--Sept. 1993--
"Mom," hollered the lad. "Have you seen my headphones?"
"You don't need headphones to go to school," responded Stacy, stuffing objects in her purse. "Now hurry up," she began looking for her keys. She was smartly dressed in a business skirt and jacket, thick red hair up in a twist.
The sixteen year old boy rolled his eyes and kept looking, determined not to listen to the day's Algebra lecture. His long bangs covered his face while his head was bent down searching. The locks themselves were an unbelievable shade of platinum blond, but it was natural. "Aha!," his wide mouth cracked into an endearing smile. He threw the headphones and walkman into his backpack and appeared at the side of his mother, tapping his foot as if waiting on her.
Finding the car keys, she started to call "Tommy!," then jumped when she saw he was right there. Sometimes out of the corner of her eye when he'd be standing she thought she saw his father, Otis, the backwoods psycho she'd run into years ago. Making a sour face at him she told him it was time to go and turned on her heel. Giggling could be heard behind her and she pretended not to hear. God, her son was weird sometimes. He followed her to her cherished Chevy Blazer and made her start again when she went to open the door and he was right behind her. "You terd!," she declared, exasperated. "Get in the car so I can get you to school before I whoop your tail."
Silly grin still on his face he obeyed, throwing his backpack in the backseat. He wondered why his mother was so tense sometimes. She acted like someone walked over her grave if he came upon her unawares. He felt she needed a man in her life, a serious one. Preferably one that wouldn't be a total ass to him and be like 'I'm your father, blah blah blah.' As they neared the school his attention swung to the day's activities, and if he could get Carla to pay attention to him or not.
The Blazer came to a stop. "Love you," Stacy said gently. "Try not to burn the place down." The corners of her full lips turned up.
"Love you too. Bye Mom!," the boy grabbed his bookbag and jumped out, combat boots hitting the pavement with a thunk, flannel shirt trailing after him. He's gonna be a fine-looking man someday, Stacy thought with motherly pride.
"You're mine," Otis snarled in her brain "And so is he." Shaking her head she told herself she had an article to turn in and accelerated the vehicle. She still got the voice every once in a while, the pesky voices she had to drink away or take sleeping pills to get to bed at night.
Tommy was unusually listless at supper so Stacy asked him what was wrong. After a minute of prodding he replied that some of the students had been harassing him about his appearance and that he didn't know who his father was. Some had speculated that his dad might be a circus freak due to Tommy's outlandish hair and skin.
"Jesus, I thought we had this over with back in third grade," Stacy snorted. She looked up and found that he was regarding her with her own eyes, his face full of curiosity. She sighed, setting down her fork.
"It's not the guy you were supposed to marry, I'm sure of that," spoke the lad. "The dates just don't add up. So who is it?"
"I don't think--," she began.
"Please, Mom," he went on. "I have a right to know."
"It was a one night stand," she blurted out, grasping at straws. "It was a stupid thing, I didn't even know the guy." Oh man, that's a lame one, she thought.
Tommy didn't speak for a few moments. "All right, fine. You can't keep the big secret forever."
I'll damn well try, for your sake, Stacy thought.
Saturday morning Stacy opened her crusty eyes, smacking her lips. Ugh, cotton mouth. She'd crawled down the bottle yet again it seems. She didn't even know when Tommy came home last night, or if he had at all. Clad in only t-shirt and shorts she staggered into down the hall and stuck her head in his room. He was sound asleep in his bed, a smooth arm thrown over his tousled head. Posters of bands covered the walls in his room, clothes were in the floor and tapes and movies were all over the shelves. Ahhh, teenagers. She continued on to the kitchen and poured herself a heaping glass of orange juice. Yum, acid.
Thankfully, she didn't remember her dreams of last night. She felt 80 but didn't look it--in fact she looked much younger than her age. She stared at the sculpture her son had made--Orion the hero, who he was named after. He was such the artist. Rubbing her temples she sat at the small kitchen table, contemplating. She went to the living room and turned on the tv, promptly bringing Tommy out of his bedroom, scratching his head. "Have you seen that cat?," his mother asked.
"What cat?"
"The one that shit in my mouth. We need to catch it," she replied, flicking through the channels.
