The Third Parent

by Elias Witherow

  Glass crunched beneath him as he rolled, now lost in blindness and howling in crippling agony. Thunder exploded from the storm outside and a sudden wind blasted through the house.

  I slowly rolled over onto my stomach, every movement bringing with it a jolt of fire. Gritting my teeth, I began to crawl towards the fireplace. I felt the tattered remains of my cheek flap across exposed muscle like bloody, shredded curtains. My empty eye socket was a pit of burning pain. My mutilated hand felt like it had been dipped in acid.

  I reached the brick face of the fireplace, listening to Tommy scream at my back, and grasped for support with my good hand. Blood dripped from my face onto the floor as my fingers brushed against the rough surface.

  Get up…get up…get up…

  Blinking back a blast of dizziness, I panted heavily and managed to get to one knee. I paused, letting the room settle, and then I stood. I sagged against the fireplace for a moment and suffered a horrifying moment where I thought I was going to black out. When I was sure I wasn’t, I looked at Tommy.

  A flash of lightning exposed a ruined face streaked with dripping yellow ooze. He was on his knees, blindly groping, screaming, and enraged with furious pain.

  I looked down and my good eye fell upon what I had been crawling towards.

  I picked up the fire poker leaning against the hearth and advanced on Tommy, legs quivering beneath an onslaught of exhaustion.

  Tommy flapped his arms and turned in my direction, hearing me approach.

  I didn’t give him a second to react.

  I swung the iron poker as hard as I could muster, catching Tommy directly across the face. The poker’s hook cleaved a piece of his jaw away and I heard it splat wetly against the far wall. Tommy dropped to the ground stunned as his face began to bleed more yellow.

  Gasping, using the poker as a crutch, I hobbled to where he had fallen.

  My voice was a rasping shudder as I looked down at him. “You don’t get to have my son, you fucking monster.”

  Tommy, even through the pain, managed to jerk his head in my direction, raising his hands for one final lunge.

  I didn’t give him the chance.

  Howling, I raised the poker and drove it through his chest. Tommy gasped and his body spasmed as the poker passed through him and thudded onto the floor, pinning him where he lay. Yellow fluid exploded from his mouth and began to spread across his chest.

  Wavering, weak, I went and retrieved the hammer. I came back to Tommy and stood over him, my own consciousness threatening to leave me. I shook the encroaching black away and raised the hammer over my head.

  I nailed Tommy to the floor, each clang of the hammer blasting through my skull. Tommy squirmed and writhed beneath me, his hands weakly grasping at my pant legs. I kicked him away and then stepped back, the poker planted firmly into his chest.

  But I wasn’t finished yet.

  I limped into the kitchen, praying to stay awake, begging not to pass out. I reached for the stove and turned on the gas burners. Immediately, a nauseous odor filled the air. Without pause, I scrambled through the cupboards until I found a bottle of liquor I had seen previously when I had gone for a glass of water. Taking it, I returned to my victim. Holding the bottle with my good hand, I unscrewed the cap with my teeth and spit it out. Then, I upended it over Tommy, splashing it across his face and into his empty eye sockets. They filled like muddy pools.

  “Jack…” Tommy called to me, his voice hoarse, “You need me…Mason…needs me…”

  I threw the now empty bottle at his face and was rewarded with a weak exclamation as it shattered across his chin. I stared down at him, the monster from my childhood. The shadow across my life. The source of so much torment and misery.

  And now he lay broken beneath me.

  I turned away, limping for the hallway, feeling myself growing increasingly weak. Mason…I had to get him out of the house…had to get him…to safety…I was so…close now. I stopped and steadied myself against the wall, fighting again against a sudden, rearing darkness.

  Come on, Jack…almost there…

  I made it to the end of the hall and pushed the door open. Mason was huddled on the bed, crying, his face flush. He looked up at me, his eyes wet and terrified.

  “Da!” he sobbed, scrambling for me. I opened my arms and he rushed into them. I picked him up, struggling against an onslaught of pain and dizziness. Mason embraced me, weeping, his little voice strained with fear. He lay his head on my shoulder and I hugged him tightly.

  “We’re leaving little man,” I whispered. “Me and you.”

  Together, we hobbled back down the hall, a laborious trek that cost me the last bit of my strength. I looked into the living room at Tommy impaled to the floor. One hand groped blindly at the air, weak, but alive.

