Chapter 9 #3
“Likewise, Mother.” Hell smirked.
“You’re evil, just like your father.”
“Which one. . .? Fucking slut.” Hell laughed again, but Wynter didn’t hear it. She’d blacked out. Her mascara smudged down her wet face as each of her eyes rained a single tear.
“You’re on your last warning, kid. I’ve already told you how to direct your anger!” Ville cautioned. “I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of tonight.”
Ville called back to me as he carried his wife from the room, “Jolie, keep an eye on Nessie. I don’t know how long we’ll be out!”
My head spun, finally breaking away from the image of Hell. Fear drained my blood. I felt heavier in my seat. I couldn’t move my legs. But I could talk. “Ville, wait!”
He turned for only a second, barely in my sight as he stood in the main doorway, fumbling with the keys for the rusty orange truck that I’d never seen move from the side of the house. Wynter’s pale face rested against his neck. Her bleeding leg caught my attention—kicked over his arm.
I whispered, “You can’t just leave us here.”
He didn’t even answer. He didn’t give us a second glance. But he gave one to his son, if Hell actually was his son—only through the fear of turning his back on an enemy. Something I had also just done.
Hell examined the bloody knife for a second before stabbing it into the wood, breaking the tablecloth for a second time, grabbing my attention, Nessie’s, too, as she trembled at my side. He’d already dismissed his parents before they’d left, feeling they deserved no more attention.
He kicked back his chair and fled behind them, but he wouldn’t head in the same direction. He’d disappear into the shadows of the house like a bogeyman, hiding in wait, ready to attack its next victim.
“Do you think my momma will be okay?” Nessie had tears now, lots of them, all trapped in her sad eyes, none of them falling. She shifted forward, moving into my lap, to avoid her brother’s heavy steps as he moved out of the room.
“Your daddy is taking her to get help. She probably needs stitches.” I worded the least scary-sounding scenario and didn’t tell her that Hell probably didn’t hit the artery that could cause her mother’s death in minutes. Though, I feared it, given her blood loss.
“He doesn’t hurt you, right?” I wondered aloud, keeping my voice quiet. Demons had powers—the ability to hear everything. I’d have had her lipread me, if I thought her capable.
“No. But he scares me. He hates Momma and Daddy.”
I nodded, another false smile on my face. “Good, and he won’t hurt you now.”
I took on the role she wanted me to. Big sister. And I encouraged her to eat, taking her back to her chair. I sat back down in mine, and I did the same, setting a good example.
Only three spoonfuls later, Hell was back.
Gravy dripped down Nessie’s already dirty face as she watched him seep into the room like an entity.
She took the deepest breath, choking on her food in the process.
I stood on shaky legs, but he came up behind me, a hand on my shoulder as he leaned in and whispered, “It’s okay. I got her.”
I let him guide me back into the seat, fearing the repercussions my refusal may have brought.
He walked over to Nessie, pushed a glass of water closer to her, and her tiny hand reached for it.
“Ah-ah. Not yet.” He slapped her back, hard enough, that she’d be bruised in seconds, and hard enough for the small chunk of food she’d choked on to spit across the table, landing closer to my bowl than hers.
“All better, Vanessa.”
Nessie didn’t move; her eyes fixed on the chunk of food that tried to grant her mercy by attempting to kill her. Her brother’s hand stayed on her back, his touch making her uncomfortable.
“Ness, you’re okay, sweetie,” I tried to coax.
Nessie’s eyes lifted to mine. A chill ran down my spine, seeing her fear in them.
“We haven’t been properly introduced, little doll.” Hell’s smile grew, hints of the boy I’d fallen in love with comforted me through the horror of experiencing the entity that had taken him over.
“I’m Hell. . . I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. The boys seem much happier with you here. Woodrow, especially. It’s nice to feel him content, for once.”
I didn’t respond. I sat silent in my chair with my hands at my side; my cutlery now sat in my unfinished bowl.
“It’s polite to respond,” he warned.
“I’m Jolie,” I said, no smile on my face; no joy in my tone.
“I know. I read the diary; he talks about you a lot. Woody did, too, despite your brief meeting.”
He was right—they did. Woodrow and his inner child talked about me a lot. It was easy to read through their inputs. Easy to find peace when their love kissed my fingertips as I flipped through the pages.
But I doubted that loving feeling with Hell.
“Maybe I should take Nessie upstairs to wash her face; I think breakfast got the better of her.”
