Arachne: Chapter 7
Before the newscaster could sputter another word, Arthur’s finger slammed away on the mute button. There was plenty of negativity plaguing the world already and he would rather avoid adding more worry of seismic proportions that his unwell mind couldn’t handle.
Instead, Arthur let the gentle twang of Jim Croce's serenade of "Operator"--that drifted from the corner jukebox– mosey along into his ears unimpeded and in harmonic swing. Even with one of his favorite tunes playing away, it unfortunately could not absolve Arthur from the series of tedious tasks at hand, tasks deemed overly dull when one was a small-town bartender.
Passing by a row of glassware freshly wiped and dry for a new round of potential visitors, the barkeep garnered a view among the dimly lit lounge and game room, although an in-depth survey would not be necessary. The bar was but a quarter full–a common sight to see on a Monday where the regulars sauntered in, attracted by the bitter taste of booze like unwary flies to the formidable Venus fly trap. No one, besides Harvey, saddled up near the bar counter. The poor man held onto the roughened wooden surface for dear life, a physical memento that had shared its cradle for the lousiest of the inebriated.
As of right now, Harvey was unmistakable to miss with his droopy glasses, receding hairline of greying hair, and a poorly stenciled neck tattoo depicting a caricature of his ex. Although drunk as a skunk and nodding off to the lullaby of the current song playing, the man was pleasant to talk to and was sometimes comical. Arthur found friendship in the oaf- an unexpected but nevertheless, fortunate chord of fate made for striking.
Beyond the counter and towards the curving back wall sat a handful of men and women relaxing and chattering about the daily ordeals of constant repetition, utilizing the bar lodging for a buffer to the great invisible divide between a comforting vice and grueling day's work. The resounding clack of billiard balls colliding in sudden velocities caught Arthur's attention, who peered back into the bar's anterior game room. It appeared that a couple steel workers from the plant near Greenwick were currently in the midst of an all-risk game with two of the grungy mechanics that worked down the street. The only one missing was Joseph Greene, who normally would be partaking in the evening matters of dicey money games. It didn’t take Arthur long to squander over the reason as he only needed to observe his right hand–the skin over his knuckles still raw with tenderness.
The eclipsing thought to delve into the antics committed the night before was cut short by the gruff voice of Harvey begging for another beer. His vocal undertones became increasingly pronounced in an obnoxious trend as more and more liquor filled the drinker's gullet.
“Fill ‘er up another one, Arty!”, he shouted with a cherubic smile.
“Cant. You’ve reached the limit, Harv. Plus, I don’t think your boss will be too appreciative of your hangover tomorrow.”
Harvey’s baby face scrunched in confusion.
“Heh, yeah right. That ass-kisser won't say shit. He knows I’m his only electrician skilled enough to fix any problems with the control systems down at that plant. Pft, I’m fine.”
Arthur fought back a scaling chuckle and slung over the beverage nozzle that connected to the sink to pour the fool a tall glass of water.
“No is still no, buddy”.
Harvey leaned back and squinted both eyes swallowed internally by jaded feelings.
“You aren’t the one to talk. You were here last night yakking it up with me-drinking and drinking and…and… punching poor Joseph like that. It was pretty goddamn funny though, I’ll say that much”
Arthur handed over the glass frowning.
Knowing he had brought bitter strife the night before should have preoccupied his mind, drowning all other transitioning thoughts and diatribes into a tidal wave of regret, but the only thing to ascend from those murky waters was that dream again.
Thunder Lake High….the disastrous fire of 2002…the riddles endowed by the mysterious being enshrouded by glass and flame… and the callback to Martin Chesseley and his legacy.
The convergence of all these details from one dream was unbearably difficult to interpret, too much to even sum a penetrating question to the universe. Did the dream really mean anything significant?
Throughout the past year, Arthur encountered spotty connections into the world of the sleeping realm, but as every logical person should know–never entrust too much faith into the unfolding enigmatic depictions that one’s mind could create. He was a realistic man through and through, despite the captivating vice of night drinking, and yes, even day drinking, that slowed the train of chugging thoughts to snail slither. Even so, the bartender knew he could… and would, survive the binding shackles that dragged with such wrath into the landscape of cycling dreams.
