By J. L. Thurston

It was the best and the worst three days of my life. It was the best because I felt like a good mother for the first time. It was the best because I was falling in love for the first time. It was the worst because, well, you know why. That’s why you’re here. To know the worst of it.

First thing you need to know about me is I gave up my baby when she was two weeks old. No, that’s the second thing you need to know. The first thing is there’s something wrong with me. I was born under a bad sign. That’s what my mother and my aunt said. But Mrs. Jones says I’m probably on the spectrum. She’s my landlady. I rented the space above her garage until she got put in the nursing home and her sweaty son kicked me out. When that happened, my mom died. Oh, that’s not a bad thing. I barely knew my mom. She was someone who came over on birthdays and the rare occasion. I think that’s why there’s something wrong with me. My mother is why I’m all messed up. She had three kids and we all turned out crazy, so what does that tell you?

I was raised by Aunt Pat, my mom’s twin sister. They’re alike in a lot of ways but different in the most important way. Alike in that they both practiced witchcraft and had childhoods more messed up than mine. Different in that my mother was a lunatic shut-in and Aunt Pat was warm and kind and raised children that weren’t hers. That’s why I left my baby with her. I thought she’d raise my baby better than I could.

I didn’t mean to have a baby. It just sort of happened. I know what causes such things, I’m not stupid. Sometimes I meet a guy and we have sex. It’s just a need like eating, drinking, sleeping. But I don’t connect with people. And when Jane was born, I didn’t connect with her, either. I like to be quiet, and sit in the quiet, and not talk. Jane just wanted to cry all day and all night. I was totally useless to her. I knew I wouldn’t be a good mom. But, even after I tried to make things right, I still never got the chance to be Jane’s mother.

That’s the worst of it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When my mom died, she left me her house. An old two-story shell in Porter, Illinois but you know that. You’ve been there. When people tell me they’ve visited the house where it happened, they often talk about the rust running from the gutters like blood dripping down the stained brown siding. The broken shutters, the way the house looks right back at you. And, you know, the other things.

What I don’t hear people comment on is the way the gravel driveway seems to curl around so when you drive up it’s like you’re spiraling down a drain. No one mentions the surrounding woodland. You’ve been there, you saw the forest, but did you notice when you’re standing in the yard you don’t hear a single bird or cricket? All living things creep around like they’re afraid of waking up the house. Maybe no one else ever noticed those things. But I did.

That house became mine right around the same time Mrs. Jones’ angry, sweaty son kicked me out and I thought, you know what, that was meant to be. I took it as a sign that I was supposed to make some changes. There was one change I wanted to make since the day I gave up my baby. I had a chance to be a better mother than the one I’d been given. I could raise my daughter right. With the house, I had this once chance to start a new life for me and my daughter.

So, I called Aunt Pat and asked for my baby back. She told me she’d let me come take her when I was all settled in. My first day at the house on Deer Creek Road was spent preparing for my new life. I brought in my few possessions, still packed in cardboard boxes, in the living room. I situated the baby’s room with the few things I had for her. Then I spent the afternoon at Aunt Pat’s, getting reacquainted with baby Jane.

I don’t know if you have kids. If you remember what it felt like just before that first kid came along, you might know a little how I felt. Aunt Pat must have sensed how lost I was, but how bad I wanted to make it work. She showed me some basics. The car seat was also a carrier, but I shouldn’t leave her in it for too long. She could eat some things, but not all things, and the things that were okay were in a shopping bag. I practiced folding and unfolding the stroller because it was a lot harder than it looked. When she cried, I had to go through Aunt Pat’s approved checklist of needs.

            1. Does she need a clean diaper?

            2. Is she hungry?

            3. Does she just need to cuddle?

            4. When all else fails, give her a pacifier.

            5. If all that fails, call Aunt Pat.

The sun was going down as I pulled up to the house on Deer Creek Road. My dog, Bones, was in the back of the truck, his long white fur blowing in the breeze, tongue lolled out like a little pink flag. I had a bunch of baby supplies from Aunt Pat, and, of course, my baby.

