The Baker Family Reunion

The paring knife slipped off the tomato skin and cut a half-inch slice into Meg Baker’s thumb.

“Shit,” she hissed, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

Her boyfriend Sean called from the living room. "You okay?"

“No,” she mumbled, walking to the bathroom like an oversized toddler.

Sean stood in the doorway as she tried to bandage herself.  “This family reunion is driving you nuts. You haven’t gone to one in five years. You hate your family.  Why is this one any different?”

“My father is sick. We don’t know how long he has, but he was the only one who ever showed me a bit of love and kindness. I just want to see him before he…”

Sean watched Meg fumble with the bandage. “Here, let me help.”

Two weeks later, Meg found herself in the backseat of a cab heading toward her childhood home, the home where she spent the worst years of her life fighting with her parents, friends who tried to help, teachers and just about everyone else in her life.  She was going back to face the alcoholic mother who tried to have her committed when she was fifteen, the relatives who clucked and rolled their eyes at the mere mention of her name, and her dying father, not perfect, but the best of the lot.

Meg pushed the doorbell and within a few seconds she was facing her mother, Janet, who stood in the threshold scowling, eyes red and face flush from alcohol. “What are you doing here?” she asked. The air between them filled with wine fumes.

“I invited her,” called out Robert, Meg’s father, from the top of the stairs.

Without saying a word, Janet turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Don motioned for Meg to join him upstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed as Meg plopped into a chair in the corner.

“I’m really glad you made it, honey,” said Don, smiling.

“Yeah, so is Mom. She’s brimming with joy that I’m here.”

“Don’t let her get to you. She’s always cranky these days. You must be thirsty.” Don opened the door in his bedside table and pulled out a bottled water, holding it out to Meg. “Need to keep hydrated.”

“Thanks, but—“

“It’ll help with the jet lag.”

Meg took the water from her father and drank. “Okay. So how are you feeling?”

“Oh, I have good days and bad days. Today’s one of the better ones, mostly because you’re here.”

“Thanks.” Meg tugged at her collar. “Do you have the heat cranked up? Warm in here.”

“No. Are you okay?”

“Dizzy all of a sudden.  Can’t keep my eyes open…”

In what seemed like only a moment later, Meg was straining to bring the room into focus. Her head throbbed and her clothes felt strange, sticky. There was something in her right hand. With effort she raised her arm and saw her fingers clasped around a large butcher knife covered in blood. Her clothes were also covered in a sticky red goo. Heart thumping in her chest as lines started to converge, Meg forced herself up and out into the hallway.  She stopped at the top of the stairs. Lying motionless and face down in the entryway below her as if floating in a pool of blood was her mother. Meg sank to her knees and moaned.

“Ah, you’re up,” said Don, entering from the living room. The shock rendered Meg speechless. She opened her mouth but only emitted another groan. “You killed them all. Well, that’s what the police will believe. Mentally disturbed young woman comes home to a family reunion, there are arguments and…she snaps, murdering everyone except her father, who barely survived.” He held up an arm with bloodstains on his shirt. “I’ve been planning this since the day you left home. You’re wondering why. Why did he do this to me? Fact is, I hated everyone here as much, if not more, than you. A bunch of drunk, backstabbing hypocrites. Now they’re all out of my life and I can start fresh.”

“I thought you were the one who loved me,” whispered Meg.

“I do, baby, but real love is above all about honesty. I know this is hard to hear, but you’re damaged goods, Meg. It’s clear your life isn’t going anywhere and nothing constructive will come of it. On the other hand, I still have a lot to offer the world and a lot to accomplish. Thanks to you, my new life starts today. I know that at some point you’ll understand all of this and be happy for me.”

“You’re not dying?”

Police sirens grew louder. Don peeked out a small window in the door. “No, honey, I’m not dying. This is my rebirth. So, they’re here.” As he opened the front door, a heavy weight suddenly landed on Don’s back. The cops walking up the steps watched in horror as Meg’s knife cut a thin dark slit across her father’s neck, and the Baker family reunion officially came to an end.

Unforgivable

Low black clouds reflected Don Martelli’s mood as he drove down rain washed city streets toward University Hospital and Clinics. His older brother Les was dying, given only a few days by the doctors, and he’d flown in that morning to stand vigil during his brother’s final hours. The two siblings had not been close for many years, but blood is blood and he wanted to say goodbye to the man who had mentored him into adulthood.

His first view of his brother as he entered the hospital room was a shock. The robust, ruddy-faced man he’d last seen three years ago was now barely more than skin wrapped around bone, red eyes shut, his mouth agape to capture as much oxygen as possible. Don went directly to Angie, his brother’s wife, and pulled her to him for an extended hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reluctantly letting her go.

