A Penny Down the Well: A Short Story Collection of Horrifying Events (33 page)

At the top of the stairs was a small
bathroom. To the right was the boy’s room. Boyish toys, plastic and
pewter in action poses, were scattered in the wake of some great
war of the boy’s imagination. I wondered which of the muscular
heroes won the fight. There was a racecar bed against one of the
walls. It seemed an ideal place to put down the trunk—my ball and
chain. My terrible responsibility.

I set the box down and leaned backward
as far as I could to stretch. “Finally!” I shouted.

The boy watched the box with
curiosity. I noticed his attention and it made me
uneasy.

“
Listen. I’m going to wash
up, alright? I want to be nice and clean for your mom’s shitty
meal.” Cleanliness was important. I grinned and rubbed my bloody
hand in his blonde hair, leaving it matted and discolored. “How
about you keep an eye on the box for me?” It didn’t seem necessary
to tell him. “Just stay out of it. Very important things in there I
wouldn’t want you messing up with your grubby little hands,
alright?”

I went out of the room. The boy seemed
unaffected by my language or demands. I stepped into the bathroom.
Wallpaper walls and carpet floors. The bathroom reeked of cheap
potpourri. The bottom of the shower curtain was dingy and brown,
the same rusty color that stained the inside of the
sink.

I closed the door and locked
it.

Click
.

I stared at myself in the mirror. I
looked dismal. I examined the crusted blood on my hands which
accentuated every crease and crack on them. I used the fingers
of one hand to roll the blood on the other hand into small balls
that dropped to the bathroom floor. Thin pieces of the boy’s blonde
hair were knit into the gore. Life and death in the palm of my
hand. My breathing slowed. There was something satisfying about the
manipulation of the blood. My eyes snapped back to the mirror
to catch a smile that my reflection hid—only it hid it a little too
late.

I turned on the water in
the stained sink. The water smelled like cracked boiled
eggs.
What was cleaner
, I wondered,
the water or the
blood
? I scraped a sliver of soap from the
porcelain sink. It was either exfoliating soap or melded with
contaminants. I rubbed the soap between my hands as they sat
beneath the brown-tinted water and watched as the dried blood
swirled down the drain. I dried my hands on a crusted terrycloth
that read
Home Sweet Home
with a little white and brown house sewn into
it
.
I couldn’t
stand it. I pulled the towel from the hook and took it with
me.

Click.

I stepped out of the
bathroom and expected the boy to be outside waiting for me—my
shadow. He wasn’t there. Downstairs I heard the humming and
caterwauling coming from Judith. In an effort to stay away from her
for as long as possible, I went back into the boy’s room. I paused
as I noticed the boy standing in front of my open trunk. I dropped
the terrycloth to the ground.
Home Sweet
Home
. I crushed the towel beneath my foot
like Godzilla and watched the boy. He hadn’t noticed me
yet.

The boy rummaged through
his newfound treasure. Metal
clinks
and
clanks
echoed through the room as he searched. Satisfied
with something he’d found, the boy rose.

“
What do you have there,
little guy?” I sounded friendly and okay with the incursion. I
wasn’t. The primal fear in the boy’s eyes showed that he understood
my anger and disappointment.

In the boy’s hand was my machete, one
of the many tools of the trade. The sharpened blade extended half
of the boy’s length, but it was light weight and easy for him to
lift. The blade bobbed back and forth unsteadily. I took another
step toward him.

“
Didn’t I
ask you to stay out of the box? Don’t you know it’s impolite to dig
through people’s things without permission?” I took another
step.
Home Sweet Home
was in ruins somewhere behind me—somewhere in
front of me, too.

The boy said nothing. He hid behind
the machete best he could.

“
What should I expect?
You’re dad’s an idiot and your mom is…” I looked back toward the
open door and fell silent enough to hear the song.

Are you washed in the
blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

My fingers wrapped around the boy’s
fingers and around the hilt of the blade.

“
We don’t want you hurting
yourself now, do we?” I crouched to make myself eyelevel with the
boy. I pulled the blade from the boy’s hand, like a successful
negotiator. “That’s right. See? This isn’t a toy, little
man.”

I thought about the fat kid on the
bike. I thought about his foul-mouthed friend. I thought about the
old man in the dusty shop. I thought about the skeptic cop. I
thought about merry Mortimer and jubilant Judith. I thought about
the little girl in the blue dress. I thought about the poor
boy.

“
You know, curiosity killed
the cat.” I felt cliché. I felt excited and sick with myself. I
knew the expression was lost on the boy. I examined the blade from
the hilt to the tip and admired it. So simple, like the
boy.

“
I ain’t got no cat.” The
boy said.

I nodded. “I know.”

Cleanliness was important. I swung
countless times. It became increasingly difficult to remain clean.
Blood stained the walls. Blood stained the old carpets. I stood
speckled like modern art in front of what was left of the boy when
I was done. I wiped the edge of the blade on the racecar
bed.

“
Vroom.” I said as the
blood smeared across the blade and blankets.

I stepped toward the door
of the boy’s room, but stopped in front of the bathroom towel that
I dropped.
Home Sweet
Home
. I looked back at the boy.

“
I wish she would have
taught you some manners, little man.”

I started down the steps. They were
easier to traverse without a trunk in tow. Judith’s voice, a hollow
murmur from inside of the boy’s room, became clearer as I descended
the stairs. Bloody tracks marked my path from the room
upstairs.

Judith, with a near-psychic intuition
shouted, “Com’on down, honeypot! You’re going to love what I’m
cooking up. Yes, you are!” Judith continued singing after the
announcement. I assumed she was on verse fifty-three.

