If this book doesn't make your skin crawl…it's on too tight!
Black Christmas
A novel by Landon Turner
Based on the 1974 film by Bob Clark
Its Christmas time at Bedford University, and Jess and her fellow sorority sisters at Pi Kappa Sigma have decided to stay on campus for the holidays. Hopefully, they can get away with one last party without their domineering house mother Mrs. Mac getting in the way. What the girls have planned is an idyllic and fun-filled break from studying, but the strange obscene phone calls have been getting more disturbing. And then, Jess's friends start to go missing. This will be one Christmas Jess won't forget-a very black Christmas.
Prologue
It was a cold winter.
One of the coldest that the small, placid town of Bedford, Michigan had seen in over thirty years.
The year was 1974 and while all the children were out sledding, making snow angels, and picking snowball fights with the kids down the street, the parents were snuggled by the fire watching the latest on President Nixon's resigning following the Watergate Scandal, which had caught the American public's eye since back in 72' when it first reared its head.
It was a tumultuous time in the annals of American history, famous for the rise of big hair, bell-bottoms and new-fangled disco music, and an era of massive economic plight, cultural change, and innovation.
Marginalized minorities were breaking the proverbial glass ceiling and protesting for their rights, much to the displeasure of many small-town Americans who favored a simple quiet suburban life away from these protests.
The culture was starting to first dabble in the repudiation of politics, and many of the younger generation were disgusted by the government and instead turned to pop culture-which was easy to do in such a fad-happy decade. Trends were popping up everywhere, in music and clothes, and in the general theme of liberation from adults telling you what you could and couldn't do.
It was a time of sex, drugs, and a time to do whatever the hell you wanted.
25-year old Mary Ingram knew all about liberation.
She felt it tonight.
She felt the bright, incandescent glow within her, the white-hot surge of energy that bubbled up inside of her like a dormant volcano, that exploded out of her when she hit the bastard…she had grabbed the paperweight sitting on the desk and cracked him across the base of the skull as hard as she could.
It felt goddamn amazing.
The power she felt was immense.
She had felt powerless the first time that asshole set his lustful eyes on her, the first time that he caressed the small of her back, the first time that he pulled her towards him and whispered lasciviously in her ear…but now, she had all the power in the world.
Her knuckles were stark white.
Her jaw, along with all of the other muscles in her body, was clenched as firm as granite.
She was still shaking, hardly able to press down on the gas pedal as she steered her four-door sedan down the icy freeway, snow falling down in glistening sheets of white.
The white of the snow was my peace, she thought.
My peace at last, free from him.
My liberation, she thought, a smile forming, breaking the line of the tears that were still falling down her cheeks.
She didn't even know where she was going.
She caught fleeting glances of the road signs above the freeway, names emblazoned on them, some familiar and others foreign.
She just wanted to get the hell away from that office.
Away from him.
Away from everything.
Maybe she'd pack and spend the weekend at the beach.
Or at a ski lodge somewhere.
She didn't care.
Anywhere but here.
In this town.
She had always known Bedford to be a nice place to live, but she knew it was only her naivety.
She never had to face the real world until it bit her in the ass just a little over half an hour ago back at the office.
Working late was usually not a problem for her, Mary was a night owl in any case, but this night felt different.
Something in the air.
Or maybe she was just losing it.
No, there was definitely something in the air that made her skin crawl tonight.
She didn't remember knocking on his door. She didn't remember telling him good-bye or showing him her latest proposal or asking for that raise.
She just remembered the acrid smell of bourbon on his breath.
She remembered the glassed over look in his eye, his libidinous expression, his powerful hands on her waist, his tongue lapping at her earlobe like a pathetic mutt begging for water…
She also remembered snatching up the horse-shaped paperweight from his desk and feeling the vibration as she struck him.
However, she felt no pain as the sensation of basalt rock against skull sent shockwaves through her right wrist.
All she felt was power.
And very good things which she didn't quite know how to process.
She also remembered seeing him slumped on the floor in a heap, a trickle of blood running from behind his ear.
Had she killed him?
Frankly, she didn't care, she just wanted out of his office, out of the building, and out of this shithole town.
She swerved to avoid hitting a patch of ice, tears blinding her now, still trembling….she saw the exit sign up ahead to take her home and she swerved again, not caring that the car was now hydroplaning across the ice, not caring that her lacquered pink nails were ripping at the leather casing of her steering wheel, only seeing herself over and over again in her mind hitting him.
The car made it in the nick of time before hitting the guardrail, and fishtailed onto the exit and she took several deep gulps of air, trying to calm down before she actually killed herself.
She slowed down at the end of the exit, took a right turn onto 5th Avenue, and drove tranquilly through Town Square, finally starting to relax at the sight of the decorations in every yard.
She managed to smile weakly at the glistening Christmas lights strung across every storefront and every house, at the stoplight posts garnished with holly, and the glowing reindeer sculptures and snowy streets and Santa Claus statuettes sitting atop windowsills.
Another deep gulp of air into her windpipe, and another attempt to relax the muscles in her body and wipe the tears from her eyes, and finally, Mary Ingram was calm.
Not only calm, but laughing.
She was laughing hysterically.
Now getting over the shock and trauma of the event, she now felt the aftermath, the warm fiery satisfaction that beginning to course through her veins.
She took a slow turn onto Oak Street, kept driving through a red light which she didn't even bother to notice, and took another turn on Balsam Drive.
She was still cackling.
Fuck him, she thought madly. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror and her laughter ebbed.
Her platinum blond typically well-layered and stylish hair was disheveled, her make-up ran down her face mixing in with the salt of her tears, and her cheeks were red and puffy.
God, I must be going crazy, she thought.
Look what he did to you. Look what that bastard did to you.
But she laughed again.
But look what I did to him, she thought.
Just look at what I did to him.
Another feeling was creeping in on top of the amalgam of trauma and burning satisfaction-one of guilt.
