Flash Fiction Spooktacular

Stay Away from Pretty Men: Chapter Two - Emily Conover

Stay Away from Pretty Men: Chapter Two

I slept a lot that summer, more than I ever had before, and as it would turn out, more than I would as a teenager. My mom chalked it up to the amount of physical labor she’d made me engage in: washing the windows, pulling down the peeling wallpaper, dusting, and helping her haul the clippings from the wisteria and honeysuckle into a pile to burn. It didn’t feel like normal tired though. Every time I woke up I struggled to remember where I was, what day it was, and occasionally, even who I was.

If I’d had my way I wouldn’t have gone outside at all that summer. Despite being isolated I felt like someone was watching me whenever I did venture outdoors, and at times I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that my name was being carried on the air. My mother, however, felt that fresh air was needed for a growing child and managed to shove me outside for at least a half an hour each morning before we would head into town to get groceries, books from the library, or visit Aunt Dolores.

I never told my mother what happened at 9:15 every time I was out there, mainly because I knew she wouldn’t believe me, but also because I didn’t want to believe it either. Being that far removed from other people meant that there wasn’t a great deal of noise to begin with, but even in rural North Carolina there were plenty of nature sounds from bugs, bees, birds, and cows to make you notice when it stopped. And every day at 9:15 that summer all noise stopped for at least a minute. I thought it was my imagination at first, so I brought out my dad’s stopwatch to double check.

I started counting down the days until we could leave, and even moved my Go bag out to the car with Mom’s. I felt like I was going insane and lived in terror that Daddy would call and tell us there had been a delay. To help pass the time and give my panicked brain something to focus on I explored the rooms of the house, but not the cellar. There was nothing particularly interesting to a twelve year old girl in any of the rooms, closets, or furniture. I did find an old family bible that was filled with birthdates, but I didn’t recognize any of the names.

Well, there was a Dolores listed at the end of a ridiculous amount of children, but the date of birth looked like it was 1865 and that just wasn’t possible. Aunt Dolores was old, but she couldn’t be that old. No one could be. Besides, Aunt Dolores’s last name was Webster, not Gray like the family name listed. As far as I knew Aunt Dolores had never married. Maybe she was named in honor of that other Dolores.

Trying to decipher the spidery handwriting started to give me a headache, and each time I tried to tally the number of children I lost track, so I slipped the bible back onto the small bookshelf and put it out of my mind. I didn’t like thinking about Aunt Dolores. She took more and more interest in me, asking me questions that I never really knew how to respond to. I left every visit feeling sick to my stomach and with a pain between my eyes. Mom told me she’d take me to the optometrist once we were on base.

By contrast, Aunt Dolores seemed livelier and healthier each time we visited her, although she still got lost mentally after only a short while. It didn’t seem fair that someone so old would be so energetic while I felt like a slug. One day Mom decided to bring a floral arrangement to help brighten up the room. I kept my thoughts on that bit of flawed logic to myself, but was amused when mom found that the room had nothing to put the flowers on. Amused, at least, until she left me alone with Aunt Dolores to find something.

I stood a safe distance away from her. “Mom stepped out to find something to put the flowers on. I’m not sure why she thought you’d enjoy flowers when you can’t really see them. No offense.”

“None taken.” Aunt Dolores turned towards me and I swear her eyes cleared for a moment. “I can see well enough at times.” She tilted her head to the side. “Your parents don’t appreciate your bluntness, do they, child?”

“Not really,” I said, still keeping my distance.

“Let me guess. They call you difficult and contrary, remind you to be respectful of your elders, that sort of thing?”

“How’d you know?”

She smiled at me, a full tooth flashing grin, and I was surprised to see hers were all still there and pearly white. “Ah well, it so happens I was called difficult once upon a time too.” She gestured to the chair next to hers and without thinking about it I came and sat down.

She leaned forward as she spoke. “I’m the youngest of seventeen children, did you know that? I have five nephews who are older than I am, or they were. My oldest brothers all took after our daddy, you see. They’re all dead now. All my brothers and sisters, all my nieces and nephews. I used to think nothing was worse than death, but that’s not true. There are things so much worse. So much worse.”

She paused, then reached out and took hold of my forearm. Her grip was surprisingly strong and it tightened as she spoke. “I asked my mama once, when she was laid up in bed, dying slowly from what having all those babies had done to her, why she’d had so many children. And she said, ‘well, Dolores, your papa was awfully pretty and terribly charming.’”

She blinked, her eyes focusing for longer this time. “I made up my mind then and there that I wasn’t going to be having any babies, but a pretty man became my damnation as well. Let that be a lesson to you, Louise. Stay away from pretty men, especially those who promise you your heart’s desire.”

“You’re hurting me,” I protested.

“Have his games started? I bet he loves playing with you as much as he loved playing with me.”