I got Jane unloaded and brought everything inside. Everything inside except Bones. He had sat in the truck all morning, which didn’t bother me because I had been in and out all day, but now that we were in for the night, I wanted my dog by my side. No matter what I did, how sweetly I begged, Bones wouldn’t come inside. I could tell he wanted to tell me something, but I was too tired to consider what his problem was.

That was the first night we stayed in the house. That’s when it began.

***

At three months old, baby Jane was still not old enough to sleep through the night. I figured it was my fault. I couldn’t afford a crib, so she was sleeping just on the crib mattress. She had blankets, but that did not seem to please her. She cried for formula, she cried for a fresh diaper, she cried for formula again. I was up more than I was down, which was fine because all my mom’s furniture was still in the house and at first I figured it'd be okay because I don’t own furniture, but it turns out I don’t like living with a dead lady’s stuff. Long story short, I was sleeping on the floor sandwiched between two of my blankets. I didn’t mind the opportunities to get up and stretch.

The worst part was that Jane’s crying and the horribly hard floor were not the things that kept me awake most of the night. It was the creak, creak, creak from the attic. I was ready to ignore it at midnight and at two, but by three in the morning I was getting concerned. A cold thought occurred to me.

What if someone was up there?

A cold thought like that is not a thing that I can ignore. Once a thought like that gets in my head, I have to do something about it or I won’t be able to think about anything else, let alone sleep.

I crept into the living room and found my old baseball bat, bought and kept solely for the purpose of protection. All the while, the creak, creak, creaking commenced. The cold baseball bat felt heavy in my fingers. Creak, creak, creak. I remembered the days in phys. ed. The satisfying smack of the bat hitting a ball. Creak, creak, creak, BOOM!

Bones began to bark like mad outside. Jane began to scream. I froze downstairs in the living room.

You’ve been in the house. You know the layout. The main floor has the living room, dining room, foyer, entry hall- that’s where the stain was- kitchen, and bathroom. All the bedrooms are upstairs and the door to get to the attic stairs is closest to Jane’s bedroom door. Jane was between me and whatever was in the attic. Totally helpless and alone. I knew I had to go up and protect her, but I was frozen.

Breathing helped me move my legs. Breathe in, step forward, breath out, squeeze the baseball bat. I made it up the stairs. I made it through the dark hallway to the attic door. It took several more breaths before I could open the narrow door, and even more before I could climb the creaking stairs.

I drifted in the room, one hand gripping the bat, the other arm swaying around, fingers outstretched for the string. I must have knocked down thirty spider webs before I found it. Pulling the string sent the hanging light bulb swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Shadows were cast around the room, dancing and throwing confusion around an attic full of boxes.

All I could see up there were boxes and boxes of junk. Little pieces of my mother’s life stored and left behind. There was no sign of a person. A few startled spiders crawled up into their hidey holes.

The source of the boom appeared to be a couple boxes formerly stacked too high. They lay crushed and defeated on the attic floor, their contents splayed out in all directions. Whatever had caused them to fall could have simply been gravity over time, but that seemed unlikely. I was called away from my investigation by Jane’s screaming. She needed number three and number four on Aunt Pat’s list. Cuddles and a pacifier.

When I was satisfied that she was sleeping once more, I went back to the attic and inspected the mess. I still gripped my baseball bat with one hand, but I didn’t think I’d need it.

The spilled contents of the boxes were made mostly of broken candles, bundles of dried herbs, and what appeared to be a collection of rocks. Among the mess was a single photograph wrapped in twine.

Bind with twine, bind to be mine.

I unwrapped the twine carefully. Unbind slow, they’ll never know. Not that I practiced, but I like being careful.

The picture was my mother and me when I was little. We were at the kitchen table at Aunt Pat’s. A birthday cake was sitting between us. The smoke from the blown-out candles curled between my mother’s hollow face and my somber one. She was bone-thin, like a skeleton. Her black eyes cast down on me, stricken with a look of pure hunger.

I felt a chill run down my spine. My body reacted the way it always did when I saw my mother’s face. My guts twisted, nausea soured my mouth, and I was compelled to locate the nearest closet to shut myself in.

I dropped the picture and let it drift to the floor. I returned to my blankets in my bedroom across the hall from Jane. I got another hour of sleep before she began crying again. Number one on Aunt Pat’s list.

Return for Part Two: Day Two in the House on Deer Creek Road