Chapter II
From Carrie and Becky: The Black Dawn of TK and Pyrokinesis by Jack Garner (Esquire Magazine, September 1980)
Margaret White bore her eldest, Carrietta, on September 21, 1963. A year later, she bore her youngest, Rebecca, on March 15th. Their father, Ralph White, left Margaret, due to her near-fanatical religious beliefs; he was sick and tired of coming home and hearing how the world around him was a sin and her damning everyone to Hell. He left her with another woman. Momma screamed at Ralph down Carlin Street, swollen with child, damning him and his whore to hell as they walked down the street while Ralph screamed obscenities over his shoulder.
Carrie, only one and too young to understand, and Mrs. White, pregnant, continued to live alone in a Chamberlain bungalow. And because of her fanatical belief, Mrs. White had no friends to help her through this time of grief.
At 11:50 PM, the neighbors on Carlin Street began to hear screams from the White bungalow. But they didn't call the police because they either did not want to be involved with an investigation or they had a strong dislike for Mrs. White. By midnight, the police had come to see what the screaming was about. They found Mrs. White in bed, the sheets drenched with blood and a butcher knife on the floor. It was only when they saw the baby at Mrs. White's breast, her engorged nipple in its mouth while it suckled hungrily. She had cut the umbilical cord herself. The little girl was called 'Rebecca Anne'.
When the girl was born, about a month premature, terribly small, ugly, sickly with such strange eyes. Rather than blue, the color of all babies when they are born, they were ebony black. Mrs. White screamed in terror when she saw the baby's eyes open for the first time, calling her a 'sickly, ugly baby with Satan's eyes'.
But her sister, Carrie, fell immediately in love with her new sister. She raised sickly, ugly little Becky: fed her a bottle, bathed her, walked her to the park, dressed her, changed her diapers, and taught her to walk and talk. Becky became quite attached to her older sister, following her around, her pale legs tottering, crying:
"Cawwie! Cawwie!"
At one, strange things began to happen…too strange that it seemed unexplainable. Whenever bottles came late or she didn't have a certain toy she wanted, the temperature seemed to increase like a heat wave in January. Carrie couldn't understand why this seemed to happen. When it was Becky's naptime, Carrie couldn't find Becky's favorite doll to sleep with and replaced it with another doll. When Carrie went to check on her, she found the doll in flames!
"Cawwie!" screamed little Becky. "Where's my dolly?"
"Becky, no! Don't play with fire! That's a no!" She grabbed the doll and put it out with some water in a vase.
"I didn't play with fire! It appeared!"
Carrie stopped putting out the doll, shocked to hear this from her sister's own lips, not knowing how to respond to such a thing.
"What?"
"It appeared."
"How?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. It just appeared."
Carrie still didn't understand how a doll just out-of-the-ordinary burst into flames. She scolded Becky that playing with fire was still dangerous.
It happened another time when Becky wanted a hug from Momma. Becky jumped up, tugging on her dress, straining her arms upward, begging Momma (in the kitchen, cooking) to hug her, whining.
"Up, Momma! Up, Momma!" whined little Becky, jumping up and down. "Up, up, up!"
"Not now, Rebecca," said Momma, pushing her away.
The girl screamed and cried and the heat jumped five degrees from normal. The sweat began to form, glittering like little diamonds.
"UP, MOMMA!" she screamed loudly and suddenly…Momma screamed. Her oven mittens burst into yellow orange flames about one foot high. Momma went to put her mittens out in the sink; soft gray smoke rose from her charred mittens and her smooth skin was red from the heat.
"Didn't do it," she sobbed.
"Of course you didn't do it, Rebecca," said Momma. "It must've had my hands too close to the stove."
What caused the unexpected fires to occur?
