by Lynn Moon
Grandmother slapped her hand over her mouth and screamed. The horror in her eyes told me a lot. Told me that she never knew what her second son was capable of doing. All these years she hid this evil person in her home—an evil person who was still doing evil things and getting away with it.
“Where’s Uncle Berty?” I demanded. Just as it was with my mother during the funeral, I suddenly felt no pity for the woman standing in front of me. All the years of hurt and anger had created a barrier that shielded me from everyone else, blocking my empathy.
“Oh, Dirk,” my grandmother whispered. “What have we done?”
Jumping from my chair, I could hardly control myself. “Grandmother, you must tell us where he is hiding. He has taken Charlie. He has her and we don’t know what he’s going to do to her. Where is Berty, Grandmother?”
With a pale face and wide eyes, Grandmother pointed to the kitchen ceiling.
It only took me a few seconds to understand. We darted for the stairs. Hunter reached them first with me right behind him. We probably sounded like a herd of elephants, charging though that old house. But we didn’t care. On the second-floor landing, I wondered if we were doing the right thing. Hunter flipped on the hallway lights, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Uncle Berty? Are you up here?” I yelled out.
No reply. All was quiet.
“Let’s check the bedrooms.” I said, aiming for the first door.
Peering into the darkness, I cringed. Flipping the switch, the room lit up. Just a neat and empty bedroom with a single bed and dresser.
“No one in here,” Hunter said from the second bedroom.
“No one in here, either,” Quinton yelled from the third room. “But this is definitely his room.”
Standing behind Quinton, Hunter and I stared into a chaotic mess. Filthy clothes covered the floor, along with old food wrappers and empty soda cans. In one corner, a television flickered, changing the light from bright to a shadowy gray. With the sound off, it gave the place an eerie composition. Dark, heavy curtains covered the windows. Probably to keep the light in, or to keep onlookers out. The stench was overwhelming.
“It stinks in here,” Quinton said as he pushed some of the junk around with his foot.
“Check for hidden doors in the closet,” I said, kicking a few clothes into a pile.
That was when I saw it. A small picture frame. Picking it up, I had to cover my mouth to keep from screaming.
“Guys,” I whispered.
“What?” Quinton asked, peering around the closet door.
I handed him the frame and he shook his head. “Amazing.”
“No hidden passageways in this room,” Hunter said, taking the frame from Quinton. “House must be too—”
“That’s me,” I said. “And that’s not my dad holding me.”
Hunter stared at the picture of the little girl sitting in a man’s lap. A man with green eyes—not brown. A man whose eyebrows sailed downward on the ends and not up. And a man with no mole on his chin. A man who wasn’t my father.
“How old were you in this picture?” Hunter asked.
“About three or four,” I replied.
Hunter darted from the room. We followed him to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Weavers, did you take this picture?” Hunter asked, panting.
My grandmother shook her head.
“Mr. Weavers, did you take this picture?”
My grandfather shook his head.
“Then who did?” Hunter asked.
Staring at the picture, Grandfather sighed. “I’ve never seen this photo before. Perhaps your father took it.”
“Then my dad knew all about my uncle seeing me?”
Grandfather replied for both of them. “That is why the tunnel was built. Your father was very close to his brother. Loved him with all his heart. With the tunnel, they could be together almost every day and no one would know.”
“Did my mom know about Berty?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” Grandfather replied. “That would have been too risky. What if she told someone about him?”
“So my visits with my uncle were a secret. And, once old enough, the visits had to stop. Am I right? The visits had to stop because I would have said something.”
Grandfather and Grandmother nodded.
“Since the boys were identical,” Grandfather said, “you wouldn’t know it was your uncle.”
“I spent time with a man that I thought was my father? And you approved of that?”
“The visits stopped about two years ago,” my grandmother replied.
“Two years ago?” I repeated. Glancing around the room, my world spun around me. Two years ago? Only two years ago? I strained to remember—remember anything that would spark a memory. But there was nothing. “That would make me ten.”