Shit…what if I killed him? Will I go to jail? Of course not, she rationalized. It was a classic case of self defense. All she'd have to do is testify in court that he tried to sexually assault her and she'd win over a jury like that.
But what evidence did she have? None. If she killed him, they'd sure enough have a dead body on their hands.
And only her word to corroborate her story.
Fuck, this was no time to think of such things. Should she have called the police right then and there? Fleeing the scene would look pretty bad on her part.
On the other hand, she hadn't hit him that hard. What if he wasn't dead? What if he tried to set it up that she was the sole perpetrator? That she came in and attacked him unprovoked?
Fuck, fuck, fuck, that very thought started her crying again.
Just take a deep breath, she told herself. Take a deep breath, go home, take a bath, and figure out what to do.
After a few more silent moments of driving, Mary pulled her sedan into the driveway of a small one-story ranch-style home at the end of a residential street.
Home. The one house on the street that was dark and joyless.
No lights or decorations.
What did it matter now?
She turned off the ignition, and sat there for a moment, listening to the sound of her drumming heartbeat, and her own breathing, and the snow blowing fervently outside the car.
What was she going to do? What if she'd killed him? She didn't see things going smoothly if she'd only knocked him unconscious.
She'd have to quit. Possibly move towns.
Enough, she finally decided.
Take a hot bath, have some wine, and think about this when you are able to sit down and have a logical rational mind about it all.
Mary took another gulp of frosty air as she opened the car door, squinting against the falling snow, hefting her purse onto her shoulder.
Slamming the car door shut behind her, she traipsed across the snow-laden yard to her bright red front door and entered the welcoming warmth of her foyer, closing and locking the door behind her.
"Oh, god…" she muttered, seeing herself again in the hall mirror.
She wiped makeup from her eyes, dropped her purse by the door and slogged into the kitchen adjacent to the foyer.
Just have a sip of wine…relax…and try not to think about it until you're not so shaken up….
Logical reasoning calmed her, but only slightly.
She snatched up a rag, and wiped her face clean of tears and mascara, brushed clumps of snow out of her hair…leaned against the counter, catching her breath.
"You're ok Mary…" she muttered to herself.
Mary shuffled across the floor wearily, took out a previously opened bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and began pouring it into a bottleneck glass.
She set the opened bottle on the counter, and took a long, indulgent sip, trying to block out the processing and the rationalizing that her brain was still somehow subconsciously trying to do.
She took another sip, hoping the alcohol would take the memories away, would take away the film reel that kept playing in her head, take away the sound of that paperweight against his skull…take away the look in his eyes…
Mary finished the glass, poured another, and began to head down the long, narrow hallway towards the bathroom, not noticing that the side door that led out into the garden was standing open and a pair of fresh boot prints was tracked into the house…
She entered the bathroom, set the wine glass down on the edge of the sink, undressed.
Eyed the radio on the counter, turned the knob. A choir was singing Silent Night, ethereal and ghost-like.
She sighed deeply, standing nude, sipping the glass of wine, taking in the relaxing chords of the song, the dissonance of the tight harmonies soothing her…
The snow fell down hard against the bathroom window, clinking ever so softly as if tiny fairies were dusting the surface of the glass.
She crossed the bathroom, shuffling across the scarlet shag rug, turned on the faucet connected to the spacious marble bathtub and watched the water fall down into the bottom.
The warm tingling feeling of the alcohol was starting to hit her already, slight at first, then gradually growing stronger.
The tub reached about half its capacity, and she stopped the faucet.
She dipped a toe in.
Scalding.
She let out a deep sigh as she slipped down into nothing…into abyss…into oblivion…the music sending her off into a pit of self indulgence and Chardonnay.
She thought of nothing but how the steaming water soothed each muscle one by one-first, her ankles which were tense from running, running out of that office, out into the freezing night air to her car where she nearly broke a leg on the sidewalk…then, her knees which had buckled at the shock of seeing him sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from a gash behind his ear. And then up to her torso, and finally her neck and shoulders….
She didn't think of him.
She listened to each note that the choir sung, and each snowdrop hitting the window pane until she could no longer hear his voice, or the resounding whap of stone against skull…
She only thought of pleasure.
The pleasure of the hot water and the choir softly singing.
She was in such a trance that she didn't notice or hear the bathroom door creaking open.
She didn't hear the voice.
The rapid, angry whispering. Full of hate. Full of rage.
Agnes…look what you made me do….Agnes…you made me do it….
She also didn't see the shadow fall over her.
And then, two immensely powerful hands clamped down over her neck and squeezed.
AGNES…LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO….
The wine glass fell and shattered, two human forms thrashed around wildly in the tiny bathroom, one nude and one dressed in black… and the choir kept singing…
Silent night…holy night….shepherds quake…at the sight….
The wine mixed in with the blood that was spraying onto the floor, the harmonies of the choir intermingled with screams of agony, and the snow fell against the windowpane….it was Christmastime in Bedford.
The nightmare was only beginning.
Chapter One
Bedford University.
Christmastime 1974
The once gloomy Pi Kappa Sigma sorority house was now alive with festivities.
Twinkling Christmas lights were strung on every eave, a wreath was hung on every window, and snow laced the corners of the large Mansard roof and trimmed the house with a white sheen that made it glow in the silvery moonlight.
Tudor style roof gables jutted out from the mansion, the lights tracing their edge, capped with snow. Big picture windows adorned with garland and wreaths, stone edges and bay windows made the house appear all the more opulent than it already was.
The night was clear. Black. A gentle snow fell. It was quiet.
Except for the soft footfalls that made their way through the snow.
Furtively, a figure crept through the garden.
Through the French patio doors frosted with ice, the ongoing party could be seen. Nineteen and twenty-year olds standing around in clumps, drinking, clamoring, laughing, eating plates of appetizers and Yuletide themed cookies and devilled eggs.
