The Third Parent
Elias Witherow
Thought Catalog Books
Brooklyn, NY
Copyright © 2017 by Elias Witherow. All rights reserved.
Cover photography by © Ammy Design.
Published by Thought Catalog Books, a publishing house owned by The Thought & Expression Co., Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
First edition, 2017
ISBN: 978-1945796708
Printed and bound in the United States.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This one is for my brother, Pete.
You’re one hell of a dude. Love you, man.
Thanks for sitting in the rain with me.
And one last thing:
This book is not for the faint of heart
Contents
Dedication
Disclaimer
Transcript of a 911 Call
The First Five Years
Chapter 0
Chapter 1 —1995
Chapter 2 —1996
Chapter 3 —1997
Chapter 4 —1998
Chapter 5 —1999
Six-Six-Three-Five-Eight-Rez
Chapter 6 —2017
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
You Might Also Like...
Transcript of a 911 Call
Date: October 3rd, 1992
Address: ———
Caller Identification: —– ——–
Time of Call: 9:37 pm
Original Transcript
911 Operator: Nine-one-one what’s your emergency?
Woman: There’s a man in our house.
911 Operator: Are you in immediate danger?
Woman: Yes, I don’t have much time.
911 Operator: Do you know the identity of the man?
Woman: He’s downstairs with my husband…(static)…with my children.
911 Operator: Ma’am, is it possible to leave the house?
Woman: No…no he won’t let us leave…
911 Operator: Has he hurt anyone?
Woman: Oh yes…yes, my husband…(static)…there was so much blood…
911 Operator: Ma’am, I need you to give me your address. I’m going to patch it through to the police and get you some assistance.
Woman: He’s going to kill me for this.
911 Operator: Is the intruder armed?
Woman:(soft laughter)….no…he doesn’t need to be.
911 Operator: Your address ma’am, please, I need you to give me your address.
Woman:(whispered) This was such a mistake. I shouldn’t have called…(panicked) Oh no, I shouldn’t have called you.
(Distant scream)
911 Operator: What was that? Has someone been hurt? Ma’am?
Woman:(whispered) He’s going to hurt all of us…he’s going to hurt us until we learn…until we do what he says…(crying) there’s nothing we can do to stop this…
911 Operator: Ma’am I need you to hide until the police arrive. But first, you MUST give me your address.
Woman: (frantic) Oh no…oh no, he’s coming…he knows I’m on the phone!
911 Operator: Is there somewhere you can hide?
(long pause)
911 Operator: Ma’am? Hello!?
Woman:(faint) I’m s-sorry…I’m didn’t mean to…please…
911 Operator: Hello?! Is the intruder in the room with you?!
Woman:(crying) Please don’t do this…please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Tommy…(static)….no! NO! LET ME GO! NOT THAT! PLEASE, OH GOD, PLEASE, NOT THAT —
(Unknown noise)
(Silence)
911 Operator: Ma’am!? HELLO!?
(static)
911 Operator: Is someone there?!
Unknown Male: Hehehehehe…
The First Five Years
Chapter 0
The man with the plastic grin still haunts me. I can picture him perfectly in my mind’s eye. I can smell him. I can even hear him. I can hear that toxic laugh of his. I feel if I were to ever gaze into his eyes again, I would go blind. He is the most poisonous being to ever walk the earth. He is the hell on my shoulders and the thunder that follows.
I should back up.
Words…that’s what I’m here to offer. Words. Explanations. Answers. But don’t expect to find reason here. No…reason left me many years ago. And so I give you words. Words to formulate and shape your own conclusions. But there’s something we should agree on and I’ll just get that out of the way right now: words can’t give justice to the hell that monster put me through. And yet here I am, writing down words with hands not quite steady. I don’t even know where to begin.
Looking back on my life, I feel myself growing claustrophobic. It’s like walking down a long hallway with rooms filled with memories. Each time I reach a doorway and peer inside, I’m greeted with fear and horror that leap out at me with jagged teeth.
And this hallway is endless and I am left alone to trod down it.
I poured myself a generous drink before writing this and I’m quickly discovering I’m going to need another. But I have to get this out. It has hovered over my soul like a crow, its sharp beak striking down and tearing away pieces of myself. Will this help? I don’t know. I pray it will.
My name is Jack Williams. I have a sister, Katie. She’s three years older than me. Growing up, she was my protector. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to share sadness and joy with. We were close—very close—and I love her fiercely. My father, Michael, was married to my mother, Penny. They were wonderful parents. The best a kid could ask for. Strong, loving, and supportive. They encouraged my sister and me to follow our dreams and did their best to make sure we had the structure to achieve them. I owe them my life in more ways than one.
