The Blood of Seven

by Claire L. Fishback

Louise smiled a crooked, half-wicked smile. “So, you finally admit it.”

  Teresa clamped her lips shut and nodded her head. Tears flooded her eyes, distorting the view of the basement horrors.

  “I couldn’t handle the crying.” Teresa gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. “She wouldn’t stop. I left her alone. I don’t know when she stopped crying. I swallowed a couple over-the-counter sleep aids. Washed them down with whiskey.” She met Louise’s eyes. “I just needed some sleep. Some alone time.” She looked away again. “When I awoke, I found Derrick doubled over the baby . . . my Tiffany. He was—he was sobbing and rocking over her stiff body.” The last words rode on a horrendous bawl. Big Bear had fallen on top of Tiffany.

  Louise stroked her shoulder. “Good girl,” she said. “Doesn’t it feel nice to finally admit the truth—that your child died because you neglected her?”

  Teresa couldn’t deny it. Whatever she’d bottled up with that truth finally came out along with it. All this time she’d been lying, even to herself.

  “How the hell did you get out of that?” Bram asked in a weak voice.

  “The best lawyers,” Teresa said. “They played up the post-partum depression angle. I wasn’t charged with anything.” Just years in Mountain View and the loss of herself and her medical license.

  Sheriff McMichael never believed her innocence.

  Too bad for him.

  Louise stood and tossed the pruning shears onto a work bench.

  “There’s a first aid kit in that cubby.” Louise pointed to the corner. “Bandage him up.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  “A first aid kit?” Teresa moved the light around to examine Bram’s hand. She shook her head. “He needs stitches, antibiotics.” She moved to the workbench, picked up the shears. “A tetanus shot!”

  “You’ll find everything you need in the kit.” Louise disappeared up the stairs.

  The standard unit contained bandages, gauze, antibiotic ointment, and the like. A sterile package contained a curved needle with some cat gut sutures.

  Teresa moved around behind Bram and looked at the mess Louise had left.

  “I–I can’t save the fingers.”

  “Do what you can.” Bram’s voice was low and gentle. His labored breathing moved his entire body. “Is there any morphine in there?” He grimaced. Or maybe it was a grin. She dug around and found a bottle of pills.

  “All I have is Tylenol,” she said. Bram nodded. She shook four into her palm and helped him swallow them down with some water.

  “Cauterize the stumps,” he said. “Smear some of that antibiotic ointment on the burns. Wrap everything up.” He winced. “Fuck. My hand. It’s on fire.” He held his breath, then let it out. “At least it was the left one.”

  At that, he laughed, a low chuckle that crescendoed into a full-out belly laugh. Shortly after, the laughter turned to quiet sobbing.

  Teresa moved behind him. He only had his index finger and thumb left. Where had the third finger gone? She doused his hand with hydrogen peroxide. Bram wailed as if she’d cut off another finger. The solution hissed and bubbled.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  While the peroxide did its job, she searched for something she could use to cauterize the wounds. She found an old iron, doused it with alcohol, and plugged it in.

  When it heated up, she brought it over to him.

  “Brace yourself.” She stuck the hot surface onto the bloody stumps. The skin hissed and let off an offensive smell that soon turned to rank burned meat. She hardly noticed his cries.

  After bandaging his hand, she packed up the first aid kit in silence, turned off the television and the lamp.

  “Thank you,” Bram whispered.

  Teresa cleared her throat. “I’m just doing my duty as a doctor. I may not be actively practicing, but I still took the Hippocratic oath.”

  Bram laughed. “You swore to do no harm, did you?” He spit on the floor. “You shouldn’t be helping her. She’s evil. She will turn on you.”

  Teresa went upstairs and bolted the door behind her. She stank of stress sweat. Fear. Louise was at the table.

  “I think . . . I need to go home,” Teresa said. She fiddled with the hem of her shirt.

  “That’s fine, dear doctor,” Louise said. “Maggie has the book I’m after.” She met Teresa’s eyes and cocked her head to the side as if inviting Teresa to read her mind.

  “You want me to steal it.”