The fires remained dormant for three years…
Three-year-old Becky, very small, about two inches shorter than Carrie and terribly thin that her body was delicate china; if one tipped her over, she would smash into a billion pieces. Her eyes were large, glassy and black like a doll's that seemed to stare blankly with a pale face with soft dull mousy locks hanging over the face, which seemed to express melancholy, sickness, and fear. The mouth was thin and had a vacant, melancholic expression, which never seemed to smile. Just to look at this one child of misery could make a strong and a mean person fall weak at the knees and weep for this child.
Carrie and Becky were the best pair of sisters anyone had ever seen. They were absolutely inseparable even though the girls were different: Carrie, quiet, calm, and obedient whereas Becky was loud, rebellious, and stubborn and liked to wander a lot.
On a warm spring day, while the girls, Carrie was four and Becky was three, were in the back yard, Carrie in a yellow dress and Becky in a blue dress that came to the shins. Becky whistled Bernard Hermann's 'Twisted Nerve' while pulling the tops off of dandelions and daisies while Carrie watched her, holding her lamb. Momma said that Carrie had to watch Becky at all times and make sure she didn't wander off.
Becky turned her head to next-door and saw their sixteen-year-old neighbor, Stella Horan in a lawn chair in a white bikini. She stopped whistling and moved closer to the fence.
"Becky," called Carrie. "Where are you going?"
"I want to see that lady over there," said Becky, pointing her little pale finger.
"Becky, no! Momma said we're not allowed!" Carrie ran towards her sister, who ignored her completely, grabbed her hand and followed her.
Once they got the picket fence that separated the two neighbors, Becky pushed a loose board and wandered to the neighbor's yard with Carrie following behind. They stopped in front of napping Stella and stared at her, who was napping in the yard out in the sun in her bikini. Her bosom was completely bare, her top tossed aside, lying on her stomach, napping. Carrie and Becky stared with full curiosity. Soon, Stella woke up and saw the two little girls staring at her, dressed in yellow and green dresses that were too long for this type of weather.
"Hello, girls," Stella said, smiling.
Neither Carrie nor Becky responded.
"What are those?" Carrie said suddenly, pointing to Stella's breasts.
"They're her titties, Carrie," said Becky. "It's where babies suckle milk from their mommas. Also, boys like to suckle on them too when they're making love to a girl."
Stella could barely answer when she heard what came out of this child's mouth: so full of knowledge, yet so obscene. Something she would never hear from a child brought up religiously.
"Your sister is right, Carrie. They're my breasts," said Stella, covering her bosom with her arms. To Becky, she said, surprised, "Where did you hear such things like that Becky?"
"I dunno," was her only response, shrugging her tiny shoulders. "I just do."
Stella shrugged it off, assuming that this is what being brought up religiously did to people. It turned nice people into crazy, obscene drug-and-sex addicts.
"I wish I had some," said Carrie.
"Me too," said Becky.
"You will, girls. You just have to wait. You won't get them for another…oh, eight or nine years."
"No. Momma says good girls don't get them," Carrie replied.
"Well, I'm a good girl and I have them. Doesn't your mother have breasts?"
Carrie lowered her head and said something very quietly.
"I'm sorry, but what did you say?" Stella asked.
"She said," Becky said. "'Momma had been bad and when she made Carrie and me and that's why she has the dirty pillows." Becky said.
"What are 'dirty pillows'?" Stella asked, confused; she had never heard such a word.
"What Momma calls 'tits'. Besides, lady, our momma's full of bullshit anyway."
"Becky!" screeched Carrie. "You swore! You're supposed to be a good girl! Momma will be mad at you!"
"I don't care!" Becky screamed, stubbornly. Her face was as tomato red, sweat dripped down her forehead, and her tiny fists were clenched as if she were going to explode and her mouth turned into a stubborn pout. "I'm TIRED of being a good girl!"
Suddenly, there was a slight change in the temperature outside…it felt as if there were a huge heat wave. But it was only early summer…the temperature was supposed in the sixties and seventies, as it was heard on the radio; yet strangely the thermometer outside read ninety degrees.
