“It hurts! Help me!”
I try to say Jesus again. The words bunch up into something else and come out as Sesuj. A second try brings Jusje. The third is stuttered then strong. I call His name. As soon as they closed, my eyes open. Ms. Brands is blank once again.
I walk away, saying nothing more. My steps are fast and only quicken. When my eyes close, I hear the laughter and the cries. The tight grip on my hand is still there, even though nothing is holding it. I feel watched, by eyes I can’t see. They are peering into the deepest parts of me, pulling apart my defenses—they know my weaknesses. The Lord is my Shepherd. He is my Savior. But, I am drifting, and a storm is coming. No. It’s already here. And I am vulnerable.
The eyes that see into me have a familiar feeling. After dad died, darkness and I shared a room. It perched in the corner, watching me. I know darkness. It’s a weight that only gets heavier. It’s a lie that convinces until it’s your truth: There is no God. If there is, why does He let you suffer? You don’t want to live. There is just this miserable, heavy, painful life. Kill yourself. No one cares about you. No one would even notice if you were gone.
Darkness is a lie I once believed.
John Doe
Quiet used to be deafening. Now, it’s nowhere close. The road is a quiet roar beneath my tires. My mind is toying with an idea that I haven’t been able to have before. I don’t want to drive to the shed, and add M’s body to the rest. I want to bring her back to Payne. Just as her death was peaceful, I want the same for those who love her. There isn’t much left of me. Even this new layer is just remains of a man who has nothing to live for. I am remembering happiness, but that doesn’t change the things I’ve done. I am accountable for the lives I have ruined. My punishment will be severe. It needs to be.
The gas is nearly half. I could probably make it another couple hundred miles. Once it runs out, this is over. I will turn myself in. Her body will make its way back to Payne, and her family can say goodbye. If Teddy were still here, I would have been dead long before this plan had a chance to enter my mind.
Teddy is in the corner of my eye. Small yet large. It is just a bear. Faded brown. Aged. He is small in size, but the presence surrounding him fills the seat next to me. It is returning again, not in my mind, but in the car. The radio is back on. Static. Station. Static. Station. And then it stops.
“Found in the woods earlier this morning was a male. John Doe, approximately mid to late 30’s, was found split open and gutted. Authorities believe it wasn’t human.”
The station changes:
“Eyes multiplied. Two times eight. And then double. It sees me, inside and out.
Daddy touched me. It watched. It laughed.
Lids. Half of them shut. Half of them open. And then switch.
It’s a man. It’s a creature. It’s not human. It watches. It sees.
There is no escape.”
The radio is off. I now don’t know if it was ever actually on. It feels like I was sleeping. The tingle of Teddy is present, but it’s fading.
Time feels different. My gas gauge is much lower than I remember. The sun’s placement in the sky seems closer to the horizon. It was just after twelve o’clock when I last looked at the clock on the radio. Now, it’s two.
Matthew Mills
I have been in the basement since getting back home. It’s been well over an hour and a half, and I have yet to go back upstairs. Janet might not even know I am down here. I am haunted. The darkness that grabbed my hand has followed me home. Now, whenever I close my eyes, the laughing fills my ears.
My dad’s notes have kept me sober in situations that drive many to addiction. He was an addict. That was before he and mom met, before I was even a conceived idea. Mom was an addict, too. The Lord delivered her in a cleaner, more severed way though. He also delivered my dad, but there were scars from an abusive childhood that never healed. And they became translucent, mostly through these notes.
He kept them hidden. I found them when cleaning out the attic of the old house, when helping mom move. I don’t think she even knew about them. We all keep secrets. Dad’s were of struggle. And his struggle gives me hope. No matter how much we fall, the Lord will pick us back up. My dad was living testimony to this. He faced his consequences, because those are promised to us just as much as blessings are. But, in the end, his walk with Jesus was all that mattered.
Mom has always told me this: sin knocks as a stranger, enters as a guest, and stays as a master. Nothing is truer. Sin is a living creature. It remembers who it shared a room with, who it used to own. It knows me. I’m older now, both in spirit and in age, but it remembers the hold it used to have.
