A week had gone by since the funeral and I still hadn’t left the house. I confined myself to my room in flannel pajamas and the same burgundy hand-knit sweater I wore that day. It wrapped around me so tightly sometimes that I hoped it would snuff out the agonizing pain for good. I wasn’t that lucky.
It never occurred to me until then why I was clinging to that sweater like it was my one and only life-line. My mother gave it to me as a Christmas present when I was sixteen. It was the ugliest sweater I’d ever seen—made of thick, itchy wool. The sleeves went straight down instead of narrowing at the wrists and it was at least three sizes too big. It wasn’t until after she died and I was cleaning out her room that I discovered she’d taken classes at a local craft store. She spent five months knitting it for me.
The sun shone brightly outside, but I kept the vertical blinds closed. The curtains were pulled together to surround myself in a false night. The darkness gave me time to think without the distractions of memories triggered by pictures and familiar items.
When I allowed my tired eyes to finally close, it wasn’t Danny’s face I saw, but the misshapen, haggard face of the thing that killed him. It was unavoidable, like a disease with no promise of a cure, haunting my dreams and stabbing my heart until I thought I would die.
Unavoidably, I closed my eyes, knowing what was coming, and let myself be carried away to the worst moment of my life. It was a dream I’d had every single night since his death, and I was sure I would have it again.
———
I counted in my head as I tried to lull myself to sleep in the darkness of my quiet room. Cara had left for the night to stay at her new boyfriend’s house. She’d met him a few months earlier at the fifty’s diner she waitressed at and they’d been inseparable ever since.
I was glad Cara had finally found someone who treated her right. After all the sacrifices she made to help me and Danny, she deserved nothing less. Tom was older than her, but he had a good head on his shoulders, as my father would have said. I knew if they stuck together for the long-haul he could take care of her.
Even though she loved spending every spare minute she had with Tom, whether she was at his house or he was over at ours, she’d never felt comfortable spending the night away from home. Since my parents died, she’d been with me every single night, but I had finally convinced her we would be fine. It only took me a little over five year to do so.
Alone in my dark room, I began to think otherwise. When I was a child my parents allowed me to watch all the horror movies I wanted, thinking it would help me learn to process fear. At the time, I wasn’t scared of anything, but years later I felt anxious while trying to fall asleep. I pictured frightening things moving around in the dark, watching me.
That night there was the unmistakable feeling of eyes on me even though I knew I was alone. In the corner I thought I saw something move in the pitch blackness, a cloaked figure with boney hands. It felt like death himself was keeping a close watch over me.
It was the same figure I saw the night before my parents died. The corner of my eye caught the image of a skeletal figure in a robe outside the window as I watched TV on the couch. It had made me jump and I almost choked on the popcorn I was eating.
For the second time, he appeared before me. My mind had to be playing cruel tricks. I decided right then that Danny wouldn’t be allowed to watch scary movies until he was a teenager. A heaviness settled in on my chest. I had to distract myself from the rising fear.
I counted to a hundred five times before I heard the creaking of someone coming up the stairs. The house was fairly old and whenever someone took a step, some floorboard somewhere gave a loud groan that echoed throughout the hallways. It was an effective alarm system since the tiniest noise woke me up from a dead sleep.
I figured Cara must have changed her mind about staying over at Tom’s. She was the only other one with access to the house, so the thought of it being someone else never crossed my mind. I hoped they hadn’t had a fight, but I knew if they did she would want to talk about it with me. My head lulled to the side to look at the bedroom door as I waited for her to walk in.
When the door remained closed, I resumed counting, but didn’t reach ten before I heard Danny’s piercing scream from down the hall. I jumped out of bed and sprinted into his room, throwing the door wide open, but stopped in my tracks.
Cowering over my son’s bed was a dark figure in a black cloak. Its face hovered over Danny’s while it emitted a low, rattling growl from deep within its throat. Even from across the room I could smell its putrid scent of rotten eggs and rancid meat. The figure raised its head slowly and stared at me with yellow, snake-like eyes—never moving, continually glaring, as they bore through me. Its gray, leathery skin seemed to glow slightly in the shadows.
The urge to flee spread through every bone in my body, but the ferocious mother in me won. When that instinct took over, there was nothing that could have stopped me from protecting my son.
The adrenaline that coursed inside me screamed for me to tear the thing apart with my bare hands. I picked up the heavy snow globe from the dresser by the door and ran at the cloaked figure. I yelled at the top of my lungs, the cry tearing at the skin of my throat.