Wanting to be ignorant to the residual feelings transpiring inside him, Arthur circuited to the next task of refilling the few nozzles of recommended beer but was halted halfway into the process when the sight of two interesting-looking individuals walked nonchalantly through the front entryway.
The first individual to stride in–swinging a gait both wide and imposing–was a man tipping a height of five-foot-nine in a dull grey overcoat. Sporting tufts of ginger hair neatly combed and trimmed; he distinctly contrasted in exterior hygiene to the current clientele. The stranger didn’t acknowledge the judgemental stares, but instead chose to direct his auburn beard towards the counter where orbs of crystal blues had staked its territory. He had a calculated trajectory upon the counter and Arthur. There was a behavioral glimpse, as if the man recognized Arthur, but maybe that was the bartenders imagination.
The second individual was an Asian woman, limber and toned in stature who strutted in while flashing a dimpled smile. The environment–which usually attracted those who dwelled in its begrimed setting– was subtly brightened by the lady clad in her long sunset painted, pleated skirt. She closed in on the counter; one hand hugging the leather belt wrapped tightly around her waist and the other waving for her companion over, who still carried a gaze too cold for Arthur’s liking.
As ginger-beard neared, it was staggeringly apparent regarding the height difference of the two for the giantess–when accounting her six-foot-one frame—towered over the man. She swooped a handful of wavy, raven-black hair that rested upon her olive skin, exploiting a level of beauty most unknown to an establishment as such. As she opened her ruby slicked lips to lead the beginning of a conversation, an outburst several seats down caught the room by surprise.
“Holy Smokes!" Harvey roared.
He was breaking through the tangling vines of his drunken stupor, noticing the strange couple, but it was clear that the man failed in concealing his obvious ogling of the raven-haired newcomer.
She responded by presenting a forced half-smile, acknowledging Harvey’s presence in a strategy of minimal interaction–knowing in the grand scheme of order and attraction that the balding idiot was a mere loud-mouthed peon. Raven hair returned attention to Arthur, her makeshift expression softening to a child’s gentleness, yet reared by dark eyes acting as a lethal claw.
“What do you have on tap tonight?” she asked warmly.
Contrary to Harvey, who was entrapped by the woman’s captivating looks, Arthur answered the question without difficulty in a combination of professionalism and ignorance.
“I got Michelob, Millers, and Bud Light. So, what can I get you guys?”
Raven hair swiveled a passing glance to her companion, who responded with a raised eyebrow and proceeded to speak for the first time since entering the bar.
“Two glasses of Miller, if you could please,” ginger beard inquired in a gruff politeness that Arthur was too common with. As he went about filling the beverages, Arthur felt curiosity possess his tongue.
“Haven’t seen you two around here before. Are y’all here for business or just passing through?” the bartender implored in a charade of aloofness.
The woman in sienna continued radiating a smile worthy of desire, nearly convincing Arthur to be indifferent in his judgement.
“We're here on personal business. Thought a drink could settle the nerves,” she replied charmingly.
Arthur nodded and slid two glasses of freshly poured beer to the couple. They exchanged glances and then continued their leering in an odd, uncomfortable fashion that made the barkeep squirm internally.
The man, shining about his crystal blues, stooped into a seat and swirled his beer. Breaking through the barrier of music in which the jukebox had shifted to a pumping eighties riff from a Duran Duran song, the red-haired enigma commanded through the noise easily.
“What is your name?” he queried stiffly while sliding a ten-dollar bill over the counter. Arthur let his eyesight linger between the two before answering hesitantly.
“Arthur Winfrey”, the tired worker bluntly stated and then went to counting change. The bartender thought it would be better to act dense as it would hopefully combat the powerful aura of deception that exuded in waves off this stranger.
The next sentence to play a role in the conversation came from the pursed lips of raven hair, her long eyelashes fluttering coyly as she spoke.
“Mm, a strong name. I like it, it fits you well,
The completely off-guard compliment had the bartender flushed crimson, prompting him to fiercely rub the back of his brown curled scalp in discomfort. Although the pleasant comment was appreciated, he could not agree with the sentimental notion of attractiveness in his current state.