"You do that every time," he mock-complained, plopping down on the couch beside Stacy. He'd been pretty much back to normal since the big question the other day, but she worried. She also knew he hated it when she drank and she tried to be discreet about it, but sometimes she just didn't care.
The tv numbing her mind with its blandness, she ran through the memories in her head. She beheld a seven-year-old Tommy running to her when she came to pick him up from the next door neighbor who'd been babysitting for her. "Mooommy!," he had howled, red and covered in blisters.
"You didn't let him play outside all day, did you?," she questioned Mrs. Watley, who had a boy about her son's age.
"Well I didn't think this would happen," she responded sulkily. "Shawn wanted to go outside, so I let them go together." The older woman wiped her hands on her dish towel. Stacy huffed and scolded, scooping up the sunburnt child and put him in her car, making soothing noises. An athletic, active boy, he nevertheless was forced to be indoors during the hottest part of the day. Stacy slathered Noxzema, aloe and cocoa butter on him for days afterward, and he was ever cautious about the summer sun after that.
Around noon as Stacy was running on the treadmill when Tommy announced he was going to go out with some friends to the park and to grab something to eat. She told him not to be out late and not to break any laws, to which he rolled his eyes and agreed.
He met his friends Laura and Dan on the corner. "Bout time," sniffed Laura, tossing her raven locks. "Kiss my ass," Tommy replied. They headed for the public library. The mystery of his birth awaited.
Hours later he had found no clear information on his origins, but he did find some interesting pieces. Or rather, the short lad Dan did. "Check this out," he'd whispered urgently, trying not to get scolded in the library. It was a microfilm of an article from 1977 about his uncle Thomas Raphael Robins going missing. He was last seen in an obscure place called Ruggsville. Laura and Tommy both said they never heard of the place, and Dan hadn't any idea either.
Ruggsville, Ruggsville...Tommy poked through the computer archives. After some hard maneuvering through the non-user-friendly system he come upon some interesting things.
...Dr. Quayle aka Dr. Satan tortured and mutilated his patients, often before death, peforming what appears to be experiments meant to improve the human race.
...He had several of the implants inside his own body after study..
...Dr. Satan's trial hit some road bumps, bringing the proceedings to a grinding halt. A mob gathered outside the town and lynched the gruesome former mental ward director. However, his body has disappeared and the police are saying nothing--did the vigilantes abuse his dead body?
Laura screwed up a face after she'd scanned through the contents, expressing her distaste. Somehow Tommy noticed the jiggle of her budding breasts through the babydoll dress she wore, and it was distracting. He was uncomfortable; he'd never thought of her as a girl before--shaking his head he concentrated on the screen before him.
Tommy returned home later that evening, his whole outlook on life changed. He didn't talk to Stacy much, simply answered her questions and went to his room, shutting the door. Mom knows something about Tom's demise. She was in the area. Laura had found records showing a 3 month stay in a crazy house, spouting shit about a 'death house' in the area that was never found. Laura had also read the bestselling novel written by his mother which had some interesting things in it. House that Satan Built had rivaled The Amityville Horror in mystery and controversy, and the character that harassed the heroine, could he be this man that his mother sees in her dreams? What else is she keeping from him?
He had the impulse to create, so he began sketching, pencil following its own design and he just let it happen.
Stacy hung up the phone with her friend Tina, blowing out a deep breath. She didn't know what was wrong with herself, but she felt that something wasn't right, and it centered around her son. She went to her bedroom and changed into some jeans and a blouse and went to her son's door. Knocking, she told Tommy she was going to the store for a few minutes. He responded that he'd be here and that he didn't want to go. Shrugging, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed to her truck.
She unlocked and opened the door, threw her purse in the passenger side and started to jump in when a shadow popped up from the spacious back seat and called her by name.
"What in the hell--," she began.
The intruder's face came into the light, showing a scarred face, close- cropped hair and a beautiful grey eye. "Shh," he hissed, good eye darting to and fro.
"Jim?!," Stacy exclaimed.
"Uh huh," he affirmed, pulling her into the vehicle. Stacy stared at him for a few moments, taking in his scars, stubble, and nonmatching glass eye he wore in his empty socket. "What are you doing in my car?," she demanded.
"Came to find you," was his noncommital reply.
"But you're insane! Weren't you in a place for veterans?"