“Thanks Don. I’m so glad you’re here. I know Les would be, too.” She daubed her dark eyes with a tissue. As he greeted other family members, Les began moving, as if irritated, and suddenly opened his eyes. Seeing that he was straining to speak, Angie put an ear close to his mouth.

“Don, he wants to tell you something.”

Excusing himself, Don went to the bedside and leaned down. Les struggled to form the words.

“I know about you and Angie,” he whispered. “I’ll never forgive. I’ll never forget.”

Nurses came in and out of the room, doctors and visitors strode the hallway, but Don was solely consumed by his brother’s words as he stood up.

“What did he say?” asked Angie.

The blood rushed from Don’s face. “Uh, he…just wanted to tell me goodbye. That’s all.”

As soon as he thought it was acceptable, Don excused himself and drove toward the hotel where he was staying, picking up a bottle of vodka along the way. The memory of the affair with Angie blew through him, the lies, the deceit, but it was twelve years ago, and Les had never said a thing to either of them about it.

A half-empty bottle on the nightstand, a cop show on TV, Don’s plan to drown his brother’s words in alcohol and soporific television was a dismal failure. There was something beyond the words themselves that kept rising to the surface despite his efforts, a sense of mission that no man a few breaths away from death’s embrace should have.

The call came two hours later. Les had passed away quietly and was on his way down to the morgue.

Gusts of cold wind blew through the cemetery, and mourners pulled their coats tighter around them as the pastor finished the eulogy. “Amen” everyone repeated, and friends and family of Les Martelli filled past the coffin before it was lowered into the ground. Don stopped the weary looking Angie as she headed toward her car.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She raised her red, glistening eyes to his. “I don’t know. As good as I can, I suppose.”

“I’m staying in town until Friday, so if you need anything…”

Angie tried to smile, but could not manage it. She lightly touched Don’s arm and turned away.

A call lit up Don’s phone at 3:30 a.m. It was from a very distraught Denise, Angie’s sister.

“Denise? What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Don, trying to blink himself awake.

“It’s Angie. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Don, she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She committed suicide. Oh god. The police said she jumped from the Tenth floor of the Hilton downtown. Why would she do that? Why?”

Room 1066. It was the room where Don and Angie used to meet. The air in the bedroom suddenly chilled.

“Don? Don, are you there?”

The phone fell from his trembling hand and the only response Denise received was a scream for help.

The Imaginary Friend

Lugging a full laundry basket. Jessica Marks stopped in the open doorway of her daughter’s room. Five-year old Tess was engrossed in a familiar family dispute with her imaginary friend Kristal.

“You didn’t pick up your room like I asked. There won’t be any dessert tonight if you don’t mind me.”

Jessica smiled. She’d done her research and felt assured that Tess’s imaginary friend was nothing to be concerned about and could even be helping in her daughter’s language development.

“You’ll make a good mommy someday,” said Jessica.

Tess rolled her eyes. “She never listens to me.”

“Believe me, I know that feeling,” replied Jessica, heading off to her destination in the laundry room.

That evening as she and her husband Will sat in bed reading, Jessica put down her Kindle.

“Did you have an imaginary friend when you were Tess’s age?”

Will took off his glasses. “As a matter of fact, I did. His name was Stevie.”

“Stevie,” repeated Jessica with a broad grin. “Interesting. I didn’t, at least that I can remember. It’s just kind of funny and a little weird to see Tess interacting so intensely with someone who isn’t there.”

“She’ll get through it. We all do.”

The next afternoon, Jessica was making the bed when she thought she heard sobbing down the hall. It was coming from Tess’s room, and she found the girl sitting on her bed, red-faced, tears dropping from her chin.

“What’s wrong, baby?” asked Jessica.

“Kristal said that her mommy and daddy don’t want her to have an invisible friend, so she can’t play anymore.”

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.  It’ll be all right.”

“No it won’t.”

Jessica’s phone rang. It was Will so she stepped out into the hallway. “Well, we’re having a bit of a melt down over Kristal. Yeah…. Can I call you back later?”

Tapping her phone, Jessica was suddenly struck by the dead silence in the house. Something didn’t feel right. She turned and walked back into Tess’s room, only to find it empty. Then panic clutched her heart. Lying in a pile on the floor next to the bed were the clothes her daughter had been wearing only seconds ago.

Getting Away With Murder

Friends are overrated, Thomas Grayson would often think to himself, using it as an excuse to spend yet another night lost in his laptop monitor instead of going out and engaging other human beings. Bored with Facebook, Thomas jumped to YouTube and began scanning video descriptions. Something in the “Recommend” category stopped him cold, a video with his name under it, Thomas Grayson #4. It had been posted three days earlier and already had over a thousand views. The name of the poster was “GAWM.”

