by April Hill
Mole believed that when His Beloved had been punished sufficiently, She would come to love him and to appreciate the things he had done for Her. They would live together in the Home Place, where She would learn that being pretty or doing disgusting things with men was not love, but filth and depravity and sin. She would grow to love Mole the way She said she loved the New Man, but their love would be pure, and not depraved. And if She did not learn these things, and did not come to love him as he loved Her? If She chose, instead, to be like Her mother, the filthy Whore of Babylon? Then Mole would do the Bad Thing to Her, as well, and She would join the Kept Ones, and be at peace in the Home Place. There, in the dark, through the silence of time, he would watch over her, and be content.
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
Hank made me wait in the car with two cops while he and the others did a thorough search of the house and garage. They discovered that the side garage door had been forced open, and that the guy had dragged the several boxes from the garage down the hall to the bedroom to spread the dolls around my bedroom. Why he’d done it was another question, of course.
"You know why, Karen," Hank said softly, holding me tightly in the back seat of the car. "You know as well as I do, by now. All of this has been about you. Think about it. Both of the dead men—Larry, and later, Dooley—had talked to you recently, been involved with you in some way. Even poor old Esteban had been hanging around you. Maybe the guy is jealous, and trying to scare you. Eventually— if we don’t stop him— he’s going to hurt you, or kill you. I’ve got three guys watching the house tonight, and tomorrow morning, I’m taking a team in there to tear that neighborhood, and that fucking house apart."
I sighed "Mom will have a fit."
He grinned. "Tough," he grinned. "She can sue me. She’s suing everybody else, why not her future son-in-law. Meanwhile, you’re going back to Holmby Hills, and staying there, with two cars outside, and Demetrius sleeping on that damned little couch every night until this is over."
"Well," I observed, stretching tiredly. "Demetrius is very attractive, in that professional wrestler sort of way. If you don’t mind, I suppose he could just sleep with me."
"Works for me," Hank said, with a wink. "Maybe I’ll finally get a little sleep."
"We never really finished looking around inside the house," I complained, beginning to feel a little braver surrounded by so many armed cops. "I know we missed something."
Hank scowled. "We’ve been missing everything, from the beginning, me in particular, but that’s over Get your damned Mother on the phone. I want to talk to her about a few of the jerks she married. And about where they are, now."
* * *
* * *
Hank and I made love twice that night, trying to be very, very quiet, so that Demetrius wouldn’t hear us from the living room. He was sleeping on the living room couch, snoring like a chain saw, and continued snoring throughout, but I was still self-conscious. The house is tiny, and let’s face it—I tend to be a little bit loud at these times.
"It’s like having my mother sleeping in the next room," I whispered.
Hank kissed my breast one more time, then yawned widely and turned over onto his back. The day had been long, and tiring. "Go to sleep," he said, yawning again. "Demetrius probably didn’t hear a thing. How could he, with the racket he’s making. God! Imagine sleeping every night with that. He has a wife, you know. Nice lady, too, but I’ll bet she’s deaf as a rock."
I giggled softly and tried to muffle the giggle, then kissed Hank’s chest. "I love you, you know."
He slipped an arm behind me, and pulled me closer. "I know, and all this won’t last much longer, Karen. I’m pretty sure we can start living normally soon..." Then, he chuckled. "Well, as normal as it’s probably ever going to be, living with you."
"What kind of crack is that?" I prodded him in the ribs. "Have I, or have I not proven to be a brilliant detective, and a great help in this investigation, when I wasn’t coming unglued, anyway?"
"You’ve been a great help," he lied. "And if you try it again, after today, I’m planning on spanking your brilliant detective’s ass raw with the biggest, most painful thing I can lay my hands on. Try picturing yourself across my manly knee with your panties down around your ankles, bare-assed, and screeching bloody murder—right out in front of City Hall, with the press snapping away. Got the picture?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go to sleep, now." He kissed me, and I closed my eyes. What a day!
* * *
In the fetid gloom of the Home Place, Mole curled fetus-like on his side, weeping. His dream was over, the End Time had finally come, and he wasn’t ready. It would be hard to do what must be done, after such a short time with Her. It could have been so lovely, he thought. He pressed the beautiful doll named Isabelle close, and kissed her red mouth. If only Beloved had understood how much he loved and needed Her, and how long he had waited for Her. But Mole knew that he was to blame as well. The Dream had ended because he made too many mistakes, and frightened Her, and brought the Man and his terrible police friends into their lives. Now, there was nothing else he could do. He would have Her with him, at last, but first, She and the Man would be punished. He drew his great, black velvety coat from its hook, and slipped it into a paper grocery bag. Mole disliked going out of the Home Place, but tonight, there were Things that must be done.
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
It was still, and very quiet in our cottage when I woke. Even Demetrius’ thunderous snoring had finally stopped. Hank was sleeping on his side, with his back to me, breathing softly, and I suddenly felt very peaceful. The nightmare was finally coming to an end, and as Hank had promised, and that we could begin living normally—like real people. I lay there for a while, thinking about everything that had happened. The curtains were closed, and the room very dark, and after a few minutes, as I usually do when I think too much, I got hungry. I needed Oreos, and a glass of milk.
