Norman, Part 3

When I woke up, sweating, shards of morning light sliced through a crack in the window shade. I knew where I was, in my room, with my clothes draped over an armchair and my grandmother’s old oak wardrobe towering against the opposite wall. Yet in my mind I was in the woods outside of town, and it was dark. The creek water rushed over the stones, and I was running, stumbling through the underbrush, my breathing harsh. Thorny vines grabbed at my legs, and tree branches slashed at my face. A shrill voice, a high keening cry, filled the air around me. Was it me, or did it come from back there?

I ran harder, tears running down my face. I couldn’t think about it, wouldn’t think about it, but the image followed me. Edmund Carlton, bent over a pool in the stream, completely soaked, reaching into the water. He was grabbing for something underwater, and then he got it, and pulled. It was heavy, and the water ran down off his head, but he kept pulling, and then I could see what it was—I didn’t want to think about it, but there it was, the sodden body of a dog. Edmund’s dog. The one he’d gotten for Christmas, and which every fourth grade boy had been jealous of, because of the television show. We’d all wanted a collie, but only Edmund got one.

He would walk that dog around town, and wouldn’t answer whenever one of us greeted him. “Don’t bother me, I’m training Maisie,” he’d say, and I’d just stand there and watch him go.

And now she was dead. Drowned. And Edmund had done it.

I knew that fact with as much certainly now, forty years later, as I had that day, running through the woods, but why was I dreaming about now? I hadn’t thought of that dog in years. The last time was when Maggie had wanted a dog, and the one she’d liked the best from the pound was a collie, and I’d said, “No, anything but a collie.”

“But Daddy!” she’d insisted, pulling on my arm, “She’s the best dog. She’s so sweet.”

But I hadn’t given in. We’d gotten a beagle instead, a short round little dog that was too stupid to even learn to sit and stay properly. We named her Dumpling, and Maggie loved her just fine.

Edmund had left town shortly afterwards. I didn’t know exactly why, but when I’d gotten home that day, and my parents had seen what state I was in, they insisted that I tell them what happened. I had, and my father had left the house, a grim look on his face.

The next day at school all the boys were talking. My father had gone over to the Carlton’s, and there had been other dead animals. A cat in the ditch beside their driveway. Another dog, a German shepherd, in the field behind their barn, seven chickens in the chicken-yard, and even a goat with its head crushed in the rocky ravine across the pasture. And they said that Edmund had done it. I could believe it, having seen him pulling that dog out of the water, his dark hair plastered on his pale forehead, and his brown eyes completely dead-looking.

He didn’t come to school. His dad didn’t go to work, and his mom didn’t go into town to do her shopping. There was talk of doctors, and the state institution, and then the Carlton’s were gone. Their farm was put up for sale, but nobody bought it. It was still up for sale fifteen years later when Sarah and I were looking for a place to buy. She’d liked the looks of it from the road, but I said “no,” just like with the dog later. That was just as well, because as soon as Maggie was born, and Sarah decided she couldn’t stand small town life after all, and left, at the urging of her ridiculous, air-headed friend Eloise, who wanted to leave herself more than anything, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with a farm. My little house in town was better. Maggie and I had been happy there. I still sometimes think I hear the sound of her voice ringing from the other room. I know I still hear the click of Dumpling’s toenails on the floor, even though she’s been gone almost as long as Maggie.

I sighed, heavy with memory, and my dream, and asked myself again: why now? What good could it possibly do to dredge up the past? I was better off focusing only on the now. Doing my job, fixing myself meals, watching television, planting my garden in the back yard. I had no need for other people, and certainly not for people who were long-gone. They’d do me no good now.

Madelina Part 3

For the first time in, well, ever, I was actually a little excited for this year’s fall festival.

            That is, as excited as I could ever get over a “fun” social gathering with smiling people and their smiling faces, lips taut with an expression I hated.

            Not to say I was antisocial. Of course not. I had friends. Friends who were practically born in black clothes (seeing as they wore nothing else) and scary makeup. Friends who still referred to me as “You There” or “Mean Girl.” Friends who also most likely wouldn’t be caught dead at the fall festival unless they had hatched an elaborate plan to blow it up.

