by Brian Hodge
One scarlet, large and looming.
The other pink, small and fragile.
In one, the larger held the smaller by its hair, legs far above the ground. Even though it was only a stick figure, Grandma Fletcher could make out the struggling pain experienced by the smaller pink figure with the impossible angles of the stick arms and stick legs.
In another, the scarlet figure stood hands empirically on hips. A dark colored three-dimensional square contained the pink one with knees drawn up. The head was lowered pitifully as the body, even in its cramped position, was too big for the confines.
In another, the pink figure was prone, while the larger figure kneeled above holding what must have been a cigar, the orange tip hovering menacingly above the smaller stick figure. Thin tendrils of smoky gray color curled from the tip of the cigar and the dozen orange colored spots on the pink figure’s flattened back.
In yet another, the larger figure struck the smaller with a long supple-looking red strap, as the pink figure kneeled on all fours, head down, back pinstriped with thin red bands. To Grandma Fletcher, it was as if she could see the stick figure’s shoulders shake with the pain and desperation of the moment.
In the last, and the one that fixated Rosie’s entire attention, the small stick figure’s head was buried deep in the broad crotch of the large scarlet figure whose arms were outstretched, head lolling back on a thin neck.
With a final agonizing peel, Rosie collapsed to the carpet, the vestiges of her scream tapering into nothing. Sweet Little Piggy stopped her patting and looked at her Grandma.
“Amama, lady sleep,” came the lispy voice, confusion and concern both coloring her tone.
Grandma Fletcher shook herself out of her momentary shock and went into motion, a look of loving irritation towards her granddaughter. This had happened before. She didn’t know why she hadn’t been ready for it. She just prayed that the damage could still be repaired.
The other children had been picked up half-an-hour ago—explanations and promises exchanged with the concerned mothers. Jenny Mae sat in front of the television, her arms wrapped tightly around the stuffed kitten, the girl’s eyes as glassy as the cat’s. She seemed to be staring through the screen—seeing something else. Her clothes had been changed into some cast-offs that Grandma Fletcher had collected in case of accidents. Some of the children came to her with nothing but what they wore. They always left with more, thanks to the charity of a kind young woman at the St. Vincent De Paul store, who, once a month, dropped an overflowing box by the apartment.
Sweet Little Piggy knelt over a piece of paper on the long oak coffee table, carefully drawing an intricate flower, her tongue stuck firmly in the corner of her mouth. She was oblivious to her Grandma who sat on the side of the couch, dabbing a wet washcloth along Rosie’s forehead. The room smelled of pine oil, the wall scrubbed clean of the offending images.
Rosie moaned, her head moving slowly from side-to-side as she came to. Grandma Fletcher lifted her hand up quickly as Rosie rose up, startled, a scream poised on her lips. The washcloth fell across her face and onto her lap. Her eyes, momentarily unfocused, sharpened and went straight for the wall. She searched for several seconds then fell back, a sigh escaping her lips. She turned her head sideways and looked at Sweet Little Piggy who stared back at her with her triangular pink eyes.
“It’s okay,” said Sweet Little Piggy. “It’s okay.”
Piggy returned to her coloring. The creature’s ugliness ignored, she concentrated on the paper. Rosie watched as the girl’s steady hands finished drawing an orange-hued flower. With a pig-like snort, the girl finished and handed the paper to Rosie, who automatically held out a hand to receive it.
A timid smile crept across Rosie’s face. She was amazed by the picture’s intricate beauty. Each petal and stamen were exquisite in every detail. It could have been a photo, so complete was it in its perfection.
“For you,” said Sweet Little Piggy forming the words slowly.
She glanced at her Grandma quickly who responded with a smile.
Sweet Little Piggy immediately began drawing another, her hand moving the violet crayon in the swift, sure strokes of a master. As Rosie watched, Grandma Fletcher spoke.
“Sweet Little Piggy is very special. The doctors say she has a perfect memory. She can see somethin’ once and it’s in her head forever, they say. Her drawin’s are perfect and sometimes, we send them into contests. They always win. It helps with the rent, you know. Now, what you saw when you came in was another thing altogether. A gift of sorts.”