  Louise righted her head and smiled. She took a sip of tea. “Naturally.”

  “Derrick—he’ll have questions. When I get home.” She swallowed hard. “What do I tell him?”

  “The truth, of course.”

  Teresa let out an exasperated scoff. “I can’t tell him the truth. He’ll never believe me. It’ll just start another fight.” She held her forearms. “He hurt me—did I tell you that? Today, at the clinic. He marked me.” She pulled up a sleeve to show Louise.

  “I don’t blame him,” Louise said.

  Teresa couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping open. Louise moved from around the table, pulled Teresa’s jacket from the coat rack, and guided her to the front door.

  “Go home. Make amends. Even if you don’t mean it. We need to keep things as normal as possible in order to succeed.”

  She opened the door and gave Teresa a gentle push onto the front porch. The door snapped shut.

  Teresa looked at her watch. It was late. Perhaps Derrick had already gone to bed. Perhaps she could sneak in, shower, and climb into bed next to him without disturbing him. She zipped her jacket shut against the cold and wandered home.

  * * *

  Inside the house, she closed the door quietly behind her. All movement seemed amplified in the silent, sleeping house. She crept upstairs and peeked into Maggie’s room. Maggie slept with reckless abandon. Her limbs hung over the edge of her mattress. Her blanket tangled around her legs. Teresa took a cursory look around the moonlit space but didn’t see the book in its usual spot on the nightstand.

  She tiptoed to the master bedroom and into the en suite bathroom. Once there, she let out her held breath and switched on the light. Her dirty face, smudged from sweat, looked back at her. Bram’s blood speckled her sleeves. She peeled her clothes off and got into the shower, wincing when the water shrieked through the pipes.

  After her shower, she pulled on a nightgown and slid into bed next to Derrick. He jerked awake.

  “Teresa?” He groped under the covers for her. “Oh, thank God.” He pulled her close to him, pressing his body against her. “I was so worried.”

  Teresa lay still. He wasn’t mad at her. He wasn’t mad she’d disappeared. He’d been worried. His lips found her neck and kissed softly.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with residual sleep.

  Teresa relaxed and melted against him. A smile slid onto her lips. The warmth of his body against hers sent a thrill through her.

  She rolled over and faced her husband, held his face between her hands. His dark eyes searched hers. He didn’t ask where she’d been. Instead he kissed her on the lips. He deepened the kiss and rolled her over on top of him.

  Their typical, and rare, love-making sessions were usually hasty and habitual. They didn’t hold the passion of their youth or the spontaneity. But this . . . this was like old times. His hands explored her body. He was slow and passionate, tending to her needs. When they’d finished, the briefest glimmer of her old self came back. The self before the hospital and years of living in a medicated state of numbness.

  “I guess what they say is true,” she said, surprised by her light tone.

  “What’s that?” Derrick kissed her shoulder.

  “Make-up sex is the best.”

  He laughed. And she did too. The sound carefree. A sound Mother would have scorned.

  Ladies don’t cackle.

  Fuck Mother.

  Teresa wouldn’t let her mother’s lessons destroy this joyous moment. Oh, she felt so free.
She felt so . . . loved. Wanted. She kissed Derrick again, craving him now that he’d given up what she had desired for so long.

  “I miss this,” Derrick said.

  “Me, too,” Teresa nestled against him. His arm wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her tight.

  “We can be like this again,” he whispered.

  Teresa nodded, smiling. Everything would be okay.

  But her smile faded as the carefree Teresa melted away, replaced by who she was now. A murderer.

  Everything wouldn’t be okay. It would never be the same again.

  Chapter 42

  Teresa awoke with a start. The alarm clock flashed midnight. Did the power go out? Derrick’s side of the bed was vacant, the covers thrown back. Faint light seeped through the blinds. She lay back against her pillow.

  He must have let her sleep in. She didn’t smile, though. She couldn’t assume last night would fix everything. He, himself, had told her that.

  What had he called it? An attempted roll in the hay?

  Well, maybe that was all he needed.

  Teresa dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, took care of the necessary, and applied some makeup.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” she called.