            The reason for me being so excited for it? Honestly? The recent murder had freaked me out. For some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I still didn’t even know the woman’s name, and yet it would not release its sharp grasp on my mind. Murders didn’t occur here. Ever. This was a quiet, some may say quaint even, little town. But the fall festival would take all that away. I could people-watch. That was always fun. In my head I could easily make some crude remark or joke about what they were wearing, how they looked, et cetera. And if they stared at me for more than five seconds (trust me, I counted) I would sometimes say it out loud. It was a very fun game and the fall festival was crawling with people just begging to be slapped into their proper place.

            My first target would be whichever moron came up with the fall festival in the first place.

            So that’s how I found myself standing alone amidst a crowd of people, wondering what to do with myself. Dad had a surgery, like always, and Mom…well, I wasn’t quite sure where Mom was nowadays.

            I noticed there was something weird about the bonfire, something…unusual. It had only been lit moments before and the wooden scupture that was burning away was not revealing what I expected—what everyone here expected.

            As I was in the middle of pondering this, I suddenly noticed a bright spark fly off in the direction of some people near me. I quickly jumped away but there were more now, fireworks all shooting out of the bonfire and at the people! Suddenly there were screams all around me, everywhere, and I didn’t know where to go. People were running away and a few were pointing at the bonfire with horrified expressions. I looked at it, still keeping my distance as more sparks flew out. I then realized why it had looked odd.

            There was a cow. No, correction, there was a cow in the bonfire. Being revealed by the burning wood as it burned too, a charred, morbid creature.

            My eyes widened in horror and I ran, ignoring the sparks that flew past me and the screams and the people. I ran as far away as I could and didn’t dare stop.

Madelina Part 2

It wasn’t until I was walking home that day that things finally got a little interesting. Instead of thirty minutes late, I now held a new personal record for forty minutes. That had earned me a good hour of detention in the principal’s office. I knew that place well.

            The streets were mostly empty as I walked. Rush hour would soon come, but for now there was no one around. My usual route I took was the longest and wound around some small businesses in the area, one of which was the hair salan.

            That’s when my life suddenly became interesting. Passing the hair salan, I mean.

            First I thought it was a party. There were lots of people and noise and colorful lights. And then I realized the lights were police cars.

            I paused on the street, staring dumbly into the building. Something was definitely wrong. There was lots of commotion and shouts but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The noise was indecipherable.

            Becoming bored with the lack of an understanding at all this, I finally walked on and ignored it. What happened, did someone’s hair dryer blow up? Maybe there was a shortage on colorants for a woman’s fiftieth hair dye job.

            I didn’t think about the scene for the rest of that day, although I certainly should have. Nothing interesting ever happened in this town. And certainly nothing I had the pleasure of witnessing. In fact, it wasn’t until Dad came home from work that I found out what was going on.

            “Did you hear about the accident at the hair salan?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Dad loved to drink coffee at night. Especially when he was on call. It meant getting out of bed at 1 a.m. would be easier.

            “What accident?” I decided to play stupid and not add in any negligent details at what I saw.

            “Apparently someone was murdered. I suppose accident was the wrong word.”

            My head spun. A murder? Murders didn’t occur here. They just didn’t. This really was big.

            “Murder?” I repeated, as if the word confused me.

            Dad nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “Some woman was killed by one of the employees. Drowned I guess.”

             How was one drowned in a hair salan? Who was the woman? Unfortunately Dad didn’t provide any answers to these unspoken questions. I was surprised he knew about this, actually. Normally he was stuck in his own little medical world.

            “The police are doing an investigation now,” he added.

Madelina Part 1

Why was the sun up? Didn’t it know it wasn’t supposed to rise until at least 9:00? (And on some days p.m. would be preferable.) Not even having the strength to moan like I sometimes did in the morning, I simply rolled over and pressed my face into the pillow.

            Fridays. Most people loved them. I wasn’t most people. Then again, most people were positive. I mean, Friday, right? Isn’t that supposed to be the best day of the week? No. It wasn’t. In my mind, it might as well have been Monday. No matter which of those awful five days it was, it still meant that there was school.

