Mother Dearest Page 7

it, slightly inclined towards him. He could feel the grit of the old cardboard under his fingertips, the dust encasing the box in tiny, near invisible layers. The sweet smell of the old cardboard filled his nostrils as he walked through the dim hallway. It was mid-morning, the perfect time for him to confront Mother with what he had found, and demand an answer of her.

  The house around him commanded the same silken that the study had the night before, as if everything were shrouded in stillness.

  The pictures on the wall stared back at him in grim recognition, and eerie watchfulness. Their eyes were piercing, thought filtered by the clean glass in frame. The faces were all familiar, but they were possessed by a strange otherness, something that was not quite natural, something that stared him through and caused the slithering chill on his spine to engorge itself on the dread that was suddenly coursing through him, like a terrible leech.

  The smell of the dusty cardboard, mixed with the shroud of silence mixed together to form an atmosphere of caution, something that wouldn’t be artificially produced—it was something that came from ill will and evil intent. Why he was feeling it, he was unsure; perhaps it was his own fear of what he would find out about Mother that she had tried so hard to hide. Perhaps that was why she had tried so hard to hide it; perhaps in the end he really didn’t want to know.

  But he had to.

  The doorway framed the room in a way that was only possible in the atmosphere that he was feeling. It was almost like the screen to a television, but he knew that it wasn’t, something about it just made the whole thing look unreal. The doorway into the master bathroom was illuminated with the gray light that was coming through the window, faintly outlining the blinds that were on the bathroom window in the shadow on the ground. Outside he knew that the trees were shuddering in the breeze.

  The lighting from the windows in the room was even dimmer thanks to the thick sheer curtains that blocked it out. The dull glow that illuminated the room was surreal looking, as if not of this world. It occurred to Tom that it had never looked that way before.

  He walked through the door as quietly as possible, the heavy box leaning on him, pushing him backwards with its weight, as if warning him in that mocking little voice. No, no, don’t go in. You don’t want to know the truth.

  But he had to. He had to know.

  The room was surprisingly empty.

  The bed was neatly made, as if Mother had just made it and carefully and quietly departed. He knew she was around somewhere, his room door had been open the whole morning and he knew that she was in there.

  He took another look around, seeing there was no sign of her, as if she had vanished.

  Where did she go?

  The box shifted, rolling its weight to his left, the papers shuffling inside, mixing into further unintelligible masses. He was kind of angry about it, but he didn’t see any reason in getting very upset about it. It was what was on the papers that mattered, and that was what angered him, knowing that he was mixing around the murder of a prostitute and the missing reports of Trisha.

  He looked around the room and saw that Mother really wasn’t anywhere. The chair off to the side, bathed in the dreary light was empty, as was the bed. The bathroom was obviously empty for the door was standing wide open.

  Not a soul stirred.

  The leech on his spine slowly fed on more.

  The dread grew, like a weed it slowly grew.

  Tom moved into the room and set the box down on the bed, determined to find out where Mother had gone off to and confront her about what was in the box. He had to do it before he lost his nerve.

  He turned to the other side of the room and saw that all of Mother’s things that she took out of the house with her were comfortably perched on the dresser that lined the far wall. She hadn’t left, which meant she was probably only downstairs—even though he hadn’t seen her go—and all he had to do was go and find her.

  Tom took another look at the box, sitting on the bed, idle, unmoving—the source of his dread, oozing out of its dusty, rotting confines and into his very soul. The leech fed away at the gnawing dread and caution that tingled in the air and mingled with his mind. That cursed box, the one that held the secrets—Mother’s secrets.

  It was then that he saw it.

  Light.

  The closet door was cracked open, barely open, the dim yellow light that was on the other side of the door soaked through the tiny opening and out into the room. The closet was of good size, a full walk-in, and had a light bulb that hung above on the ceiling. Mother never had it on unless she was inside.

  Why would she be in the closet? He wondered.

