Hello Darkness

Chapter Eight

My mother's furious baking sent sweet smells of apples and cinnamon wafting through the house. She always went through that phase whenever Dad's work colleagues came over for dinner—never satisfied with only one dessert.

Those days were filled with the bustle of vacuuming under the furniture, dusting all the knick-knacks and family picture frames decorating the walls and cabinets. We scrubbed anything and everything until it sparkled. When all was done, Alma and I could watch cartoons or bring one toy into the living room to play with, but the house had to stay clean.

Alma abandoned her doll and ventured to the kitchen. She stood next to our mother eyeing her as she cooked. They were identical, from their oval face with warm, gooey chocolate chip eyes to their deep brown hair that flowed over their shoulders.

"Momma, can I have some?" Alma poked at the crumbling crust of the pie still steaming after being pulled from the oven.

My mother softly swatted her hand back. "Honey, don't. It's hot." She lifted the lid of the crock pot letting the salty smell of the cooking roast escape. Alma poked at the crust once again. "Stop." My mother's eyes hardened. "Go play with your doll. You can have a piece after dinner."

Alma dragged herself back into the living room with a scowl smeared across her face. She slumped onto the floor next to her abandoned doll and leaned back against the couch, pouting. Admittedly, the smells in the house were making my stomach rumble, so I felt some of her pain.

The jiggling of the doorknob and the clinking of keys came from the entry. The grocery bags rustled as my father stepped into view. As Alma looked like my mother, I mimicked my father, in my natural state at least. We both had fiery red hair, fair skin, and light freckles dusting our cheeks. My mother always said our emerald green eyes could charm the warts off a toad. Whatever, that meant.

"Honey, I got the carrots." He lightly kissed my mother's rosy cheek. "And this." He pulled a deep green glass bottle from the bag.

"Oh Rich, you're a lifesaver!" She frantically grabbed the items and placed them on the counter. "Can you chill the wine, please?" She ripped open the bag of baby carrots. "I hope these soften in time," she mumbled to no one in particular, carefully dicing the carrots and placing them in a pot.

I immersed myself into whatever cartoon was on television, until the purr of a car turning into the driveway pulled me from hypnosis.

I ran to the window. This car was the fanciest of any of my parents' friends. "Daddy look at this one." I looked back towards my father as he was placing ice into a silver bucket. He sat down the tray and placed his hands on my shoulders as we peered out the window at the silver-grey car. The summer sun glinted off the silver hood ornament. I remembered it from a car show the previous weekend—I'd seen one just like it. A girl with wings. A fairy, I'd called it. "A Rolls-Royce, right Daddy?"

"That's right sweetheart," he said patting my head with a little chuckle. "From the look of it, an old one too. Maybe a '57 or '58."

"They're here, girls. Remember—be on your best behavior." My mother loved to entertain, no matter how small the gathering, and she refused to have a guest who didn't enjoy themselves. She scurried off toward the door, her steps only as big as her pencil skirt would allow.

Of course we understood, this same thing happened at least once a month for as long as I could remember, it was routine by now. Alma stood only as tall as my shoulders as we waited in the archway between the living room and kitchen to greet the guests. "Lynn!" an unfamiliar female voice trailed from the entry. "How are you my dear?"

"Come in. Come in," my mother's voice gushed.

The woman strolled into the kitchen. Her voluminous auburn hair was parted to the side and cascaded over her shoulders. A white collar peaked out from under her navy and red sweater, and her red pencil skirt paralleled my mother's black one, accessorized with large clunky white and gold jewelry. Topping it off with a gold ring with the ugliest brown stone, on her left hand. It was probably expensive. It always seemed the more expensive jewelry got—the uglier.

She pulled off her red sunglasses, uncovering light hazel eyes. "Are these your children?" she said squatting down to our level.

"Yes, this is Charley and Alma." My mother moved behind us and placed a hand on each of our shoulders.

"Aren't they just delightful dear?" She looked back at the man that stepped across the threshold.

"They're delectable, Stella," his voice sent shivers through me, like little pulsing vibrations.

The woman was nice enough, a little over the top and her voice was a bit squeaky, but it was the man that made me uneasy. He commanded the room even standing in the back. His arms lay across his chest as he surveyed, like he was memorizing every crevice. Everything about him was dark, from the clothes he wore to his long black hair tied back at the nape of his neck. His features were dark and stiff, and his eyes were haunting, almost inhuman.

I scarfed my dinner down, nearly choking, to be able to leave the room. Even from the living room, he stared at me. I shifted in my seat trying to stay out of his view, but he always seemed to find his way to another seat to study me. I envied Alma's oblivion. She carelessly played in the kitchen with her doll. Randomly chiming in with a question about the woman's bracelet or shoes, or her ever so pretty engagement ring.

Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief when my father whisked us away to bed. He helped us into our pajamas and tucked us tightly into bed, kissing each on the forehead. "Goodnight girls," he said flipping off the light.

"Goodnight Daddy, I love you."

"I love you, too."

I wished I'd known that would be the last time I would speak to my father, but if anything, I was glad that was the last thing I said.

That was the first night I had the nightmare.

Sun shined through my window when I awoke and glanced at the clock. I stood shaken from my dream, just wanting to curl up against the warmth of my mother.

"Mommy," I called from outside the large mahogany door. After no response, I placed my tiny fingers around the door handle and gently pushed it open. The familiar floral smell of my mother's perfume filled the room and mingled with something else, something—metallic. My parents lay unwavering in their bed as I approached, pushing at their feet. "Mommy. Daddy. Wake up. We're supposed to be at Nana's."

My parents did not budge.

I walked around to find my mother's brown eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Her hair disheveled and strewn across her pillow. Dried blood ran down her neck and stained everything it touched. The white bed sheets were saturated, dripping onto the floor.

A blood curdling scream filled the silence—my blood curdling scream. Then everything went black.

It has been years since I've allowed myself to think back to that night, like a delete key would be pressed on all my progress just by remembering. And hell, as far as I know, it might. But it is too hard to ignore the similarities—the sunken black pits oozing blood, dribbling down her neck—her chest. Staining her sandy hair scarlet.

Officer Silvano clears his throat. "Miss Beckett...did you hear me?" I hadn't—I wonder how long I'd been staring blankly into the grass. I meet his gaze. It's soft and I'm not sure if it's the vulnerability I've just showed him, but it makes my stomach flutter.

"Thank you for telling me that. I can't even imagine how hard that must have been for you." His voice is like a soft caress across my skin, soothing me.

"It still is," I say, in a small voice. I curl my arms around my waist.

After a few moments, he matches my tone and asks, "How do you feel that the police handled your parents' case?"

I scoff. "How am I supposed to answer that?" Like trash—like they'd accept any decision to close it.

"Honestly."

I shake my head—I'm not sure if he'll want my honesty. "I don't believe they tried. It seemed like the only thing they did was try to cover it up."

He nods again and I follow his gaze to the window. He couldn't—I knew this was a trap. I stand pushing off the railing. Officer Silvano looks up at me wide-eyed.

"You think I did it. You made me tear open my past just to accuse me of doing this?" I gesture toward my bedroom window.

He stands, moving away from the stairs and shrugs, his bottom lip jutting out. "Well, I didn't say that Miss Beckett, but you're sure acting like someone that's guilty."