Chapter 9:
October 4, 2016
The daytime talk show kept playing. All Barbi could hear was the voices of Candace Cameron-Bure and Raven Symone on The View, along with several other co-hosts. Whilst listening to their eloquent, feminine voices, her hands were soaked in the bathwater of the sink as she bathed one-month old Caroline, who was gurgling and cooing as Barbi poured cups of water on her daughter to clear the suds of Johnson and Johnson's off of her smooth, light skin.
"My kids had an amazing Halloween," Barbi heard Candance say passively, "which brings us to our next topic. Raven, you said you wanted….uh, take the floor?"
"Yeah, I have to say, last year's television special My Roanoke Nightmare was INSANELY good!"
Barbi just darted her eyes at the screen and looked at the crazy-haired former teen actress ramble: "it kept me on the edge of my seat…" Barbi watched Raven put her hands up on the screen, shaking them crazily, "it was, WOW! The reenactments were true to life!"
The redheaded young mother took a sharp sigh and looked down at her baby daughter, still wet in the sink with suds on her body. Barbi tried to ignore it, continuing to rinse off the soap from her daughter. Yet it didn't stop. Others pitched in consecutively, systematically, as though the show were made solely to profit off of she and her husband's pain and trauma.
"I saw it, too," said the deep, calming voice of Whoopi Goldberg. "I actually feel sorry for that poor young man. He said he was seeking help."
"Who could blame him?" Raven asked, "especially after all he's been through."
"I happen to know the producer, the one who interviewed him," said Paula Faris, another host. Barbi just cringed and kept washing her daughter clean in the sink.
"Sidney Aaron-James," Candace said, pointing a finger out expressively, "he was the director, right?"
"Yeah," Whoopi Goldberg said, sipping her Pepsi that was sitting on the desk. "He interviewed Mr. Paterson."
"Well, apparently," Paula said, taking out her smartphone and scrolling down on the touch screen, "the show has been a MAJOR success this past year alone. It's got 23 million overall viewers, 3 million followers on Twitter, almost 5 million likes on Facebook, and it's made multiple covers of Entertainment Weekly. The are hundreds of fan sites online and even had a Comic-Con spot in San Fran. The appetite for this show hasn't even reached its peak, and…"
"Wait a min-" Whoopi was cut off.
"Wait a minute, let me talk," Paula interrupted, "Sidney plans on making a SEQUEL of this, it was just leaked on Instagram. Return to Roanoke: Three Days in Hell."
That was it. Barbi had enough hearing about these celebrities talking about this. She had a cup full of water in her hands that she had just refilled from the bathwater in the sink, and impulsively splashed the screen on the TV with the soiled liquid. There came a buzzing sound before the TV suddenly burst into flames before her very eyes.
BeepBeepBeepBeep…
There went the fire alarm as a thick cloud of dark grey smoke accompanied the fire from the spark, and in came Rebecca, her teenaged sister in-law.
"What in God's name is goin' on?!" she asked loudly.
"The TV!" Barbi exclaimed, quickly grabbing baby Caroline out of the soiled sink water and into a clean, lukewarm towel, holding her close as the front of her t-shirt got wet. "Help me!"
Rebecca, rolling her soft blue eyes, rushed to grab the fire extinguisher, getting it ready and pulling the lever back until white foam went on the site of the fire to cease it completely from spreading throughout the kitchen. Within moments, Barbi found herself a bit calmer with the absence of the heat and smoke from the fire, and Rebecca wiped her lightly freckled face on her sleeve, putting down the bright red can of white foam. She looked at her sister in-law and shook her head.
"What the heck happened to the TV?" she asked. "You didn't answer me."
"Look, I…I'm sorry," Barbi said apologetically, "just that…I…I…"
"Let me guess," Rebecca answered facetiously, "you heard about that producer makin' a sequel about you 'n' my brother's ordeal?"