They didn't see who was watching them from outside.
The prowler hid behind a tree.
The prowler watched.
Saw them passing by the windows, migrating from room to room, enjoying the atmosphere.
Saw a girl with long, sleek dark brown hair…like a sheet of mahogany…deep brown eyes and fair complexion…a beautiful girl…she looked like…
His hand gripped the tree trunk and he steadied himself, tingling with ecstasy, his body reverberating with convulsions.
He looked again, his labored breathing a byproduct of his excitement.
Watched her disappear into the next room.
Another girl was standing by the lit fireplace, talking to the party guests all sitting around on various furniture… a redhead. Such silky scarlet that flowed from her scalp onto her shoulders.
She held a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and she was laughing.
Laughing so jubilantly.
The prowler sniggered in disgust.
How joyous they were.
It wasn't close to any of the feelings he felt. The rage, the burning rage that threatened to consume everything about him, the lust. The insatiable lust.
The lust that could only be quenched by hearing their screams.
Just like he had heard the terrified screams of the others.
The lust that was only satisfied temporarily when he saw the blood flowing from gaping wounds onto the floor in puddles, and saw their eyes roll into the back of their head as they ceased living…
The prowler watched.
Another girl came into sight…one who looked so incredibly innocent…and he felt the lust and the rage growing stronger and more vehement than ever, bubbling up from inside him, up into his throat,swelling inside of him like helium being pumped into a hot air balloon until….
He saw her…the innocent one…come out of the house into the snow.
Her light brown hair fell around her shoulders so easily and so carelessly…her eyes sparkling…her skin so white, so pure, so virgin-like…his hands clenched into tight, impenetrable fists.
She stood for a moment, looking for someone…and then spun on her heels and dashed back into the house, leaving the front door wide open…
Then he heard a voice with a piercing, caustic tone.
"Who left the goddamn door open?"
It was the redhead.
She appeared in the doorway, glanced out once into the snow with a tightly pursed frown, and slammed the door shut.
The rage increased in intensity.
That was no way for a lady to talk.
What a foul disgusting mouth she had.
He pictured her blood flowing, seeping out of her wounds, matching the fiery vermilion shade of her hair as her life ebbed…Bad Billy, nasty Billy...
He paused, then looked up.
Saw the open attic window, fluttering in the wind.
Beckoning him.
Fueled by the burning lust, he trudged through the snow, unblinking, in a steady gait. Quiet and continuous. Through the garden, up the trellis, and into the attic before anyone noticed a thing.
There, he felt the warmth of the house, and he could hear the laughter from downstairs…the joyous laughter…he hated them. Hated the way they laughed.
Hated.
Hate.
He found the trapdoor and silently he climbed down the ladder into the upstairs hallway, and without making a sound, he peered over the banister of the stairs.
He saw straight down into the main room, where the redhead was standing, swaying drunkenly, and laughing along with the other kids in the room…
So happy…
He'd make sure they'd never laugh again.
"I swear, he was fucking fourteen. How the hell was I supposed to know?" 19-year old Barbara Pollard stammered her way through some lewd story, laughing hysterically. Her fiery red hair shone in the orange firelight and twinkling lights from the Christmas tree pitched beside the makeshift bar in the living room.
She stood at the bar, pouring one drink after another.
19-year old Jess Bradford wasn't paying any attention. She had the long, dark hair like mahogany and the innocent face.
She thought of her boyfriend, Peter.
She could only think of him because at the last minute, he'd told her that he couldn't come to the party because he had to practice for his big audition.
She was trying not to be bitter and selfish, but there was no use in it. She had even thought of telling him tonight. Now she'd have to wait until tomorrow.
It had to be tomorrow.
There was no other way.
She couldn't have another one of those dreams again.
The dream where she was walking down a hospital hallway, the sterile-white walls surrounding her and encapsulating her…the dream of her finding the dead fetus in a drawer next to her hospital bed, wriggling and gasping for air, trying to live…
She shivered to think about it.
She had to tell him.
Phyl had said the only reason she was having those dreams is because of her neglecting to tell him. Something about the guilt and self-fulfilling prophecy.
Phyl was a philosophy major so Jess wasn't at all surprised.
Jess downed her last sip of wine, feeling the onset of the alcohol.
Hell, maybe the alcohol could do the job for the doctor.
God, why was she thinking things like that? Thinking of…ways to "accidentally" end the life inside of her?
She decided to just forget about it and try to have a good time.
Phyllis "Phyl" Carlson, also nineteen, with a head of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses atop a pointed nose, was leaning over the back of the couch, her arms around her boyfriend Patrick Cornell, a portly guy in his early twenties with a similar head of curly hair, sitting at the far end, kissing his neck.
Barb poured herself more whisky into her crystal glass, and then puffed her cigarette.
Jess smirked.
Just like Barb, a cigarette in one hand and booze in the other.
"Hey…" Barb asked loudly to be heard over the party. "Why was I the only one working today?"
Phyl looked up from Patrick's right earlobe, and frowned.
"Barb, we were there this afternoon," Phyl said.
Barb twisted her face in skepticism.
"Likely story," she said, the alcohol slurring her words.
"How's it look?" Patrick mumbled; the alcohol had also hit him.
"Yule-ish…very Yule-ish…" Barb said sardonically. "Have you got your Santa costume ready?"
Patrick hung his head with a sigh that was less than eager.
"Yeah," he murmured. "What time are the little bastards getting there tomorrow?"
"About one o' clock," said Barb.
"Terrific," he groaned, the sarcasm and dismay in his voice was diluted by the effects of the liquor.
Barb was referring to the annual charity event that Pi Kappa Sigma and Delta Chi Alpha, a frat house, held together as a co-ed fight to fund cancer research. Little kids from the nearby Children's Hospital came and got a chance to sit in Santa's lap, which was being begrudgingly played by Delta Chi's very own Patrick Cornell.