  Her voice sounded strange, echo-y and muffled at the same time. A disquieting stillness filled the house. She shivered and tugged her robe tighter around her body. The microwave clock also flashed midnight.

  Teresa went into the front room where an old, hand-wound Victorian clock sat on top of the piano with the silver-framed pictures. The clock had also stopped at midnight.

  This couldn’t be right. She held it to her ear and listened for the second hand to tick tick tick around the face. She set the clock down and backed away from it.

  The room flickered. Teresa squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. For a second, she thought she saw—

  She ran to the front door and opened it.

  A creek trickled in the early morning quiet. Glowing lost souls danced among the lodge pole pines, illuminating their trunks and the crooked tombstones. The sun hadn’t even started to peek above the mountains.

  In a daze, Teresa stepped onto the sagging front porch and down the three stairs. Her footsteps crunched on pine needles. She tried to pull her robe around her, but she no longer wore it. Instead, the same blood-stained clothes from the previous night covered her body. Not the previous night. This same night. How much time had really passed?

  A few feet from the front porch, she turned around. Though she already knew what she would find, the sight of the abandoned funeral home brought dread and grief.

  It hadn’t been Derrick.

  It was him.

  She’d fucked Yaldabaoth.

  “No.” The sound moaned from her throat. She doubled over, covering her face with her hands.

  This is a dream. A nightmare. You went home.

  The night didn’t dissolve around her. She didn’t wake up.

  “Mommy,” Tiffany’s voice whispered. The sight of her daughter made her stomach twist.

  “What have I done?” Her voice gasped the words. A tear let loose from her blurry eyes and journeyed down her cheek. “What happened? I went home—” Her breath hitched in.

  Tiffany came closer. So pale in the moonlight. Teresa only hoped she wasn’t here to present another syringe.

  “You did come home,” Tiffany said, indicating the house behind her. “Yaldabaoth fixed the inside. He thought you would like it. Do you like it?”

  Something in Tiffany’s tone told Teresa she should say yes. She nodded, instead, afraid her voice would betray her.

  Tiffany placed her cold fingers on Teresa’s cheek and wiped away the tear.

  “Good.” Tiffany smiled. She pulled away and pirouetted with the lost souls. “It’s a glorious night.”

  “I need to go home,” Teresa said. “I have to go home.”

  Tiffany stopped. “You are home.”

  “This is not my home.” Teresa stood and staggered toward the creek.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Tiffany sang from the trees.

  Teresa didn’t listen. She jumped across. Instead of standing on the dirt road, she faced the abandoned house again. She turned and leaped over it again with the same result. And again. And again. Every time she tried to cross the creek onto the dirt road, she was back on the same side, facing the house.

  I’m trapped.

  “Let me out of here. Now,” she yelled. Tiffany giggled from the darkness of the pines. The front door opened, and Yaldabaoth stepped into the moonlight.

  “It is quite a glorious night, is it not?” His silky voice both terrified and delighted Teresa. It made her dizzy, distorted her thoughts. She wanted to run away from him. She wanted to run toward him. Teresa gripped the sides of her head and closed her eyes.

  “Please, leave me alone,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

  Yaldabaoth’s hands touched her arms, slid up to her shoulders. One cupped the back of her head. The other tilted her face up to his.

  “You have work to do, my dear.” He dropped the hand at her neck and produced a syringe.

  “I can’t,” Teresa whispered.

  “You can,” Yaldabaoth said, his lips inches from hers. “And you will.”

  She closed her lids, squeezing tears out. His touch vanished. Teresa opened her eyes. He was gone.

  One throbbing zoe line lay at her feet. She willed herself to follow it, but her legs wouldn’t obey. Tiffany danced into her sight. She approached Teresa with wide, innocent eyes. The girl took Teresa’s hand.

  “Come on, Mommy. You can do it. I’m here to help you.” Tiffany pulled Teresa down the length of the line. When they left the forest, Ruthie’s mountain-lion-like shriek tore through the silent night.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Tiffany said. “Run.”

  Teresa wanted to lie on the ground. She could hardly walk, her legs trembled so hard. She didn’t know what would happen if Ruthie caught up, but the sight of the mummified woman lurching after her was enough to pump adrenaline through her system and get her moving.