“And that’s when the rapes began,” Hunter added, lowering his head.
“Daddy’s little girl,” I whispered.
“What?” Grandfather asked.
“Berty called me his little girl,” I replied. “Said that he was my real father. My only father.”
“He loved you,” Grandmother said from the kitchen sink. She was still crying, even as she stared out the window.
“Yeah, right. He loved me so much that he raped me every weekend.”
They both glanced at me this time. Their pain may be real, but mine was deeper and refused to stop bleeding.
“Berty stole two things from me!” I screamed out. Holding up two fingers, I glared at my grandparents. Two individuals I didn’t recognize anymore. “First my childhood, and second, my father.”
“Mrs. Weavers,” Hunter said, holding my grandmother by the arm. I guess he felt she needed support. “Berty isn’t upstairs. Where could he be?”
“The old shed out back,” Grandfather replied.
“The one that burned down?” Quinton asked.
“No, the one that’s way out back,” my grandmother explained. “Follow the dirt foot path. It’ll lead you to him.”
Hunter grabbed the kitchen phone. Instead of talking, he tapped on it several times. “Dead.”
“What’s wrong with your phone?” I asked.
“It worked earlier,” Grandfather said, trying it himself. “Now, isn’t that odd.”
“We need the sheriff,” Hunter said.
“We don’t have time,” I screamed. “We’ve got to help Charlie.”
“Quinton, go back to Musetta’s house,” Hunter ordered. “Find the sheriff and get him to that shed. I’ll go with Musetta.”
“That’s not safe,” Quinton said, staring at me. “We all need to go get the sheriff, together.”
“I’m going to find Charlie!” I announced, walking boldly to the backdoor. “I don’t care what you two do.”
Hunter ran after me, shouting, “Wait up, Musetta!”
“I can’t,” I screamed back. “I’ve got to find Charlie!”
Following the dirt foot path wasn’t easy in the dark. The hillsides were mostly trees and brush. No streetlights reached this far out.
“Musetta,” Hunter yelled again. “Wait up!”
I couldn’t wait up. Charlie’s life depended on me finding her. And I refused to be too late.
***
Hunter eventually caught up with me. The deeper into the trees I ran, the less we could see around us. The only way I knew I was heading in the right direction was the dirt under my feet. The path, hard and worn, seemed clear of debris. I just had to listen to my feet. As long as I didn’t hear any crunching, I knew I was still on the trail.
After not hearing anything behind me for a while, I stopped walking. It was as if I just entered into a demon’s dungeon. Even the crickets were silent. The stillness alarmed me.
“Hunter?” I said. “Where are you?”
Hunter didn’t answer. Did he give up on me and return for the sheriff? Maybe only I cared about Charlie’s safety. Maybe I was her only true friend.
Then again, maybe I was the
stupid one who ran blindly into the darkness. Listening to my labored breathing and pounding heart, I waited. Everything was too quiet.
“Hunter?”
Alone in the darkness, my body merged with the gloom, turning my nerves into a numbing veil of false security. Memories of my swollen neck and the pain from hitting my nightstand flew through my mind. As I pulled my hair from my face, the sound of feet hitting the dirt path opened the way for a little courage to fill my otherwise vacant body.
“Hunter,” I said, turning. “What took you so long?”
“I’m not Hunter,” someone said as my world darkened around me.
CHAPTER 18
LIGHT PIERCED MY HEAD as I opened my eyes. Moving only sent sharper pains pinging through every joint. With my left side still asleep, I had to use my legs to roll over. But I couldn’t move. Glancing around, I stiffened. This wasn’t my bedroom. Where am I? Something in my mouth tasted terrible, making my jaw ache. Yelling out, only a muffled sound escaped—a gag. Someone had shoved a dirty rag into my mouth.
The filtered sunlight barely lit the room. I was lying on a small cot under a dingy window. To my right, a broken dresser blocked my view. Near my feet, a round table and a chair reminded me of an old thrift store display. The window behind the table allowed in most of the daylight.