It was to be held tomorrow at noon. Barb wondered if she'd be sober enough.
Barb glanced around the room.
One couple stood by the gramophone that was softly playing a choral rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing". She knew the girl from the sorority house next to theirs.
One couple made out passionately in the corner.
And two sorority girls that she also recognized were sitting on the couch beside Patrick, drinking from crystal glasses and talking.
The phone rang on the end table.
A shrill, jarring jangle.
Jess reached, picked it up, put it to her ear.
"Hello?" she strained to hear over the party. "Pardon?...Who?..."
There was another pause and Barb stared intently, exchanging worried glances with Phyl.
They were both thinking the same thing. It was probably that creep again who kept calling the house. For the past few nights, Pi Kappa had been getting horrible obscene phone calls from this really nasty person. Saying awful things and making awful noises. Most of the time he'd just moaned eerily, leading the girls to aptly give him the name "The Moaner".
Jess covered the receiver with her hand and looked up at Barb.
"It's for you," she said.
Barb's eyebrows raised, and everyone relaxed, realizing it wasn't "The Moaner",
"Oh, great. I'll take it in the other room," Barb said. She set down her crystal glass of whiskey for the first time that night and strolled into the hallway. She picked up the telephone on the table in the hall near the staircase, and put it to her ear just as raucous laughter exploded from the next room.
Barb covered the speaker.
"Hey! Would you guys shut up in there, I can't hear a damn thing!"
She put the phone to her ear as the noise dwindled down, and answered it.
"Hello?"
A garbled voice came through.
"Hold on, I can't hear you," Barb sighed.
She dialed the operator with a flick of her wrist across the dial.
An obsequious voice answered.
"Operator, I can't hear what's coming through the other end, can you…" her voice trailed off as the operator answered affirmatively and got to work signaled by loud typing and buzzing.
The hold music played through the receiver.
More Christmas music.
Barb groaned. She was about sick of the season.
Finally, the operator came onto the line.
"Should be fine now, m'am,"
She hit a button, switching over to the main line and a familiar voice was saying her name.
"Oh, hi, Mom. I can hear you now…" Barb started.
"Barb, where are you at? Why is it so loud?" her mother's grating voice came through the speaker at an irritating frequency.
Barb was either too drunk to care or just used to her mother acting this way and her whining voice. She couldn't tell which one it was.
"Oh, we're just having a little party," Barb replied.
"Barbara….you've had too much to drink…"
"Nah, I've only had a couple," Barb said, hearing the disapproving sigh on the other end.
Normally, Barb would have snapped back some witty remark but she held her tongue. The alcohol was actually helping.
If she had been sober, she might have seen the man on the landing of the stairs, watching her intently.
She didn't see.
"Barbara, is that all you're doing up at that school? Drinking? Partying?" her mom continued her lecture.
Barb tried to feign sobriety.
"Oh, come on, Mom, I'm not drunk,"
Her mother sighed again.
"When are you planning on coming home? First thing in the morning?"
"No, no, I have some stuff to do in the afternoon and then I was just gonna take the 7:20 train to the city…" Barb continued.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm flying to Santa Barbara for the holidays,"
Barb actually felt the pang of anger hit her, breaking through the wall of alcohol that had been repressing her usual bitterness with her mother.
"You gotta be kidding," she spit out in disbelief.
"Listen, Barbara, I need some time away,"
"Why can't I come too?"
"Barbara…" Mrs. Pollard hesitated. "I'm going with someone. It's just a vacation for me and a friend. His name is Ricardo,"
Barb scoffed.
"Who the hell is he?"
"Just a friend, Barb,"
Barb knew all too well what that meant. All through her childhood, a "friend" was only a euphemism for one of her mother's many sexual partners. A "friend" meant coming home to a sock on the door and moans of passion and many prepubescent wonderings of what could go on in a locked room that made two people yell each other's names and scream with ecstasy.
Absentmindedly, she watched another Pi Kappa girl, Clare Harrison come into the hall with her boyfriend Chris and kiss him passionately before telling him goodbye and sending him out into the snow.
Clare Harrison, the professional goody-two shoes, Barb thought. She'd never even seen Clare touch alcohol, much less get drunk. She was so mousy. That's what she reminded Barb of. A little mouse. Mousy brown hair, mousy brown eyes, mousy clothes.
The alcohol didn't hold back what Barb said next.
"You're a regular gold-plated whore, you know that, Mom?" Barb said uncaringly.
There was silence on the other line.
"Barb, don't do this. I know you're upset but I'm sure you can find something else to do,"
Barb bit the inside of her cheeks.
She decided to just shut up and accept it, afraid the whiskey would make her say something else she'd regret.
"Sure, Mom. I'll just get a couple of my friends and we'll go skiing or something,"
"Barb, please don't be upset,"
"Yeah, sure, Mom. I'll see ya around," Barb said curtly and hung up the phone.
"Merry fucking Christmas," she muttered under her breath.
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
10:30.
She gave a wave to Patrick, who was also slipping on his coat and leaving.
She walked back into the living room where Barb and Jess were standing, talking. The party was starting to dwindle, only a few scattered guests remained. Most of them were girls from sister sororities.
"Anyone want to go skiing for a few days?" Barb announced less than enthusiastically, grabbing her empty glass and pouring some vodka.
Jess knew it was something with Barb's mother.
She just had that look on her face. Every time her mom called they got in a huge screaming match.
"Yeah, sure, Barb," Jess said.
"Sounds like fun," Phyl replied.
"Great," Barb said, still unenthusiastic.
Clare was coming through the room, carrying a plate of food.
"What about you, Clare?" Barb asked.
Clare answered brusquely.
"No thanks Barb, I've made some other plans,"
Clare disappeared into the hall.
Barb scoffed, rolling her eyes.
Clare had recently joined; the two had been discreetly at each other's throats. Jess figured it was their clashing personalities. Clare was quiet and good, and Barb...was essentially the polar opposite.