Barbi's large, doe-like brown eyes widened, strengthening her hold on the two-month old baby in her hands. It disgusted her; the mere thought of high-ranking celebrities talking about and profiting off their trauma and pain from the ordeal just a year before. Worse yet were the fans who raved about Cole's interview on the TV special and dramatic reenactment that was so disturbingly real that Cole himself could not even watch it without reliving the horror. It was bad enough that the interviewer and producer, Sidney Aaron-James, bought the house for cheap for the reenactments from Cole for a meager $4,000, which was barely a sixteenth of the price he paid at auction.
"Becca," Barbi said, "it's disgustin'. Truly."
"But you gettin' paid off it, right?"
Barbi just looked at her sister in-law and shook her head, changing the subject: "don't you got homework?"
"Nope," Rebecca answered with a chuckle, about to leave the room, "but you're gonna have to explain to my mom why the TV's broken."
"Look," Barbi said, holding her baby closer, "I was upset. I'm so damn tired of hearin' about it all."
"No sense in changin' anythin'," Rebecca replied, holding her arms out to try and get her baby niece out of Barbi's arms. The young mother handed her niece baby Caroline, who began to whine and cry softly. Rebecca kissed the baby's smooth white cheek, holding her closely in the towel.
"Aw, are you okay, lil' one?" the teenager asked her niece, looking over to Barbi, who began to leave the room and to the small makeshift nursery made for Caroline. It was a small room, but nowhere near the size of a linen closet, with just enough room for a white dresser and white crib with a matching diaper changing table. The redhead opened the top drawer of the baby's dresser and pulled out a light green onesie, putting it on the changing table. Rebecca removed the soaked towel from the baby's bath and put on a fresh diaper before putting on the garment.
"She's sleepy," Barbi whispered, noticing her baby's crying had ceased. "Put her in the crib."
Rebecca lowered Caroline into the plush-lined crib, covering the infant with a blanket of light wool and putting her stuffed mini teddy bear next to her. As the baby drifted off to sleep, the two heard the door open. Barbi felt nerve-wracked, and rushed to see who it was. Whenever the door opened, since the occurrences, she felt a tinge of anxiety until she found out it was either Cole or Abigail, Cole and Rebecca's mother. Barbi felt a bit of relief to see Cole and his mother both enter the house.
"Hello, I'm home," he said. Barbi went over to her husband, who leaned down to hug and kiss her softly on the cheek. "Everythin' okay? Where's Caroline?"
"We just put her to sleep," Barbi said solemnly. Cole noticed this, looking down at her as he saw his mother and sister leave the room. He tilted her chin up, only to have his wife shake his hand away by thrashing her head slightly.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked her. "Why you actin' like this?"
"Cole," Barbi replied wearily, "i-it's a long story."
"Well, tell me," he replied, taking a seat on the couch as he removed his suit jacket and leather loafers.
Since the interview, he had taken up a managerial job at a manufacturing company; anything involving cutting tools like sledgehammers or saws were out of the question for him now, by his own free will and the request of his therapist, who had diagnosed him with PTSD after the ordeal in Roanoke the state north of his own. He had made a decent living with his wages, but still received small checks in the mail of a few thousand dollars each from the broadcasting company who produced My Roanoke Nightmare – it was a puny fraction of the millions that the show was actually worth. Sidney Aaron-James, the interviewer, and his producer were the ones making a fortune off their misery, while small reminders of the ordeal came every month as royalties.
"I'll tell you at dinner," Barbi told him, "I promise. Your momma oughta know, too."
Barbi cooked dinner herself that evening; it consisted of seasoned country-style pork ribs slathered in sweet barbeque sauce, along with sides of homemade baked beans, buttery-garlic green beans along with heated cornbread muffins. Barbi served everyone in order of Cole, Abigail and Rebecca before serving herself, sitting at the table to see that everyone had already begun to dig into her handiwork. First was a satisfied moan from her husband, who smiled at his wife.
