The Girl in the Attic

by Ed Gorman

  Waiting to see it turn.

  Slowly.

  Slowly.

  Waiting to see Jason or Freddie from the "Elm Street" pictures come through the door.

  And do to her what they did to all virginal young teenage girls.

  Her eyes remained on the doorknob.

  Then a curious and horrible thing began to happen.

  As she watched, the knob began to turn.

  A little to the right. And then a little more to the right.

  Jamie had no way of covering herself, so she did the best she could. She kind of crouched down so that her breasts could be seen only from their tops, and her thatch of dark-blond pubic hair was hidden by pressing her abdomen against the tops of her thighs.

  The only weapon at hand was the hair drier.

  For a moment she held the drier by the handle, as if it was a gun, but then she realized how stupid this was.

  Whoever was turning the knob would know that in one hand a big plastic blow dryer wasn't exactly something to run away from.

  So now she held the drier with both hands over her head, ready to smash it into the face of whoever opened the door.

  She steeled herself. Ready.

  The door opened.

  And there, through the steam, stood the monster.

  "God, honey," her mother said, "why are you holding the hair drier over your head like that?"

  "You don't know how close you came."

  "Apparently."

  "I mean, I really would have thrown it."

  "I know. I should've knocked. It was my fault."

  "You always take the blame, Mom."

  Her mother laughed gently. "That's because I'm a less than perfect creature and the blame usually belongs to me."

  "Oh, Mom."

  They were still in their room. Jamie was using the mirror in her overnight bag to finish brushing her hair. Her mother had told her all about Carleton Edmonds and how he'd invited them down for roast beef sandwiches.

  "Well, it should be a pleasant night," her mother said.

  "Your first date."

  "Very funny. If it was a date, I doubt I'd be taking my daughter along."

  "I'll chaperone."

  "Thanks a lot."

  Jamie quit brushing her hair. "You know what I keep thinking about?"

  "What?"

  "About what that dorky cab driver told us. About the little girl who killed all those people."

  Her mother smiled. "I wouldn't be overly impressed by anything that particular cabbie told us."

  "But you've got to admit it's pretty weird."

  "I wouldn't say weird. I'd say sad."

  "I'll bet it was his daughter."

  "Whose?"

  "Carleton Edmonds."

  "Why?"

  "The cab driver said her name was Edmonds. Anne Edmonds."

  For the first time, her mother looked seriously interested in the conversation they'd been having. With a little catch in her throat, she said, "Why, that's right, isn't it? He did say Anne Edmonds."

  Jamie nodded. "See, Mom. That's why I was so scared when you walked into the bathroom. This whole place kind of gives me the creeps."

  Her mother leaned over and hugged her. "Oh, hon, don't let things like that worry you."

  "It doesn't bother you, then?"

  For a moment neither said anything. They just stared at each other. Finally, her mother said, "It doesn't really bother me. It's just all sort of unfortunate."

  Jamie laughed. "There's the kind of word Moms like to use—'unfortunate. ' " She put on a deep parody, male voice. "It certainly is unfortunate, Mrs. Baines, that that escaped killer got in here and ate your daughter all up." Her mother actually giggled.

  4

  You got to Bethel's place by going down a road that wound along a wide creek, passing through deep forest, and ending up in a little moonlight clearing, in the center of which sat a silver house trailer.

  This was where One Eye came once a month, his pockets lined with four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, to have sex with Bethel.

  He came out of the forest and stood in the moonlight, his bearded face almost decent-looking in the long shadows.

  From the trailer came the sounds of disco music, Bethel's favorite kind: Donna Summer. Especially "She Works Hard For The Money." Over and over. One Eye saw humor in that—that Bethel would like a song about a "working woman"—but Bethel saw no humor in it at all.

