, scarlet drops striking her torso like red tears. The point of the knife was visible near the center of her chest, between her breasts, the crimson stain on her white clothing growing larger and larger with each and every slowing heartbeat.

  "F-F-F…," she tried to say. His hand stretched forward. Their fingers touched.

  Luke and Brandon struck as one. The first blade slid into her midsection, the next into her hip. Blood erupted, living lava gushing forth. Luke looked down at what he had done, at the handle of the weapon quaking in her stomach with each forced breath, and turned and dry-retched loudly.

  The hand let go of Francis, and Julian moved across. He just jabbed forward, almost blindly. His knife penetrated her lower neck and shoulder with an explosive fountain of red that struck Troy in the face, making his grin widen maniacally.

  Chelsea's eyes fluttered and closed for the final time.

  Her fingers fell away from Francis.

  "No…" Francis repeated.

  Randolph looked at the others, gritted his teeth, and just drove the knife in his hands forward. It struck her wrist, but the blood that flowed out had less pressure than they would have expected, coming out in pathetic pulses of thickening fluid.

  Chelsea's mouth fell open. Francis was sure he heard a word come from her lips like the wind across a field of dead grass. He only wished he had heard her final utterance, to know the last thing on her mind… if only…