"Calm down, Becky!" said Carrie, seeing her sister getting very angry.
Stella's mother, Mrs. Horan came out and saw the two girls.
"Oh, hello, girls," she said, smiling sweetly.
The girls just nodded.
"Why don't you girls come on in and have some lemonade?" said Mrs. Horan. "You look awfully hot in those dresses."
"Why…" Becky began, smiling brightly. No one had ever asked such a thing.
"No!" Carrie interrupted. To Mrs. Horan, "Um…no, thank you, ma'am. We can't."
"But why not?" Becky whined. "That was awful nice of her."
"We can't, Becky…"
"This sucks! I want some lemonade. I'm hot as fuckin' hell."
Again, the heat increased to eighty. Beads of sweat began to form on Becky's tiny body: her forehead, the back of her neck, her clenched fists, her underarms, knee backs, and between her legs.
"Becky!"
Soon, Momma came out of the house…really angry that the girls had left the back yard. Her face was fire truck red, her hands were tightened into fists, her face like a gargoyle's that one would think she was having a stroke and she screeched loudly to the holy heavens:
"CAAAARRRIEEEEEE! BEEEECKKYYYYYY!"
The girls' faces turned a cottage cheese color.
"Don't yell at them that way!" screamed Stella. "They didn't do anything wrong!"
"Don't tell me what to do, whore-girl," Momma said.
"Suck it, you cow!" said Stella.
"Stella!" said Mrs. Horan, shocked at such language.
"Carrie and Becky! Get inside right now!" Momma said, sternly. The girls went back over to their house. Momma pulled the girls inside with a death grip on their wrists. They began to cry.
Once inside, she screamed at the girls insanely and telling them to get themselves to closet and pray for forgiveness while the little girls were screaming and crying, telling her that they were sorry, they forgot.
"Get to your closet and pray, girls!"
"I don't want to!" screamed the girls, simultaneously.
Becky could feel it in her veins; hot and pulsing hard inside…the little power inside her that had been dormant for three years had awoken. The room became hot, about 100 degrees; her temples were sweaty and eyes were glittering angrily; yet her face was calm. The windows open and shut repeatedly.
(play with fire and you will burn…)
Carrie was standing next to her. They were sobbing while Momma forced them to kneel to pray. Soon, the windows stopped flapping open and shut. The White house was soon quiet...then, a table flew out the window…the surface was on fire. There was the sound of pelting against the roof…there were stones, the size of softballs. It soon turned into a shower."Not the closet! No, Momma! Please!" the girls screamed and sobbed.
Momma fell to her knees and screamed as the stones pelted loudly. The heat in White bungalow intensified to about 200. Becky was sweating from her tight fists that it dripped on the floor. The water in the sink began to boil and the floorboards began to smoke.
"Stop it, girls! Stop it now!"
(push)Soon, some of the stones began to smoke that landed in the yard; they felt heavy and hot.
(push harder, push…push harder, PUSH…!)Then, a stone that hit the ground burst into flames about six feet high. The stones turned into fireballs that exploded about six feet high, maybe higher. The grass ignited and burst into yellow flames grey smoke. Some hit the roof and the porch.
"Stop it! Stop doing that!"
Momma screamed with terror. The flames roared loudly, attracting attention from all the neighbors…seeing that the White's lawn was on fire. It looked like something between Armageddon and the fiery hail from the ten plagues of Egypt.
From Westover (Me.) weekly Enterprise, August 19, 1966:
Rain of Fiery Stones Reported
It was reliably reported by several persons that a rain of fiery stones fell from the clear blue sky on Carlin Street in the town of Chamberlain on August 17th. The stones principally fell on the home of Mrs. Margaret White, damaging the roof extensively, ruining two gutters, a downspout and burning the lawn charred black at the cost of $25. Mrs. White, a widow, lives with her four-year-old daughter, Carrietta, and her three-year-old daughter, Rebecca.
Mrs. White couldn't be reached for comment.