1973

Now:

“I think he’s gone.”

I shush Charlie. My glare laced with anger, but mostly fear.

“But…” I put an end to whatever his argument was about to be. He’s scared but so am I.

My brother and I have been hiding in our great grandfather’s forgotten distillery under the barn on our family’s homestead for a long time. Maybe it’s been ten minutes – maybe it’s been ten hours. Light is still filtering through the floorboards, though, and my ten-year-old brain tells me it’s not even dinner time yet.

************************

Earlier:

“It’s your turn, Char.” Snakes and Ladders is too complicated for him, but I push him to try. I get so bored out here with no other kids. He’s lost interest, though, and is making shadow puppets on the wall.

Sometimes I think it must be nice to be him, Charlie, who no one ever expects anything from. He gets a pat on the shoulder for simply finishing his lunch or flushing the toilet. At six years old, he’s never had a care in the world. Everything is expected from me. I help cook, clean, garden – and I always look after Charlie.

His innocent curiosity piques when we hear the crash, but I know in an instant that something bad is happening. My first instinct is to keep Charlie safe and quiet and I cover his mouth before he could call out for Mama.

We can hear Mama and Grammie screaming…begging. Things breaking – dishes and bigger things. A man’s voice, yelling at them to “Shut up!”. I hold Charlie close, quietly begging him for silence. He’s shaking.

“Where’s my stuff? the man yells. “Where’d you stash my kids?”

Papa? Oh no…

“We need to hide,” I say as quietly as possible, removing my hand from Charlie’s mouth. His eyes are as big as dinner plates, his bottom lip trembling.

“But… but… it’s Papa,” he whimpers. He’s too young to remember.

I can see the old barn from the window; door hanging from one hinge, a corner of the roof caved in – it looks a million miles away but we need to get to the hiding place.

Mama showed it to me a while ago. She told me it was a secret and that only she and I knew about it. Her own Mama, too, because she used to help make the hooch, whatever that is. “It’s perfect for when you need quiet time,” she told me. “Or when the monsters come.” I thought she was just being silly, but I pinky swore to never tell a soul.

Charlie and I crept out the window and jumped into a big old apple tree. There are lots of leaves and flowers and it’s easy to stay out of site while in here. Charlie is a great climber – I always tell him that he’s half monkey. He slithers down to the bottom, waiting for me – a little less graceful, but I make it.

“What do we do now, Jenna?” he asks. I point at the barn.

“Run – fast!” and we do.

I take my brother by the hand and lead him to the secret trap door, shoving him through the hole, my feet on his head in my haste to jump down there, too. We can stand in here, but an adult wouldn’t be able to. I lift Charlie onto an old barrel and tell him to be very quiet. “It’s a game,” I tell him. “The quiet game. As long as you don’t make a peep, you can play with all these toys.”

The toys had all belonged to Mama and were for girls. A tea set, a floppy doll with no eyes or mouth, a plastic horse. All covered in so much dust we can’t even tell what colour they are. His silent tears draw long squiggly lines in the dirt on his face. He doesn’t want to play. “Just stay quiet,” I beg. He nods.

My ear is as close to the hatch as possible without having to move around too much. He must not have seen us running because no one is out here yet. I let out a loud sigh – not realizing that I’d been holding my breath. I finally take a minute to look around the small room, piled high with barrels and bottles and see my tiny brother standing in the corner with a book in his hand. He can’t read and I wonder what has captivated him about it. He brings it to me, opened to a child’s hand drawn picture; a rudimentary image of a little girl with blonde hair and a pink dress standing over a big green monster, lying dead on the ground. The monster has “X”s where his eyes should be, and the girl is holding a big knife, dripping with blood. It’s signed “Sarah”. Mama.

I reach for the book when the ceiling starts to shake. Finger to my lips, I warn Charlie to stay quiet. The book fell to the straw covered floor and probably didn’t make a sound at all, but in our terror, it may as well have been a bomb.

I hug my brother close and we listen to Papa call out our names.