            And I hated school.

            Well, I knew Mom wasn’t coming to wake me up. For all I knew she was still out at the bar. Thursday nights were big. And Dad would already be at the hospital, performing his unfortunate (yet vital for the survival of our family) career of being a surgeon. Whatever. So far my future was laid out as such: buying a cheap house somewhere on the edge of town with the minimum wage I would make at Walmart. Daddy would be disappointed.

            Too bad.

            I rolled back over and checked the clock. Great, I was already late. Oh, well, what else was knew? I’d show up at school a good thirty minutes late because I’d take my sweet time getting there and then I’d get a detention.

            I swear I was a record-holder for those.

            Finally I forced myself out of bed. Another Friday. Another uneventful day.

            Joy.

Azalea, Part Three

It’s eight a.m. and I’m still vomiting. Just what is escaping from my stomach, I haven’t a clue. I didn’t eat dinner last night. Actually, I didn’t do anything but impersonate a rock until about eleven after eleven, when I happened to catch a glimpse of the clock and choose that moment to regain normal human emotions. I wish I hadn’t snapped back into reality—a coma would have been much better than facing this. This raspy, venomous scorpion crawling down my throat, leaving swarming fire in its wake. The flames lick my esophagus until I think I might start screaming again, but then I realize I can’t. I used up all of my screaming when I found her—it—the…

I’ve been rotating through the same painful routine for hours: lose my mind; suddenly find it again; remember what caused me to lose it in the first place; battle disbelief; run to the nearest toilet when the protective shell of ignorance cracks under pressure and leaves my stomach undefended for the scorpion’s perusal.

I clamp my tingling hands tightly around my eyes, hiding the puffiness, the crustiness, and the scarlet bolts of lightning flashing through the whites from the prying light of morning. With my head lolling achingly against my bare shoulder, clammy with perspiration, I gently hold my abdomen and cringe at the pure frailty of its purged emptiness. I guess I didn’t have to worry about the calories in that candy yesterday. Maybe I should eat more while I’m not worried about storing fat.

I shouldn’t have thought that. It’s wrong to let your mind drift back to normalcy when your best friend was just murdered in a salon sink. Isn’t it?

It’s also wrong to be blaming your friend for something as stupid as a ruined pair of shoes (which wasn’t even anyone’s fault but the cow’s) while she’s bleeding to death…

What a horrible friend I was. Am? Was? Oh, who knows.

I’m not aware that I’m shaking until my skull begins rattling against the wall, and I can’t tell whether I’m reacting to the chilly air coming at me from the ceiling vent or the gory image frozen to the insides of my eyelids. In any case, I grope my way into the shower, dizzy and half-blind from the exertion of crawling a huge two feet across the icy tile.

On goes the water, a hissing jet stream that scalds my abnormally pale skin. My clothes are lying somewhere near the door. I feel like an infant, or maybe an embryo—helpless and confused about the world around me, with nothing to do but curl up and let warm waves rock me to serenity, if not sleep. I lie here for who knows how long, absorbing the maternal heat that reminds me that I’m still alive, even when Eloise is not.

Knock, knock.

I jump, but I’m too nauseous to do anything but settle back into my fetal position around the drain, watching the whirlpool that slowly swirls down into its open, silver pores. Warwick left for City Hall hours ago to deal with the crisis of having a murderer on the loose, so that can’t be him at the door. “We’d better catch him soon, or the whole town’ll be in a riot,” he grumbled before stumbling out into the chilly sunrise. I suppose I should be grateful that he’s taken such an interest in capturing my friend’s killer, but I’m more than a little miffed that he hasn’t said one word of condolence since arriving home last night, instead focusing on the trouble this will cause him at work: “A murder—great. First the economy, now this? What did I do to deserve all of this during my term?!”

Because of course the world revolves around you, Warwick. Eloise was just a supporting character in your life story.

Knock, knock, knock.

That’s the door again. I almost forgot someone was out there. Strangely, I’m not too concerned that somebody—specifically, a murderer—could be in my house at this very moment.