  Tom began for the closet, and immediately felt something inside of him tugging away, telling him to stay away from the closet. It was hard to place exactly what it was, but he felt it was probably the same fear he had gotten from the box—that he was going to find out something about Mother that he didn’t like, not one bit.

  He came up to it, the dim yellow light sliced a hole in the frame, illuminating the white trim around it, accentuating it against the dull gray of the overcast glare that drifted through the windows.

  Inside he felt the hesitation.

  Don’t…

  He reached for the knob.

  …open…

  He began to slowly pull.

  …the…

  Here goes nothing.

  …door!

  And carefully pulled it open, hearing the horrible screech of rusted hinges much in need of an oiling, answered by the creek of an old door on the screeching hinges.

  He was about to open his mouth to ask Mother a question when he felt the leech bite into his back and the dread settle in and the caution give way to paralyzing numbness.

  The first things he noticed were water bottles, half full, and a bucket with several cleaning supplies items inside of it. Next to that was a pile of zip-ties, settled on top of a plastic bag. There were a few small slips of plastic, torn and scattered that looked like they had at one time held snack crackers or something like that. A knife rested on a small rag next to the pile.

  Oh man…oh man oh man oh man oh man.

  The main event of the confining chamber, under the light was a canopy of brown-leather hair, and two almond colored eyes pleading with him. Blood was caked in the eyebrow, and a small wound to the forehead of the face was its source. Duct tape was over her mouth, but it was unmistakably her.

  Trisha?

  He tried to speak but he couldn’t.

  Her eyes grew wide, they pooled with tears, and then iced over with fear. He tried to figure out why she was scared of him, but never arrived to a conclusion.

  A white explosion erupted at the back of his skull and he felt the air rush out of him, as well as gravity pull him down as all force went out of his legs.

  The last thing he saw was two feet—Trisha’s feet—tied to a chair, bloody circles where zip-ties had cut into her skin before being replaced.

  Then, black.

  Before…

  SHE REALLY meant it. He knew that she did.

  —I’m going to go out to lunch with your Mom.

  —Why do that?

  —Because she doesn’t really know me and I don’t really know her. We have a common interest, but we don’t really know each other. I think it might be nice if we did get acquainted.

  Trisha looked across at the fields of corn that were swaying in the breeze, the briefest of smiles flowed across her face as she looked.

  —I think your Mother isn’t the person we think she is.

  She looked at him; deep almond orbs stared through him. The smile wasn’t on her mouth, but it was still in her eyes as it usually was.

  —I’d like to know who she really is.

  Somewhere In Between…

  A smile, not forgotten, drifted with him in the blackness as he tried to swim away, swim back into the light.

  After…

  LIGHT BLINDED him. His eyes
clamped back shut, trying to keep out the light that was glaring into the room and melting his vision. He could feel warmth from it and he knew that it was the sun shining down on him. He was below the sun, the sun was shining on him, trying to warn him, warn him to run—run away from the dark.

  Darkness tugged at him, trying to pull him back into unconsciousness, whispering, tempting, and begging him back into its arms where it was safe—safe from everything.

  He felt a cushion of air beneath him, the edges caressing him, holding him up gently. For a moment he thought he was floating, but he quickly realized it was the couch.

  How did I get here?

  The light pulled him forward and he tried to swim out of the black.

  “It’ll be all right.”

  A cool tongue ran over his forehead. The tongue of a dragon, sampling him before beginning its meal, just wanting to taste its prey—Tom pulled back from it and felt the stabbing in the back of his head echo though his entire skull.

  His vision stirred, then quickly cleared, bringing everything into HD focus. The living room blinds were glaring down at him; the sun shattered the barrier and leaked through the cracked slats.

  Mother was holding a damp cloth to his head. Her face was etched with concern. He wasn’t sure why, but something when he looked at her struck him as wrong, but he couldn’t place his finger on it right away.

  “Thomas, calm down. It’s just me.”

  He gazed at her, puzzled.

  “You’ve been having another nightmare, just calm down. It’s the fever I’m sure.”

  Tom noticed that there was a blanket covering him from toe to chin, it was