one bloody thing after another . table of contents . about the creators
Chapter four Some theories. -- In her room, Martha Richards set the laundry hamper down on the floor and let out a long sigh. Charles and Mitchie were gone. Was the ghost still there in the hallways? She thought she felt the cold again today, but maybe she was just fooling herself. She never saw anything. She didn't know whether it was really her daughter, or if this was some sick joke. Every day, she pretended to be irritated. It was the only thing she could do. And afterwards, after the door was closed, and Charles had gone back upstairs with that idiot little dog of his, Martha stood there shaking. Every day. But holding the tears inside meant she couldn't cry now, either, even when it was okay. She walked to the dresser and picked up the framed photograph of her daughter. She didn't believe in any of this nonsense, at first. But day after day, here came Charles, knocking on her door. Telling her about a girl standing right there, even though Martha couldn't see anything. She should have just shown him the photo on that first day, and asked him if it was her. But he might have just said, "Oh yes, that's her." What if this was some cruel prank? What if Charles had somehow found out what happened? Martha Richards was no murderess. But maybe it was her fault that Elizabeth died. Not a day went by where she didn't think that maybe it was her fault. ---- At three a.m. Charlie gave up trying to sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see that pale face with its open mouth. With his eyes closed, he was certain that she was standing right there, beside the bed, her head down beside his in those bloodied hands. Her dark hair hanging down to the floor. Mitchie was sitting at the foot of the bed, but he couldn't sleep either. He was looking up at Charlie with his cloudy white eyes. Charlie turned the light on beside the bed, and tried again to sleep. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he could see her standing there. Her mouth opening and closing, inches away from his face. No sound coming out. Plenty of blood, though. On the telephone, Charlie's daughter Julia had a lot of opinions. "The restless dead have unfinished business, dad," she said, and Charlie rolled his eyes at Mitchie. "Uh huh," he said into the phone. "Restless business." "Do you know what she wants from you?" Julia said. "She wants me to bother Mrs. Richards every day, as far as I can tell. She wants me and Mitchie to go knock on her door and get the old girl all riled up." "She's an unhappy spirit," Julia said. "She's carrying her own bloody head around in her arms. I think it's safe to say she wants you to do more than irritate Mrs. Richards. She wants revenge." "Well, you haven't seen Mrs. Richards. She gets pretty riled up," Charlie said. "Fine, make jokes. When was the last good night's sleep you had, dad?" "How's Toronto?" Charlie said. It didn't do any good to talk about the ghost. They went around and around in circles. Julia was convinced that the thing wanted him to kill Mrs. Richards. She thought it was a vengeful spirit, but it didn't seem so vengeful to Charlie. Talking to Julia helped, though. They talked for another half hour, and then Charlie climbed back into bed. Mitchie came up to flop down beside the pillow and with Mitchie's warm body beside him, Charlie finally fell asleep. On his walk the next day, Mitchie attracted the attention of two young ladies who were walking home from school. Children. Margaret and Annette. Charlie couldn't tell how old anyone was anymore. They were coming home from the school, though. Sisters with dark hair. "What's its name?" the younger girl, Annette, asked, bending down to scratch Mitchie behind his ears. "Oh, it's old!" she said, looking back at her sister. Annette scratched him again, and Mitchie loved it. Two minutes ago he couldn't even be bothered to wait for Charlie to finish his TV show. He had to go right now. Had to go out. Come on, Charlie. We have to go. We have to go. Scratch scratch at the door. But now Mitchie just wagged his fat little tail, loving every minute of the attention. Stupid little bastard. "Mitchie," Charlie said. "His name's Mitchie." The older girl, Margaret, was just staring at him. There was something a little spooky about the girls, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Everything was spooky these days, anyway. A headless woman in the lobby. An old man in the mirror, where his face used to be. Time kept right on going. A creepy little girl wasn't going to make much difference. Charlie just stared right back at her. "It's old," Annette said again, about Mitchie, and Charlie felt the need to defend his friend's honor. Sure Mitchie was old. So what was wrong with that? "How long do dogs normally live, anyway?" she asked Charlie. What kind of question was that? "You shouldn't talk to strangers," he told the girl. "Whatever," she said. She gave Mitchie one last scratch and then she stood up, and the two girls walked away. Charlie watched them go, but Mitchie was already pulling on his leash toward the woods. "You sure can pick 'em, Mitch," Charlie said. ONE BLOODY THING AFTER ANOTHER image copyright emily horne 2008. text copyright joey comeau 2008. |