  I reached around Mason and dug out my cigarettes from my pocket. The battered pack was a crumpled mess, but I managed to find one that wasn’t ruined. I brought it to my lips and ignited it.

  Mason clutched me tighter, his face buried in my shoulder, as I inhaled.

  It was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

  “Goodbye, Tommy,” I whispered.

  I flicked the cigarette into the living room and it landed on Tommy’s legs. I stood there for a moment and allowed myself the satisfaction of watching him catch fire. The liquor goaded the flame into spreading and soon Tommy’s entire body was a roaring, blazing inferno.

  Faintly, I could hear him screaming, a whispered, terrible thing filled with unimaginable pain. I pressed Mason tighter against me and turned to leave. I pushed the front door open and we exited into the night.

  The rain battered the both of us, washing the blood from my worn, beaten body. I made it to the field across the street before my legs gave out. Mason rolled into the wet grass beside me but jumped up almost instantly. He stared down at me with concern, his eyes widening as lightning illuminated my torn, ruined face.

  I lay on my back, staring up at the sky, giving into the darkness. I reached into my pocket, feeling weightless. With a shaking hand, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

  As the operator answered, the house exploded.

  Chapter 13

  I became slowly aware that I was still alive. Sound melted gently into my ears and sensation bled back into my body. I could hear people talking above me, far, far above me. It was a muffled, urgent conversation. I tried to open my eyes, but found the darkness massively dense. I focused on breathing instead.

  Inhale…

  …Exhale…

  Inhale…

  …Exhale.

  Yes, that was a little better. Something cool rested against my face, specifically my left eye.

  Oh no…

  Memory began to filter in through the haze, a violent, horrible recollection of what had happened. My eye…I was missing an eye…someone took it from me…but who?

  Tommy.

  I gasped, bolting awake in an instant, fear consuming me in a sudden rush. Light blinded my good eye for a moment and I blinked, growing dizzy. I had to get up, I had to make sure…the boy…my son…what was his name…

  Mason.

  I felt his name rise on my lips and I croaked, struggling once again to ascertain where I was. Where was Mason? Was he safe? Christ, was he SAFE!?

  “Jack, relax,” a concerned female voice urged. “You’re ok. Everything is ok.”

  Mom? Was that Mom?

  I opened my eye again, slower this time, and the world came back, gentler now. I was in a bed. A hospital bed. Nurses swarmed around the room checking machines, leaning over me, asking me questions I couldn’t process.

  I reached out and tried to bat them away, searching for my mother’s voice. As I raised my hand, I froze. I stared at it, a lump of bandages engulfing it from view. Something was wrong with it. It felt like something was wrong with my hand.

  Tommy.

  “Mom?” I croaked, throat dry, lips chapped. “Mom, are you there? Mom, where are you?”

  The
nurses were pushed aside and my mother’s face blurred into view. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying. Her voice was pale, her skin tight against her cheekbones. Her bottom lip trembled. Then, her cool hand was on my face, beneath my still seeing eye.

  “I’m here, Jack,” she whispered. “Thank God you’re ok…”

  “My hand,” I said, “he ruined my hand…”

  Mom took my wrist gently and lowered it back down to my side. “You’re alive, Jack. That’s all that matters to me.” She leaned down and kissed my cheek, her familiar scent bringing with it a flurry of memories like a gust of autumn leaves.

  “Tommy,” I said into her ear, voice rasping, “Tell me he’s dead. Tell me he’s gone. Please, Mom.”

  She turned her eyes to me and nodded. “He’s gone, son.”

  I felt myself sinking into my pillow. “Where’s…Mason…? I need to see…him…make sure he’s ok…”

  My mom smiled down at me, her eyes welling with tears. “He’s ok, Jack. He’s resting, but he’s ok.”

  I blinked back looming darkness, my mind slipping back into unconsciousness. “He’s…my son…I have a son…”

  Before I could gauge my mother’s reaction, I was gone again.

  Five days later I was released from the hospital. I walked out into the parking lot, my mother on one side, Mason on the other. I held his hand in my own. The one that still had all five fingers. Mason was talking nonstop and I smiled as the sun winked down at the three of us, warm and welcoming. I adjusted the eye patch across my face. That was going to take some getting used to.

  We climbed into my mom’s car and she began to drive us back to her house. I flipped the visor down and inspected my face in the mirror. As I did, I saw Mom shoot me a worried look. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t already seen before.