I saw the relief cloud behind the tears in Nessie’s eyes. She wanted out. She wanted away.
Hell smiled again. It was weird to think of him—my Woodrow—as a person full of hate— as Hell. . . and what a stupid fucking name that was.
He looked at me like he knew all my thoughts, but his attention moved to Nessie. “Do you want to play a game, Vanessa?” he asked.
Her head spun, eyes flying to the sadistic look on his face.
She jumped from her chair; her small blue checkered pajamas whizzed past me like an illusion.
I dared to peer back, searching to see her in the long hallway from my chair, but it was near impossible. My legs lifted me, eager to have me darting down there after her.
I couldn’t see Nessie at all as she slipped out the door; I could only hear the sound of her tiny feet carrying her farther away with each passing second—the only evidence of her on the grounds before it faded to nothing.
I turned back to see Hell had silently moved, but luckily, he was nowhere near me. He stood by the sink, a glass of water from the table clutched in his hand. The tips of his fingers, white, where he was holding the glass so tightly.
“You care about her. Like you do the boys. Well, maybe not Woodrow, maybe that’s different? More?”
He was questioning me, grilling me to see if my feelings were real.
I tucked my nerves under the table with my chair and nodded.
“That’s very nice of you. Tell me, are you going to run?”
“Should I?”
“You decide.” He took a step in my direction. His toes peeped beneath the sweats dragging on the tiles as he moved towards me.
I backed away.
“One, two. . . time to decide, Jolie.”
I stepped back another step.
“Three. . . four.”
Was he counting to ten? Who knew! I didn’t wait to find out.
Before he called five, I bolted. My fast legs charged me through the hallway that felt longer than ever; felt too narrow for a house this size. I didn’t stop to change my shoes, and my oversized, floppy slippers proved to be a hindrance.
Yanking open the door, taking a second too long to release the glass one from its catch, I heard him voice another number. . .
“Eight.”
I hadn’t heard six or seven over the pounding of my racing heart.
Stepping outside, wasting no more time, I kicked the giant pink slippers from my feet.
I jumped the steps, quickly scanning the distance for Nessie, but there was no small blot in my vision that could have possibly been her. And she wouldn’t have been anywhere near the trees yet.
She’d found a place to hide—somewhere small and safe—too small for Woodrow’s vicious alter ego, and too small for me.
I had to find my own. And I had to do it quickly.
I rushed around the house, my fingers brushing the white wooden panels as I moved. Coming to the back door, I could see through its glass that Hell was no longer in the kitchen. I tried the handle, but it didn’t open—still locked from the night before.
A sound reverberated loudly—the glass door crashing into the wooden panels for the third time, and it placed my rapidly beating heart into my mouth.
My jaw dropped, fear forcing its way through my open mouth.
I heard the hate spit from Hell’s mouth as he tripped over one of the slippers I’d left behind.
With no time to spare, I looked ahead to the window—still open a small crack; still calling out with the scent of bad food.
I pulled at the opening, making it big enough for me, and with a slight struggle, as my arms were not as strong as my legs, I hoisted myself up, pulling it closed behind me as he rounded the corner.
I dropped as he came into view of the window. I pulled open a cupboard door, praying the space would be big enough for me to hide as he said the words, “Where are you, little doll? I know you’re close; I can smell your fear.”
And I knew he wasn’t fucking lying.
Time had passed, but I had no idea how much.
My scrunched-up body was starting to cramp, my bent neck aching. The space wasn’t as hot as earlier, but the rancid stench of bad meat was still thick.
I realized I couldn’t hide in here forever.
. . but it must have been hours, and I still hadn’t found the courage to leave my little nook, not even after half a bottle of red wine—the only liquid in here aside from detergent.
I didn’t doubt Wynter would be mad, assuming she was around to actually get mad, as she’d clearly been hiding this bottle from Ville.
It wasn’t my intention to upset her.
The passing hours had made me thirsty. . . so I took a sip and then a swig, and then another, hoping it would give me the Dutch courage to leave the small space. It didn’t. And I was running out of wine from the bottle that was already half empty when I found it.
I pushed the door slightly, cringing when the hinges squeaked. I stopped dead and waited, praying it hadn’t been heard. I hadn’t heard Hell come back inside, though I hadn’t heard anything, I’d slipped into a daydream for what felt like hours, and I’d blocked out the sounds of reality.
Losing myself to images of Woodrow’s room, his bed, his arms, bodies wrapped around each other. . . kissing, touching, giving each other all we could. And it gave me comfort.