Curious, he clicked on the video and was suddenly looking down on a city street at night. The camera was following a woman walking down a sidewalk, then cut to a daylight segment of a woman walking to her car. They looked to be the same person, but Thomas couldn’t be sure until a third segment appeared. It was night again and the camera operator was filming through a window looking into a house. The same young woman was sitting on a couch watching TV. Her bare feet were propped up against the coffee table and she appeared to be eating popcorn. The video ended abruptly and Thomas felt both confused and frightened.

He watched the three other videos and found the pattern to be the same, with each one following a different woman as if someone was stalking them. Why was his name on these videos, he wondered? News articles he’d seen of a suspected serial killer in the city rose to the surface in his mind and his palms grew damp. Here were videos of someone following various women. Could they be victims? Prospective targets?

His mind started racing. Maybe somebody was trying to frame him. But who and why? He didn’t know enough people to have enemies. Should he call the cops?

After a fitful night, Thomas slogged through his morning routine. He tapped away at the laptop on the kitchen table in between sips of coffee and found that a new video had been posted during the night, Thomas Grayson #5.  Afraid to watch it and afraid not to, he finally clicked on the title. The camera followed a young woman through the aisles of a grocery store as she shopped. It then cut to the same woman carrying bags into her small house.

Three solid knocks on the front door sent a surge of adrenalin through his veins, and a second one hit when he opened the door to a man in a suit and two uniformed police officers.

“Detective Vince Anselmo. You Thomas Grayson?”

Thomas wanted to slam the door shut and run. “Yes. What’s this all about?”

“We have a warrant to search the premises. Would you mind stepping back, Sir?”

Detective Anselmo and the two cops brushed past Thomas. “Wait. What’s this all about? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The Detective stood in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. “So what are you doing on your laptop? Posting another video? How fucking stupid can you get?”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I didn’t post those videos. Someone else put them there.” Something was horribly wrong.

“Hey Vince,” called a cop coming down the stairs holding a GoPro camera in an evidence bag. “Found it sitting on top of his dresser, and there’s a coil of rope.”

Detective Anselmo shook his head as he pulled out his cuffs. “Jesus, Grayson. You have to be the world’s dumbest serial killer. You’re under arrest for murder.”

“No,” shouted the now panicking Thomas. “I didn’t kill anybody. I…I’m being set up.”

The cuffs clicked shut around Thomas’s wrists as he continued to protest, and a police officer guided him outside to a waiting squad car.  As the house grew quiet again, the YouTube page on Thomas’s laptop refreshed. A new video had just been uploaded by GAWM…Chad McNair #1.

Retribution

His back killing him, Joe Garner looked over at the small redbud tree in its plastic pot with contempt as it waited for him to finish the hole he was digging in the backyard. He could feel the blisters forming as the shovel pierced another inch into the dense soil, but then something in the hole caught his eye. He’d encountered roots and small pebbles, but this looked different. Bending down for a closer examination, Joe squinted, trying to make sense of something completely out of context. He was looking at a woman’s finger.

Two hours later, there was a backhoe in the yard, several uniformed officers and a young detective named Conrad, who was overseeing the excavation. Joe and Ellen watched from the back porch as the machine spewed black smoke and groaned while clawing slowly into the Garner’s lawn.  Soon, the cops waived off the bucket and entered the large gash in the yard to examine the body. Detective Conrad climbed out of the hole and approached Joe and Ellen holding out his phone. He showed them a photo of the victim’s face.

“Either of you recognize her?” he asked.

“No,” responded Ellen quickly. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Mr. Garner?”

“I don’t know who that is,” he said, his neck now crimson red.

An ambulance took the body away and the uniformed cops left a short time later. A grim Detective Conrad sat at the kitchen table with Joe and Ellen sipping a Sprite.

“How long did you say you’ve lived here?” he asked.

“Twelve years,” replied Joe.

“I’m not an expert, but the body doesn’t look like it’s been in the ground anywhere near that amount of time.”

Joe scowled. “Are you implying something, Detective?”

“No Sir,” he responded, looking down at his hands. “I just have to go where the evidence leads me. We won’t know anything until the coroner examines the body.  Are you okay, Mr. Garner? You look pale.”

Joe tried to turn his fear into anger. “The dead body of a woman was taken out of the ground in my backyard. No, I’m not okay.”

After a few more questions, Detective Conrad left and the mood in the house was murky and uncertain.  

Deep into the night, Ellen bolted upright in bed. Joe was yelling from downstairs. She entered the dark living room and found her husband standing in the shadows.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ellen, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“There was a woman…just outside the window…looking in at me.”

Ellen hurried out the front door and returned after a beat.

“There’s no one out there now.”

“It was the woman from our yard,” said Joe.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come back to bed.”

On two more occasions, Joe claimed to see the phantom woman standing outside looking in. After the latest incident, his body trembled in Ellen’s arms as he tried to keep himself from totally falling apart. He let out a sigh and then confessed that he knew the woman dug up in their yard, and that they had an affair, but he swore he didn’t kill and bury her.

