4
WASHING DISHES
The day of the groundbreaking at the new hospital was one day away. Brandon hadn’t given it much thought in the days before, but now with it just one day away, and with the newspaper running a big article about the hospital, it was hard not to get caught up in the past—the past that only he knew of.
The night before the ceremony, Brandon was watching TV later than usual. He dozed off a couple of times and the short naps made him hungry. He walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. There was one piece left of his mom’s homemade apple pie. He smiled as he pulled it out and set it on the table. He didn’t want to eat the last piece so he got a knife and fork and as he started to cut it in half, he heard footsteps coming from down the hall. He looked in that direction and saw his mother walking towards him, smiling. He blushed, feeling he was caught in the act.
Her smile turned to a look of shock and horror as she called out to him. “Brandon, what are you doing?!” She wasn’t looking at his face, only at the table below. She ran to him.
Brandon’s smile turned grim, not understanding what she was doing. He looked down at the table, to the pie and knife. To his own horror, there was no piece of pie, only his hand. His hands shook as he saw that the knife had sliced into his hand. Blood flowed from the cut onto the table. He let go of the handle as his mother rushed over to him, throwing the knife to the floor.
He looked up at her, not understanding what just happened, as she began to cry.
“No, Brandon, no,” she cried. “This isn’t the answer baby.” She held him close, her hand tight over his bleeding cut.
Brandon was in shock, hoping to wake from a dream.
“Daniel!. Get in here!” she yelled. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.”
Brandon’s dad ran down the hall to them. Brandon looked up at his dad running towards him. Just before Brandon passed out in shock, and with his vision blurring, his dad’s face was that of a smiling David Henry Coleman.
The investigation into what happened required extra time, so Brandon was kept in the hospital for the night and most of the next day.
The cut took eight stitches, but would heal, and Brandon felt fine. The bigger problem was evaluating his mental state, and determining if he was a suicide risk.
His parents reported it as an accident, but were inwardly concerned, and because of Brandon’s past in dealing with the murders, doctors were skeptical and wanted to keep a close eye on him.
The groundbreaking for the new business came and went. Brandon was still in the hospital, and missing it was fine by him, but being under observation was almost too much to take. He often tried to eaves-drop on the doctor’s conversations to get some idea of what they were thinking. But by the end of the next day, they released him to his parent’s care, which seemed dumb to him since he lived with them anyway.
His parents smiled at him, even if he could see the worry on their faces. He was as worried as them, but glad to be going home. He didn’t really remember what happened with him cutting his hand with the knife. That was a blur. But he did know that Coleman was tormenting him, and again, he found himself feeling alone, with no one to turn to.
In the week after being released from the hospital, Brandon's parents, as any would have, kept a real close eye on him. And during that week, Brandon thought a lot about Jake and his warnings. Some days his thinking was very clear, but on other days he felt tormented by the 'dead' serial-killer. The one thing that haunted him most—after he cut his hand and he looked down the hall to see his father running towards him—was seeing Coleman's face instead of his father's. He felt weak and vulnerable when his thoughts went into this dark area of his mind. He felt he was being drawn in, and wasn't sure how to stop it.
Over time, Brandon's parents felt comfortable enough to let him go out on his bike and do most of the things that he had always been able to do, except that his time allowed away was cut in half. They were doing what any set of concerned parents would do, being cautious.
One day while out on his bike he felt drawn to the ground where the old hospital once stood—a place where his parents forbid him to go. He pulled to a stop across the street. A bulldozer was rolling across the dirt, smoothing and spreading it. To the far corner, part of a building was constructed and in place. Looking over the land and the ongoing construction, it was hard for him to imagine the hospital ever being there. He knew better, but in the back of his mind he thought he might find The Mangler among the crowd of workers, staring at him. The thought gave him a chill.
He peddled down the sidewalk, his curiosity satisfied for the moment. As he turned up Memorial Drive, he thought back to the day that Doug had stuck the sickle in his front door. That still made him angry. Angry enough that he wanted to get back at him. That time would come sooner than he thought.
That Friday night, Brandon's parents planned on going out to have a pre-anniversary dinner. The only thing was, they wouldn't let him stay at home alone like they had in the past. He was upset at them for treating him like a child and not trusting him. But at the same time, he didn't want to ruin their night out. His babysitter for the night was their neighbor, and mother's good friend, Susan Davis. Brandon always liked her because she always made him his favorite, homemade peanut butter cookies.
They preferred for him to stay over at her house, and although he didn't argue with them about the babysitting, he protested not being able to stay at home. They compromised, and asked Susan, if she didn't mind staying at their house. She agreed with no problem, and as usual, brought a plate full of homemade cookies.