My hands, bound behind my back, ached. With my feet tied together, I was trapped. Not able to yell, I was on my own.
The ceiling beams and planks seemed familiar somehow. So did the walls. No trees outside the windows, but then again, the windows were very dirty. I could be wrong. Am I in my grandparents’ other shed? Why hasn’t the sheriff found me yet?
I banged against the wall with my heels. Over and over again, I kicked. Lying on the bed and feeling lost, the worn and broken springs dug into my back. They’d leave a bruise for sure. How old is this bed, anyway? The room, musty and stale, reminded me a lot of my—attic?
Oh, no! I was behind that long mysterious wall in my attic. I was in the room that we couldn’t get into. I needed to escape. Otherwise, I could die in here and no one would ever find me.
I used to play a game with Charlie. We used plastic zip-ties and tied each other up. We wanted to see how long it took to escape. Pretending that Charlie was timing me, I inched my butt and legs through my arms. Phew, that feels better. Now I could get to work.
As I stood up, the room spun in all directions. Falling back to the bed, I touched the large bump on the side of my head. Taking in a few deep breaths, I slowly stood up again. This time, I concentrated on what I needed to do and ignored the whirling room. Raising my hands over my head, I counted. One . . . two . . . three . . . then, aiming my wrists toward my hipbones . . . slap!
“Ouch.” That was going to leave a mark.
Trying again, I concentrated. If I used enough force, the zip-ties would break. Again, I counted and aimed my wrists toward my hips. This time, the ties snapped and my hands flew free. I rubbed my wrist.
Sitting down and untying a shoe, I looped the lace through the thin plastic band that held my ankles together. Wrapping each end around a wrist, I stretched out my legs. Pushing them apart as I sawed with my arms—Snap!—I was free.
Glancing out the dingy window gave away my location. I was in my attic. Outside was my front yard. The room, no longer than it was wide, felt creepy and threatening. On the backside of the old dresser sat a torn-up couch. A flat-screen TV balanced unsteadily on a wooden crate. Near one wall was a microwave and tiny refrigerator. Opening the fridge, I pulled out a grape-flavored drink. Gulping it down, the dizziness slowed, a little. Someone used this room on a regular basis. And right below this hidden room was my bedroom.
Taking in another deep breath, I studied the walls. From this side, the narrow door stood right out, no longer hidden. I opened it and stepped through. Only a few feet away stood the bricks from my father’s fireplace. Running down the stairs, I aimed for the closest bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, I couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie. Does this mean that I’ve let her down? Washing my hands, I refused to look in the mirror. With my wrists bruised and throbbing, I hated to think about what my face might look like. After drying my hands, I headed for the kitchen. My sudden appearance must have surprised everyone, for all eyes instantly landed on me. Again, just like at the funeral, I was the center of the unwanted attention. Gasps filled the room as I calmly sat down at the kitchen table.
“Musetta!” Auntie Delphie jumped up so fast that her chair fell over, bouncing off the floor. “You look terrible. Where have you been? The sheriff is out looking for you right now.”
“In the attic,” I replied. “And if that jerk hits me one more time, I swear . . .”
“What jerk?” my mother repeated, pulling my hair from my face.
It was time for the truth to finally come out and for people to start believing me. “My uncle, that’s who.”
“What uncle?” Auntie Roe asked. “You don’t have an uncle.”
“Unfortunately, I do. He’s the one who keeps hitting me on my head.”
“What are you talking about?” my mother asked. “Are you talking about your father’s twin? The twin your grandmother has said many times was dead?”
“Where’re Hunter and Quinton?” I asked.
“Quinton’s with the sheriff searching for you. And Hunter was with you,” Auntie Roe replied.
“Ah man, not again.” Jumping up, I grabbed the table for support.
“Whoa,” Auntie Delphie said, pushing me back down. “There’s a pretty big bump on the back of your head. Where have you been? They’ve been looking for you all night.”
“Oh, my God!” I screamed out. “Why didn’t I see it before?”