"Yep," he responded, then instructed her to drive to a secluded spot. She hesitated for a moment, the started up the blazer and began driving to the outskirts of town. If she could handle Otis then she could handle this guy, or she could damn well try. When she got parked she turned to him and voiced her displeasure.
"Something's afoot," he told her matter-of-factly.
"Is that so?," she huffed. "What makes you think I won't turn your Agent Orange ass into the police?"
"We're comrades, you and I.. And we both know what happened back in '77. Don't we?" Stacy said nothing. "We ain't crazy. At least not like they made us out to be. I saw things, Stacy. Great and terrible things, and I just had to find you."
"What did you see?," she asked him, starting to listen to him.
"I--I can't say, not yet."
Stacy's forehead went forward, touching the steering wheel. "Just what I need, another nut."
"You see him, don't you?," he questioned her urgently.
"Who?"
"The ghostman," he said.
"Shut up!!," she barked. "Get out of my car! You fucking lunatic, don't you come around me or my son!"
"He's the key," Jim declared cryptically.
"GET OUT!," Stacy roared, and the man finally complied, shaking his head sadly as he did so. She went home and drank two bottles of whiskey before passing clean out.
"Moooom," a voice pierced the fog in her head. "Moooom." Then she was being flounced on her bed. Prising her heavy eyelids open she espied her teenager bouncing on her bed on hands and knees like a demented rabbit, cackling riotously. The bed groaned with both their weight as Tommy continued his madcap boinging beside her. "I'm up," she protested, putting the pillow over her head.
"Where's my breakfasht?," Tommy teased, pulling the pillow and covers off her. Groaning, she rolled onto her back and sternly chastised his tormenting of his own mother. As usual it went in one ear and out the other, but at least he left her alone. His laughter could be heard down the hall as he went to the living room. Turning her head, the clock read 10 am.--jeez how long did she drink last night? Rubbing her eyes she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She loped into the bathroom in her bra and panties, checking her reflection in the mirror. "Uugh," she went, splashing her bloated face with water.
She glanced over to the tiny bathroom window and screeched. Jim's battered face could be discerned, intently watching her. "Son of a bitch!" He skidaddled, a few leaves from the bushes the only evidence of his passing.
"Mom," hollered the lad. "Have you seen my headphones?"
"You don't need headphones to go to school," responded Stacy, stuffing objects in her purse. "Now hurry up," she began looking for her keys. She was smartly dressed in a business skirt and jacket, thick red hair up in a twist.
The sixteen year old boy rolled his eyes and kept looking, determined not to listen to the day's Algebra lecture. His long bangs covered his face while his head was bent down searching. The locks themselves were an unbelievable shade of platinum blond, but it was natural. "Aha!," his wide mouth cracked into an endearing smile. He threw the headphones and walkman into his backpack and appeared at the side of his mother, tapping his foot as if waiting on her.
Finding the car keys, she started to call "Tommy!," then jumped when she saw he was right there. Sometimes out of the corner of her eye when he'd be standing she thought she saw his father, Otis, the backwoods psycho she'd run into years ago. Making a sour face at him she told him it was time to go and turned on her heel. Giggling could be heard behind her and she pretended not to hear. God, her son was weird sometimes. He followed her to her cherished Chevy Blazer and made her start again when she went to open the door and he was right behind her. "You terd!," she declared, exasperated. "Get in the car so I can get you to school before I whoop your tail."
Silly grin still on his face he obeyed, throwing his backpack in the backseat. He wondered why his mother was so tense sometimes. She acted like someone walked over her grave if he came upon her unawares. He felt she needed a man in her life, a serious one. Preferably one that wouldn't be a total ass to him and be like 'I'm your father, blah blah blah.' As they neared the school his attention swung to the day's activities, and if he could get Carla to pay attention to him or not.
The Blazer came to a stop. "Love you," Stacy said gently. "Try not to burn the place down." The corners of her full lips turned up.
"Love you too. Bye Mom!," the boy grabbed his bookbag and jumped out, combat boots hitting the pavement with a thunk, flannel shirt trailing after him. He's gonna be a fine-looking man someday, Stacy thought with motherly pride.
"You're mine," Otis snarled in her brain "And so is he." Shaking her head she told herself she had an article to turn in and accelerated the vehicle. She still got the voice every once in a while, the pesky voices she had to drink away or take sleeping pills to get to bed at night.
