Oklahoma Gothic

He found the note on the refrigerator that read: "Dinner is in the microwave, just follow the instructions. Don't forget to feed the animals twice a day, and find someone to look after the house if you decide to leave. Feel free to invite some friends. Love, Mom and Dad" For months they had planned to leave, and begged him to join them. It was not until he found their corpses in the bedroom that he knew he should join them. He would invite some friends over, and together they would all leave.

Mom was exhausted, so he offered every amenity before they lay down for the night. "If we need you, we'll just holler," she said before he gently closed the door. Through the night, he would watch her nurse and rock the baby through the small, digital screen. For some, it might not seem like much, but he appreciated what he had. Technology had come far: cameras were now adjustable, capable of swivel and zoom. He could save and cherish special moments such as these for years to come. His investments were finally paying off, and for once, he felt connected. I could watch them all morning ,   he thought with a smile, but sadly, there's no time for that. Work's to be done, and she said they're checking out before dawn. 

I asked Daddy if it's sometimes okay to lie. He told me there are times we tell each other "white lies" to make the other person feel better. I wonder if he knows we share a white lie. "Your Mama watches over you from heaven," he often says before telling me goodnight. "And she watches over you too," I say, knowing that once he closes the door, Mama will once again whisper to me from hell. 

“You’re beautiful,” he assured her. “Moreso than the day we met.” He could recall her smooth skin drawn taut over her small, petite frame. She had been beautiful that day, so many years ago. Sadly, she’d struggled to see the beauty he praised. “Someday you’ll see yourself how I see you—I promise.” And so, with his assistance, she tried. He’d purchased moisturizers, makeup and sleeping aids to assist in her self-image. A healthy diet and exercise regimen were adopted, but the healthier she grew, the further she transitioned from the woman he loved—and further toward the woman he desired. Her pale skin, now taut once more, teased his old infatuation with her, but only for a moment. “Pity that your appearance, your greatest attribute, caused you so much grief.” He thought aloud, “Although, on second thought, your skin does look much better on me.”  

 

  “You gotta burn it,” the neighbor said, “or it will return and feed on us all.” “No, this will hold him,” Daddy said as he locked the door to the barn, “that’s Al, he’s our boy.” I felt it gnawing in my belly, each day worse than the one before. It desired more than my family could offer—it longed for them . In my weakness, it grew strong—claiming more of each day for itself until I finally awoke. It looks just like me, but hungry and frail, weeping at its surrounding, slaughtered family—a flaw I will not adopt.

In their will, they had left her everything, including the house, but it had not been enough to keep her from leaving town and cutting communication with him for years. Through separation, he had learned to heal and to forget. He avoided old friends, that street, anything that might resurface the pain. Then, one day, the phone rang. She had returned to town, finally ready to do something with the house. She intended to sell it, but some work needed to be done. Besides, it would be a good opportunity for a reunion . He noticed she had already removed the carpet throughout the house, except one area. With that corner, where the carpet had refused to come up, he fought. Every inch of progress, paid for with pain. She watched as he struggled, and could not help but think how much he looked just like their father .  Just like him. His heart raced. Suppressed memories flooded his mind as he eyed the door to the basement that had been hidden beneath the carpet. He opened the doo...

The doorbell rings. “Can ya get that?” Jim asks. “I’m hangin’ the last sheet.” Janet is at the stove. She wipes her hands on her apron before opening the door. Two teenagers in white button-ups are on the porch. “Excuse me, ma’am,” one of them says, “do you have time to talk about our Lor—” “Not this evening,” Janet says politely, “I’m sorry, boys, but I’ve got dinner on. Maybe you can join us tomorrow? I’ll be sure and cook enough to share.” “Yes, ma’am. Should we return around the same time?” “That’d be perfect.” Janet waves to the boys and returns to the kitchen. Jim places his hammer and nails on the counter. “I’ve nearly finished that room,” he says. “All she lacks is a couple more sheets on that south wall. Who was that, by the way?” He asks. “A couple more sheets.” “What about dinner?” “I don’t see why not,” Janet grins. “Better than lettin’em go to waste.”

Monitor 1 shows him walking through the kitchen at 4 a.m. “Hm, sleepwalking.” “That’s what it looks like.” “Well, that explains the footsteps you heard around the house. Glad that’s settled!” “And monitor 2?” “Oh, that camera didn’t record, but that one shows the bedroom—by the way—I can’t believe you didn’t wake.” That’s because I never slept, just as you never left the bed.