But before I reached the bed, the figure opened its mouth and let out a shriek that rivaled any capacity of the human race. An enormous gust of wind circulated around the room as its cry grew more powerful. I fell to my knees and covered my ears, trying to block out the horrible, ear-splitting noise. The snow globe lay next to me in pieces, the glittery water from inside dripping onto the soft carpet.
As the wind rushed around the room, the figure’s hood blew off, revealing long, matted black hair that raised up and moved around like slithering serpents. Its lips peeled back to expose brown teeth rotting out of its head, jagged enough to tear through human flesh. It never took its yellow eyes from me until it spun around and jumped through the open window next to Danny’s bed.
I rushed over, but there was nothing except blinding darkness below. Suddenly, there was a sharp pinch on the bottom of my big toe. I lifted my leg and saw a small piece of broken glass stuck in my calloused skin. Pulling the shard out slowly, my gaze fell to Danny. The covers were tangled around his motionless body.
“Danny!? Danny, can you hear me!?” My voice rose in panic.
Tears filled my eyes as I knelt beside his twin bed. He didn’t move. I gripped his shoulders to shake him, thinking he might have fainted, but he remained still. His skin was as cold as ice.
A heavy weight set in on my chest and threatened to crush my lungs completely. I knew my son was dead.
———
I sat up, hunched over, gasping for air. The palms of my hands pressed firmly into the mattress. Every time I dreamt about that night I felt like I was reliving it all over again—the gut-wrenching sickness, the heartbreaking sadness—it all came back in an unforgettable rush I could never seem to get away from.
After several minutes, my heart finally returned to its normal pace and my lungs stopped gulping at the stale air of my bedroom. There was no hint of light peeking through the blinds or curtains. It was dark outside.
I picked up my father’s old alarm clock from the nightstand and held it close to my face to see where the hands pointed. My fingers clumsily grazed the brass chimes on the top. It filled the room with a hollow jumble of clinks and clanks. It was four thirty-seven in the morning.
I threw my aching body back down onto the bed and let out a cleansing sigh. Even with my eyes closed, my mind wouldn’t stop wandering to avoid slipping back into the nightmare. It was too big of a risk to fall asleep again. I threw the covers off and pulled on my knit sweater.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator and rummaged through its contents. It was stocked full of casseroles and lasagnas, condolence dinners from the neighbors. I couldn’t eat any of it. It was like they were saying, “Sorry your son is dead. Hope this baked mac and cheese makes up fo
r it”. Just looking at it made my stomach churn with contempt.
Instead, I grabbed a handful of ingredients in the hopes of distracting myself from my dizzying thoughts—eggs, milk, cheese, peppers, syrup, filtered water, pancake mix, oranges, and more. I set to work.
By the time Cara came downstairs and shuffled her way to the kitchen in her pink robe and fuzzy slippers, the sun was up. I moved frantically from the stove to the oven to the counter and back again.
“Morning,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice.
“Good morning, Kammy. What’s all this?” she gawked from the entryway at the food spread on the old, round wooden table.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep so I decided to make breakfast. There’s fresh orange juice, pancakes, omelets, biscuits and gravy, and I even used your mother’s pumpkin mix and what was left of the ice cream to make waffles a la mode.”
She stood frozen, staring at me with her mouth slightly open and her brown eyes wide.
“Don’t just stand there,” I urged as I washed the dried mix off my hands. “Dig in. I already poured you a fresh cup of coffee with French vanilla cream, just the way you like it.”
She knit her brow as she made her way to the same chair she sat in every morning for the last six years. The table shook as she slid herself forward. She raised a hand to catch the stack of eighteen pancakes leaning to one side.
Once I’d searched the kitchen for anything else to do and found there was nothing, I joined her. My eyes fell on the empty chair next to me and my stomach sank. Danny used to sit there, eating his eggs and drinking his orange juice out of a mug. He liked to pretend he was drinking coffee, like his mommy and auntie Cara.
A hard lump rose in my throat. I swallowed to force it back down. My lips pulled back into a pained smile as I turned to my best friend.
She held the coffee up to her face and let the steam rise into her pores. Her high cheeks turned a pale rose color from the heat. Several golden tendrils framed her tired face while the rest pulled back into a floppy bun on the top of her head. It was frizzy and loose which told me she hadn’t slept well either, probably tossing and turning all night. Her normally bright eyes looked dull and lifeless. I didn’t even want to know what I looked like.
“I go back to work today,” she said softly.
Staring down into my Chicago Tribune mug, I watched the swirls of brown and cream mix together before taking a large, soothing gulp. “M-hm.”
She bit her bottom lip. “What are you going to do today?” She asked this in a way that suggested I should have had a plan, the corners of her full lips turned upward.