“Who did?” I begged, but she didn’t answer my question. She simply let my arm go and sat back in her chair when my mother came into the room.

“Louise, baby, you look as white as a sheet!”

I couldn’t speak, too unsettled by that conversation to function.

Aunt Dolores made a noise of sympathy. “Louise was just telling me she was feeling poorly. She probably needs some more fresh air. Can’t be good for a child to be cooped up all day with these chillers on blast.”

Mom shook her head and sighed. “I try to get her to spend time outside, but the heat this summer is just brutal.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Beasts are always the hungriest in the summer.” Aunt Dolores turned towards the window. “Ravenous things.” She blinked and turned back to my mother, her eyes cloudy. “You should go. You should go. I don’t want this anymore.” She started to cry and my mother paged the nurse.

After what felt like an eternity a nurse finally arrived. By then Aunt Dolores had added the phrase “don’t take nothing from that house!” into her crying rant. We left to the sound of her yelling “go!” and “nothing!” at our retreating forms. Mom swung by the Dairy Queen and got me a sundae to help perk me up. I only managed to eat half. Each visit to see Aunt Dolores after that one was a disaster, with her descending into tears and either begging or ordering us to go, we couldn’t decide which, whenever she realized I was there.

I hated going to see her, but faced with the prospect of being left alone at the house I chose the emotional gut punch of the visits. As July stretched into August the amount of dead silence that would fall at 9:15 grew longer and longer until on August 25th it lasted for five minutes.

It was agony. It was as if a horrible weight was pressing down on me and the only sound I could hear was my own pulse pounding in my ears. I sank to my knees and gasped for breath when it suddenly stopped. A flock of crows flew up, cawing like mad, from the copse of trees at the farthest edge of the cow pasture. I knelt in that red dirt crying; shivering despite the oppressive heat.

Shaking, I stood up, and as I dusted myself off I knew I was being watched. I ran back inside and poured myself a glass of orange juice, in an effort to appear normal. I didn’t want Mom to ask why I was upset. I knew she’d never believe me.

“Are we going to town today?” I asked when she came downstairs.

“In a bit. I want to check those paint cans in the cellar to get the brand and color of paint used on the house.” The phone rang and since I was eager to get away from there I volunteered to check on the cans while she took the call.

The cellar was my least favorite place in the house, and I hadn’t needed Aunt Dolores’s warning to stay out of it. It was dimly lit, musty, filled with all sorts of junk, and spiderwebs. Lots and lots of spiderwebs. The paint cans Mom mentioned were on a rickety set of shelves on the back wall, where the sweet but rotten smell was the strongest. I squinted through the murk and grime to decipher the paint color names. The ones near the bottom were clearly too old to be viable. They were coated with rust and some were blackened.

I concentrated on the ones around my head level. The first few were definitely not the same as what was outside, not with names like Primrose, Mint Julep, and Bluebell. The last two cans were turned the wrong way so I couldn’t read the names. I wrinkled my nose and reached out to turn one. The added weight of my hands proved to be too much for the shelving and in the blink of an eye the entire thing collapsed in a cloud of foul dust.

“Are you okay?” Mom called down the stairs.

“Yeah,” I gasped out between coughs. It took me a moment for my eyes to focus, and even longer for my brain to process what I was seeing. “I’m okay but-” It was the smell that finally made the penny drop. I stood there frozen as the contents of the old paint cans oozed out onto the floor around me.

“But what?” Mom hollered back at me.

I turned away from the grisly sight and vomited.

“But what?” Mom yelled, louder and more annoyed. “Really, Louise, what is going on?”

Oh god, she couldn’t see this. No one should see this, ever. I glanced back over my shoulder at the rotting remains and shuddered. Panicked, I came up with the only answer that made sense. “I, uh, knocked a few things over. Nothing important. But none of these paints are yellow,” I managed to croak out as I backed away from the repulsive discovery.

“Blast. I guess I will just have to order paint for the entire house instead of doing touch ups. Come on back up.”

I frantically checked that none of the blood or vomit had stained my shoes and then I bolted up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind me.

“Good grief, Louise. Was that necessary?”

“I…sorry.” I grabbed what was left of my orange juice and gulped it down in an effort to get the taste of bile out of my mouth. A hand stroked over my hair making some of the tension leave me until I glanced back up and saw my mother was about four feet away from me. I jumped and spun around but nothing was there.

Mom frowned at me. “Louise, what in the world is wrong with you this morning?”

I almost told her. The words were on my lips but something stopped me. “Sorry,” I squeaked out. “Must have slept weird.” I turned away from Mom so she couldn’t tell I was lying. My eyes landed on the gas cooktop. Only one of the burners still worked, but one was all I’d need.

“Can we go soon?” I asked without turning around.