Tommy was unusually listless at supper so Stacy asked him what was wrong. After a minute of prodding he replied that some of the students had been harassing him about his appearance and that he didn't know who his father was. Some had speculated that his dad might be a circus freak due to Tommy's outlandish hair and skin.
"Jesus, I thought we had this over with back in third grade," Stacy snorted. She looked up and found that he was regarding her with her own eyes, his face full of curiosity. She sighed, setting down her fork.
"It's not the guy you were supposed to marry, I'm sure of that," spoke the lad. "The dates just don't add up. So who is it?"
"I don't think--," she began.
"Please, Mom," he went on. "I have a right to know."
"It was a one night stand," she blurted out, grasping at straws. "It was a stupid thing, I didn't even know the guy." Oh man, that's a lame one, she thought.
Tommy didn't speak for a few moments. "All right, fine. You can't keep the big secret forever."
I'll damn well try, for your sake, Stacy thought.
Saturday morning Stacy opened her crusty eyes, smacking her lips. Ugh, cotton mouth. She'd crawled down the bottle yet again it seems. She didn't even know when Tommy came home last night, or if he had at all. Clad in only t-shirt and shorts she staggered into down the hall and stuck her head in his room. He was sound asleep in his bed, a smooth arm thrown over his tousled head. Posters of bands covered the walls in his room, clothes were in the floor and tapes and movies were all over the shelves. Ahhh, teenagers. She continued on to the kitchen and poured herself a heaping glass of orange juice. Yum, acid.
Thankfully, she didn't remember her dreams of last night. She felt 80 but didn't look it--in fact she looked much younger than her age. She stared at the sculpture her son had made--Orion the hero, who he was named after. He was such the artist. Rubbing her temples she sat at the small kitchen table, contemplating. She went to the living room and turned on the tv, promptly bringing Tommy out of his bedroom, scratching his head. "Have you seen that cat?," his mother asked.
"What cat?"
"The one that shit in my mouth. We need to catch it," she replied, flicking through the channels.
"You do that every time," he mock-complained, plopping down on the couch beside Stacy. He'd been pretty much back to normal since the big question the other day, but she worried. She also knew he hated it when she drank and she tried to be discreet about it, but sometimes she just didn't care.
The tv numbing her mind with its blandness, she ran through the memories in her head. She beheld a seven-year-old Tommy running to her when she came to pick him up from the next door neighbor who'd been babysitting for her. "Mooommy!," he had howled, red and covered in blisters.
"You didn't let him play outside all day, did you?," she questioned Mrs. Watley, who had a boy about her son's age.
"Well I didn't think this would happen," she responded sulkily. "Shawn wanted to go outside, so I let them go together." The older woman wiped her hands on her dish towel. Stacy huffed and scolded, scooping up the sunburnt child and put him in her car, making soothing noises. An athletic, active boy, he nevertheless was forced to be indoors during the hottest part of the day. Stacy slathered Noxzema, aloe and cocoa butter on him for days afterward, and he was ever cautious about the summer sun after that.
Around noon as Stacy was running on the treadmill when Tommy announced he was going to go out with some friends to the park and to grab something to eat. She told him not to be out late and not to break any laws, to which he rolled his eyes and agreed.
He met his friends Laura and Dan on the corner. "Bout time," sniffed Laura, tossing her raven locks. "Kiss my ass," Tommy replied. They headed for the public library. The mystery of his birth awaited.
Hours later he had found no clear information on his origins, but he did find some interesting pieces. Or rather, the short lad Dan did. "Check this out," he'd whispered urgently, trying not to get scolded in the library. It was a microfilm of an article from 1977 about his uncle Thomas Raphael Robins going missing. He was last seen in an obscure place called Ruggsville. Laura and Tommy both said they never heard of the place, and Dan hadn't any idea either.
Ruggsville, Ruggsville...Tommy poked through the computer archives. After some hard maneuvering through the non-user-friendly system he come upon some interesting things.
...Dr. Quayle aka Dr. Satan tortured and mutilated his patients, often before death, peforming what appears to be experiments meant to improve the human race.
...He had several of the implants inside his own body after study..