Rosie jerked her attention to Grandma Fletcher, the previous fear returning in a flushed rush.
“Now, Now. Shush with that. There’s nothin’ to be a afraid of,” she said, cupping Rosie’s cheek in her large black hand.
Rosie’s gaze returned to Sweet Little Piggy’s artwork, which was already halfway complete. The girl now drew the inner surface of the flower, creating tiny delicate veins, each a complex study in flawlessness. The small African flower almost seemed to move to the fictional wind of the image, petals quivering with their ambition.
“Now, I can’t explain what she does when she draws them other things. It’s like she’s someone else. The doctors say it’s on account of what she went through when she was a child…when her mother died. And her father,” she paused, “... died. But them doctors don’t know that these things Sweet Little Piggy does is true things. And they’ll never find out, either. They’d just as sure lock her up and study her.”
Grandma Fletcher stared a moment at Jenny Mae. “Poor, poor girl. You were right to leave, to get her away from him.”
Sweet Little Piggy handed Rosie the picture she’d been working on. This one was a violet, as perfect as the other. Beautiful.
“For you,” she said again, quicker this time, her mouth remembering the form.
Rosie accepted the picture, her eyes finally clear of fear. Her face had lost its tension. The trembling of her lower jaw had stilled. She looked into Grandma Fletcher’s eyes, pleading.
“I never knew. I really didn’t. I thought he just did them to me,” she wiped her nose with a sleeve causing Grandma Fletcher to hand her a tissue she plucked from the right front pocket of her housecoat. “I mean, I knew. Just not all of it. Not…”
“There, there,” said Grandma Fletcher. “I see no reason to get into that again. It’s over. All over, now. You take Jenny Mae back to the Center and get yourself somethin’ to eat. I expect her here every day for awhile, right. And on Wednesdays we go to see the special doctor at the University. It’s free and we will take Jenny Mae with us. The sooner we get her some help, the better she will be. Right?” It wasn’t a question.
Rosie accepted another picture from Sweet Little Piggy, this one a Black-Eyed Susan. She stared into the hard, determined eyes of Grandma Fletcher and nodded.
A few moments later, they were at the door.
“Tomorrow then, Right? And you, Jenny Mae, we will see tomorrow,” said Grandma Fletcher holding a thick old hand out to the girl.
The child looked at the old woman, eyes still glassy, but a ghost of a smile hidden behind tight lips.
Grandma Fletcher unlocked the deadbolts and removed the chain. She turned, winked at Jenny Mae then turned the knob.
The door rebounded viciously, striking her on the side of the head. Blood erupted as she grunted in pain. The old woman sagged to the floor, unconscious, her glasses crushed under the black military boots of the attacker. A looming figure propelled the door inwards.
The man kicked her roughly out of the way and slammed the door shut. Then he spun and brought a hand across Rosie’s face, propelling her into her daughter, both sprawled to the ground.
“Bitch. Did you think you could get away? I told you I’d track you down.”
He was tall, a dark plaid wool coat over wide shoulders. His long hair was pulled tight into a ponytail that poked out from under the back of a cap that said Dicky’s Auto. His starched white T-shirt w
as tucked into well fitting blue jeans. Although clean shaven, his face was scarred with pits of old acne. He spit the words from thick ugly lips.
Rosie struggled to stand, but reeled back as another punch landed and sent her once again, into her daughter.
Her husband launched another booted foot, this one glancing off her back.
“Leave me alone, you bastard!” she screamed, pushing Jenny Mae protectively into the center of the room.
Dicky reached down and picked her up by the hair, jerking her head backwards, arching her back impossibly.
“I’m done with you. You hear that, Bitch. You and me are quits, but you will not have my daughter.” He laughed. “You are so stupid. It was so easy. I knew your bitch-friend Christina had told you about that place. Hell, she threatened me she would take you there often enough.” He hurled her against the TV. “Come here, sweetheart,” he said switching his voice to syrup, a hand out to Jenny Mae.