“See what?” Auntie Delphie asked.
“It’s the other tunnel,” I whispered. “The other tunnel in the attic. It’s the other tunnel.”
“Stop,” my mother yelled. “Stop with this nonsense.”
“Yes. Stop talking in riddles. What’s going on?” Auntie Roe asked.
I explained everything I knew to my family—again. Only, this time, they seemed to listen. At least, they didn’t interrupt me. At least they were acting as if they were paying attention.
“I’ll call Jim,” my mother said once I finished my story.
“Call who?” I asked.
“Jim. Sheriff Tackels,” she replied.
I listened as she talked. When she hung up, I said, “I’ve got to get out there.”
“Out where?” my mother asked.
“To the old shed,” I replied.
“The one that burned down?” Auntie Roe asked.
“No, the one that’s behind the old farmhouse.”
“There’s no shed back there,” my mother answered. “It’s just an old chicken coop.”
“Chicken coop? They lied to me again?”
“Oh, Musetta,” my mother said, shaking her head. “I don’t think we’re getting the whole story here.”
***
Sitting on my bed, I stared at a picture of Charlie hugging me. It was taken during our last visit to Homestead Crater. Quinton’s smiling face rested on her shoulder. I laughed. His sense of humor was totally off sometimes. An arm and shoulder with no head sneaking into the photo belonged to Hunter. Where is Hunter now? Why didn’t I wait for him before running off? What a stupid and careless thing to do. Now two of my friends had disappeared. All because of me.
A light rap, and then my aunt’s voice filled my room. “Mue, Sheriff Jim wishes to talk to you.”
“Thank you, Roe,” Sheriff Jim said, closing my door behind him. I couldn’t stop staring at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Guilty.” Holding back the flood that was about to explode, I had to look away.
“It’s okay.” Kneeling next to me, he lightly patted my leg. “It’s not your fault.”
The damn broke. As the sobs rolled through me, I said, “I shouldn’t have told anyone. It’s all my fault. I should have kept the secret about m
y ghost.”
Sheriff Jim shook his head. “No. Those types of secrets are not to be kept.”
“If I kept everything to myself, my friends wouldn’t be missing.”
“What happened to you last night?”
“Not sure. I wanted to find Charlie, so I ran down the path my grandmother told us about. But it only leads to an old chicken coop, and not an old shed like she said. Why’s she lying to me?”
“Good question.” He stood and walked to my balcony doors.
“I heard Hunter yelling for me to stop,” I said. “I couldn’t stop running. That’s my uncle who doing all of this. I had to stop him. I had to save Charlie.”
“Go on.”
“I heard someone behind me and thought it was Hunter. When I turned around, it was my uncle Berty. That’s the last thing I remember. Then I woke up in the hidden room in my attic.”
“How are you feeling now?” he asked.
“Okay, I guess.”
“Then let’s go find that other tunnel,” he replied, reaching out his hand to me. “Together.”
***
With two deputies behind me and Sheriff Jim in the front, I showed them to the narrow, hidden door to the secret room.
“This house is full of surprises,” he said as he entered.
I pulled open the dresser drawers. The top one was empty. The second one had a few old rags in it. The bottom one was full of pictures. Pictures of me.
“Holy crap!” I screamed.
“What?”
“Look.”
“Fascinating,” he whispered. “These are of you?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t hold back my tears. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“Looks like your uncle’s been keeping an eye on you for a very long time.”
“My grandma said I used to visit with him. That I couldn’t tell him apart from my own father.”
“We can look at these photos later,” he said. “For now, let’s see if we can find another hidden door to that tunnel.”
“Over here,” one of the deputies called.
Near the small refrigerator was another narrow door that, when opened, revealed a murky passageway with stairs leading down. Clicking on their flashlights, the deputies lit the place up. The long, dark passageway reminded me of my father’s casket. Narrow, dark wood squeezing a person’s soul into oblivion. Pushing us deeper toward our ultimate destiny to meet death face-to-face.