...Dr. Satan's trial hit some road bumps, bringing the proceedings to a grinding halt. A mob gathered outside the town and lynched the gruesome former mental ward director. However, his body has disappeared and the police are saying nothing--did the vigilantes abuse his dead body?
Laura screwed up a face after she'd scanned through the contents, expressing her distaste. Somehow Tommy noticed the jiggle of her budding breasts through the babydoll dress she wore, and it was distracting. He was uncomfortable; he'd never thought of her as a girl before--shaking his head he concentrated on the screen before him.
Tommy returned home later that evening, his whole outlook on life changed. He didn't talk to Stacy much, simply answered her questions and went to his room, shutting the door. Mom knows something about Tom's demise. She was in the area. Laura had found records showing a 3 month stay in a crazy house, spouting shit about a 'death house' in the area that was never found. Laura had also read the bestselling novel written by his mother which had some interesting things in it. House that Satan Built had rivaled The Amityville Horror in mystery and controversy, and the character that harassed the heroine, could he be this man that his mother sees in her dreams? What else is she keeping from him?
He had the impulse to create, so he began sketching, pencil following its own design and he just let it happen.
Stacy hung up the phone with her friend Tina, blowing out a deep breath. She didn't know what was wrong with herself, but she felt that something wasn't right, and it centered around her son. She went to her bedroom and changed into some jeans and a blouse and went to her son's door. Knocking, she told Tommy she was going to the store for a few minutes. He responded that he'd be here and that he didn't want to go. Shrugging, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed to her truck.
She unlocked and opened the door, threw her purse in the passenger side and started to jump in when a shadow popped up from the spacious back seat and called her by name.
"What in the hell--," she began.
The intruder's face came into the light, showing a scarred face, close- cropped hair and a beautiful grey eye. "Shh," he hissed, good eye darting to and fro.
"Jim?!," Stacy exclaimed.
"Uh huh," he affirmed, pulling her into the vehicle. Stacy stared at him for a few moments, taking in his scars, stubble, and nonmatching glass eye he wore in his empty socket. "What are you doing in my car?," she demanded.
"Came to find you," was his noncommital reply.
"But you're insane! Weren't you in a place for veterans?"
"Yep," he responded, then instructed her to drive to a secluded spot. She hesitated for a moment, the started up the blazer and began driving to the outskirts of town. If she could handle Otis then she could handle this guy, or she could damn well try. When she got parked she turned to him and voiced her displeasure.
"Something's afoot," he told her matter-of-factly.
"Is that so?," she huffed. "What makes you think I won't turn your Agent Orange ass into the police?"
"We're comrades, you and I.. And we both know what happened back in '77. Don't we?" Stacy said nothing. "We ain't crazy. At least not like they made us out to be. I saw things, Stacy. Great and terrible things, and I just had to find you."
"What did you see?," she asked him, starting to listen to him.
"I--I can't say, not yet."
Stacy's forehead went forward, touching the steering wheel. "Just what I need, another nut."
"You see him, don't you?," he questioned her urgently.
"Who?"
"The ghostman," he said.
"Shut up!!," she barked. "Get out of my car! You fucking lunatic, don't you come around me or my son!"
"He's the key," Jim declared cryptically.
"GET OUT!," Stacy roared, and the man finally complied, shaking his head sadly as he did so. She went home and drank two bottles of whiskey before passing clean out.
"Moooom," a voice pierced the fog in her head. "Moooom." Then she was being flounced on her bed. Prising her heavy eyelids open she espied her teenager bouncing on her bed on hands and knees like a demented rabbit, cackling riotously. The bed groaned with both their weight as Tommy continued his madcap boinging beside her. "I'm up," she protested, putting the pillow over her head.
"Where's my breakfasht?," Tommy teased, pulling the pillow and covers off her. Groaning, she rolled onto her back and sternly chastised his tormenting of his own mother. As usual it went in one ear and out the other, but at least he left her alone. His laughter could be heard down the hall as he went to the living room. Turning her head, the clock read 10 am.--jeez how long did she drink last night? Rubbing her eyes she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She loped into the bathroom in her bra and panties, checking her reflection in the mirror. "Uugh," she went, splashing her bloated face with water.
She glanced over to the tiny bathroom window and screeched. Jim's battered face could be discerned, intently watching her. "Son of a bitch!" He skidaddled, a few leaves from the bushes the only evidence of his passing.