"This is so damn good, Barbara." His mouth was full. He used her real name, now.
"I'm glad y'all like it," the redhead said. "I saw it off the cookin' channel and decided to try somethin' new."
"The beans?" Rebecca asked.
"Yeah."
"Cookin' shows probably are the reason the TV's broken."
Barbi nearly dropped her fork, looking at Abigail, who had a strange look on her aged face; "huh? What TV?"
"Oh, yeah," Rebecca said, "Barbi broke the TV today."
"It was an accident," Barbi said, defending herself, diverting her dark chocolate eyes to her sister in-law. "I wouldn't do it on purpose."
Cole just looked at everyone and shook his head – "quiet down. What happened?"
Barbi looked down, and tried to muster enough to hide her nervousness under the guise of a small bite of food. Cole just looked at her, returning her absent gaze as he awaited an answer.
"Well?" he asked.
Barbi finally answered after a silence, looking first to Abigail: "Ma'am, I have to tell you what happened that ticked me off enough to pour water at the TV. I was bathin' Caroline, and…"
"So, you put the baby in harm's way?" Abigail asked with shock, having swallowed her food. She sounded agitated, and honestly, no one could blame her.
"It was so sudden," Barbi said rapidly, "but you're missin' the point. I saw a show and they said they were comin' out with a new documentary…" She took a breath, "about…our ordeal."
The room was struck silent, mostly due to Cole's speechlessness. Rebecca continued to eat, as if nothing was a big deal, yet she felt genuine sympathy for her brother and his relatively new wife. She couldn't possibly put herself in their shoes, either one of them, to experience firsthand what went on in the house at Roanoke. Abigail just looked at her son, remembering how distressed he was when he had come back to Barnwell with Barbi, and seeing her in a lot worse of shape, just over a year before. Cole looked over at Barbi, ending the circle of stares, seeing some water droplets in her eyes and seeing her sniffle as she tried to eat her food.
"Cole?" Abigail broke the silence. "D-Did you hear about this?"
His answer was abrupt: "no."
"We could ne'er go back in our condition," Barbi said, "especially his. The doc won't allow it, I guarantee it." She looked over at Cole, who just silently and slowly buttered his corn muffin. "By hell, if they want to interview me instead of you, I'd do it."
"Are you crazy?!" Cole shouted.
Abigail just reached across from her and patted her son's forearm: "no yellin' at the table."
"I ain't goin' back there, and neither are you, Barbara," he commanded.
His wife looked frightened, moving the napkin from her lap to the tabletop, shoveling some baked beans onto her fork. Abigail just looked at her daughter in-law, staring long as hard at the fire-haired young woman as she silently obeyed and ate her food, keeping silent. She knew not to provoke Cole, especially in his condition. Yet it was so hard, being married to him, having barely known him for a few months during their first meeting when he moved to the dreaded, haunted farmhouse. She did love him, but he was so difficult with his values and renewed morality since fleeing North Carolina in addition to his mental diagnosis.
The rest of dinner was silent. Barbi hadn't even said a word to Cole for the rest of the night. After checking on the baby one last time at around 10:30 that evening, she walked slowly to the master bedroom she shared with Cole, which neighbored Rebecca's room and had Abigail's own room across from it. She opened the door and looked to see her husband sitting there, shirtless and barefoot in his jeans, on the edge of the king-sized bed downing a few of his medications followed by a glass of water. When he set the glass on his nightstand, he looked to the doorway but ended up ignoring her presence.
She broke the silence: "I'm sorry…i-it was just a thought, and…I wasn't thinkin' straight."
Cole just looked at the door: "close the door."
"D-Don't ignore me," she replied emotionally, tears forming in her eyes. "I'm speakin' to you!"
"I'm not ignorin' you," Cole said, "I only asked a favor."
SLAM!