  He stood for a moment, liking the way the trailer imposed a sense of civilization on the forest here. The lights were golden and touched the long grass and made it golden too. You could smell her perfume and powder on the slight breeze, you could see forest creatures sit in the golden light sometimes—squirrels and opossums and stray dogs—and just watch, peacefully, the goings-on of human beings.

  He put a big wad of Doublemint in his mouth because Bethel always told him she hated how his breath smelled.

  Then he went down to the creek, took off his shirt, and washed under his arms and across his chest. He dropped his pants and washed between his legs and then reached around and washed behind. His mother always used to call this "sponge bathing." Then he threw water in his face. He dumped a couple of dripping handfuls on his head so that his hair was slicked down.

  Then he went up to Bethel's door.

  The man who answered was the size of a beer truck. He had enough curly black chest hair to serve as a rug and enough gold chains around his neck to qualify as a jewelry store. "Yeah?"

  One Eye sank back. He wasn't so much afraid of the man as he was embarrassed. He'd expected Bethel to open the door.

  "Yeah?" the man said again.

  Bethel appeared behind him, saw who stood out there, giggled. "Boy, is my luck running good tonight," she said.

  "Who is this creep?" the man wanted to know.

  "Somebody who comes and sees me."

  "I thought you liked me so much."

  "Honey, I do like you, but I've got other customers to think about, too. That's what the free enterprise system is all about—making sure your customers are happy."

  The man growled something, then pulled the door closed.

  Over the next few minutes, One Eye saw the silhouette of them kissing, then Bethel pushing him away. Finally the man pulled on his clothes. The door slammed open. He came down the steps, still angry. "At least I didn't have to take bloody seconds to this creep."

  "You have yourself a real nice night," Bethel sang sweetly as the man strode over to his Cadillac convertible. Then, under her breath, One Eye picking it up, she said, "You fat cocksucker."

  One Eye followed her inside.

  He liked Bethel's trailer. She had a big kitchen that always had freshly baked cookies and pies on the counter and she had a living room with orange and blue beanbag chairs and a bookcase with an entire set of those encyclopedias you got at the supermarket; and she had a lot of silk paintings set against white walls for decoration. There was Elvis, looking sad, sort of like Jesus, and there was John F. Kennedy (One Eye still thought of how JFK got killed that day), and there was Julio Iglesias, and there was this big tiger that was so realistic you could see the drool dripping from its teeth. The TV was on. The TV was always on. Even with the stereo blaring, the TV was on. One Eye would be deep into it with her and then every once in a while he'd lose concentration and pick up on what the tube was saying. She usually watched the same station—CBN, Christian Broadcasting Network, and Pat Robertson and "The 700 Club." (Until One Eye had figured out that Pat was on a recording, he figured the guy must have been the most tireless s.o.b. west of the Mississippi, because otherwise how could you stay up so long?)

  "You take a sponge bath?"

  "Yes'm."

  "You wash under your arms?"

  "Yes'm."

  "You wash between your legs?"

  "Yes'm."

  "You wash your balls?"

  "Yes'm."

  "You wash your asshole?"

  "Yes'm."

  "You put som
e gum in your mouth?"

  "Yes'm."

  Bethel yawned. "I guess I still don't feel like doin' anything, One Eye."

  She saw the disappointment and quick anger in his face and said, "I'm just teasing you, One Eye. Relax. Just let me go put on a different outfit."

  One Eye relaxed. He needed to be with a woman so bad at this moment that he could feel tears start up.

  He went over and sat on the red beanbag chair and looked up at Elvis. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches, he'd read that that was Elvis' favorite snack. No wonder the man got so heavy by the time he died. He was thinking other things about Elvis when Bethel returned.

  This time she wore pink. Bethel had four identical "uniforms" (as she called them); shorty transparent nighties so you could see her massive swaying breasts, and fluffy mules so you could see her size 11-D feet. The uniforms came in four colors pink, baby blue, tan, and mint green. She changed for each customer. Right now she wore pink.

  "Come over here and let me check you out," she said.

  He got up and went over.