“Thank you again for doing this Susan,” his mother told her. A concerned look showed on his mother's face.
“Everything will be fine Alicia. You two go and enjoy your night,” Susan reassured her, patting her friend's shoulder.
Brandon's mother nodded and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mrs. Davis,” she told him. “Be sure to call me if you need anything,” she told them both.
The sound of the car's horn from the driveway broke the short silence.
“Well, I better go.”
“Have fun,” Susan said, closing and locking the door behind her.
Susan turned to Brandon. “I know you want to do your own thing here at home and I don't blame you. I made those cookies for you so feel free to have as many as you like, without getting sick of course.” She smiled at him.
Brandon had always liked her. He smiled back at her. “Thank you Mrs. Davis.”
“I'll be here in the living room watching TV if you need anything,” she told him.
Mrs. Davis was in her late forties, young by most standards, but to most kids Brandon's age, she was old.
Brandon went to the kitchen and peeled back the shrink-wrap and immediately stuffed one of the warm, fresh-baked cookies in his mouth.
Heaven.
He continued chewing as he pulled a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a glass of milk. He grabbed a paper towel, wrapping two more cookies in it, and headed to his room.
Mrs. Davis exchanged smiles with him as he walked by.
The Friday night felt like any other night as he finished off his last cookie while playing his PS3. He was killed for the twentieth time on his game and hit the pause button. He stood and stretched and walked over to the window. He could hear the TV from down the hall in the living room. The breeze had picked up outside with the tops of trees, visible in the glow of the streetlights, slowly swaying back and forth. Looking into the darkness outside, he had to admit, he was glad that Mrs. Davis was there with him.
An hour had passed since he came to his room. He looked down at the healing scar on his hand—a reminder of something he wanted to forget about. He understood in some ways why his parents were acting so protective towards him. He truly could not remember cutting his hand, and anything that happened in between then and when he woke up in the hospital, except for the clouded vision of Coleman running towards him. Other than that,
he felt fine, and although he knew that The Mangler's ghost was still out there, he wasn't afraid of facing him if it came down to it. If anything, he felt that he owed it to Jake.
The sound of laughter coming from the TV broke him from his thoughts. Looking down at his screen on his TV, he read the words after his last defeat on his video game, You're Dead ... Game Over! He needed a break and decided to grab another cookie from the kitchen. The end of the hall opened up to the living room where he expected to find Mrs. Davis sitting on the couch watching TV. She was not there, but her reading glasses were sitting on top of a paperback book she was reading. The volume on the TV was louder than usual, but he paid it no mind and walked to the kitchen. Entering, he heard water running. She was standing at the sink with her back to him, washing dishes.
“Mrs. Davis? Is it okay if I get another cookie?” he asked.
She did not respond, and the top of her body slumped over the sink, her arms dangled to her side. Brandon's hand froze as he reached for a cookie. He stared at her. Something was wrong.
“Mrs. Davis?”
Her knees buckled and her face plunged into the water-filled sink, arms still dangling.
Brandon took a step back and looked around the kitchen. Nothing else seemed out-of-place. Not knowing if he was dreaming or delusional, he stepped towards Mrs. Davis. Her head began bobbing up and down in the soapy water in the sink. Soap suds and water splashed over the edge, hitting the floor.
Brandon stopped and watched in disbelief as the white soapy water began turning pink, and in seconds, a darker red—the unmistakable color of blood.
Her head rose higher and splashed down violently into the blood-filled water. Her arms still dangled and her legs, slightly bent at the knees, were limp—her body being held up by some unseen force.
Brandon's unbelieving eyes grew wider as he saw a tall, dark figure appear behind her. It held her by a chain, tightly wrapped around her neck, and continued to slam her face down as blood spilled over the sink's edge and ran down the counter to the floor. The all-to-familiar feeling of shock and helplessness held Brandon in place. He knew who this murderer was.
The Mangler, dressed in black, looked over his shoulder, staring back at Brandon. His evil grin was followed by laughter. He lifted her with the chain, her feet slightly leaving the floor. He spun her body around and Brandon immediately saw the source of the blood. Her eyes were gone, and blood poured from the dark holes and down her cheeks.
Brandon finally snapped out of it and turned to run. He ran through the kitchen doorway to the living room, desperately seeking safety outside the front door. He tried to open the door.
Locked!
He turned the deadbolt and unlocked the door, never looking back. He opened the door to escape.
The Mangler, holding his chain, waited for him just outside the door.
Brandon screamed.