“
I’m coming!” I left
another bloody stamp in the carpet as I neared the bottom step. “I
have something for you too!” I shouted. 

Judith didn’t hear me. The clowns in
the living room watched me with disgust.

“
Oh, we’re judgmental now?
Like you all wouldn’t have done it.” I scolded. The clowns seemed
sadder than before.

I wiped a hand across my
wet face. I held my hand in front of me for examination. The wet,
warm blood dripped to the ground in front of me, tapping on the toe
of my shoes.
Tap. Tap.
My eyes shot to the rocking ceiling fan.
Tap. Tap.
I closed my hand into a
fist and stepped toward the kitchen.

I waited outside the threshold to the
kitchen with my back to the wall and painted the wallpaper flowers
red to match everything else. I noticed the girl in the blue dress
swinging on the porch swing just outside the window. Sounds
intensified. The swing’s chains creaked and groaned as they tugged
at the house’s foundation. The floors creaked as Judith’s body
leaned from one side to the other in the kitchen. Her
singing…

Are you washed in the
blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

I stepped into the kitchen as Judith
bobbed back and forth like a buoy on water. Her form jiggled and
swayed under the blasphemous floral dress. She faced away and
tended to the stove.

I joined in. “Are you
washed in the blood? Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?” I
followed her lead. I tapped the flat edge of the machete against my
thigh to the beat.
Tap. Tap.

Judith’s hands went into the air as
she heard me behind her. We had all the talent of a freshmen
chorus. She waved her hands back and forth with the wooden sauce
spoon in one of them. Soup this way. Soup that way. I wondered if
she felt Jesus in that room. I wondered if I could help her if she
didn’t.

“
Are you washed in the
blood—“ She turned around with a painted smile. When she saw me
covered from head to toe in blood, she dropped the sauce spoon and
covered her mouth. She wailed in a scream.

I lifted the machete high into the air
and swung.

“—
of”

I swung.

“—
the”

I swung.

“—
lamb!”

The machete was stuck. I rotated
around Judith’s heap trying to dislodge it.

“
Not now. Com’on! I’m not
done yet.”

The machete wouldn’t give. Judith had
the last laugh, with her wide open mouth, lipstick double or triple
coated around it. Clowns.

“
You
think you’re
so
funny.”

I picked up the wooden sauce spoon
from the ground and waved it in front of Judith’s stone cold,
smiling face.

“
Then I’m taking this, huh!
Keep the thing. My gift to you, you old hag. For the—“ I spun
around and looked at the stove. A pot full of red, greasy soup
bubbled. “—soup.”

I stood over the pot and took in a
deep breath. There were no rolling eyeballs or bobbing goat
testicles. The oily slick surface migrated like amoeba in
water.

“
All that work.” I dipped
the sauce spoon into the soup, stirred it, and brought it to my
mouth. “It’s the least I can do, Judy.” I took it in. The soup was
salty. An aftertaste hugged my tongue and reminded me of potent
cough medicine. I spit what little remained in my mouth on the
ground next to Judith.

“
Not so good, Judith.” I
grabbed a hold of the machete hilt again and pulled. Judith’s dead
body rose and fell with each tug and release. Sloppy, wet sounds
came from below her. “Just give me my—“ The weapon finally gave and
sent me back against the stove.

“
Ah, sh—“ The heat, the
smell, the blood, it all caught up with me. I looked up and noticed
the girl in the blue dress. She stood at the threshold of the
kitchen with a hand over her mouth. Like mother like daughter. Her
eyes were screaming, but her mouth could not.

I stepped with one long stride over
Judith’s body and closer to the girl. “Calm down. I know this seems
bad.” I said. It was an incredible understatement.

The girl turned around and ran from
the kitchen screaming. She burst through the screen door. The tight
springs of the door fought back, but gave to her momentum. I chased
her swiftly at first, but slowed as I slid toward the carpeted
living room.

“
Whoa.” I steadied and
grabbed the wooden trim around the opening to the kitchen. Dark
green paint crusted and flaked from the surface. “Com’on back now!
It’s fine!”

My stomach groaned. The soup. The
chocolate from earlier. I followed the girl’s path out the door.
The clowns were more skittish on the way out. They might have known
they could have been next. I stepped out on to the patio. The girl
was running out toward Mortimer’s truck with her hands in the
air.

“
Back already?” I said to
myself. There was no way Mortimer could have fixed the SUV already.
I looked down and was embarrassed by myself. I was bloodied from
head to toe. I didn’t know what blood was mine and what blood
wasn’t. It didn’t matter. I had a sauce spoon in one hand and a
machete in the other as I descended the few steps from the patio. I
continued toward the truck. The truck stopped suddenly and Mortimer
leapt from the seat and ran toward his screaming
daughter.

“
He killed mom! He killed
mom! I saw it! Oh Lord, I saw it!” The girl screamed and
cried.

Mortimer was confused. He took his
daughter into his arms and watched me. He was speechless. I
whistled Judith’s song as I stepped through the high grass. Each
blade of grass leaned with the wind in an attempt to dodge me as I
approached. As I neared, the girl squeezed tighter against her
chubby father. With each step Mortimer’s face reddened. When I
arrived, I paused in front of both of them and left my arms slack
at my sides.

“
W-What have you done?”
Tears welled in Mortimer’s eyes as he looked me over—as he looked
over the blood and the gore that hung from me like tinsel on a
tree.

“
I know, I know. I didn’t
want it to be this way, but he opened the box.” I shrugged and
half-smiled.

“
W-What?” Mortimer shook
his head.

“
Com’on Mortimer!” My hands
lifted and gestured over myself. “Ain’t seen a little blood
before?”

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