A mewling noise began down deep in her throat rapidly erupting into a long drawn-out no.
“It’s okay, mister,” came a voice from his left.
He turned and saw Sweet Little Piggy, who approached smiling, staring up into his face.
“Fuck me. What den of freaks did you bring my daughter into?” he asked, disgust replacing anger.
He swung a hard right hand at Sweet Little Piggy, but was stunned as her arm came up and caught his, just below the wrist. He tugged, but found his arm firmly trapped in the girl’s powerful grip. He watched as the fat albino girl reached up with her other hand and touched his chest and closed her eyes. She began to sing, “Stick men, stick men, my little stick men.”
He screamed with the impossibility of it all as he lashed out with his free hand and hit her once, twice, in the center of the face. Crimson blood erupted from the wounds and flowed down her white skin. The last blow freed him and sent Sweet Little Piggy tumbling back against the wall. He wiped the blood from his fist on the side of his jeans and advanced on his daughter. He picked her up by the waist and turned to his wife.
“Don’t even think about following, cunt.”
He kicked her again, this time in the leg with the steel toe of his boot. She squealed in pain. He turned, only to meet Grandma Fletcher who brought a tasseled lamp down on the top of his head, a scream of rage fueling its descent. He grunted and sagged to his knees. She brought it down again, but he managed to bat it aside with an arm as blood cascaded into his eyes blinding him.
“Bitch,” he screamed. He struggled to his feet, unsteady for a few seconds, falling once more to his knees before he turned on Grandma Fletcher. She glared at him, her face strange without the permanent glasses. Her blue-white wig had fallen off, revealing a closely cropped gray scalp. She scuttled sideways, faster than she’d moved in decades, heading for the kitchen, for a knife. He lunged and caught her in a linebacker tackle. They both hit the couch and rolled onto the floor knocking over the coffee table. She ended up on top of him, but was too stunned to take advantage. He grunted several times before he managed to push her off.
“Fucking Hell,” Dicky said to no one in particular as he stood shakily. He was gasping, blood dripping from his forehead to his chin. He grabbed a doily from the debris of the table and wiped his eyes clear of blood. He staggered into the middle of the room and stopped.
The albino girl drew rapidly on the wall. Her hands moved in quick, sure motions. So far, she’d drawn a two-foot high figure, perfect in every detail right down to the doily held firmly to its head.
It was him, absolutely clear and precise. Dicky reached up to feel his eye and found its puffiness matching that of the picture’s.
“Stick men, stick men, my little stick men,” came the voice—squeaky, lispy, crazy.
“I gotta get the fuck outta here.”
He spun to leave, but almost fell as his feet refused to budge. He looked down and saw three hands tightly gripping each ankle, arms melding seamlessly into the floor. He jerked his right leg up and felt it give two inches before it was slammed back down by the strength of the impossible grip of the improbable hands. His eyes went wild and he turned left and right rapidly, looking for anything. A searing pain erupted along his back, slicing through his jacket, his shirt and his skin. He turned and saw himself, raising a lash, grinning with glee. He saw the lash fall striking his back again, the tip cutting fabric and skin.
“Fucking Hell?”
Through teary eyes, he looked at the wall again and saw the girl’s hands move in an impossible blur as she transformed the whiteness into a pallet of perfect insanity. He saw a picture of himself behind him, a long lash poised to strike again. He watched as, in seconds, she drew two more versions of himself on either side of him.
He spun his head to the left as his arms were jerked out to the sides, almost dislocating by the forces upon them. He spun his head to the right and again, saw himself— evil, malignant and laughing as both of his other selves leaned back, using their weight to keep his arms immobile.
He stared forward, intent on screaming but felt it lodge in his throat like a ball of thick vomit. In front of him was another him— leering, a cigar in the corner of his mouth, arms crossed. He watched himself chuckle and puff hungrily on the cigar, the gray smoke swirling around his head like an evil halo. He watched as the cigar came out, up and down. The sizzle and pop of his left eye freed the vomit and released the tension in his bowels. When it entered his right eye, it killed him. He fell to the ground, his face bouncing twice on the carpet.