It was during this brief moment of uncomfortableness that Harvey piped up once more, louder and blasphemous in quality.
“Oooooh fuck yeah, Arty! Tell’re you’re an artist!”, he blathered and snorted.
“An artist huh…”, repeated raven hair; the woman pulled out a smile crafted from genuine origins.
Before Arthur could utter a sound, ginger beard shot a glare at his tall companion.
“Rebecca, let's not fool around. I’d rather get through this conversation in one piece”, he addressed curtly to raven hair, who now sported a name to the face.
Rebecca gave the man an eye roll and proceeded to sit quietly while ginger beard commandeered the stage.
“Mr. Winfrey, I apologize for the intrusion. We didn’t introduce ourselves. I am Detective Hoffstrider, and this is my associate, Rebecca Cho,” he motioned to the taller woman with a respectful wave of his hand and then opened his overcoat to retrieve a gleaming piece of metal woven into a padded square of leather.
Seeing the badge of authority was daunting, yet it made sense as to why the two stuck out like sore thumbs in a dive bar as such. However, without heeding to the instructions that his own mind beamed with massive neon lettering of playing the situation out calmly, Arthur blurted out a seamlessly, harmless question to better gauge the pair’s presence.
“Detective? Who are you working with if you don’t mind me asking?”
The detective nodded, affirming the assumptions that he was but a stranger biting off more than he could chew.
“I’m based out of Washington–Seattle Police department specifically. I’m–we’re here under certain circumstances.”
“You must be referring to the body the authorities found last night, right?” Arthur projected eagerly.
Detective Hoffstrider passed another look to his companion; the expression of indecision was painted upon his face.
“Yes and no–we are aware of the incident that transpired the prior night; However, the alternative motive for traveling here is for another reason. Being a knowledgeable member of this town, I don’t suppose you could be of assistance?”
A drawn-out pause took precedence between dialogue as Arthur mulled over the proposed inquiry. There was nothing to be opposed to, yet the feeling of secrecy reared its ugly head from a vanishing point that only the wary worker could sense. Besides the travesty that occurred to Patrick Langley the other night, what objective would lead this duo to a rinky dink town like Porthcawl.
The question would not go unanswered as Hoffstrider elaborated over upbeat background music.
“I can sense your confusion Mr. Winfrey, let me explain. Rebecca and I are here on the behalf of the Embers family. Cassidy Embers–you and your fellow citizens must be aware she disappeared only four months ago.”
It took Arthur a minute to recollect the strand of information lost to depleting memory banks. Yes, he did remember.
In a town like Porthcawl, the gospel of news shifted as quickly as a tempest's rage with its brimming gales. As worrisome was the fact that disappearances increased in frequency over the years, the residents idly went about in life, ignoring the plight of others and choosing to keep what security and sanity was sacred for themselves. Most of the people in Porthcawl were selfish–Arthur was selfish.
“Yes, I know of the situation,” Arthur chirped back solemnly.
Hoffstrider nodded in approval and then exclaimed in a deep tone,
“Good. That's what I want to hear. Now, you are probably already aware that Cassidy is the latest in a series of abductions. Th-.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait, abductions?” Arthur raised in protest; his voice mistakenly loud enough for the general patrons to swerve their attentive heads to the counter.
Hoffstrider peered around, clearly miffed by the sudden embankment of wandering eyes. Rebecca on the other hand watched the scene unfold behind her Cheshire eyes and a wild grin. She nudged her friend and murmured,
“Just get to it, Clancy.”
The detective sighed and instructed on.
“The trend of disappearances in this town has increased dramatically within a span of three years with twenty-one people missing and Cassidy Embers being the most recent. Now, Mr. Winfrey, I hate to impose a question that rides the line of inappropriate conduct in an establishment as such, but have you noticed any strange occurrences, specifically of odd characters or erratic behavior around your town?”
