The Stranger At Black Lake: A Jess Lambert Prequel Novella by Christina McDonald

Author:Christina McDonald [McDonald, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Intrigue Ink Publishing
Published: 2024-03-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Him

I rub the tattoo on my arm, now faded, dimpled, and peaked from the lumps distorting my skin, as I watch the tiny Craftsman across the street. This is the kind of neighborhood where people move to raise families; safe, peaceful. At least looking in. There are basketball hoops in the driveways and bikes left on freshly mowed lawns.

I lean my head against the driver’s seat. Pain pulses through me, white hot and glowing. There’s so much of it, my whole body is alight, my stomach twisting cruelly.

At least the fat principal had a nice car. After I’d gotten her address, I’d killed him, left his body in the dumpster behind the school, then taken it. I would have to ditch it soon, but at least it got me here.

I scratch at the tattoo, lift a flake of skin with my nail. I stroke my fingertips over the distorted words. I can still make out some of the letters. Memento mori.

Remember that you must die.

It’s what he tattooed on us after my mother died. He branded us like cattle to remind us we were his. That we would die.

I had no doubt he would follow through on the threat.

He told us she’d left. That she didn’t love us anymore. But I knew the truth. I didn’t see him kill her, but I heard it. Heard the muffled screaming, the thuds, then the sound of the front door opening, shutting. When I looked out my window, I saw him carrying something limp and formless across the road, to the lake.

The beatings got worse after that. He starved us. Locked us in the cage. He became paranoid, would just sit there smacking his head with both hands, screaming at my mother to go away, to leave him in peace.

When you’re a kid you think these things are normal. You don’t question the adults in your life. And later, when we would’ve happily killed him, he used my brother and me against each other. He made it clear if I told anybody he would hurt Alan. And if Alan told anybody, he’d hurt me. So we stayed silent. For each other.

And then one day he came home with a girl.

She was a raggedy bag of bones, unkempt and filthy, so skinny you could nearly see through her. Her hair was stringy, her nails covered in dirt and grime. She had a crooked nose, a scar on her cheek.

She couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

“This is your new mother,” he’d said, introducing the girl to us. “You are to call her “Mother” and she will call you both “Son.” She will cook for you and care for you. Any help you need will come from her.”

Obviously, our father had completely lost it by that point. That was around the time when the tumors had started to form on my body. He was disgusted with me, and, I think, a little afraid of me. Fortunately, it meant he mostly left me alone. He had

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