one bloody thing after another . table of contents . about the creators
Chapter seven Elizabeth Richards' revenge. -- Martha Richards sat on the edge of the bed, with the photograph of her daughter in her hands. They hadn't come today. Charles and his dog. She'd waited here all afternoon for them to come. She'd been too nervous to eat. She'd even forgotten her afternoon pill. Her daughter Elizabeth had been so beautiful. But the fair ride had malfunctioned, lifting her daughter just slightly too high. A head's length too high. The policeman had told her only what she needed to know. Her daughter was dead. A freak accident. She shouldn't have let her go. She shouldn't have let her go out that day. She knew that there was no way she could have known. Counselors had told her that, her husband had told her. But her daughter was gone. If she hadn't let her go to the fair that day she would still be here. Now, decades later, here was Charlie, showing up every day. And Elizabeth was trying to let Martha know that there was another world after this one. They would be together again some day. That had to be it. It was her daughter. It had to be. Elizabeth. Every day, when Charlie came knocking, Martha wanted to cry and to fall to her knees, because she was scared. She was afraid that he was lying. She was afraid that this was some kind of trick. That he knew somehow, what had happened, and he was tormenting her. And worse, what if it wasn't a trick? What if her daughter really was there, in the hallway every day, and Martha admitted that she believed him, and then the message was delivered? What if that was all, and Charlie stopped seeing her spirit? Her daughter would go away, her message delivered, and Martha would be alone again. Would Martha have to live the rest of her life, just waiting to die, so they could be together? No, this was the only way she could deal with it. She had to pretend she didn't believe. Pretend she didn't understand. And every day Charlie would come back with his dog, standing on the left side of the door, always careful to leave space for her invisible daughter. Elizabeth. And Martha could almost feel her there. She could. This was as close to having her daughter back as she'd ever been. But today they hadn't come. And they did not come the next day. Or the next. A week went by, and Martha saw Charlie in the corridors just once. Neither acknowledged the other. Two weeks went by. A month. ---- When Charlie opened his eyes at three a.m. the soundless mouth was right there, inches from his own face, the lips moving, the eyes staring. Charlie shoved himself back against the wall, and reached out for Mitchie at the foot of the bed, but Mitchie was gone. He was alone with that headless thing. You don't get used to a headless monstrosity. No matter how many weeks have gone by. "What do you want?" Charlie said, and the thing moved its lips uselessly. He tried to call Julia, sitting with his chair facing the corner, so he didn't have to look at that face, opening and closing its mouth like a fish. But Julia was no help. "She needs you, dad," she said. "She has unfinished business in this world." "What is the matter with you?" Charlie asked his daughter. "Any sane person would have told me to go to the doctor. I'm seeing a headless apparition every day. Maybe my medications are conflicting. You should see the list of side effects on this stuff." "Headless ghosts?" Julia asked. "Is that a side effect?" "My sole companion is gone," Charlie said. "My best friend. And now I'm seeing the apparition more often? You don't think those are connected? You don't think maybe I've started to lose my grip? Maybe I need even more medication," Charlie said. "Maybe I need help." "No, she's the one who needs help, dad. She needs someone to speak for her. She needs revenge." "I wish Mitchie were here," Charlie said. "Mitchie didn't take any shit off this ghost." After his phone conversation, Charlie tried to get back to sleep, but he couldn't. When he closed his eyes, she was there, trickling blood onto the floor. When he opened his eyes and turned on all the lights, she was there, too. He locked himself in the bathroom, laying out a blanket and pillow on the floor, and when he turned back around to sit, there she was, standing in the shower. Bloodied and headless. Just waiting. Was the rest of his life going to be like this? He couldn't handle it. "Just leave me alone," Charlie said. "Find someone else to watch you go point at that old woman." But she wouldn't go. And so Charlie lifted the heavy lid to the toilet tank off, and he let it fall to the floor. It cracked in two, and it was loud and violent. The ghost just stood there, watching. Charlie went to the kitchen, and found a knife. "Fine," he said. "You want revenge? I can help you get revenge. Is that what you want? Can you even hear me?" The ghost's face stayed expressionless. The knife felt wrong in Charlie's hand. He imagined Mitchie out in the cold night, wandering blind in the woods, looking for Charlie's warm arm to snuggle underneath. There's no way he would have lasted a month on his own. So helpless and stupid. But maybe someone had taken him in. Maybe he was laying on some warm carpet, his tongue hanging out in front of a roaring fire waiting to be rescued. "I'll help you kill her," Charlie told the ghost. "But then you have to help me. Okay? You have to help me find my friend Mitchie." ONE BLOODY THING AFTER ANOTHER image copyright emily horne 2008. text copyright joey comeau 2008. |