Something familiar grabbed hold of me. I feel eyes, the same eyes that followed me in my bedroom this morning, the same eyes that watched me from inside Ms. Brands.
I am flipping through dad’s notes. They are scrambled, with thoughts scribbled. Dashes are spread across them like commas. Some of these were written during his sickness, others before. He didn’t date them. These notes aren’t a chronicle of his illness. There is no timeline. Some are written in ink, some in pencil. He hardly ever mentions the cancer. But, I recognize some of the scenarios. I remember being the little boy, next to him when no one else could be, hearing the grim diagnoses build until it was us accepting his drawn out death.
I have searched these notes over and over, especially since Janet had her second miscarriage. Dad had to deal with two miscarriages himself. There was brief mention about it in one of his earliest notes. It isn’t dated. There is just a look to the paper, the smeared ink, and the little doodles that line the sides. It looks older than the rest, considerably.
His sanity, worth, and identity were always in question. But, he never questioned Jesus Christ. He wasn’t afraid of death. In many of the notes, he talked about it as a reward: Death is the light; life is the dark. Dad probably never knew that these random scribblings of self doubt, fear, and faith would speak to me as if he were still here. Or maybe he did.
John Doe
These hands are still mine to control. If that is the truth, where did two hours disappear to? Teddy has taken over this body many times, but I have always been aware of it. In my own way, I have allowed it, because it was going to happen regardless. This feeling is something different. It feels like I had freedom, only to remember that a chain is still clasped around my ankle.
That is a life that isn’t mine. But, I try to cast the freedom away, only to find it clings to me. There is more. Or something has me believing it. Teddy’s hold is strong again. I helped grow his power—his hold on me. And as we get closer and closer to Minea, his influence is finding its way back. I felt lighter, but now the weight is becoming heavy again.
Two nights ago, I had a dream that a chain was wrapped tightly around my ankles. I was being pulled. I only had control of my eyes. I could only watch. The sound of the chain dragging against ground echoed against my ears. My hands were pinned to my sides; my legs didn’t kick to get free. I watched as it pulled me through my childhood kitchen toward the basement stairs. There was nothing I could do. I was pulled down the stairs slowly, hearing the creak of something following behind. As my feet hit the basement floor, countless eyes opened on the walls. They were the eyes of children; they were the eyes of Teddy; they were the eyes dad had when he stuck me with his piece. Behind me, I could still see the light of the upstairs. But, the chain kept pulling me forward. Inch by inch, foot by foot. Until, I saw deformed hands the color of soot.
And then I woke up. Two nights ago, the dream was just that: a dream. But, as I have come to find perspective, I’m a fly in a spider web, slowly being pulled to my death. Teddy got in again. He used the radio. He messed with my perception of time. I don’t know how far we have traveled. I just know that his presence is heavy and full next to me once again.
But, he still doesn’t have full control. These hands are still mine to control, at least, for the moment. I know one thing for certain. Teddy and I
are not the pairing we used to be. I’m a puppet who now knows that life doesn’t come with strings. And I want free. I know I don’t deserve it—no, I do deserve it. Those children are dead because of these hands, but someone else was always controlling them. Dad was the only one I killed. Teddy made me feel fresh despite all of my shame. Dad became everything I hated. I didn’t question why he would do something like that. I questioned nothing. When my teddy bear came to life, I felt safe. After the shed, safety was all I wanted. But, it didn’t last. It never does.
Matthew Mills
The stairs are creaking. I can hear the quiet breathing of Janet.
“Matthew?” I can hear her call too. “Are you down here, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” I reply. Dad’s notes are back behind the desk, in the box where I found them.
“What are you doing down here?” Her question reaches me before I see her face.
“I don’t even know.” And I don’t. I suppose I am just trying to pass the time. When three o’ clock comes, I know that I’ll wait to hear Marcy come home.
“Sweetheart, your face looks very swollen.” Janet’s in the doorway of my small office now.
I have disregarded the fact that it has become more difficult to see out of my right eye. The pressure that’s been building around