Arthur took several seconds to ponder over the personal inquiry. Porthcawl was the town he grew up in and that wasn’t saying much–it was a place that had forgotten itself, its values, degrading into a slop sink for brutes and drunks to take refuge, but it wasn’t the worst place around. The town had given him Molly, a pure wonder that transcended past the bad. With his mind currently sidetracked on the fixated slipping depiction of a long-gone auburn beauty, Arthur responded defeatedly.
“N..Nothing comes to mind.”
Eyeing the amber liquid yet to be tasted, Detective Hoffstrider displayed a crooked frown that seemed suited for an investigator as such. It was as if the physical portrayal of disappointment had been practiced through time and effort, molded to fit the man’s face in perfect characterization.
“I want you to think carefully Mr. Winfrey. Think really carefully. Has there been anything out of the ordinary that only you have noticed.”
Arthur didn’t know what it was– maybe the emphasis on you that caught him tongue-tied.
Out of the ordinary? Why was this detective so adamant about him knowing something–especially for a semi-lonely bartender who couldn’t stay off the sauce long enough to work through personal shit. However, when putting some thought upon the question–which was thoroughly valid to ask– Arthur had witnessed, or maybe the better term was dreamt, of an event colored both vivid and wicked from the previous night. It was then, while he mindlessly wiped away the nonexistent moisture from an empty glass, did the chant harmonize itself into his head once again.
“ The archway opens….and violet spreads…
From the ivory castle, She watches without eyes…and screams with no mouth….
Seek out who collects the diseased and broken…
Martin Chesseley knows….”
The cryptic message was crazy enough to force an eruption of hastened syllables from the barkeep’s mouth.
“The Chesseley Manor; that might be a step in the right direction to help you out with this investigation. It's right off Bradbury Road near Clemmons Trail. Can’t miss it.”
Immediately, an onset of stupidity washed over Arthur. His answer, which crawled from a mental alcove of possible lunacy, bore very little help in answering the detective’s question directly.
“Excuse me, I don’t follow?” Hoffstrider responded with a perturbant huff.
“Well, I heard the body found yesterday was in the field near the old Chesseley house. It’s just a hunch, but maybe it would be helpful to check the property as it kinda has a reputation for strange shit happening there.’
Hoffstrider’s etched facial lines refused to vanish.
“What is the Chesseley house?
The exaggerated look of confusion prodded Rebecca to shake her curtain of black strands in dissatisfaction.
“C’mon Clancy, we traveled all the way here and you didn’t do your research?” she teased, and then motioned in Arthur’s direction, embracing him with the same warm, tight-lipped smile worn when walking in, “ do you mind explaining?”
Understanding the gist of her request, Arthur took the next ten minutes to bridge the gap of knowledge about the Chesseley manor, specifically Martin Chesseley’s role, the fabled revolt against the native Kalapuya tribe, and the supposed curse.
By the end of Arthur’s jumbled mouthful of impromptu history, an expression of incredulousness had crept onto the detective's face while Rebecca sat unchanged. Wanting the interaction to subside to a calm halt, Arthur excused himself to care of the other patrons. The few that had been playing pool were now rubbing up against the counter for another round.
While attending to the handful of requests for a booze refill, Arthur could detect chatter from his two interesting customers, who were now both squeezed into one of the empty booths towards the back wall.
An hour struggled by. Arthur kept pace with multi-tasking various duties and keeping a steady eye upon the pair. Over the cacophony of the bar, it was quite difficult to interpret their muffled words–discussing subjects with the utmost urgency.
After another thirty minutes, Arthur swiveled towards the bar in time to see Detective Hoffstrider standing near the counter with an outstretched hand.
“ I wanted to thank you for your time, Mr. Winfrey. The information you detailed was quite insightful and may give us a direction to head next. I suspect we could meet again but for now, have a good night.”
Arthur gave a noticeably uncomfortable nod and accepted the detective's hand. Then, the ginger bearded investigator turned tail towards the exit while his companion, Rebecca, presented a delicate hand that waited for a handshake as well.
“I apologize we didn’t have time to talk more about your art,”she giggled.
Without thinking– due to the euphoria of impulsive whims– Arthur locked hands with the strange woman. Instantly, he regretted the action.
