Retribution:
A story of deadly revenge
Part One: In which an old house gets new occupants, people start to see things, and 1956 Teen Idol magazines turn out the be the perfect weapon
I hated it. I hated that house the moment we pulled up the gravel driveway in our family car. I hated the windows and the way they looked at me like empty, gaping eyes. I hated the doors, which creaked whenever they were opened. I hated the floors, walls, roof, paneling, and all of the moldy pipes and cockroaches in the basement. I hated every square inch of that old place, but what I hated the most was the thing that lived in the attic.
I'm the eldest of the Peterson kids. There's me, Jessie, then Lila, and then Sarah. Sarah is the baby of the family and at only five years old she has made more friends in one year then I have in my entire life. I remember when she was born and I was eleven, everyone who came to see her would comment on how pretty she looked, and well behaved too. No one ever said those things about me, and no one ever saw the side of Sarah that I did. Sometimes she could be downright bratty! Heck, she's always bratty. But the second I finally have enough and smack her in the side of her head, either Ma or Pa comes in and I always get the blame.
Lila was born when I was two. I'm sixteen now, so Lila is fourteen. She sure doesn't act her age, and I mean that in the best possible way. Lila is Ma's favorite. She's quite, ladylike, and always remembers to say please and thank you, unlike me. She is skinny and frail, with pale skin and no freckles, and always remembers to wear her sunhat when she's outside. I guess I could've looked like that too, but I have more fun running around in the sun anyway.
And then there's me. You'd think that siblings would look alike, even a little bit, but that isn't the case with my sisters and me. They all have fine features; small noses, delicate fingers, and wispy hair. They both are graceful and never stomp. Calling me graceful would be like calling a charging bull harmless. My hair tangles in big knots, I bite my nails, I'm clumsy, and I always forget my manners. My nose is way out of proportion with the rest of my face. I'm not charismatic or adventurous like everyone else in my family, so I don't have any friends. I had one back in Illinois, but since we moved to upstate New York I don't see her anymore. No one really pays much attention to me, so I mostly keep to myself.
As we pulled up to the front porch, Lila and I couldn't speak. I could bet you an easy five dollars that we were both thinking the same things about this house. We were supposed to live in there?
"This house is ugly", Stated Sarah very loudly, "It's so dark and gloomy. Can we paint it pink?" My mom stirred in the front seat, having just been awakened by Sarah's outburst. She sighed.
"Sweat pea, you don't paint houses pink." Everyone in the car was a bit sick of each other, and I bet you would be too if you were stuck in a hot car without air conditioning and one of the most annoying five-year-olds on the planet.
"But Mommmmmm, you saidddddddd I coulddddddddd!" I could see Mom and Dad stiffen in the front seats, obviously taking the hint that Sarah wasn't happy.
"I was talking about your room, dear. Now please! Be quiet while your father and I go open up the house."
"I'll go look for the key…the landlord said it was under the doormat." My dad had been quiet the whole trip. His name was James Randolph Peterson II; quiet a big name for a little man like himself. No one ever really calls him that; they just call him Jim. He's only about 5"6, His glasses are too big for his nose, and his hair was starting to thin out. But everyone loved him anyway, even though he is a bit absent minded at times. My mom said that he had inherited that trait from my grandfather, but I wouldn't know because I've never met him. He's still alive, but my dad's family doesn't talk to him or us because dad married my mom, Loraine. She wasn't considered "The right kind".
I watched as my parents made their way up to the old front door. I tried to look up at the house from my car seat, but it was so tall that I couldn't. I think it was Victorian, one of those houses with the big mansard roofs. I remembered learning about them in history, but I didn't remember too much because I had drifted off to sleep somewhere in the middle of class. After a few seconds of contemplating this, I turned my thoughts back to the present, and then wished I hadn't. Lila and Sarah were quarreling again, and when they quarrel it's like the world quarrels too.
"Where did you put my book, Sarah?!"
"I didn't take your dumb book! I can't even read!"