  She sniffed him very closely. She might have been one of those special dogs the police have for sniffing out contraband.

  She sniffed his face, neck, underarms, ass, balls, legs, and feet. When she got to the feet she said, "You go in that bathroom and wash those babies off, One Eye, or you won't be gettin' in my bed, and that's a promise." Then, after some reflection, she said, "I've got some Axe in there. You splash some of that on, too."

  "On my feet?"

  She laughed. "One Eye, you really are just as crazy as they say, you know that?" She shook her head. Or more precisely, she shook her wig. She had a wig for each of her uniforms, too. This one was kind of a red Little Orphan Annie number that gave her skinny body a waif-life look.

  "You don't put the shit on your feet, One Eye, you put it on your face and on your neck and under your arms. You might even put just a teensy bit of it on Boy Howdy down there, not on the very tip of it because that'd smart, but on the rod part of him, you understand?"

  "All right."

  She was in pretty good spirits tonight, and he was so grateful he'd go along with nearly anything she said. So he went into the bathroom, ran some water in the tub, soaked his feet, and took down one of her white bath towels that read HOWARD JOHNSON. Then he dried his feet off, he took the Axe, and put it everywhere she said. Then he went back out to the living room and almost immediately Boy Howdy stood straight up and did everything except salute the flag and whistle Dixie.

  A long time ago, in other towns, before people ever thought of calling him One Eye, before his life went to shit without him having any control over, it, O'Brien had had a girl, a Catholic Polish girl. Once or twice they'd gone all the way listening to Stevie Wonder songs in the back of the '63 Buick Wildcat. He always wanted it to be that way again—not just the sex, but the tenderness after, the drifting peacefully along there in the darkness, two people joined somehow as one. But with Bethel it was never like that. She always managed to spoil it because she was so plainspoken.

  "Damn," she said when One Eye had rolled off her.

  At first he was afraid that he'd done something wrong.

  "What?" he said.

  "My visitor's coming."

  "You got some other customer after me?"

  "No, silly. Not a customer. My 'visitor.' My period."

  "Oh."

  "I'm not one of those women who just bleed a little here and there, either. I bleed like a stuck pig, believe me."

  She had such a delicate way of putting things.

  Then neither of them said anything. They just sat there and listened to the TV and the stereo. Pat Robertson was talking about somebody in Wyandotte, Ohio, who had been unable to walk after being paralyzed in a freak lawnmower accident; but then this guy started watching the "700 Club" and sort of kicking in what the Good Lord wanted him to kick in, and lo and behold just last week the guy won a potato sack race at the annual VFW picnic. As for the stereo, it was "Air Supply," and there was something so sugar-sweet about them and so sappy about their lyrics that they produced an odd effect on One Eye—they made him violent. First he wanted to strangle all of them and everybody close to them, and then he wanted to move on to the world at large and do likewise. He didn't think singing groups were supposed to affect you that way.

  She got up and took a pee that he heard loud and clear, and when she came back she closed the door, shutting off most of the noise.

  Something was weird here, One Eye knew. She usually got him out of here as fast as she could. After collecting one of the crisp hundred dollar bills he gave her, of course.

  But when she came back to bed, she got next to him and snuggled up close; took one of his hands and put it over her right mountainous breast and said, "You'n me, we're pretty good friends, ain't we, One Eye?"

  That's when he knew for sure that something very strange was going on here.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  "My Great-Grandfather built this place just after World War I," Carleton Edmonds explained over the dinner he'd prepared for them—thick roast beef sandwiches (with catsup and sweet pickle slices for Jamie) and a tossed salad with Italian dressing (or "Eye-talian," as they said in these parts), and big glasses of fresh lemonade. They sat on a screened-in veranda on the back of the hotel looking down into the wide creek that wound through pines and poplars and shone silver in the moonlight. There was an owl in the darkness and, distantly, the rumble of trucks. Sally felt comfortable—and safe—for the first time since her car had broken down that day.