A spine-tingling sensation dispersed throughout his body, starting from the locked hand where the intense numbing of an extreme chill diffused rapidly and viciously, paralyzing the bartender's arm. Not only was he experiencing a sudden onset of spontaneity of physical oppression, but Arthur's mind felt muddled with drowsiness as if a mental blockade erected itself to prevent an achievement of focus.
Subsequently–within seconds–the intense storm of cold, mental anguish seceded, and Arthur’s consciousness resurrected to a state of normalcy, allowing him to realize Rebecca was speaking to him in a tone exceedingly dour compared to the charismatic portrayal she previously donned.
“You poor man…”
The words didn’t seem to register to Arthur at the moment, his mind still reeling from the odd phenomena invisible to the room around him.
“Excuse me?”, Arthur pressed.
The woman before him could only stare doe-eyed while edging backwards in direction of the exit.
As Arthur watched this sudden trepidation unfold from a view of bewilderment, a distraction momentarily blinded him from watching the rocking sway of her hips depart. It was the rancorous shout of his boss, Pete, grumbling from out near the game room.
“Hey! Get yer head in the game Winfrey. We got customers!”.
Offering a bumbling nod to appease the boisterous grouch, Arthur swiped another look at the exit, but the pair were gone, enveloped by the cool tendrils of evening air. The mountain of tension crumbled–its budding cliffs marked with concern in Arthur's heaving chest sliding at a neck-breaking speed into an abyss below.
Answers were given but more questions were birthed. What did Detective Hoffstrider mean with his divisive questions and wooden-gavel judgement? Was it worth worrying about?
The time to wonder and transcribe the situation would have to wait until later, when the aching pains of withdrawal for alcohol would whimper once more. He would try to resist, but even now, with the plethora of liquid ambrosia sitting around, it would be difficult. They sang sweetly of temptation, and the resulting chorus would play a mean game against his willpower.
So, with three hours of his shift to go, Arthur would feed his vices through proximity and forget about the strange encounter. Maybe another regal from Harvey about the laughable exploits of his dating history would cheer up the bartender's gloom; he always enjoyed the story regarding a pompous red head the oaf met during a nature outing a decade ago.
And maybe after his shift, he could enjoy the story overzealously with the bitter sip of a glass of ale or two.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time Elle reached Wrangles convenience store, a bundle of stars shone brightly in luminous proportion from their cosmic nests.
The store itself sat on the corner of Buckman Avenue and South Inken Street, encroaching a minimal amount of space regarding the countryside intersection. Being the only lively building for a mile gave the store sole bounty to traveler pockets driving from Eugene to Porthcawl or the reverse.
Wrinkled advertisement posters littered the front windows, obstructing outsiders from viewing in, yet a pale luminescent glow peeked from the remaining slivers of glass. A medium-sized shed, about five feet tall, was attached to the eastern wall of the building, and a thick-handled steel axe leaned against the padlocked door. Hank had probably chopped fresh timber that morning.
As Elle paced across the uneven ground of the parking lot, she couldn’t stop her wandering eyes from focusing on the ice storage unit, which buzzed irritatingly in monotone increments. Written upon the shiny metal doors were squiggles of red-colored graffiti spelling out the sentence:
HaG OF BoNeS kILLS AgAIN, SAve THE LivESTOck.
Elle was stumped on whether she should be more offended by the act or the poor penmanship.
Immature: the word fitted perfectly.
How dreadful for Mr. Binton to deal with such carelessness. Ignoring the chilling embrace of the cool night brushing by her skirt, she pushed through the entry door inside.
Upon immediate notice, the curly blonde customer found the front desk empty, yet a cigarette bud sizzled in a nearby dish. Hank was most likely either in the restroom or in the bait cooler taking stock, so Elle gravitated through the aisles to chip away the minutes. While some folky-rock tune played faintly through the overhead speaker, Elle zigzagged by shelves of candy, chips, cereal, minute-made meals, and more her eyes mentally noting what would be needed for a future shopping trip. After shaving ten minutes away idly wandering, the individual Elle had come to meet finally stood behind the counter in his oversized flannel shirt.