What was I supposed to say? I was going to poke around at the massive breakfast I spent hours making? Take a bite, maybe two, and then force my legs to take me back upstairs, where I would shut myself in the dark and forget that I was still a part of a cruel world that would allow the love of my life to be taken away from me? I didn’t want to worry her. Instead, I shrugged my shoulders and hid my face behind my mug again.
“You really should get out, just for a bit. Take a walk or something. Clear your head. I think the fresh air will do you some good.”
My eyes met hers and I nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do that.”
“Promise me,” she pushed.
“I promise I’ll get out.”
“Good.”
We sat in silence as she picked up her fork and shoveled in a large bite of pumpkin waffle, syrup, and vanilla ice cream. Her mouth remained closed as she chewed, but her eyes lit up like a display of fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Oh my goodness, this is delicious!”
I couldn’t help chuckling aloud at the ridiculousness of her expression. The moment it escaped my lips, I clamped my mouth shut to stifle the foreign sound. How could I have allowed myself to laugh when my son was dead?
“I think I’ll take that walk now,” I said as I stood up.
“You haven’t even touched your food yet.”
“I’m not hungry,” I called back on my way to the door.
The crisp, cool air hit me in the face like a brick wall, waking me up from my pitiful stupor. I raised my hand to my forehead to shade my eyes from the unrelenting sunlight. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
One foot slowly in front of the other, I walked down the creaky porch steps onto the concrete walkway that lead to the neighborhood sidewalk. Large, ancient trees provided shade as I made my way past the house and around the corner.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The fresh air in my lungs felt good. The coolness on my face seemed to wake me up and renew the lost energy inside me. Even my legs didn’t feel as frail and wobbly with the exercise they’d been sorely lacking finally brought to them.
Each house on the block looked different than the last, unlike the newer developments built anywhere they could cram them in. These houses were old. They had character—a history to them. Generations had lived inside them, or at least several different families. They’d been remodeled and remodeled again, like withering women who refused to age.
Some were one-story ranches, some were two-story homes, and one was even a three-story with a balcony on the roof where the owners frequently enjoyed tea together as they read. Dogs barked as they frolicked in the backyards. Kids’ laughter escaped through the open windows of their bedrooms.
For the briefest moment, I forgot who I was or why I was outside. Everything about me slipped away as the rays of the sun warmed my cheeks and the cool, gentle breeze brushed my hair behind my shoulders. It was the kind of day Danny loved to play outside in.
And just like that, it all came rushing back. My feet froze on the sidewalk. They felt like lead, unable to lift and move themselves forward. All the muscles in my face sank.
Danny. My sweet Danny.
Suddenly, the earth started to spin. The trees danced around me, mocking me and the pain I couldn’t escape. The laughter of the neighborhood children sounded malicious, like the cackle of little witches prodding the agonizing grief inside me and awakening it again.
I raised both hands to my face and held them there as my chest heaved. The spinning worsened. My body swayed and caught itself against the trunk of an old Willow near the open field Danny used to kick his soccer ball around in.
Unable to keep myself up, my back slid against the rough bark until I was curled up at the base on the cold dirt and dried leaves. Tears poured from my eyes as I squeezed them shut. I didn’t want to see the world crumbling around me. I didn’t want to see the faces of those passing by, looking down at me with pity. Blocking out my surroundings, the only thing I heard was the distant chirping of the birds in the branches.
“You okay down there?” a gruff voice called out from somewhere.
I was tempted to open my eyes, but didn’t. Whoever it was, maybe they’d go away and leave me alone if I played dead like a possum. I wished I were dead.
“Miss?”
Dammit, he wouldn’t let me have a breakdown in peace. I pushed myself up and brushed my hands together to shake the dirt loose. I straightened my sweater and wrapped it around my waist, holding it in place with the tight grip of my arms.
With a sniff and a shoulder rub against my wet cheeks, I was ready to lie. I would say I was fine and then head back home to hide myself under the covers like I should have done from the beginning of the day.
The man sat on a rustic porch swing, swaying back and forth with his arms crossed at his chest and one leg rested on the knee of his other. It was the same mysterious man I saw standing in the back row of Danny’s funeral. I could tell by the salt and pepper hair around his ears and his thin blue eyes that pierced through me, as if they’d seen things they could never speak of.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I called back to him.
I raised my hand in a gesture of goodwill. Blood rushed to my face. Luckily, the man was far enough away that there was little chance he saw how badly I was blushing.
“Why don’t you come on up here for
a minute?”