My dad, who everyone called Mike, worked at the bank. He was a businessman in every sense of the word. He liked schedules, planning, preparation, and professionalism. He took his coffee black and his eggs over easy. He wore the same cologne for twenty-five years and bought a new tie every six months. When we went on family vacations, he made the arrangements well ahead of time, paid all the expenses, and made a little countdown calendar a week before the trip. He told us this was part of the fun—the anticipation we felt before the vacation. He loved his family. He loved us. It was hard to remember a time when he didn’t have a smile on his lips. He wasn’t a strict father, but he lived by a moral code: the American Dream. He always told us to work hard, respect others, and tuck your shirt in. If you remembered to do that, everything else was apple pie and Sunday Night Baseball.
My mother, Penny, was his constant support. She was a quiet woman but filled with warmth. Submissive, but outspoken when she needed to be. She loved my father but was always the first to correct him when he got bent out of shape (which wasn’t much, but hey, it happens). I think my father really respected that. I think it’s what really glued them together. When he left for work, my mother would send us off to school and then teach a yoga class in the basement of our house. After two years of redesigning and remodeling, she had converted it into a studio in which she could work. It pumped in the extra income to elevate our family into the middle class. Lazy is not ever a word I’d use to describe my mom. When we came home from school, she would usually be finishing up her final class for the day. She’d make us a snack, ask how school was, and then start preparing dinner. That was something she firmly believed in. Having a home cooked meal together with her family.
Looking back, we really were the poster family for the American Way. We lived in a small residential neighborhood lined with neat little houses all bord
ering the road like soldiers standing at attention. Our house was at the end of the cul-de-sac, the last of the troops staring down the barrel of the long street. It was a gentle community, friendly and rhythmic. Husbands went to work, kids went to school, and mothers made it all happen without flaw. There were cookouts in the summer and Christmas caroling in the winter. Everyone mowed their lawn on Saturday, drank beer during the evenings, and went to church on Sunday. And that routine was practically sacred in our neighborhood.
Our house, the lone soldier at the end of the street, had a pool in the backyard and a tall, white fence around the border of our lawn. The Murphys were the only other family on the street that had a pool (and they weren’t quite as well off as us) so we usually had an annual pool party on the Fourth of July. Because that’s just the kind of community we were.
You’re probably reading this and going, “Yeah, ok, so what? Who cares?”
I’m laying this all out for you because it’s important to know exactly the kind of life we lived. Not just my family but the neighboring families, as well. We were a cozy, comfortable, happy bunch of people living life one sunrise at a time. Tragedy was just something that happened on TV. We weren’t equipped to deal with confrontation and horror.
And that’s why we all suffered like we did.
For five years, we suffered.
And it all started when someone arrived on our quiet street, bringing hell with him.
His name was Tommy Taffy.
Chapter 1 —1995
I sat at the empty dinner table, watching my mom bustle around the kitchen. I idly kicked my legs, trying to ignore the rumble in my stomach. Katie was helping Mom cut vegetables and my dad was preparing a plate a meat for the grill. I watched him mold the last hamburger patty and toss it onto the stacked plate to join the others. I knew that when he went out back to fire up the grill, he expected me to follow with a beer in hand. Dad always drank beer while he grilled and I always watched, slightly in awe. Even though I was only six, sometimes he’d let me take a sip if my mom wasn’t looking. I didn’t like the taste, but I always drank a little if he offered. Dad said that was how I’d grow hair on my chest.
“Ok, I think these bad boys are ready to go,” Dad announced, picking up the plate of burgers.
I knew this was my cue and so I slid off my chair and went to the fridge. I pulled the door open and was momentarily engulfed in a rolling fog. I dug out a cold bottle and cradled it in both hands like it was a precious treasure.
“Don’t forget the cheese,” Mom said, putting her knife down.
Katie, who had recently turned nine, looked over her shoulder at Dad and me. “Can we toast the buns? It’s so yummy like that.”
“I’ll toast your buns if those veggies aren’t ready by the time these burgers are,” Dad laughed, scooping a spatula out of the drawer.
Katie giggled and shook her head. “Don’t be a weirdo, Dad. Here, take the buns out and put them on the grill, please.” She picked up the bag of buns and dumped them on top of the plate of burgers.
Dad rolled his eyes. “Oh great, now they’re contaminated.”
“They’re in plastic, though,” I piped up, fingers growing cold around the bottle of beer.
Mom nodded approvingly at me. “He knows, Jack, he’s just being difficult tonight.”
“As opposed to any other night?” Dad chuckled.
My mom pointed her knife at him. “Good point. Now get your buns out there and grill those patties before your son freezes his fingers off.”
“Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear,” Dad said, tipping me a wink. A smile cracked the corner of my mother’s lips as she turned back to the vegetables.
And that’s when a knock came at the front door.
We all froze, exchanging looks. I didn’t expect anyone, did you? No? Then who could it be?