Two denim straps rounded over stocky shoulders, holding a pair of overalls in place. The elder smiled as she rolled up to the cash register, his bushy white mustache flecked with yellow and curled in jolliness. Wobbling forward, the attendant waggled several clubbed fingers to share a jovial greeting–to which Elle returned the favor in abundance through a wide, makeshift smile.
Hank Binton was the owner of Wrangles–had been for thirty-three years. After serving his time in the Vietnam War, in which he had lost his right foot to gangrene, Hank found solace among the quiet countryside of rural Porthcawl and opened up a shop with his wife, Tara.
Elle always had a soft spot for Hank. It stemmed back to the days when her mother would take Elle to Wrangles for their weekly donut date, and Hank always obliged to give free donuts to the pair without charge. That was his greatest strength; the bear of man’s kindness couldn’t be contained.
Another reason Elle enjoyed Mr. Binton’s presence was–what she believed inside her heart to be– for his fatherly insight. He was basically a second father–one who knew right from wrong, and that was the least she could ask for. In her world, men who took accountability for their actions were scarce to come by.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite customer, how’re you doing Miss Greene?”
“I’m alright, I suppose. How’s your day going, Mr. Binton. I see your secret admirer tagged the ice machine again.”
Hank managed a hoarse chuckle.
“Oh, I know, they just can’t get enough of me. Should’ve had Benson protectin’ the front but he isn’t feeling too good right now.”
Hank nodded to the jack russel terrier propped up against some cabinetry behind him. The canine was panting vigorously, and Elle could tell each breath seemed laborious.
Benson was an active pup, and the usual suspect for mischief. Whenever Elle visited the store, the white furred beast with blotches of light brown painted around beady brown eyes, would charge at her in a rambunctious spirit. He was nothing less of a good boy.
However, in the present moment, a stab of concern thrashed all reminiscent thoughts as she watched the poor little guy release lethargic moans repeatedly.
“What's wrong with him?” Elle asked unsettlingly. Hank gave his jutting dome of a stomach a relieving scratch as he pondered the question.
“Can’t say I have any right idea as to what’s making ‘im so sick. Thought I'd take him to Doc Barnes in Greenwick tomorrow if he doesn’t show signs of getting better.”
Elle nodded mechanically, but her cheeks were flushed with empathy.
Hank continued speaking while wobbling past the ill-beaten pup. Elle knew the man found difficulty in walking ever since Tara persuaded him into getting a metal prosthetic in ‘08. He proceeded to heave a sturdy cardboard package that rang with the clinking of numerous beer cans.
“I’ll put it on your daddy’s tab. Don’t wor-”
“Oh Hank, please no. Here’s a ten…. And let me see... A five as well,” she delicately insisted while slipping two bills onto the counter.
Hank gave the polite woman a bushy smile and shook his head in gentle protest.
“I could never make you pay for your daddy’s stuff, Elle. One way or another, I'll find a way to reach him and make him pay his due. If he tries punishing, you for this then he can speak to me on the matter”.
Elle most certainly appreciated the jovial owner's understanding regarding the kind of beast Joseph Greene was, but would it be enough to intimate the drunk from setting a finger upon the already traumatized girl.
Feeling the bubbling urge to dissect the controversial money debt, Elle opened her mouth, ready to masquerade under a stony exterior when Hank piped in once more.
“I don’t want to hear ‘nother word about it. Besides that, are you ok Elle? You look spooked. Is your father on your nerves again?”
Hank's assumption was both correct and incorrect. Even with over two miles in distance, there was still a lingering chill of her father's aura that weighed heavily upon the messenger–it was the eye of oppression.
No…. the ongoing, pale, frantic-stricken complexion frozen on her trying mellow face was because of a different reason. The encounter with Donna had left a smidge of poison that seeped enough to stick around; Her uncanny grin and barbed language were synonymous to heavy rusted chains dragging the young woman under the murky surface of stillborn emotions.
Although Elle would have liked to leave the unpleasant interaction to deteriorate within the realm of insatiable past, a snap judgement call burst into thought–maybe Hank could lend some insight.
“Have you by chance noticed the Gordy family acting strange?”, she asked earnestly.