Was he asking me to come sit with him? A strange man whom I had never met in my life, who crashed my son’s funeral and didn’t bother to say a single word? Now he wanted me to what? Sit next to him and stare up at the sky in awkward silence?
I couldn’t think of a more horrible way to spend the morning. All I wanted was to be alone. But for some reason I couldn’t say no. I tried. My mouth opened, but the words wouldn’t come out. Before I knew what was happening, I climbed his porch steps and sat next to him on the old, rickety swing.
Neither of us said a word. The rhythmic creaking of the metal chain put me into a hypnotic trance as the leaves blowing in the breeze lulled me into complacency. There was no explanation for why I was there. He swung, back and forth, back and forth, until I felt like my entire being was melting away into the earth where it belonged. It was calm…peaceful.
“I know what you’re going through,” he spoke in a voice just above a whisper.
He never turned to look at me. His haunting eyes remained focused on the world outside his home just beyond his wooden porch. The heavy toe of his boot tapped on the floor as we rocked.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing at all. What could I say? How could anyone know what I was going through? I wanted to lash out at him for being so insensitive, but he spoke first.
“My wife and daughter…they were killed the same way your boy was.”
I highly doubted that. No one knew what really happened that night in Danny’s bedroom but me and the unearthly, murderous hag. I hadn’t told a single soul what I really saw that night. I knew the minute that thing jumped out the window and disappeared forever there was no finding it. No one would ever believe me, not even Cara. I let a judgmental puff of air escape my lips.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t no ordinary man or woman you saw, am I right? It was something else—something dark, evil, and truly terrifying.”
My back stiffened and my legs stopped moving to the motion of the swing. I dug my fingernails into my knees, afraid that any movement I made would give me away and I would be hauled off to the nuthouse for thinking I saw such outrageous things.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said with a snort. “I know what you saw because I saw it the night my wife and daughter were taken from me, and you’re right. It’s not something of this world. It’s something dark.”
I couldn’t sit there with someone who was obviously crazy. He was putting me on, for what reason I had no idea, but I would not stand for it. I’d been through enough already and I didn’t know how much more I could take before I broke into a million pieces. I didn’t know what I saw that night.
“Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re telling me all this, but what happened to my son is none of your goddamn business.” With that, I stood up and turned away to leave.
“Wait,” he called after me, rushing down the stairs. He reached his hand out, but stopped just short of grabbing my arm when I whipped around and fixed him with a withering glare. “Just hear me out. I can help you. I want to help you.”
My face scrunched up as I knit my brow and turned my mouth down into a dismal frown. “No one can help me. My son is dead. Do you understand that? There’s nothing anyone can do to bring him back.”
I wanted to slap him, punch him, kick him in the groin—anything to make him feel the horrible pain that was gnawing away at my insides from our conversation.
“No, no one can bring him back I’m sorry to say—”
I didn’t wait for him to finish. I stormed off. Leaving the house had been a horrible idea. I was never leaving my room again. I hoped I would waste away into nothingness and finally be able to feel some semblance of peace.
“—I can help you get revenge!” his voice echoed out and rang in my ears.
I stopped in my tracks and stared down at the horizontal crack in the concrete. This man was sick. He was cruel and sadistic for dangling any hope of redemption in my face. I slowly turned with my lips parted and tears glistening in the corners of my eyes.
“It’s true,” he said as he rushed over. He placed his large, calloused hands on my shoulders. “It’s true. What killed your son was a demon, a creature of the Darkness, and I know how to kill them. Please, let me show you. I can take you to the Chamber of Darkness and we can get you trained. You can learn to fight these things.
“Nothing will bring back your son, but you can stop another mother from having to feel what you’re feeling right now. You can save lives. And you can find the demon who killed your son and put an end to its existence.”
I couldn’t do anything but shake my head. Too many tears had gathered and my eyes could not contain them. Like a dam overflowing, the flood gates opened and the salted water ran down my cheeks in falls.
“Please, let me help you!” the man called after me as I ran down the road and around the corner.
My legs didn’t stop until I wrenched open the front door and locked it behind me. He was insane. There was no such things as demons. There was no heaven, there was no hell, and there certainly weren’t any angels looking out for me and my family. The nerve of someone to say something like that to a grieving mother. A good slap to the face was what he needed.
I trudged the stairs, averting my glance as I walked past the closed door of Danny’s room. I was still unable to bring myself to look at it and the picture he drew of me and him holding hands in front of our house. There was nothing left to do but lock myself in my room, shut the light out, and try to forget I ever attempted to pretend life could be normal. Things would never be normal again.
THE CHOICE
Broken Angel (Book 1 in the Chronicles of a Supernatural Huntsman series) Page 2