There was a time she enjoyed the challenge—the chase—of something on the horizon. Her career had been defined by adapting to diverse roles, but her latest audition had stirred in her, like the pills and drinks she had swallowed, a cocktail equal parts determination and defeat. The sun was setting on her storied career. The thought scratched and gnawed at her. Roles that could have been written for her, were filled by fresher faces and slimmer waists. It felt as if something or someone were consuming her, and it made her stomach churn. She imagined the woman who fed on her life’s work—like an animal ripping the entrails from another in its final moments—she could see her, swaying with crimson-stained hands that carved an impossible-to-sustain frame. An image of taunt and torment. In the mirror, she could see her; and it looked just like her.

The juxtaposition of a storm on a night sky conjured their daughter to the bedroom. Her tiny frame wedged itself between them. The surfacing of fear, manifested by an echoed sobbing that accompanied their dreadful realization: what lay between them, more than a memory, but the very dress in which they had buried their daughter.

Ethan fanned the photo up and down, partly because it felt natural, partly because the house was hot, partly because he’d seen others do it. Slowly, the black space filled with form, subject. The camera was free, he doubted it would produce anything. With no one home to snap his photograph, he had raised the instrument to his face and aimed at the reflection in the mirror. What developed in his hand was proof of what he’d feared all along; it was him that lived on the other side of the glass. 

The sacraments were passed throughout the congregation, soon to be in the guts of drunks, liberals and liars, but not Brother Chris. He had broken the saltines into squares, filled each thimble-sized cup with juice, and initialed one “BC” for Brother Chris. The pastor raised his cracker, “this is my body.” He raised his cup, “this is my blood.” Brother Chris swallowed the liquid. He waited for the dreadful realization to manifest on the faces in the congregation. His suffering would reveal his true character . He felt a tickle in his throat. His breaths shortened, his heart raced. He clenched at his collar, loosening his tie. Brother Chris wondered if he could be forgiven; his sacrifice robbed by murder.

He would cleanse the temple if Sharon would not. No woman should defile her body with foul things such as tattoos, especially not one who loved a pastor. Did she not respect him? He’d built too good a legacy in this town—devoted his life to it. He’d officiated weddings of old friends, baptized their children. What kind of example was she setting for these young girls? His hands shook with a desperation and fury he struggled to keep below the surface. After a moment, in deafening silence, Sharon was there: makeup running with the tempo of pounding fists on his chest. Beneath his grip, Jericha’s familiar, tattooed shoulders contrasted the transparent-white baptismal gown like liquid porcelain in a pool of ink; a lifeless frame in a stormy sea. 

Monsters in the wall— is she serious? Why can’t she be a normal kid, afraid of something under her bed? Then I could turn on the light, show her there’s nothing under there besides some pissed-stained underwear she hid from her mom. But no, that would be too easy—too normal. Instead, it’s Monsters in the wall . Every. Single. Night. I’ve had enough. She'll see there are no monsters in there—only people who wouldn’t shut up, just like her.

He’ll withdraw when he finds me in the garage, one end of the garden hose stuffed in the exhaust, the other rolled up in the window. He was hard-headed as a boy, defiant as a teen. But I always knew how to make him stay. You’re hurtin’ this heart of mine, I’d say clutching my chest. The year he had the nerve to ask if he could spend his summer at camp, I shoved his daddy’s pistol in his hand— go on ahead and put me out of my misery . Now he wants to go to college. All your daddy’s schoolin’ did nothin’ but drive him away from us, I reminded him when he showed me the acceptance letter. I put my face in my hands and lean against the steering wheel. It’s easier to breathe than I expected, the hum of the engine nearly therapeutic. I wait for the garage door to open, for a frame of light to fill the dark space, for my baby boy to find me and hug me in his arms. Glazed eyes check the rearview, I’m sleeping now, as is my boy in the backseat.

Sam was in the garage, speaking with his parents. Penny sat crisscross, scouring the collection of home-recorded VHS tapes in the living room. She wondered how they would respond to the news, soon to be grandparents. A miracle. “’Sam’s fifth BEST birthday’” Penny pressed the tape into the VCR. Children in Power Ranger party hats were laughing and playing, a young Sam blew the candles. “Aw,” Penny teased as Sam returned to the room, “who’s that little boy?” Brief static cut to a darker, quieter video recorded over the boy’s birthday: a body lay unconscious on the living room couch, her body. “Sam, what is this?” The mother, beaming, was first to appear. Sam’s father joined her in the frame, followed by a gray, slender humanoid that crawled onto the couch. The camera zoomed. Static. “Make a wish!” Static. The creature’s four-digit hand glowed on Penny’s swelling stomach. Static. “Happy birthday, Sammy!” Static. Penny jerked awake. His mother shined over her, “...