  "Then the trouble started," Carleton said. His tone changed abruptly. All she could think of was Roderick Usher in Poe's "The Fall of The House of Usher." How doomed he was! Carleton seemed to carry the same sort of melancholy around with him almost like an illness. This was in sharp contrast to his blond good looks.

  Sally said carefully, "What trouble was that?" She was about to say "with your daughter," but thought she'd best let him say that.

  "In 1947, a woman found an ax upstairs in the attic and killed her husband. They were guests here at the time."

  "I see."

  "Needless to say, it ended our business, for all practical purposes. At least for a time. My grandfather died a brokenhearted old man."

  Sally glanced over at Jamie. The girl was curled up in her chair, tired. Sally offered her a smile.

  "Then things started up again—this was in the mid-'90s. Our business was very good for a long time and then. . ."

  He shrugged. "I'm sure somebody's told you what happened here then. With my daughter."

  "Yes, a few people mentioned it." She looked at him. Even these long years later, he was devastated by everything that had happened.

  Beyond the screen, the moonlight touched on a path winding through the pine-filled hills above them. She wanted to go there now for a walk. She had such a terrible sadness inside her—as did this man—and she needed to escape from it. At least for a time.

  He said, "I suppose it's just as well she died."

  "Your daughter!"

  "Yes."

  "How did it happen?"

  "Well, after—after she killed the four people—she ran away, but then she got out on the highway and somehow fell off a trestle bridge where she used to play."

  Sally sighed. "You've been through a lot."

  "No, I haven't been through anything compared to what Anne must have gone through. Killing her mother and those other guests."

  "And you never learned anything about..."

  ". . . about any possible mental illness? Nothing at all. Investigators spent months afterward going through her school records and school papers and interviewing people, but they really didn't learn anything. I mean, my daughter was a very willful little girl. A tomboy of sorts. She thought for herself and really asked very little help from either her mother or me. But I always considered that a sign of good mental health—you know, being purposeful in life and all that. There was no indic
ation whatsoever that there was anything wrong. None whatsoever."

  "One night it just happened."

  He nodded. "One night it just happened. I suppose that's how all the theories got started." There were the smells of pine and grass scorched from the day's sun; there were the sounds of larks, owls, jays; there were the silhouettes of gabled roofs and the town water tower and a gracefully arcing Piper Cub against the golden disk of moon. Sally wanted to sit there and take it all in and not have to listen to any more.

  Then there was a new sound. She raised her eyes and looked over at her daughter. Jamie snored lightly.

  Carleton Edmonds laughed. "Looks like she found my story less than fascinating."

  "She's worn out."

  "I know," he said tenderly. "Anne used to get like that."

  "Maybe I'd better take her upstairs."

  "Of course."

  She looked over at him and smiled. "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed this."

  "I'm afraid I get stuck in my past."

  She had already told him about her husband. "I'm the same way."

  He reached over and touched her hand. Despite everything she wanted to feel, despite everything she prepared herself against feeling, she had to admit to herself that this man held enormous attraction for her.

  He said, "Why don't you put Jamie to bed, then come back down and have some wine with me?"

  "Oh, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

  "I'd really like that." He smiled at her. "And I'm sure you could use it—some relaxation, I mean."

  "Well. . ."

  "I'm going to take that as a yes."

  She laughed. "You really are a good salesman."

  "With business the way it's been these past years, it's probably time I look into a new career field, anyway. Maybe I should try sales."

  She stood up and roused Jamie. "C'mon, hon. You fell asleep."

  Jamie looked disoriented, then sort of cute as she tried to recall where they were. "Boy, I'm tired," she muttered.

  "I know. Give me your hand." Sally helped Jamie up. She looked across the table at Carleton Edmonds. "I'll see you in a little bit."

  "Good." To Jamie, he said, "Good night. I'm glad we got the chance to have some dinner."