  They ran toward town, then into the residential district. They followed the line and ended up on the front steps of Betty and Roger Berg’s house.

  She wondered which Berg would get it tonight.

  “Open the door,” Tiffany said.

  Teresa jiggled the knob. It was locked.

  Ruthie screamed—closer now.

  Panic set in. Not knowing where Ruthie was made things that much worse.

  Tiffany led Teresa around the house. Teresa peeked in the windows trying to see the continued zoe line inside, see where it led.

  At the back of the house, Tiffany stood on her tiptoes and peered inside. Teresa looked. The red line crept under the blankets on a bed where Marcie Berg slept.

  Teresa pressed her palms against the glass, praying the window was unlocked. It slid. She boosted Tiffany up and inside, then launched herself, kicking her legs for leverage.

  She dropped to the floor. Marcie tossed over in her bed and tugged the covers over her ear.

  “Be careful,” Tiffany said from the foot of the bed. “Her parents might wake up.”

  Teresa slid the window shut just as Ruthie appeared at the glass. She took a moment to catch her breath. Then she pulled back Marcie’s blankets.

  The zoe line ended in Marcie’s young, flat stomach. Teresa plunged the needle into the young woman’s belly.

  Unlike Ruthie or Sheriff or Brent, Marcie didn’t move a muscle.

  Teresa pulled the plunger, sucking the milky red zoe into the barrel. Marcie’s eyes flew open and turned black. The irises, the sclera, everything. But she didn’t shrink or bloat or disintegrate.

  When Teresa withdrew the needle, the young woman’s eyes returned to normal. She moved her hand to her stomach where Teresa had stuck her and curled into a ball around it. A pained moan poured from between her lips.

  Then the bleeding started. />
  Not bleeding like Teresa had seen in miscarriage or in birthing. Blood gushed from between Marcie’s legs, soaking the girl’s nightgown and sheets. Marcie gasped. Her mouth opened, and her face turned red. The cords in her neck went taut as if she was straining, pushing, giving birth. Tears trickled from her eyes. No sound came out, no sound went in.

  Still, the blood poured. A broken dam.

  Teresa looked at the syringe. What had she done? She hadn’t thought twice about where the zoe line ended. Was Marcie pregnant?

  Ruthie screamed at the window and clawed the glass, beat it with her bony fists. Teresa jumped.

  “Goddammit!” A man’s voice shouted from somewhere in the house. “George Riley, if that’s you making all that racket, I swear to Jesus I’ll have your hide.”

  The knob rattled.

  “Marcia Victoria Berg, you open this door right this minute,” Roger Berg hollered. Teresa looked at the window where the not-crushed side of Ruthie’s face pressed against the glass, her thin lips pulled back in a vicious sneer.

  Roger pounded on the door again. The whole thing shook in its frame.

  Teresa cast about for a place to hide. She knelt and peeked under the bed. There was too much stuff under there.

  “Psst,” Tiffany motioned Teresa over to a closet with slatted, accordion doors. They stepped inside, trampling on piles of shoes.

  The door to the bedroom burst open just as Teresa eased the closet shut.

  “Where is he?” Roger shouted. Teresa peeked through the slats and saw him approach Marcie’s bed. “Jesus Christ! Marcie!” He held her, then turned to the hallway. “Betty. Call 911,” he yelled. “Something’s wrong with Marcie. I think George must’ve done something to her. Oh, my baby. Please—what happened?”

  Marcie’s face had gone white. Her eyes stared at nothing in particular.

  Check her pulse.

  Teresa willed the words. She couldn’t just stand by and watch someone bleed out, but she couldn’t burst out of the closet to save the day either. There was nothing she could do except crawl back to Yaldabaoth and deliver the fourth soul.

  With Roger’s face buried in Marcie’s hair, Teresa slipped out of the closet and scurried into the dark hallway. The hall light came on, blinding her. She dove sideways into the bathroom as Betty ran by with a phone pressed to her ear. Her shouts of Marcie’s name joined Roger’s wails.