I slid out of bed as quietly as possible, and tiptoed though the darkened living room to the tiny kitchen. Demetrius’ hulking form lay on one side on the small couch, unmoving, and blessedly silent. He had kicked off the thin blanket, and one heavy arm hung over the side of the couch, his large fist dangling on the floor. I found my cookies, poured a glass of milk, and tried to ease the door of the fridge closed without making noise. As the door began to close, in that split second flash of light from the inside of the fridge, I saw something in the room move. Something dark, and swift, and terrible.
There was no time to think, or to scream—not that I could have. I was frozen with terror. Because in that one moment, I had seen clearly the stream of blood dripping down Demetrius’ arm, and the dark stain spreading outward on the carpet. And then the thing—the great, black thing— was on top of me.
* * *
I woke up somewhere else—somewhere that smelled dank and sour—a cloying smell like rotting vegetation, or like my grandmother’s molding cellar when the sewer backed up and I was little and scared of walking into spider webs in the dark. I had a gag of some sort in my mouth, and for a few awful moments, I was unable to catch my breath. I fought back a wave of panic and claustrophobia, certain that I was about to choke to death in the stale air, which felt thick with chalk dust and that odious smell. The grit made my face feel stiff and my eyes smart, and clogged my nose until I sneezed and felt a miraculous breath of air get through.
I was laying on a damp concrete floor, my hands and feet bound with what felt like duct tape, and when I tried to move, sharp bits of gravel or sand bit into my bare hip and legs. Trust me to leave home without wearing my comfy jammies, or anything else, for that matter. I was stark naked, and chilled to the bone. The cement floor was hard under my throbbing head, and there was something damp and sticky under my left hip, and I very much didn't want to know what it was.
From somewhere behind my back, an impossibly thin shaft of light, diffused with millions of eerie, floating particles of dust ma
de it just possible to see that I was in a tunnel of some kind. It was no more than two feet wide, but long—extending beyond my range of vision maybe another ten or twelve feet.
For maybe a half an hour, I lay there, the concrete floor getting harder and colder by the minute, while I tried to clear my head and assess my situation. I was getting the really strong feeling by now that "my situation" wasn’t good—in a word, shitty. Having always prided myself on not panicking, I was now stiff with panic—frozen, immobilized, and had I been wearing pants, I would definitely have wet them. On top of which, I was cold—freezing. For the first time since I’d come to sunny southern California, I was cool enough. In an effort to get warm, I struggled to pull my legs up, drew them close to my chest, and turned to face the wall behind me. When I turned over, though, the tiny beam of light that was the only light in the tunnel struck me directly in the face, momentarily blinding me. I was looking at the back of a small aluminum box, stuck in the tunnel wall about a foot from the floor. A thick electrical cord protruded from the box, and snaked between a couple of two by fours close to my head. The light was coming from a small crack at the side of the metal box.
And in that instant, I knew where I was.
I began to yell, or try to, and managed to make a lot of mumbling, hooting sounds— like a strangled owl. Then, I started to choke. I waited for a few moments, collecting air, and then began again, bumping my head against the plaster wall as hard I could, in time with the thumping. Each time I thumped, I could feel the pain radiating all the way down my shoulders. Then I stopped for a second or two, and strained to listen, pushing my ear as close to the wall as I could manage. All I could hear was the muffled hum of the air conditioning, and what sounded like the TV, from my own living room.
I continued yelling and whacking my head stupidly against the wall for another hour or so, taking short breaks every few minutes to catch my breath and to wipe the dripping blood off my face, onto my shoulder. And later, when I was thoroughly exhausted and unable to come up with a more creative plan, I started to cry, and cried myself to sleep.
* * *
Someone was talking. To me, maybe, but I couldn’t make out what the voice was saying, because all I could hear was my ears ringing, and all I could feel was pain—a grinding, searing pain deep inside my head that I vaguely knew was real, but felt more like a dream. Wherever I was, it was darker now, and the little shaft of light was barely there at all, yet it felt white hot on my eyeballs when I tried to open them and to focus. I heard someone moaning, and then knew that it was me doing the moaning. The other voice in the tunnel was getting louder, and more insistent.
"Listen to me!" The voice barked. "You’re not listening!"
I tried to listen to the voice, because the voice was familiar, and it seemed very, very important that I get a hold on what was happening. The familiar voice was reading to me. And what the voice was reading was also familiar.
I remembered from long ago the part about the frozen swallow, and the part about the good field mouse and the ugly wet toad and her nasty, wet, croaking toad son. And, of course, I remembered the tunnel—the dark, dank tunnel, where Mr. Mole lived.
Anson was reading me Hans Christian Andersen’s "Thumbelina," again. The same Anson that I had believed dead—eaten by sharks. Anson was reading to me, and he was weeping.