Barb downed her glass, and winced at the vodka going down.
There was the still awkward tension in the room, and after a moment of it, the phone rang in the hall.
Jess let out a sigh of relief.
"I'll get it," she said, and walked into the hall.
She picked up the phone and put it to her ear.
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?" Jess demanded firmly.
After a few more seconds of silence, finally noise came through the speaker.
It was him again.
He was breathing heavily into the line, this time stronger than ever and much more intense.
Jess covered the receiver and called into the next room.
"Hey, quiet! It's him again! The Moaner!"
There was an excited clamor as first Phyl and Barb came running into the hall and crowding around the phone, and then Clare from the dining room.
The other partygoers were drifting over as well, curious.
Jess held out the phone for all to hear.
The next few minutes were the most chilling thing that Jess had ever heard in her life. That anyone had heard.
It started with heavy breathing that turned into groaning and moaning, and suddenly, the most horrifying and animalistic of sounds erupted from the speaker. Growls and vocalizations that sounded like something out of your worst nightmares.
Everyone was stunned, listening intently.
The noises continued, growing quiet and then back loud again. All kinds of gurgling and snarling and incoherent babbling.
Then it escalated into screams.
Blood-curdling screams that sounded like someone was being butchered.
"He's expanded his act," Barb remarked, breaking the tense silence.
Clare was bewildered, her doe-like eyes huge.
"Could that be one person?" she asked, more to herself than anything.
"No, Clare, that's the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing their annual obscene phone call," Barb quipped.
Phyl shushed them, still trying to listen to the voice on the phone.
The screaming grew louder, horrible guttural cries.
The screams then delved into sinister snickering…maniacal laughter that chilled Jess to the bone.
Then the laughter became piglike snorts, then back to psychopathic laughter.
Then he spoke.
"Lick it…..let me lick it….let me lick your pretty piggy cunt…"
Nobody moved or said a word, the explicitness hushing them into a disturbed fascination. A few of the girls stifled giggles in the back, while most scrunched their noses in disgust.
The caller laughed evilly.
"Let me lickkkk itttt…..your big cunt. Pretty pink cunt…suck on my juicy cock…"
Barb puffed her cigarette nonchalantly.
"Not bad," she joked.
Phyl flashed her a look.
"Suck it…SUCK IT…" the caller yelled into the phone.
Barb rolled her eyes and snatched the phone from Jess, putting it to her ear.
"Listen, you pervert, why don't you go over to Lamdba Chi, they could use a little of this," Barb spit angrily into the receiver.
The partiers crowded around the phone all stifled a laugh.
Phyl almost didn't want to stop her. This was too good.
"Piggy cunt….you want my fat cock in your pretty pink cunt…" the caller snarled lasciviously.
"Why don't you go find a wall socket and stick your tongue in it, that'll give you a charge!" Barb snapped.
The group surrounding the phone stifled more laughs, trying to stay as quiet as possible to hear what he was saying.
"I'll stick my tongue up your pretty pussy!" he rasped.
Barb twisted her face in disgust and anger.
"You fucking creep!" she yelled into the phone.
He then said something that even scared Barb.
"I'm going to kill you,"
Plain as day. Clear as ice.
I'm going to kill you.
No laughing. No screaming. Just straightforward and chilling.
The line went dead.
Barb slammed the phone down angrily.
There was a silence as they all stood around for a moment, still appalled.
Phyl broke the silence.
"Well, super-tongue strikes again,"
"Fastest tongue in the west," Barb said, flickering her tongue like a snake jokingly and taking a long sip of her vodka.
"God, that was sick," said Jess, visibly disturbed, still hearing his horrible voice in her head.
"I really don't think you should provoke someone like that, Barb," said Clare, her face paler than usual.
"Oh please," Barb scoffed. "This creep is minor league back in the city. I get two of those a day,"
"Maybe…but you know that town girl was raped a couple of weeks ago," Clare said.
"Darling," Barb said mockingly. "You can't rape a townie,"
She snickered, and puffed on her cigarette.
Clare curled her lips in reproach.
"You really are too much, Barb,"
"Come on," Barb said, spitting out a cloud of smoke. "This is a sorority house, not a convent,"
Clare was turning red with anger.
The other partygoers were drifting back into the other room, seeing things were getting heated.
Phyl and Jess watched with careful eyes, making sure neither girl got too passionate.
Barb and Clare had already almost got into a catfight once.
"I'll see you later," Clare said. "I gotta go pack,"
She turned and stalked up the stairs towards her room, Barb making a rude gesture at her as she went.
Jess hurried after and caught her on the landing.
"Clare, she didn't mean anything," Jess said.
"No, really Jess. It's ok. I have to finish packing anyway," Clare replied, and continued up the stairs.
Jess watched her disappear around the banister, and turned to lean over the banister and stare daggers at Barb.
"Hasn't she had enough trouble fitting in here without you getting at her all the time?" Jess admonished her.
"Oh, come on," Barb said flippantly. "I know a professional virgin when I see one,"
Jess and Barb's bickering was interrupted by knocks on the front door.
"Hey, can I get a hand out here!" called a frazzled voice from the enclosed vestibule outside the door.
Barb squinted through the frosted glass and saw that it was Mrs. Mac, the house mother. She smirked.
"Speaking of professional virgins, I present to you the Queen of Vaudeville circa 1891," Barb remarked.
Phyl hurried towards the door and opened it.
Mrs. Mac half-stumbled half-fell into the house, haphazardly carrying a stack of wrapped Christmas gifts. Just as they were about to fall, Phyl took them and handed them off to Jess who carried them into the living room.
Mrs. Mac was in her fifties, but dressed as if she were in her thirties. That was her Vaudeville days shining through. She always wore her trademark bonnet and gaudy jewelry, and wore a sour, tired expression.