Presently, the old war veteran was in the midst of a fierce battle swatting away a cluster of flies divebombing into an open container of frothing soup, but as her question found shelter within his ears, a blank expression followed. Subsequently came a look of befuddlement.
“Suppose I don’t understand. Donna was just in this morning and seemed healthy, fine I mean. Is there something wrong with Mr. Gordy?”
“No no, uh..he was perfectly fine,” she fibbed, almost involuntarily to avoid discussing the strange phenomena that occurred dozens of minutes before, “Donna just didn’t seem like herself is all.”
Hank nodded while gulping down a spoonful of steaming soup.
“Hmmm, can’t say I noticed much. She did mention that a nurse was stopping by to check on Mr. Gordy. Maybe the stress of someone new being in her house was gettin’ to be too much.”
Elle’s face scrunched in confusion.
A nurse.
Then, as quickly as her mind could manifest the scene, the Gordy’s house materialized through pieces of obsidian shards. The shadow, the very same that loomed across the specks of sunlight, appeared ever the more harmful. It was a palpable threat that excelled beyond its abstract boundary, enough so to lurk among the grounds of Elle’s mind.
Like her mother Anne, Elle was no slouch when deciphering the emotional aura of others as well as places–it was subtle, a reaction unwary to the common eye. Something inside of her knew the truth. There was no nurse.
Elle could not and would not say these thoughts aloud, not while they slewed around inconspicuously upon the castle grounds within her core mind. No, she would not say anything because if she did let loose, it would become an irrevocable action that would soon turn to odd looks, pointing fingers, and tantalizing gossip.
Elle returned back to the conversation, ushering the plethora of mental synapses in her brain to work in unity for an obvious facade. She smiled and nodded but continued to prolong the subject for more answers.
“A nurse, huh? Donna never mentioned a nurse when I stopped by.”
Hank took another mouthful of soup and nodded in acknowledgement.
“Again, maybe she didn’t want to worry you. You already do so much for them. A very selfless woman you are! Apparently, those two have been waiting on an in-house nurse for a while and the man arrived today. I’m trying to remember the name Donna said. Hmmm….Mr. Nacy… No,....–Oh, Mr.Nancy! That's it. That's the name.”
“Mr. Nancy?” Elle mumbled the name over in rapid breaths. The name felt too foreign in her mouth.
She let the name digest in her mind and let the conversation wash upon more milder shores.
Back and forth, the two bounced from topic to topic–Elle’s job, Tara’s new peonies in the Binton garden, a little about the dead body of Mr. Langley, and Mrs. Barker's famous blueberry-almond cookies showcasing in the upcoming county fair–but eventually the time to leave dawned brightly and Elle followed through with the motions of a sincere farewell.
The air was swallowed by the scent of chicken noodle soup and pork rinds, to which caused a mouthwatering effect in the curly blonde traveler. She was starving and would like to be home in time to fix supper for herself and the unmanageable beast, who was most likely astonished by his daughter's absence and would soon enter a spontaneous rage bent on punishment with possible mercy.
Elle heaved the pack of cans off the counter, the staggering weight straining her nimble arm. While saying the last goodbye, it was almost impossible to divert the conglomeration of thoughts from flocking to various beacons of stress.
The Gordy’s.
Her father.
Which kind of evil would consume her attention for the rest of this starlit night.
As she departed through the entryway door and into the frigid grasp of darkness, reality of her situation began to dig and twist like a plunging knife.
Why concern herself with illusionary shadows when a true monster was alive and well? Maybe it was the synchronized croaking from the frog choir edging the creek or the rapid beating of the powerful wings from a great horned owl passing along–whatever it was, the stimulation made Elle feel truly aware and alive, yet so terrified. It was the knowing–the knowing that this version of reality, her version, could be stuck like this forever.
She tucked a whorl of blonde strands behind one ear and lugged the case of toxins across the parking lot. Elle gave a last look to the brightly lit building. If only she could stay. Stay longer and revel under true kindness.
For now, though, she slummed past the precipice of light and into the darkness, ready to confront the jaws of the animal that was her father.
Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)