“I know you didn’t,” whispered Ellen, letting go of Joe and giving him an icy glare. “But I can’t speak for the police….”

The Boy in the Mirror

The clinic waiting room was bright, sterile and solemn. Parents sat with their troubled children, eyes glazed, wondering why fate had dealt them such a lousy hand and how they were going to pay the deductible for all of these visits. Trent and Lisa Sterling were dwelling on the same issues as their seven-year old son Paul played a game on Lisa’s iPhone. One of the doors to the waiting room opened and Dr. Sarah Hatch smiled at the Sterlings and beckoned them in.

The smile disappeared as Dr. Hatch scanned Paul’s case on the computer monitor on her desk.

“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Paul is consistent. He’s sticking to the story that it’s the boy in mirror who tells him what to do, and that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, the boy will come out of the mirror and hurt him…and you. It’s a classic case of transference, where a person shifts blame for something away from themselves and onto another person or even an object. Paul doesn’t want to be blamed for doing hurtful things, so he blames the boy in the mirror to escape responsibility.”

“Shouldn’t the meds be helping?” asked Trent.

“Let’s give him another week. If you don’t see signs of improvement, call and set up another appointment.”

Under the weight of their emotional burden, the Sterlings rose grudgingly to their feet, their faces reflecting the worry, anxiety and sleepless nights of caring for a child diagnosed with psychopathic tendencies.

That night, Lisa stood next to Paul, who was wearing his pajamas, in front of his bedroom mirror.

“It’s just your reflection. See?” she said.

“He’s in there and he wants to get out,” Paul responded.

Lisa knelt down. “Your Mommy and Daddy love you, Paul and we won’t let anyone hurt you. I think tomorrow we’ll get you a brand new mirror. Okay?”

“He won’t like that.”

The grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway chimed three times and the house was still again, but shadows moved and small feet could be heard padding on the hardwood floor.  Lisa adjusted her position in bed and felt something odd, a damp stickiness under her. She rose up on her elbows and looked over at Trent. Even with only the aid of moonlight, she could see Trent lying on his back, eyes wide open, a black oozing gash across his neck. Trying to process this nightmare image, she heard a noise and turned to see the dark silhouette of Paul standing next to the bed.

“You were right, Mommy,” said Paul, the raised knife blade glinting in his hand. “I am the boy in the mirror.”

I'll Never Die

The large banner headline read: “The Search Continues for Wade Carson.” With the local paper spread out on his kitchen table, thirty-year old Justin Vicks sipped coffee as he read about the search for the missing boy in the fields and woods around the small town of Clayville. The sheriff believed foul play was involved, but wouldn’t go into details, and there was a photo of Wade’s parents, dark, sad eyes and drawn  faces, thanking the community for helping look for their son.

Justin folded up the paper and lit a cigarette. Bumbling yahoos couldn’t find shit in an outhouse, he thought, shaking his head as he considered the level of their ineptitude. After crushing out his smoke in the remains of his lunch, he unlocked the basement door and descended the stairs. In a corner of the dingy, musty room was six-year old Wade, curled up in a tight ball, sitting on a stained mattress. Justin smiled as he took in the scene, and then walked toward the terrified boy.

Around five that evening there was a knock on the front door, and Justin found himself facing two sheriff’s deputies, men he had known all his life.

“Justin,” said one of the officers. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Bill. Art. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry, but do you still drive that blue F100?” asked Art.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, Edith Laskos was looking out her kitchen window last Friday about the time Wade went missing, and thought she saw a young boy get into the passenger side of a blue pickup.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t…I can’t believe this. I was at work all day Friday. You can ask Marv.”

Bill was now looking over Justin’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you had kids, Justin.”

Feeling as if he’d just been punched in the stomach, Justin tried to remain steady. “Kids? No, I don’t have any kids.”

“Well I just saw a boy run from one room to the other.”

Stay focused, cool. “That’s impossible, Bill.”

“I know what I…there he goes again. He just ran into the kitchen.”

Art shook his head. “I saw him too.”

Justin turned, but there was nothing there. “That’s not possible,” he said, his voice cracking and rising in pitch. “There’s no kid here. I’m telling you, there’s no one else in this house.”

“Calm down, Justin. I think we’d better take a look around.”

The two officers brushed past the shaken man, who now turned in a panic.

“Stop,” Justin shouted. Wearing grim expressions, the two officers turned toward the now wide-eyed, frantic man. “There is no boy,” he yelled, flecks of spit flying, “because he’s dead. I killed him hours ago.” Justin sank to his knees sobbing. “I killed him.” After a few moments, he felt a warm breath on one ear and heard a boy’s voice.

“You killed me,” Wade whispered, “but I’ll never die.”