"Hi, Mrs. Mac, where have you been?" Phyl asked curiously.
Mrs. Mac let out an exasperated sigh. She looked like she'd been through hell.
"I've been shopping," she said. "You know, I think this time of year the stores take tacky lessons. I've never seen so much junk,"
The girls laughed, and a few of the party guests had already began to drift back into different rooms now that the excitement had ended.
Jess came back into the room, and she gave Phyl and a few of the guests a knowing look.
"Come on, Mrs. Mac. We have something to show you,"
Clare saw the half-open door to her bedroom and froze
She could have sworn she closed the door behind her when she came down for the party.
She went into the room.
"Meow…"
Clare glanced over at her bed where a fluffy white cat was perched on the edge.
It was Claude. Mrs. Mac's Persian longhair.
Clare sighed with realization.
Claude must have pushed the door open.
"Where have you been?" Clare cooed affectionately, strolling over to her bed and scooping the cat into her arms. "Mrs. Mac's been looking all over for you,"
She stroked Claude's silky white fur as he wriggled in her grasp.
She kissed him.
"Alright, go on now. I've got things to do," Clare said, and let him pounce out of her arms onto the floor.
"I'm going to kill you…"
She could still hear that evil voice in her head. And picture all the things he spoke of doing…she'd gotten prank calls before, but nothing as explicit and outright hideous as that.
How could Barb provoke that sicko like that? What if he was some maniac? The same guy who raped that girl?
It had been all over the news for the entire week.
She was some townie girl. Mary something. Someone had broken into her house and raped her. Beat her so bad that she was hardly recognizable. Put her in the hospital for the rest of the week.
Clare couldn't believe that Barb would have the audacity to push someone's buttons like that, especially someone as disturbed as that freak who kept calling the house.
Barb wasn't Clare's favorite person in the world, and vice versa.
Clare didn't have the slightest idea what she'd done, but for some reason, Barb had already decided to hate her.
Everything Clare said resulted in some snide remark.
Barb could constantly make fun of her clothes, and her mousy hair, and everything else.
And the drinking and the smoking, and Barb's attitude in general…she was sick of it.
She wanted to leave.
She wanted to find another sorority house.
But of course, she was new. And who knows? Maybe it just took getting to know Barb. Maybe it was just some hazing thing.
Clare had decided to give it at least the spring semester. And if things didn't improve around here, she was leaving.
On the bright side, she'd at least be leaving for the Christmas holidays tomorrow. It would be the perfect time to clear her head. Get away from Barb for a while and start new in the spring.
Her dad would be at the front gates of the university to pick her up at 1 PM sharp.
That thought snapped her back to reality, and she saw the empty suitcase on the bed.
She hadn't packed at all yet.
Clare sighed and then saw the dresses hanging in the walk-in closet, wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaners.
She walked into the closet, took the most of the dresses she could carry and heaved them over towards her bed, flopping them down.
She started to unzip the plastic….
"Meow…."
It was a strange meowing sound.
It sounded like Claude, but muffled.
Distorted.
It came from the closet.
Clare turned and looked.
Saw the dresses swaying.
Something was behind them moving the plastic. Ruffling it.
Clare frowned.
"Claude?"
She moved towards the closet.
"Claude?"
Another meow. It sounded distressed.
"Claude? Is that you, puss?"
"..Meoowww…"
It sounded like Claude was in pain. What was he doing in the closet?
"Claude?" she called again.
She stepped into the walk-in closet.
She saw what was behind the dresses.
And it wasn't a cat. It was something tall.
With eyes that were staring into hers.
She started to scream.
But two incredibly powerful hands came out from behind the hanging dresses, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her forward.
She lurched, trying to break free, but he was too strong.
Before she knew it, the plastic wrapping around the dresses was wrapped around her head and she was soon struggling to breathe…
She saw his eyes as she gasped for air…filled with utter loathing and a lust to annihilate her…he watched her die, as she gurgled, sucking on the thin tasteless plastic desperately trying to breathe, trying to free herself, and it was no use…
Her life slipped, her legs gave way, and Clare sank into oblivion.
Chapter 2
"1….2….3…."
Mrs. Mac opened her eyes and saw what the girls had placed in her hand.
It was a nightgown. A pale chartreuse colored nightgown with a flowery print and lace trim.
She frowned.
It was just about the ugliest piece of clothing she'd seen in her life.
Then she looked up and saw the faces of the girls surrounding her, all looking at her with anticipation, waiting for a reaction.
She forced a smile.
"Oh, girls, it's really beautiful," she said, holding the frock up in front of her to admire it with the falsest sense of admiration she could muster.
The other sorority girls crowded around, drinks in hand, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the dress, stifling laughs.
Everyone could plainly see it was a hideous dress.
Phyl, Barb and Jess were trying not to explode with laughter.
It had been Barb's idea.
She'd picked it out at the thrift store and had said she could just imagine Mrs. Mac traipsing around the house looking ridiculous.
It was Pi Kappa Sigma tradition to give the house mother a phony gift every holiday.
"The color and everything…oh girls its lovely…." Mrs. Mac continued, not even really hearing herself. In her head, she was saying very different things about the dress.
She turned away from the girls to put the dress back in the decorative gift bag.
"I have about as much use for this as a chastity belt," Mrs. Mac muttered under her breath.
"Oh, come on, Mrs. Mac. Put it on…" Phyl urged playfully.
Mrs. Mac spun around, her eyes wide, mortified.
"Put it on?" she protested. "Oh, come on, I'm not going to bed,"
The girls all collectively urged her.
"Oh, please, for us!" Jess begged.
Mrs. Mac let out a defeated sigh.
"Oh, alright," she said reluctantly.
The girls cheered drunkenly.
Mrs. Mac began to slip the gown over her shoulders.
"I'll do anything for you girls….and because its Christmas.." Mrs. Mac said.
Behind her, in the hallway, a shadow passed.
