Taking a seat in his chair, I open the top right-hand drawer. It’s where I saw him drop the key to the cellar door. It’s still there. I recognize it. My heart races as I reach in and take it out. I’ll be quick. Get it back here before he’s home. I just want to see what he was looking for. See what it was behind that picture he knocked askew.
I close the drawer and get to my feet, hurrying out of the office toward the cellar before I can chicken out.
It’s good there’s no one around because in my guilty haste I fumble with the key, dropping it once before I finally get it into the slot and unlock it. Once open, I take a deep breath, slip into the staircase, closing the door behind me, and switching on the light.
It’s instantly several degrees cooler and even the smell of it, the closed up underground space, is eerie. I hold onto the railing and move quickly. I don’t want to give myself time to think. At the bottom of the stairs, I glance right but turn left toward the room I found Jericho in the other night. I move more slowly here, having to feel my way as the light from the stairs fades. When I manage to flip on the light switch, nothing happens. I remember how the bulb had flickered on and off that first night too.
I don’t allow myself to look at the closed doors on either side of me. Instead, I hurry to the last door, which is still standing open. The one where I’d found Jericho that night. When I reach the door, it’s almost too dark to see so I reach my arm around the corner to feel for the light switch. I am relieved when it doesn’t take me long. A moment later, the bulb blinks on and I’m standing in this room that almost looks like a little girl’s room, complete with a doll house, except it’s not. No parent would put a child in here. It’s too eerie.
Something cool brushes the back of my neck and I shudder. I take two quick steps into the room, turning to look behind me, half expecting someone to be there. My heart races as I’m met by empty space, so I hug my arms to myself. It’s almost like the air in here is unsettled. Restless.
I just have one thing to do and then I can get out. The ghost that lives here, she doesn’t want to hurt me. She doesn’t have anything against me.
She.
Mary or Zoë.
The chair Zoë stood on to hang herself is still in the corner. I look up at the ancient wooden beam. History. History he’s afraid will repeat with his own daughter. With me.
I take a deep breath in of the musty air and hurry to the wall where the picture still hangs askew, the box broken at my feet, letters strewn about. I see the edge of the beaded chain and lift the picture off its nail. It’s only an 8x10 but it’s dusty. The glass is broken and a shard drops to the ground, breaking into two pieces with a light tinkling sound. I set the picture aside and look behind it where someone has carved a small cubby hole into the stone. In that hiding place is what I’d thought was a beaded necklace, but I see now it’s a rosary. And it’s wrapped around several sheets of paper.
Is this why Jericho was here? Have I found what he was looking for?
My hand trembles as I reach for it and I realize the air around me has settled. I lift the papers. They’re torn out of a spiral notebook, the edges uneven.
I unwind the rosary and unfold the sheet. It’s dated March 20 ten years ago. I think at first it might be some sort of love letter but realize quickly it’s not. And I wish it were. Because what I read is chilling.
It’s not addressed to anyone in particular. It just starts.
It’s not right. Not normal.
He comes when everyone is sleeping. He smells like that whiskey he drinks and he’s rough with anger and I’m too scared to move. To make a sound.
He tells me it’s the rule. That girls become women and women are dirty and need to pray for forgiveness to save their souls. I don’t believe him, though. I don’t believe girls or women are dirty. At least I didn’t before. But I still pray. Now I pray for strength to do what I decided I would do because although I’m relieved to have decided I’m still scared. I almost changed my mind, too, when he was away for a few weeks and when he came home, he didn’t come to my room. I thought it was over, and I wouldn’t have to do it again, but I was wrong. It will never be over, and I have to stick with my decision.
When I tried to tell Zeke, he told me to stop being weird. He didn’t understand and it’s too strange to say the words out loud. To say what happens those nights. I feel dirty to think about it. I feel disgusting.
I can’t tell mom. He’ll just hurt her if I do. He told me he would, and he likes hurting her because she’s a filthy woman too. He hates us for being women.
But it will be fine now. It will be over. I decided.
I brought the rope down a few days ago. Brought down my favorite stuffed animal. I know I’m too old for a stuffed bear, but I don’t care.
It started almost one year ago. I was late to develop and when Zeke started to grow taller and stronger and more like a man than a boy, I looked like I was his little sister. Not his twin. I would never be as tall as either of my brothers but that was fine. My mom said she’d developed late too. I remember how much I wanted to hurry things along. Jealous of the girls in my class who already had breasts and shaved their legs and other things. I changed in the bathroom for gym because I was embarrassed of my flat chest and straight body and having no hair there.
Now I wish I’d stayed that way because when I did start to develop, he noticed. I think it’s the first time he noticed me since I was born. He was never affectionate with any of us but at least my brothers served some purpose, especially Jericho. He’s the oldest. His successor. He’s the most like our father and sometimes that side of him scares me, but I have to remember Jericho isn’t our father. He’s kind and sweet and even when he tries to act like dad, as soon as he sees that I’m scared, he’s himself again.
He’s bigger than Zeke but Zeke’s getting there. And they both said they’ll always protect me because being so small I probably need a lot of protecting. I do. They don’t know how much. How right they are. But thing is, neither of them can protect me against him. He’s too wicked. Too clever. Too hateful.
He hates me. It’s why he does it.
I take a breath in and turn the page over, sitting on the bed to read it. The frame creaks but I’m too wrapped up to care.
It started the night I got my first period. He knew somehow and when everyone was asleep, he came to my room. I was asleep too when I felt him pull the blanket away. He said I was dirty now. Like my mother. He said I needed to pray. To beg forgiveness for my sins. He never said what those sins were. He gave me a special rosary then made me kneel to say my prayers. That happened for a full week. I had to kneel and pray while he watched until he was satisfied.
I was so tired everyone noticed but I never said a word and I hid the rosary between my mattress and the box spring.
Then when my period was over, he stopped coming and I thought that was it. But then my cycle repeated, and the punishment changed. He made me take off my clothes before I knelt. It was cold I remember that, and he opened the window and let in more cold air and told me to pray. For the full week while I bled, he would make me strip and kneel and pray and beg for forgiveness.
The next time I had my period again he said it wasn’t working. Said I was too dirty to pray and instead he would need to punish me as long as I bled. It was the rule he said. And every night that week he punished me. His punishment was wicked and hurt inside me. He hurt me so badly I had a hard time getting out of my bed those days.