"And the delicate, graceful little maiden named Thumbelina slept in a beautiful walnut shell cradle, with a rose leaf as a counterpane...and played each day on a lily leaf...and sucked the honey from the flowers for food, and drank the fresh dew from the leaves each morning..."
The voice droned on, voice growing wistful as he read about the sad, childless woman who found a tiny maiden-child inside a flower. He droned on through the brilliant days of summer, and winter’s cold, and drifting snow flakes, and noble dying birds and tiny crystal Princes, while I lay there, mesmerized by his familiar deep, throaty voice, and numb with sheer, unalleviated terror.
How, and when I fell asleep, I’ll probably never know, but I did. Or maybe I simply passed out, but when I woke up again, Anson was crouched next to me, brushing my hair, and smelling like every unwashed garbage can I’ve ever passed. He was wearing an old, balding fur coat, and when he spoke, his breath stank. He was crying.
"I knew that you’d come back to me, Karen, my beloved. I’ve waited here so long for you, but I knew you’d come someday. I’ve done things for you, too. So many things, but some of the things have been bad, Karen. Do you forgive me for doing bad things?"
I nodded dumbly. Gee, Anson, why not, I screamed inside my head.
"Have you seen all your lovely dolls?" he murmured, stroking my arm now, and letting his thick, wet lips brush my cheek. "I put them all in the bedroom for you. Did you see them?"
I nodded again, trying not to gag.
"All those years, Karen, I kept sending them to you, but you never got them, the post office said. I’m sorry you didn’t get them."
Me too, Anson. My goddamned heart is broken! Oh, God, Hank, where are you?
"I hurt those Men, you know," Anson was giggling now, and I decided I liked him better when he was crying. "I hurt all of those Men— the ones that touched you. And the ones who wanted to touch you, too. Even that awful chimney sweep person. I found his card, and I went to where he lived, and I hurt him fro a long time. Then I cut his throat, so he wouldn’t hurt any more. He said lustful things to you, on the telephone, didn’t he? And he would have found my door in the fireplace, and I couldn’t allow that, Karen, now could I?"
Sure thing, Anson. Jesus! What the fuck are you wearing?
He seemed to notice my looking at him. "Isn’t my coat beautiful? Just like in the story. Mr. Mole’s beautiful black velvet fur coat, do you remember, Karen?"
I remembered, and groaned. Yeah, Anson, how could I forget? Thumbelina was all set to marry Mr. Mole. A bride Mole, who would live with him in the stinking Mole Hole. Great story to tell a kid.
Oh, God, Hank. Please, please come! If you come now, I swear to you I’ll do everything you say, as long as I live. Come get me, and I promise you can spank the holy shit out of me every night for the next month for getting us into this godawful mess! I won’t complain! I promise!
By now, as you might have already surmised, I was hysterical. Okay, I was beyond hysterical, and approaching a state of screeching delirium. The walls of the tunnel are literally dripping moisture, and everywhere I looked, there was another fucking, rotting doll, or another picture of me! Me, naked, in the bathroom of this very house, stepping out of the shower. My baby pictures, pictures of my middle-school graduation, me at the beach in high school, with some kid. I can’t even remember his damned name, with pimples. Pictures of me and Larry! Taken in the living room. Me and Hank, in bed, with me….Oh, Jesus!
And there was something worse. Much worse. In here, with us. Boxes. Lots of them. Long, lidded plastic boxes, like recycling bins, sealed with layer after layer of plastic film, the kind dry-cleaners use, and wrapped with layer after layer of gray duct tape. And smaller boxes, like shoe boxes, sealed up in the same way, and stacked the length of the tunnel. Some of them oozing. And shelves of rusting, swollen food cans, and food in splitting, moldy cardboard boxes. And souvenirs. My underwear. A bra I thought the dryer had eaten. Some of every one of my published books, sitting water-soaked and bloated on an improvised shelf. Piles of hair, probably stolen from a bathroom waste-basket when I cut my hair, woven together and hanging like scalps from the wall, with pink and green bows. More dolls, most of them in pieces. Torn limb from limb, and somehow, I didn’t think the damage happened during shipping.
But it was the boxes that worried me most. I was really worried about these fucking boxes. What was in them. And what was coming out of them.
Anson is dead, I told myself. We found him. Somebody found him, anyway—what the sharks didn’t get.
And then, the living Anson began to clear up a few things. Very considerate guy, Anson. Crazy as a bedbug, but he se
emed to be telepathic, too. What was worse, he smiled while he told me the story.
"The first one was your Father, of course. I burned him up, I’m afraid— in Hawaii. He wasn’t good enough for you, or even your Mother, even though she was a slut—like the Whore of Babylon. He wrote to me, you know, because he wanted to come back here, to you, and to that whore. But I went to see him, and when he wouldn’t listen to me, I tied him up in a chair and set his silly studio on fire and burned him all up, with all his paintings. They weren’t very good, I’m afraid.”
Oh, God! Mom, I thought. All those years of pain, and wondering, and grief! I began to cry.