Someone walking across the second floor hallway.
Unnoticed.
Carrying a body slumped in his arms.
Carrying it up the ladder into the attic and out of sight.
The party had ended.
Mrs. Mac stood in the foyer, bidding the last guest good-bye, and as soon as the front door closed, she ducked into the now empty sitting room.
She was finally alone.
She leaned against the wall with a sigh.
What the hell am I doing with my life? She thought. What the hell was Maude MacHenry doing with her life?
She used to be a star.
A Vaudeville regular.
The year was 1922 and she could picture it clear as day. The Tilted Jazz nightclub in downtown Chicago smelled like ashtrays, booze and aftershave.
A glittering sign hung on the wall behind her said "Now Presenting: Magnificent Maude".
That was her. The chick with the pipes.
Of course, this was before years of chain smoking and heavy liquor drinking. Now, her voice was all dried up.
She would stand on the stage and belt out the latest hit, being cheered by her gentlemen callers.
And now where the hell was she?
Living in a house that wasn't even her own, watching over a bunch of college tramps screw around and get hammered.
When she took a job as a house mother, she didn't realize it was nothing like an actual mother.
You never saw them again after they graduated and ran off to some big city to settle down with a job or become a bum with a useless degree.
You never reaped the reward of parenthood.
You certainly never had the love reciprocated.
It was nothing but work.
Waking up to shaving cream in your bed, plastic wrap on the toilet seat…
She let the phrase "house mother" fool her sometimes.
These kids weren't her own, and she knew it. She had hoped that she'd feel some kind of connection to them, but the only one that she had ever felt something for was Jess.
Sweet Jess.
Jess reminded her of her own daughter.
God knows where she is.
Only one thing kept her sane.
Mrs. Mac crossed the room to the bookcase, opened the glass casing, and thumbed the spines of the thick encyclopedias.
"B…4…" she mouthed the names of the volumes as she rubbed her thumb against the old book jackets, finally grabbing the one that stuck out ever so conspicuously.
"Booze…" she said lustfully.
She took the fifth volume off the shelf, and opened it to reveal a secret bottle-shaped compartment that been carved into the pages.
A half-empty bottle of sherry was inside.
She tucked the encyclopedia under her arm, hastily unscrewed the cap on the sherry, and took a hearty swig.
It burned.
It burned sweetly.
She liked that burn. It was what got her through everything.
Immediately, she could feel her worries disappear.
From the time she had entered that supermarket tonight, she felt it. The tension, her neck cramping, hearing the girls screaming her name in her head like three-year old's that couldn't function without her…she sometimes envisioned killing them. Just like she'd thought about wringing the cashier's neck that gave her a dirty look or the obese lady that almost knocked her over grabbing for a lamp in the discount aisle.
But when she drank, that all went away.
The violent thoughts, the aches…it all went away.
She'd already forgotten all of their names.
Except Jess.
Jess was the good one.
The only one with a head on her shoulders.
Mrs. Mac sipped the bottle again and then heard footsteps in the hall.
She quickly screwed the cap on, put it back into the book and was just finishing sliding the book back into place as Jess came into the room.
Mrs. Mac leaned against the bookshelf innocently.
"You know, Jess, you girls are too good to me,"
Jess smiled.
"Oh, nonsense, Mrs. Mac,"
The phone rang. She stared at it.
Great, she thought.
It could be another sick phone call.
Phyl had come into the room behind Jess and was also glowering at the phone in fear.
They all exchanged glances as it rang again.
Phyl finally gulped and walked towards the phone sitting on the end table, picked it up, and put it to her ear.
"Hello?"
After a second, Phyl sighed with relief, which resulted in a collective sigh of relief from Jess and Mrs. Mac.
"Yeah, she's here. Just wait a second, Peter," Phyl said.
She placed the phone on the table off the hook.
"Jess, it's for you. It's him,"
Thank God, Jess thought.
She didn't know if she could handle another sick obscene phone call.
Her relief didn't last long.
Now, she was thinking about Peter and having to hear his voice, and being reminded of the huge news that she had to tell him. His possible reactions raced through her mind. Would he be angry?
That she hadn't tried to protect herself? That she hadn't been on the pill?
But wasn't that rather sexist? To just assume the woman had to take responsibility? What about Peter? He had also chosen to have unprotected sex with her.
It was just as much his fault as it was hers.
This baby was both of their responsibility.
He'd probably be even angrier if Jess even suggested getting an abortion, as if it was an easy careless thing for a woman to do.
Then again, it was his child too. On the other hand, it was her body that was giving birth.
Would he be scared?
God knew that fear was all Jess felt. How would she be able to take care of a baby?
She could barely afford her books as it was.
Then she would have to be able to provide for another human being.
She wouldn't be able to take it.
All those thoughts at once raced through her mind on the short walk over to the end table beside the armchair. Phyl saw the worried look on her face, and left the room
Jess hesitated, and then answered the phone.
"Hello,"
"Hi," his warm voice answered. "How's the party?"
"It was good. Too bad you couldn't make it,"
Perhaps if the small talk continued, she'd keep the topic of the conversation as far away from her big secret as possible.
"I've been practicing for four days straight. I'm really wiped out,"
His voice was heavy with exhaustion.
Maybe if he wouldn't be so caught up in his music, they'd have had time to sort things out and decide what to do.
Every time she'd tried to talk about it, he'd blow her off to practice for his pedagogy exam.
It never failed.
Sure, this was a big thing for him. But what was inside of her would determine their entire future, would shape their entire lives.
Jess opened her mouth to speak, but a voice came from behind her and she turned, shielding the phone in the crook of her neck.
It was Mrs. Mac, who was heading for the doorway. She had taken the hint this would be a private conversation.
"Jess, you won't forget to put out the lights?" Mrs. Mac said.
Jess nodded.
Mrs. Mac quietly left the room and Jess put the phone back to her ear.