“Sure, honey, let me just use the bathroom and get the library books from upstairs.” Mom left me alone in the kitchen and I sprang into action. I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for what I was about to do. We couldn’t come back here. A simple turn of a knob was all it took and a “careless” placement of a dish towel. I hurried upstairs and grabbed my stuffed bear off of my bed.

“Louise….Louise, what have you done?” The voice I’d heard on the air all summer was louder now, closer, filling my head. “Louise!” It was a man’s voice, and the more he spoke the uglier it got. What had started off as a plaintive croon quickly turned into a rasping croak. “Louise! Louise!! Do you think this will save you? You belong to me now, pet. Louise!!!”

“Get bent,” I hissed before I ran into Mom in the hallway.

“Why is Schnitzel on the travel team today?” she asked.

“I just felt like bringing him,” I lied.

“Okay, baby. Aunt Dolores might enjoy seeing him. I brought something to show her too.”

I wasn’t really listening to my mother at that point. I prayed the entire way into town that my plan would work and was rewarded with the good news when we walked into the nursing home, Schnitzel clutched tight in my arms. The director of the nursing home stopped us at the door to Aunt Dolores’s room.

“Mrs. Clarkson, I’m afraid we have some bad news.” The woman lowered her voice to a whisper, but I caught the words I wanted to hear before Mom gasped. I stalked towards Aunt Dolores.

“I saw what was in the cellar,” I hissed at her. “I know what you’ve done. I know what you are.”

“Do you?” she hissed back. “And what am I?”

“A murderer.”

She laughed at me. “I suppose I am, in a way.” Her eyes cleared again, but by this point nothing phased me. “Scratch is very convincing, you see. Very persuasive. With peculiar appetites. You’re even younger than I was when he took an interest in me. Maybe he’ll let me go now.” Her face contorted.

“Oh, he’s mad.” She turned to me, a demented smile on her face. “What did you do?” She shuddered and spit out some blood. “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Can’t let me go peacefully, can you, you bastard?” She spit out some more blood, then hissed, “keep nothing from the house,” before pitching out of her chair onto the floor.

“Mom?” I called, backing away from her. “Mom!” I yelped and dashed from the room.

My mother turned towards me, her face stricken. “Oh, Louise, I have some bad news.”

My eyes filled with tears as my mother explained that the house had caught on fire while we were out and had burned to the ground. She didn’t realize they were tears of relief. The firemen reported that the entire house had caved in on the cellar, and that it would need to be bulldozed. Not only that, but the fire had spread to the garage where the gas cans for the lawn mower had exploded. Nothing was left, not even the barn.

No one looked into the source of the fire since there wasn’t an insurance claim, and Aunt Dolores had passed away the same day. We were put up in a nice hotel in town and I threw the house keys and garage door opener in the trash chute after Mom had fallen asleep. Mr. Morgenstern never showed up, and a week later we were finally reunited with my dad. He got sent to South Korea after only one more month at Seymour Johnson. I’d never been happier to relocate in my life.

We never went back to North Carolina, and in fact, I avoided the continental United States as much as possible, attending college in Hawaii and then moving to Australia to work as an anthropologist. My father died suddenly when I was twenty eight and my mother decided she wanted to move to Australia to be near me. I flew back for the funeral and to help her pack up.

I was thankful that my father had been career military for only the second time in my life as all of the moves had forced my parents to not retain a large number of belongings. There were, however, a handful of boxes that had been in storage for years that we decided to go through. It was a nice moment, to discover some of the odd and funny things Mom had packed up before we moved to South Korea. I had just pulled my Hollie Hobby lunch box out of the box when the doorbell rang.

“I wonder who that could be?” muttered Mom as she left the room to find out. I didn’t pay much attention to the sound of her conversation, focusing my attention on the task at hand. The sooner she was packed the sooner we could leave. My hand closed on a short, fat book with a brown cover and I froze. My heart went to my throat and my stomach fell to my knees as I pulled it out of the container.

It couldn’t be what I was afraid it was. It couldn’t be. How could it be here? How could it have survived? With shaking hands I opened the cover, then dropped it like I’d been burned, the faded names of the Gray family peering up at me from Aunt Dolores’s Bible.

“I brought something to show her too,” I whispered as the events of that awful day came roaring back to me. On the verge of hyperventilating I turned away, determined to find some matches to burn it just as I had burned everything else so many years ago, only to come face to face with my mother and a man whose face I’d never forgotten. He looked older, of course, but only in the annoying ways that attractive men age.

“Darling, I have wonderful news,” my mother chirped, oblivious to my terror. “Aunt Dolores left her property to you, and Mr. Morgenstern has spent the last sixteen years trying to track you down. Imagine that!”

“Hello Louise,” he said, his dark eyes focused on me. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Author Pen name: Emily Conover

Other works: Loving Death, The Fox’s Tale, Alpha House, and The Shapeshifter’s Witch all on In.k.itt.

F.bok. group: Emily Conover Writes