  My cheek was healing as best it could, a shredded mess of scabs and eventual scars. It looked like someone had run over my face with a lawn mower.

  I closed the visor.

  “You ok?” Mom asked, reaching over and squeezing my arm. I looked into the backseat and smiled at Mason. He smiled back and looked out the window.

  I sighed and turned back to Mom. “Are you?”

  She said nothing for a moment, focusing on the road, and then softly, “So much has happened, Jack…so much death…your father…” She fought with herself valiantly. “I’m going to really miss him.”

  I nodded, voice soothing. “So am I, Mom. So am I.”

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and put on a brave face. “But this little man in the backseat…what a blessing he is to our family. Despite everything that has happened, despite all we’ve had to endure…our family is still here,” her eyes turned dark, “and that monster isn’t. We’re the ones who get to keep living.”

  Tommy Taffy.

  I turned and looked out the window, the events of the past couple days washing through me. When I had called 911, they tracked the call and sent a couple squad cars to investigate. What they found was a smoldering house, a bloodied, unconscious male, and a crying toddler at his side.

  What they didn’t find…what they never found…were any traces of Tommy. His body, along with what remained of Rez…had vanished.

  When they questioned me after I had recovered, I told them the truth. I told them what happened. I told them that a man had invaded Liz’s house, murdered my friend Jason, and killed the mother of my son. I chose to omit the details on Liz’s death. No one needed to know she had killed herself. What good would that have done?

  I described my eventual confrontation with the intruder, how I had been injured in the struggle, and how I had finally killed the bastard. But they couldn’t confirm that part because Tommy had simply vanished.

  When they told me this, I kept my mouth shut.

  After all…what evidence is there of a dream beside your own haunting memory of it?

  Later, I found out that there was still an ongoing search for the bodies of Liz and Jason. I didn’t know what Tommy had done with them, but I suspected they would never be discovered.

  I turned away from the window and my thoughts. I looked back at Mason and then my mother. Our eyes met and I gave her a weak smile.

  “We’re going to be ok,” I said gently.

  Fighting tears, she pursed her lips and nodded.

  “No crying,” Mason said quietly from the back seat.

  Mom and I laughed, the tension broken.

  * * *

  And so here I am, at the end of my story. When I started this, I hoped it would purge some of the horrors I endured. I hoped it would somehow give me closure on the entire ordeal. I’m not sure if it has. I guess time will tell.

  Me? I’m doing just fine.

  Mason lives with my mom most of the time. I get over there as often as I possibly can, when I’m not working. They’re my life now. I won’t abandon them. I won’t hide from my responsibility. I am a father now and it’s my job to make sure my son is taken care of.

  He’s helped Mom’s mood miraculously. After we laid my father to rest, she clung to that little boy and I felt an impenetrable bond form. I’m glad for it. I’m glad to see her smiling again. I’m glad to see life back in her eyes.

  And Mason…my little Mason.

  He has become an unexpected ray of sunshine in my life. I can’t say the storm clouds have vanished, but that little boy sure did push a few of them away. He makes me happy. He makes me want to be a better person. After I finish this, I’m going over to Mom’s house for dinner. I bought Mason a baseball glove. I think he’s going to like it.

  As for Tommy Taffy? Well…as far as I’m concerned, that monster is gone.

  But the memory of his reign hasn’t left me. I don’t think it ever will. Maybe it’s not supposed to. Sometimes, when I’m all alone in the darkness of my apartment, I think I hear him laughing from inside the walls.

  Christ, I need to wrap this up. There’s probably a million more things I could say, but it won’t do any good. It’s over and I want to bury it in the past where it belongs.

  I’m tired of being afraid.

  I’m tired of thinking about him.

  The nightmare I’ll never forget…

  Tommy Taffy.

  About the Author

  Elias lives in New England and can usually be found writing in front of his computer, wondering if this time he’s gone too far.

  When he’s not writing, it’s usually because he’s snuck away to salvage whatever excuse for a social life he currently has on life support.

  He believes the horror genre has grown stale and is doing his best to breathe new life into it, one story at a time.

  Find him on Twitter @eliaswitherow and on Facebook at facebook.com/Elias-Witherow-831476890331162/.

  You might also like:

  The Black Farm

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  Severe(d)

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  The Worst Kind of Monsters

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