Sin Eaters by Caleb Tankersley

Author:Caleb Tankersley [Tankersley, Caleb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Alaska Press

Ghosts on TV

In 1937 my father walked into my bedroom, looped a rope around my neck, and pulled. The rope was for the horses, coarse with little fibers that stung my skin. I was eight years old. Dad was so desperate, using all his strength as if he were being crushed under some giant weight. He’d just caught Mom with another man, strangled them too, but not before Mom confessed I wasn’t really his daughter. After he killed all of us in the house he shot himself through the chest. Of course I didn’t know that at the time, had to skim it later from all the police moving through.

I don’t recall a moment of waking up into this. I was alive and then suddenly I wasn’t without a clue what to do next. After the police were gone I laid myself out on the floor in my room, and I think it was years until I got up and left the spot where they found me.

Now I’m with Cynthia. She’s just lost her husband to another woman and the loneliness seeping out the doors and windows smelled irresistible. It wasn’t Cynthia’s house that I died in but I was just down the street, close enough to move in.

Loneliness smells like fresh apples. Earthy and cold. It was tasty at first but it gets old eating the same thing all the time. Sometimes the loneliness repulses me. Other days I’d peel off someone’s skin just to get a drop. But I’m not that desperate anymore. Cynthia produces it like a fog machine, the loneliness melting right off. I follow her wherever she goes in the house. Walking down the stairs. Dusting shelves in the living room. Making sandwiches at the counter. Sometimes she forgets, still makes two.

I don’t understand why I’m here. I know all about unfinished business, but I got over that a long time ago. Was it something I did? Was I a bad kid? Do I need to fix someone else’s life the way my dad thought he was fixing mine? You’d think that’d be his job. But he’s not here. I’ve seen others wandering around, but never my family. It bothers me that they all died at peace except me.

When I finally left my old house I approached a few others like me, asked what this was about. They gathered around in a circle, smelled me up and down. Then they walked on without a word. They’re no help. Out here we’re all on our own, try to avoid each other. We’re unpleasant when we’re hungry.

Cynthia has a cat named Sheba. Sheba and I hate each other. While Cynthia’s gone all day I usually step on Sheba’s tail. She’ll turn and hiss, but she can’t see me. She just feels it. Sheba’s all alone but she’s not lonely. Doesn’t give off a whiff.

The first thing Cynthia does when she comes home is cry. She puts her coat on the rack, looks out the front window, then moves toward the stairs.

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