Bloody Bloody Apple by Howard Odentz

Author:Howard Odentz
Language: ara, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BelleBooks, Inc.
Published: 2014-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

25

SICKENING LAUGHTER erupts from the air vent in the corner—the one that sinks straight into the basement where my sister’s locked away. Becky and I used to talk through the vents when we were little. She’d hide downstairs, and I would come up here, and we could hear our voices echo to each other—telling secrets—giggling all the way.

Now, all I can see is Not-Becky curled up against the grate in my sister’s duplicate room, listening intently to my conversation with my grandfather.

“Who told you that name?” I bark at the old man.

He looks scared and leans back in his chair. The wheels creak against the floor boards. “What name?” he says with a tremor in his voice.

“Crawdaddy Fish. Who told you that name?”

His lips quiver as he cocks his head to one side, like he’s listening to something far, far away. “It’s the mice in the walls,” he whispers. “They talk to me.”

I hear the obnoxious chuckling again. It drifts out of the vent like smoke. It’s Not-Becky playing messed-up head games with our grandfather. It’s whispering horrible things to him, the only way it can—through the cracks in the house—through the cracks in his foundation.

“Shit,” I say under my breath, but my grandfather hears me anyway, and suddenly, the flat palm of his hand is sailing through the air. He strikes me on the cheek, harder than I think he’s able.

“Don’t use that language in my house,” he growls with utter clarity. I’m stunned and sorry at the same time. As penance, I let the sting work its way into my face without rubbing the hurt away. I deserve it. I deserve whatever punishment he sees fit to dole out while I’m living under his roof.

“I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I say to him.

He leans forward in this chair. “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he sneers. “When was the last time you went to confession, Benny Boy? And don’t you lie to me. I’ll know if you lie. I always know when you lie.”

“Crawdaddy Fish,” cackles the thing in the basement. “Crawdaddy Fish, Crawdaddy Fish, Crawdaddy Fish.”

“I’m not Ben,” I say as gently as I can, trying to shut out the rant coming from the vent. “I’m not Ben, Grandpa. I’m Jackson. I’m Ben’s son.”

More laughter rises from the floor, so I take a lumpy pillow off of the couch and put it in front of the little metal grate. It’s not perfect, but it cuts out most of the noise.

“I’m going to make the mice go away,” I tell him. “They won’t whisper to you through the walls anymore, Grandpa. Would you like that?”

He shakes his head yes, but I can already see he’s confused. “Who will talk to me, then?” he cries. His eyes are wet. I don’t know what to say to him. The truth is, there’s nobody left to talk to him. My grandmother’s dead, my mother is lost inside herself, and my father hides in the garage.

If I take her away from him, then who will be left besides me?

I can’t do it alone.

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