“Jenna, my sweet. Where are you?” It sounded sing songy. “Charlie! My big, strong, handsome boy! Come give your Daddy a hug! I have a present for you….”

Charlie squirms in my arms but I hold tighter and shake my head. He weighs his options, deciding to trust me. Thank God.

Papa’s steps are getting heavier; faster; angrier. “Where are my God Damned kids???!” he screams. I just hold on to my brother and clench my eyes shut as tight as possible. If I couldn’t see him, maybe he couldn’t see me.

“Maybe you’re back HERE!” I hear a bale of hay flip over at the word “Here”.

Empty stall doors are being swung open. Old, forgotten farm tools are being torn from their hooks, hitting the floor right above us, sending swirls of dust down on our heads. We stifle coughs.

A heavy western saddle crashes down so hard it cracks one of the planks, making the space between us and him even smaller.

I usher Charlie into a corner. He’s so small, he can hide behind the barrels. If Papa finds this disguised shelter, he might only see me. I look for a weapon, but all of the pitchforks and garden tools are above. Down here there are only glass jugs and tiny metal things. I snatch up one of the jars, ready to break it if I have to. We wait.

There’s no sound above, and this is when Charlie determines that Papa has gone. I’m not so sure, though. I feel like I can hear his breathing; smell his breath.

After minutes of silence, I’m almost ready to believe that he gave up and I lift the hatch just a crack, taking a peek. Blackout pain overcomes me as a strong hand grabs my hair, lifting me out of the hole.

“There you are, you little bitch! Just like your mother – you think you’re so smart. Where’s your brother? Give him to me and I’ll leave.”

“He’s not here, Papa,” I can barely hear myself through my tears, pain and fright.

“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!!!!” His face is red, veins in his neck are bulging. His grip on my hair gets tighter – I can hear it ripping out of my scalp.

The glass jug is still in my hand, glued in my grip by fear, and I swing it, smashing it against my father’s head. He laughs, easily taking it from me. I think I’m about to be killed.

“PUT…. HER…. DOWN!” I don’t even recognize the guttural growl coming from my mother.

“Sarah, you’re tougher than I gave you credit for,”. He spews an evil chuckle.

Mama was standing in the doorway, light at her back and I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing a pink apron, covered in blood, left arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Her blonde hair, strands of gold, were individually highlighted by the sun behind her. A butcher knife was in her right hand – pointed and violently shaking.

He drops me to the ground and approaches Mama. “You don’t have it in you,”. He’s guessing.

“Jenna, sweetie, go back into the hole. It will all be okay,” Mama’s calm tone doesn’t match her blood soaked face. I heed her warning, though, and rush back to my brother. We are wrapped in each other’s embrace until we hear the loudest clatter, more boards above our head splintering and raining down on us. Then silence.

Charlie and I slowly climb out of the bunker and take in the sights of the barn. The floor is cluttered with everything that was once neatly put away; doors and walls broken, bales of hay smashed open and pieces floating in the waning sunlight. Papa on the floor, unmoving and eyes open. Mama with her back to the wall, shivering, bloody knife at her feet.

I start to run to her when Charlie yells. “Jenna! Look out!” Papa is on his feet and heading straight for me. One eye is nothing but a hole, one leg dragging behind him. He’s growling – not human, almost animalistic. Mama is catatonic.

I have no choice, so I pick up the knife and face my father, ready to do what I have to in order to protect my family.

He’s moving slowly, painfully, powered by nothing but ebbing adrenaline, then falls flat on his back. No more sounds – no growling or gurgling. No breathing. But he looked like this a minute ago, too, and I can’t trust my own eyes, so I approach, knife drawn and I hover, waiting for him to rise again. He doesn’t.

Charlie takes my hand, still clutching the book with the other. “It’s you, Jenna. You slayed the monster.” And he passes me the image that my mother had drawn at ten years old, hiding in the same spot that saved our lives twenty-five years later. He’s right. It is me.