She slammed the door shut and went over to him: "do you even realize how upset I was today seein' that on TV? Do you even understand how horrible it is for others to profit of our sufferin', that we STILL live day to day with? I only suggested that to set the record straight, I lived there longer."
"Yeah," Cole said, "and probably saw way more than what you tell me you did."
"That's a lie," she told him tearfully. "God, I'm so sick of you accusin' me of lyin' to you!"
Cole got up from the bed, listening to her cry and carry on as he looked down at her, inching closer to her, slowly, as her crying turned to sobs.
"You didn't have your sister try killin' you twice! You didn't live poor with pretty much nothin'. You weren't there to see your parents murdered…y-you don't know…"
"Shhh…"
Cole felt a knife in his heart, feeling sorry for his wife as she fell into his arms like a helpless child. She felt his strong hands pat her back softly, feeling her smooth skin beneath the fabric covering it. Her tears saked his bare chest, and her hair still smelled sweet and flowery. Letting her go, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs, looking down into her great dark eyes as he spoke.
"Let's get to bed," he said to her. "Sleep it off."
"Fola a fuil, saol a bas…olc na dorchdais…cuirimid iobairt…"
She heard the whispers of an ancient, foreign tongue as she found herself running through the halls of the colonial-era house. Looking down, she saw herself dressed in a taupe bodice that was tight-fitting, like a corset, complete with an ornamental skirt over a shift. Her fiery hair was tousled and felt like it hadn't been washed in a week's time. Looking around, she'd been here before – it was her childhood home.
"Am an ri'ain gach uile choirceoige…"
The whispering continued, but she followed the sound. It brought her to the living room, where she had remembered sitting with her then future-husband and the professor who was brutally eviscerated before their eyes by the ghosts of the house. She stopped at the doorway to see a familiar bundle of red tresses halfway hanging off the head of a young woman.
"Hello?" she asked, "w-who's there?"
The face, upon turning around, was unrecognizable. She found herself gasping, seeing piercing hazel eyes that were intense enough to rip someone to shreds upon first contact. Yet, the once beautifully unmarred, pale skin on the woman was now black with severe burns; so severe, in fact, that her upper and lower arm bones were exposed with the muscle and tissues completely incinerated away. Half of her clothes were missing as well, just tatters and rags of what once was a black dress that went to the knees. Since a good majority of the upper half of her body was badly burnt, only half of her fiery waves remained, and hung over her face to frame the grisly reminder of her demise. Death never looked so frightening.
"You came back."
The girl, in her colonial-style clothing, moved forward: "Sarah?"
"Don't mind the scars," the burnt woman said. "I'm just fine. Ambrose threw me in. Savin' your dumb ass."
She had a strange urge to go over to the severely-burnt, reanimated corpse and embrace her once more, but Sarah had never been that type in life; the affectionate, loving type. Maybe in a more twisted sense in her verbal and mental abuse toward her sister, fostering learned helplessness further as they grew up under their uncle's roof together. Sarah, charred and hideous with the look of death, just stared her right in the face, speaking more.
"Why did you come back?"
"Tell me, Sarah," Barbi argued softly, "why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you kill Mom and Dad?" she asked her burnt sister. "But….w-why did you try killin' ME?"
Sarah took a step forward, one of her crackling leather shoes making a strange noise on the floor: "I've hated you since before you were born." Then, the charred young woman and her crackling leather shoes made those same noises as she circled around her younger sister in colonial clothing; "I was supposed to be their only kid. I could've, well, just maybe, if you were a boy, I wouldn't think of killin' you when you were 9, before…I was sent off and away by those two CUNTS!" Her shriek made Barbi's eyes shut as the sound resonated sharply in her ears; "they deserved it. I was their pride and joy, and they just threw me away."
Barbi felt uneasy as Sarah's charred, reanimated corpse as she was circled around and about, repeatedly with the sound of crackling leather against the wooden, creaky floor. The fear was gripping, making her near nauseous, but made her eyes hurt, as if she were holding in years worth of tears.