At least, until I realize that my kids are still in their bedrooms.

I jerk upright so quickly that my nose collides with the glass door. Seeing stars and checking for blood, I groan, “Who’s there?”

“Azalea? It’s me, Jezebel.”

I stifle a growl and collapse onto my back again. I almost would have preferred a bloodthirsty fugitive.

“Azalea? Are you okay in there?”

Rolling my eyes, I call hoarsely, “I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

“Azalea? I can’t hear you.”

That’s because you’re deaf, Jezebel, I sigh inwardly. I’m the one in the shower, after all, so if anyone should be having hearing problems, it’s me.

“I’m fine, Jezebel!”

“Azalea?”

“I’M FINE!”

There’s a pause, followed by a musical, “All-right-ee then, if you’re sure. I just stopped by ‘cause Warwick wanted me to get the kids over to the festival; give you some time to grieve. Sorry ‘bout Eloise, by the way. Get well soon.”

I spend a few exasperated seconds silently pretending that I’m bold enough to correct her use of “get well soon,” which is supposed to be used when someone is ill, not when they’re having a mental breakdown after walking in on a gruesome murder. By the time I register that she’s bringing my children into town, where there’s a murderer, she’s already too far out of earshot (not that she was doing a great job of listening earlier) to notice me shouting, “Jezebel! JEZEBEL! You are not taking my children out of this house! Are you trying to get them killed?! Jezebel!”

I cringe as the sound of a pricey truck (which I’m 99.9-percent sure we paid for) revving its engine and rolling down the driveway seeps through the open window.

I’m pretty sure there’s no one in the house now but me.

I turn up the water temperature until I’m practically sitting in an underwater sauna, thinking that I’m either gonna need a Xanax or a whole lot of vodka to get through these next couple of days.

Outline for 10/27

Our planning today was a bit gruesome, but we did get a clearer picture of where the story is headed. Our murderer has been named: Edmund Carlton. Edmund is an elderly gentleman who was, in essence, exiled from the town as a child after committing an unintentional murder (I think of a dog...in the lake). There will be more on this next time, but the important part is that he has a grudge on the entire town, which accounts for the seemingly unconnected murders.

On the chopping block this week is Addie's character Finn, who, as you all remember, is Ophelia's boyfriend and the pastry chef at Baker's Dozen. Here's where the icky part comes in (and the part that's going to get us all involuntarily shipped off for extensive therapy): he is baked in the oven. He's stabbed first, though, so it's not quite as awful as being cooked alive... Anyway, because both of Ophelia's boyfriends (yes, it's complicated) have been killed, suspicion falls on her.

That's all we have for now! Happy writing!

Then again, that may not be the best phrase to use for this story, but hey, we can be happy fictional serial killers.

Olivia, part one

I lay on my back staring at the grimy ceiling. It was quiet, almost too quiet. I thought back to the other hotels I had stayed in and most, if not all, of them had some variety of screaming, crying, or yelling children but I wasn't surprised if I was the only person in this motel other than the half-asleep zitty teenage boy with way to much metal on his face.

I turned over, smothering my face with the dusty pillow. It was flat and smelled like mothballs so I was pretty sure there was no way I would end up accidentally (or purposefully) asphyxiating myself.

How had I gotten to this point? I was just a carefree author writing what I wanted to write, what I was truely passionate about. Then out of no where my passionate ideas dried up and I was left with nothing except a publisher who wanted another manuscript and for me to 'get in touch with my roots.'

At first I thought he meant 'touch up my roots' which confused me because I hadn't don anything with my hair other than cut it. Soon it hit me, he was banishing me to Wildewood. The place of my childhood. The one place I had loathed to the very core of my being.

"Just get in touch with your roots, Olivia." He had said as if he weren't dealing out the most cruel and unusual punishment he could think of, "See your folks, meet new people, make new friends, get your groove back, and then bring me a new manuscript. You've got two weeks."

He shooed me out the door, ignoring my exlamations at how outrageous two weeks was and two days later I was at the Sunny Days Motel in the middle of Freaking Nowhere.

I groaned and actually seriously considered trying to suffocate myself.