I got into an argument with my friend Wil on Facebook last week while I was supposed to be working overnight security at the zoo. It’s an easy job: nobody ever breaks in and the animals never break out. I literally get paid to spend my entire shift writing horror stories sometimes, and if I’m not doing that, I’m watching Netflix or porn on my phone. I wish what I was about to tell you was just more of my fiction. I wish it weren’t true.
Part I Dad’s Doll by Kyle Harrison My brothers and I grew up in the trailer park version of the Playboy Mansion. Our dad, or as he likes to be called even by us- Big Poppa- was not Hugh Hefner. Not even by a long shot. He was a twisted sick and perverted old man that died as he lived, fucking everything in sight. When he died Adam was the one to give me the call. He was dad’s favorite so that made a lot of sense.
I dug for what seemed like hours. Hours and hours of clawing through dirt that varied between hard clay and the sort of thinning sand that normally makes its home on river-bottoms. Silt that sifted through my hands down and away as I went. That voice: I kept hearing that voice within my head as it repeated those words to me. I tried my best to ignore it, but it was often unbearable.
Dear Jack, I’m not coming back. Please don’t try to find me. I had so many things that I wanted to say to you but I couldn’t for obvious reasons. I didn’t leave this note at the house, which was for obvious reasons also. I hope that one of your friends finds this somehow and gets it to you. I left because I’m afraid of you. I never thought I would say something like that. You are the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.
My brother is Officer Jake Swanson. He’d just graduated from the academy…only just earned his badge. He’d begun his first shift with his field training officer, when about an hour in they responded to a call from a pair of campers They went to that house in the woods. It was his first and last day on the job when he made the gruesome discovery that should be national news. It isn’t being reported. At least not in the way it should be.
I would like to start by saying, there are a lot of bad people in the world, but I am certainly not in their company. I am a good person. I recycle, I pay my taxes and I donate to the LGBTQ Youth shelter downtown. For Craig to call me a turd, if it weren’t so impossibly ironic, was audacious.
I was alone this Christmas. I was heartbroken when my husband Daniel told me he was driving to Tennessee for the week. His sister and our brother-in-law had gotten a cabin on AirBnB and invited us both to come. Being busiest this time of year, the line of work that I’m in doesn’t allow for time off during the holidays. Just Christmas day and then we’re back at it.
Christmas is my favorite time of year. It’s a great time to reflect about how fortunate you are. If you’re thoughtful enough you can spread some joy to others. I didn’t know how to help bring Eric and Sandra joy this year, but as things turned out I don’t think they needed my help after all. They used to live across the street and we were once close. That of course all changed in July.
This is only happening because of what we did. I regret it, but not because of the consequences. I regret it because I could have been good; I should have been kind. I think we deserve this. Think of it like Carrie — you remember that movie? Except not. Not at all. We weren’t the popular kids trying to humiliate Gilbert in front of everybody. What we were doing was a coping mechanism — everyone does it, but that’s never made it okay.
I didn’t realize I was making the decision when I did. In a way, I’d blocked the whole thing out — a sort of denial. This all began months ago at the height of summer. There was a soft noise, but the sizzle of the bacon that July morning nearly drowned the sound of it out. I was honestly unsure whether I’d heard anything at all. I’m sure that you know the feeling I mean. We’ve all done it in response to strange noises: What was that? and the hush that follows as you wait to see if you hear it again.