"S-Sarah," she said with a dry sob, "y-you hated me? But…I never did anythin' to you…n-not on purpose…"
"It was always 'Barbi', 'Barbi, 'Barbi' after you were ripped out," Sarah said mockingly. "I was pushed to the side. Disgustin'. Thinkin' I'd be treated better because I was the oldest."
"It doesn't always work like that," the younger sister replied sadly, "I…I tried to be a good sister to you."
"You have the brain of a bastard rat," Sarah replied. "Caroline will be just like you in the worst way. Watch."
That alone sent chills down her spine; how in the world did Sarah know Barbi had a baby since fleeing North Carolina? Did she know about her marriage to Cole, too?
"How did-"
"Don't ask," Sarah replied, staring her living sister straight in the eyes.
Then, there was a shouting: "TRESPASSER!"
It seemed like Sarah moved aside to let Thomasin, whose stringy gray hair fell over a sweaty face, charge at her younger sister, who screamed as she struggled to avoid the cleaver wielded by the Butcher.
"This land belongeth to my people! Thou art not welcome!" the colonist shouted, "punishment will be thy death!"
"AHH! STOP!" Barbi screeched, being pushed up against the wall by the unsurprising strength of the woman. She heard a cackling in the background, but most of it was drained out by Thomasin trying to kill her.
"THOU DARE COME BACK HERE?" the colonist shouted, "HAST THOU LEARNT NOTHING?"
"Barbara? Barbara! What's wrong?"
Cole's wife was screaming in her sleep, the dream just one of many, from their traumatizing ordeal in the house and on the land of the original Roanoke colony. There were tears flooding down her cheeks, which were redder than her hair at the peak of the screaming.
"Barbara…"
"NO! PLEASE! AHHH!"
Slap!
Cole was taken aback from the motion of his hand against her face, slapping her out of her hysterical sleep and to full consciousness. Barbi's dark brown, chocolate-colored eyes widened, as if she were hypnotized, but they moved within seconds to the face of her husband, who looked down in horror as she began to sob and cry heavily.
"Oh my God, I am SO sorry," Cole said with sincere concern, holding her close to him, "I didn't mean to hurt you…I…I…"
Barbi just continued to sob, scratching her husband's chest roughly as her whines and cries were quieted by his lulling. Her sweet-smelling red hair, in a bedhead, was brushing against his chin, enough for him to get a calming whiff of her scent.
"Barbara…d-did you have a nightmare?" he asked her more calmly.
"W-We will die if we go back," his wife replied between broken sobs.
"What?" he asked.
"S-Sarah…she was so…b-burnt up…" Barbi sobbed, "and…T-Thomasin t-t-tried to k-kill me…i-if we go back, we will die, Cole. We will die!"
Cole shook his head: "No, no, we are not goin' back there! Y'hear me?"
"We can't!" Barbi exclaimed, "you were right, this dream…"
Cole got out of the bed they shared, and reached into his nightstand drawer, pulling it out to see an array of items within – a Glock 27 handgun, some grooming essentials, an old folding razor, and a few prescription pill bottles. He looked at the labels until he found his prazosin, pouring out a pill and handing it to his wife along with the glass of water by his bedside.
"Here, take this," he said.
"N-No, those are your meds, I can't take 'em if they're not prescribed," Barbi resisted.
"Take them," he insisted.
She took the pill and the glass of water: "what about you?"
"I can go a night with a nightmare or two," he told her. "I don't change much, anyways. It's just a pill."
A/N:
So it's been a while since my last update! Sorry, folks!
I hope you are all enjoying the story, and this first chapter entirely in third-person is going to set the tone for the rest of the story. Just wait and see!
I may not be entirely finished with the story until December or so. Just a warning to you all.
Please leave Reviews, Favorite and be sure to Follow! Thank you all ~