Sweet Little Piggy panted. Her chest heaved. Her smock was plastered to her body in dark sweaty patches. She had no need to draw anymore. Still, with a hoarse voice she still sung her song, “stick men, stick men, my little stick men.”
She turned, her eyes slowly clearing from their previous emptiness and saw the man on the carpet, a small tendril of smoke rising from his hidden face. She saw her Grandma, Rosie and Jenny Mae all getting to their feet. She turned to the man again, her face crinkling as if to cry and approached the prone figure. She kneeled down by his head and patted him on the shoulder.
“It’s okay, Mister. It’s okay.”
Silence
by David Whitman
“Wouldn’t it be cool if there was really something on the tape?” Craig asked, his face still flushed pink from their impromptu run from the police. He ran his hands through his long, sweat-drenched hair and coughed up phlegm. “Man, I gotta quit smoking.”
Dylan was not out of breath, but beads of sweat ran down his back and into his T-shirt. His shaven head gleamed in the moonlight, the sweat providing an unnatural sheen in the milky glow. The shadows on his face made his cheekbones jut out sharply.
They stared over at Silence and the tiny boy nodded, holding up the tape recorder above his skinny body like a prize, a beaming grin on his dimpled face.
“Man, I didn’t even see that cop until he was right on us,” Craig said, breaking out into another violent cough.
Dylan smiled, white teeth shining as he emitted a creepy little giggle. “All I saw was Silence come running up through the darkness, leaping over tombstones like he was running some kind of horror movie race track, demons biting at his ass. His eyes were so wide I started laughing. I could tell he was trying to scream the way his mouth was open so wide like that. I figure he must have thought he saw a ghost or some shit. He looked like one of them kids in the Little Rascals when they got all scared. Of course, then I saw the cop’s headlights and I knew it was time to get the hell out. Ain’t that right, Silence?”
The smaller boy, breathing heavily through his mouth, nodded. His abnormally wise eyes were still jumping with adrenaline, his black hair was sticking out raggedly. The last thing he needed was to get arrested. His father already despised him, blaming him for his mother dying in a car accident, and he was eternally aggravated over the boy’s inability to speak. “Stop pretending like you can’t talk, you little freak. The doctor said there’s nothing wrong, except that you don’t want to.”
His father would end with a violent tirade of screaming and yelling, placing the sins of the world squarely upon his son’s back-along with the heavy leather strap he used to beat him with. If he got arrested, the old man, driven by Budweiser and bitterness, would most likely beat the hell out of him.
“Silence was a quick bastard,” continued Dylan. “It seemed like he passed us in a blur. Arms waving all around his head like that. Scared the hell out of me, man.”
He had been called Silence ever since he had died. When he was four years old he had drowned, slipping into the water of Lake Angel. But it wasn’t a slip. The fingers that gripped his ankle and pulled him down into the murky depths were icy, colder than water could ever be. The newspapers said he had been dead for seven minutes and the doctors, who really couldn’t figure it out, diagnosed his silence as brain damage from lack of oxygen. His dad and the doctors were both wrong. It was the promise he had made. It was his promise never to tell that had made her let him go. She took his voice and gave him his life.
Dylan snatched the tape recorder from Silence’s outstretched hand. “Let's take this back to my room and see if we got anything.”
They were recording what was called EVP’s, or Electric Voice Phenomenon. A few nights before, they had read about it on the Internet and listened to a bunch of samples, smiling in disbelief at the ghostly and haunting voices. The Internet site had said that if you took a tape recorder to any place that was considered haunted and just walked around recording, you would hear the voices of the dead.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t get caught by the cops,” Dylan said as they walked down the dimly-lit street towards his house.
Craig grinned. “Damn straight. My Dad would have tanned my hide but good. And Silence’s Dad would have probably lynched his ass in the front yard.”