"Well if you put in a little effort to try, maybe you could!"
"Reading is for dummies!"
"Take that back!"
"No I don't--OWW!"
Lila had swatted Sarah with a 1956 Teen Idols magazine. When the violence started, that's when I left. Naturally I didn't want to get blamed, like I so often do. I always envied Lila because she never got into trouble, and Sarah was "too innocent". Yeah right. I pushed at the rusty car door, and after a few tries it opened. A rush of humid air hit me like a fist. Why did we have to travel in mid July?
The house was even gloomier on the inside. Cobwebs were the only decoration in the house, if you didn't count the tasteless and shabby curtains, and there was an overhanging stench of mold and decay caused by decades of with neglect. The walls were cracked, and obviously the landlord had not had the idea of covering up the all too noticeable water stains. At the rate this was going, everything was just going to get worse.
"Boy! Look at the character of this old place! I'm sure you kids will have lots of fun here." My dad was always the one to be optimistic, even if there wasn't anything to be optimistic about. I'd bet you that if we were hanging off a cliff by a single thread about to fall into the crocodile-infested waters below, he'd comment on how great the weather is.
In about four hours, we had moved into the house. We didn't have much stuff, so it didn't take that long. Sarah had a fight with Lila about which bedroom they wanted, but I didn't get involved because I thought all of the rooms were cruddy anyway. When my parents asked me which room I wanted, I replied so smartly that I'd take the car and drive back to Illinois. Instead, I got stuck with the room across from the attic stairs. It had one big window next to my springy bed, but it didn't have a closet or a wardrobe. I was sitting on my poor excuse for a bed when I heard discouraged grunts coming from the hallway. Looking out, I saw that it was only my dad, trying to open the attic door.
"This door just won't budge!" he exclaimed, through gasps. His face was as red as a tomato, and by the looks of it was only going to get redder. My father was pulling on the door knob so hard that I thought it would be pulled right out and dad would go slamming into the wall behind him. But at that moment my mom came in, her face flushed from the heat outside, holding the house key.
"Try this." She said as she handed my father the key. He put it into the ancient lock, and then tried to open the door. It didn't move.
"Oh well," sighed my dad with a hint of defeat, "We don't need the attic anyway."
A few minutes later, Lila and I were in the kitchen helping mom make dinner when Sarah came in with a discouraged pout on her face.
"Mama, where'd you put my stuff?" Sarah never really did anything herself. She depended on all the rest of us like the world spun on her own personal axis, which, according to her, it did.
"I don't know, dear, where did you put it?"
"You were supposed to bring them in!" My mom, who was busy enough, turned around and asked me with her eyes to go get Sarah's stuff from the car. I mumbled a quick 'fine' and slunk out the back door. I could here Sarah's faint reply and could imagine the smug expression occupying her face at the moment, satisfied that I was the one getting her junk. I got to the car, opened the trunk, and took out the warn cardboard box labeled in barely legible five-year-old script "Sarah". I started humming to myself, but something made me stop. Was that…? No. It couldn't have been. I ran back to the house, trying to make myself believe that I didn't just see a child's face looking down at me through the attic window.
I burst into the kitchen, trying to catch my breath and talk at the same time. My words came out in jumbles.
"There's someone in the attic! There's someone in the attic!" I yelled franticly, not caring that I was disrupting dinner. Sarah, Mom, and Dad started cracking up, as if this was some big joke.
"I'm not kidding! I saw someone up there!" I insisted.
"Jessie," my dad said reassuringly, "there can't be anyone up there! It's locked! You probably just saw a reflection. That's all."
"I believe you Jessie." Spoke Lila very quietly. I couldn't believe my ears.
"Y-you do?"
"Sure. I saw the monster in the bathroom last week!" More laughter followed. I could feel my cheeks turning red. The more I said it, the more it seemed unreal. I decided to go with dad's explanation, and sat down to enjoy my first meal in my new home. I soon forgot about the face that I thought I saw in the attic. It wouldn't be long until it appeared again, and this time more menacingly.