Jess took a breath.
If they didn't talk soon, this baby would do all the talking for her.
She had to tell him. She had to stop blowing it off as much as he did. Enough small talk.
"Look, you've got to find some time, I've got to talk to you,"
Silence.
A clock chimed in the hall, the only sound other than Peter's troubled sigh on the other line.
Jess perched on the edge of the armchair, listening for his response.
"You sound funny…what's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing's the matter, I just want to talk to you," she said.
"Why don't you tell me now?"
"Because I want to talk to you face-to-face,"
He sighed again.
"Jess, I haven't been to bed in three nights. I'm not in the mood to be playing games,"
Jess frowned.
This wasn't a game, Peter. This was our future, she wanted to say it. She wanted to just explode and tell him everything.
But she bit the inside of her cheeks.
"Look, Peter, we'll talk about it tomorrow, ok?"
Peter hesitated.
"O-okay, I'll be in room 30 all day,"
He was acting as if she would be the one interrupting his plans. What about the child that was inside of me? That was certainly ruining her plans of a future.
"Alright. I'll see you around two,"
"I didn't mean to sound short with you…I guess I'm just exhausted," he said.
"It's ok," she said.
"I love you,"
For some reason, she couldn't say it back.
"I know," she said. "See you tomorrow,"
There was a pause.
"Yeah, goodnight," he said, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. She knew that he could tell something was wrong, and that he probably would start asking more questions if she didn't hang up, so she set the phone down quickly and sat back in the armchair.
God, what was she going to do?
She couldn't have a baby. She just couldn't.
Jess wasn't even an adult yet. She was only nineteen.
She knew nothing about parenting.
She had thought about abortion many times, but she was already starting to feel guilty and she hadn't even done it.
She'd had horrible dreams.
Dreams of a fetus, dying on a cold metal slab, trying to breathe, it's skull being liquified by some big contraption, screams of pain echoing all around her…she'd wake up sobbing, clutching her stomach, and Phyl would have to come in and hold her until she fell back asleep.
If she already was experiencing that before the abortion, imagine afterwards? What then?
It would be ten times worse.
She'd probably kill herself.
Jess had heard all the horror stories about women killing themselves after abortions because of the unimaginable guilt.
Killing an innocent potential human life. After all, it was human life. Human DNA. It was at least a potential human life.
But at the same time, it wasn't as valuable as her own life. Her own future. It would be absolutely devastating to the rest of her life.
And then, it had been her choice. Her choice to have sex. Should a child be a punishment for sex? A consequence?
She didn't know.
She'd heard every argument from the pro-life and pro-choice side and just couldn't make up her mind.
Both sides had truth to them.
It's immoral to kill a living thing but its also immoral to force someone to give birth.
She just had to ask herself, which was the greater evil? Killing a living thing, or bringing into a world where its own mother couldn't even take care of it.
Was it really worth having the baby if she was just going to fail as a mother?
But what about adoption?
But what about the morality of bringing a child that's unwanted from the beginning into this horrible world?
She didn't know what to think.
Hopefully, it would all make sense tomorrow when she would find out what Peter would think about the situation.
The whole thing was wearing her out. Or maybe it had been the party. But she was finding it harder to keep her eyes open.
She stood up, remembering what Mrs. Mac had said, and went around to several of the rooms, cutting the light switches.
The rooms were still in a disarray from the party, but she figured they'd just clean up in the morning.
Jess walked into the foyer, locked the front door, and headed up the stairs.
She passed the ladder leading up into the attic.
She then passed Clare's room and stopped, remembering the scuff she and Barb got into earlier that evening.
Jess wished Barb would learn to get along with people. She loved Barb to death, but sometimes, she could cross the line.
Jess rapped on the door softly.
"Clare?" she called.
No answer.
"Clare," she called again.
Still nothing but silence.
She just wanted to see if she was ok, or talk to her. She had looked so angry and hurt back at the party.
Jess liked Clare and didn't want to see Barb scare her away, and she was leaving to go back home tomorrow morning.
Imagine leaving on that note.
She reached for the door to open it, but thought better of it.
She might be asleep.
Maybe she could catch Clare tomorrow morning before she left and hopefully give her a reason to stay.
Jess liked Clare. She was a sweet girl, even if she could be a bit uptight. There was no reason for Barb to be acting this way. Even without the influence of booze, Barb could be such a bitch.
She didn't want to see Clare leave because of Barb.
At the same time, maybe it was best.
There was no stopping Barb. When Jess came, Jess had to go through the same sort of thing. A few weeks of hazing and bitchy comments, and pretty soon, Barb was a total sweetheart.
Hopefully, Clare could see it through that long.
What's the worst that could happen?
Mrs. Mac was standing in the master bath, brushing her teeth in the mirror, humming softly to herself.
The lights above the mirror twinkled, and reminded her of the spotlights in her Vaudeville days. SHe could hear the loudspeaker in her head.
"Hi, there, America. We're here to give you the facts..presenting Maude the Magnificent..."
God, what would she give to go back to those days? To go back before all the wrinkles and booze and binge smoking? Her rheumy eyes stared wistfully past her reflection, mesmerized by the reverie.
She finally snapped out of it, and made a face in the mirror. She was still wearing that hideous gown.
"I wouldn't wear this to have my liver out," she grumbled.
She rinsed her mouth out and spit, and set the toothbrush back in the medicine cabinet, exchanging it for another hidden bottle of sherry. She took a swig.
For good measure, she thought to herself.
Just above her, Clare was dead.
Sitting in the rocking chair in front of the tiny attic window, gently rocking back and forth, her head swathed in the clear, plastic dress bag, the bag itself sucked into her mouth and nostrils, a testimony of how desperately she had tried to breathe and grasp one last bit of air.
Outside, the snow continued. Pristine and white. Reflecting off of Clare's dead eyes.
The house went dark.
To all a good night.