“I’ll get it,” Dad said, placing the plate of burgers down on the kitchen table. My stomach groaned at this annoying delay, and I set my dad’s beer next to the pile of meat.
“It’s probably Charlie asking to borrow the mower again,” Dad said, going to the door.
But when he opened it, it wasn’t Charlie. I couldn’t see who the guest was because my dad blocked him from view, but I could hear him. His voice was friendly and enthusiastic and it rippled inside for all of us to hear.
“Hi! I’m Tommy Taffy!”
My dad didn’t move, his frame still blocking my sight, “Can…can I help you with something?”
“I’d like to come in if that’s ok?” the stranger said, his voice bubbly. And without warning, the man stepped inside, pushing my father aside. He slammed the door behind him, leaving a confused look on my dad’s face at this act of unwelcome rudeness.
“Hi, gang!” the man said, raising a hand to us.
Something like unease washed through me then at the sight of the unexpected guest. It was a twist in my stomach and a tightening in my throat as my eyes goggled at his features.
He was about six foot and had blond hair. He was wearing pants and a white T-shirt that read HI! in a red cartoon font. But it was his face that caused the unease. Something was wrong with his face. His mouth was twisted into a smile, but instead of teeth, there was just a strip of unbroken white like he was wearing a mouth guard. His nose was wrong, too. It was just a small nub rising out of the middle of his face, devoid of nostrils. And his eyes…his eyes practically glowed electric blue, twin moons of sparkling, brilliant color.
As I breathlessly took in this strange, eerie man, I noticed something else about him. His skin was perfect and completely flawless. There wasn’t a single pore or blemish on him anywhere. The smooth pink was almost creamy like soft plastic. He had no fingernails, no hair on his arms or legs, and I couldn’t help but draw comparisons to my sister’s Ken doll.
Dad composed himself and placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, pal, you can’t just come barging into our home. If you need something, I’d be more than happy to help, but let’s step back outside, ok?”
The bizarre man, Tommy, looked at my father’s hand resting on his shoulder and then up into my father’s eyes. Something pulsed in those pearls of blue and Tommy’s smile tightened.
“No need for alarm,” he said calmly, “I just thought I’d come stay with you for a while.”
“Mike?” My mom asked, abandoning her station at the counter, concern written across her face. “Who is this?”
The man turned to her. “I’m Tommy Taffy! And I’ve come to live here!”
My dad firmed his grip on the man’s shoulder, all signs of goodwill disappearing. “Look, buddy, this isn’t funny. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Right now.”
Tommy shook his head, still smiling. “Leave? But I only just got here.”
My sister slid to my mom’s side. “Why does he look so weird?” she whispered. “What’s wrong with him?”
Tommy’s eyes locked with hers and he spread his arms. “Oh, sweetie, it isn’t nice to call people weird.”
“Come on,” Dad said, pulling Tommy to the door. “It’s time to go. Don’t make me call the police.”
“The police?” Tommy said, allowing himself to be led back to the door. “Why would you call the police? I haven’t done anything, have I?”
“You’re trespassing,” Dad said, “and interrupting dinner with my family.”
Tommy, still smiling, answered coolly, “You don’t want to invite me to stay?”
“No,” Dad said reaching for the door. “I want you to leave.”
Suddenly, like lightning, Tommy grabbed my father by the throat and slammed him against the front door. The impact was like thunder in my ears and I jumped, the pit of my stomach giving out. Mom gasped and Katie let out a squeal of fear, clutching Mom’s arm.
Dad sputtered in shock as Tommy’s grip tightened around his throat. “Hey, what’s the big idea!? What are you doing!?”
Tommy leaned in close, his voice like burning silk. “I think you should invite m
e to stay for dinner. Wouldn’t that be the polite thing to do?”
“I’m calling the police!” My mother shrieked, eyes wide.
Tommy, still gripping my father around the throat, shot a look over his shoulder at her. “If you move, I’ll break his neck.”
Mom’s face went white and she remained in place, protectively wrapping her arms around Katie. I just stood in isolation, fear ripping through me. I had never seen anyone hurt my dad like this and it shattered the shield I had always thought was there.
“Now,” Tommy said, turning back to my dad, “are we going to have a problem?”
I saw something change in my father’s eyes and a look entered them that I had never seen before. It was a mixture of fear and anger, a rising tide of emotion that spread across his face. Tommy seemed to sense the change and only had a split second to react before my dad punched the intruder in the face.
The blow glanced off the side of Tommy’s head as he jerked away, my dad’s knuckles crunching into Tommy’s ear. Without pause, Dad brought his other fist up, aiming another blow beneath the grip around his throat.
This time, Tommy dodged it and released my dad, taking a few steps back into safety.
“Mike!” my mom screamed, the violence erupting panic in her. Katie had started to cry and I just stood there like a ghost, paralyzed.
The Third Parent Page 1
