The Worst Kind of Monsters Read online

  I picked up my plane and decided to stash it in my bedroom. I didn’t want to give my dad any excuse to flip out tonight. Out of sight, out of mind.

  As I walked down the hallway toward my bedroom, I passed my parents’ room. I glanced inside and saw my dad.

  He was standing by the bed, shirtless and facing the door. For a split second I froze, expecting him to bark at me for something. But then I saw he had his hands over his eyes, his elbows jutting away from his body. He didn’t move a muscle, just stood like that silently, like he had been turned to stone.

  I didn’t know what to make of it, the odd display unnerving me. I didn’t stick around to find out what he was doing and quickly scooted down the hall to my room. I deposited my plane on my dresser just as I heard my mom call everyone for supper.

  Jay and I trotted to the table as my mom placed a steaming bowl of hot spaghetti on it, smelling of garlic and basil. Jay rubbed his stomach and swooned, expressing to mom how hungry he was. I took my place at the table next to him as my father entered the kitchen.

  Wordlessly, he took a seat at the head of the table, opposite my mother who shot him a cautious glance.

  He folded his hands and turned to me. “Why don’t you say grace for us tonight, Tommy?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes, locking my fingers together. “Dear Jesus, thank—”

  I jumped as my dad slammed his hand down on the table. Jay let out a little squeak and my mom visibly flinched.

  My dad leaned toward me. “Now Tommy, how do you expect Jesus to hear you when you talk so softly? Start over, but louder.”

  My heart was thundering in my chest and it took conscious effort to keep my voice from shaking. My father’s outburst was so sudden and out of character for him that I didn’t know how to respond.

  I lowered my head and began again. “Dear Jesus, thank you for the food and thank you for mom who made it.” After a pause I added, “And thank you for dad who goes to work for it. Amen.”

  My mom echoed my “amen” and told me that was a nice prayer. Jay was staring at my dad, unease blooming in his eyes.

  Dad looked at the bowl of spaghetti and I saw his jaw clench. “This again. I guess it’s not your fault, Ann, that you can’t cook anything but noodles. It’s not like your family had the money to send you to college to make something of yourself.”

  My mom looked up at him, shock rippling across her face. My dad met her stare, his face carved from stone. He was daring her to say something to him, anything. Wisely, my mom lowered her eyes and began spooning out the steaming spaghetti.

  Jay immediately dug into his, twirling his fork around the sauced noodles and shoving them hungrily into his mouth. I winced as he slurped down a mouthful, causing the red gravy to squirt from his lips.

  My dad turned to him, his eyes ice. “Jay. What have I told you about being rude at the table?”

  Jay froze, fork halfway to his mouth, “Uh-uh…” he stuttered, mind blanking.

  My dad curled a finger at him, “Come here. Now.”

  I felt my heart sink into my guts and turn to rot. I was breathing heavily, not wanting my brother to be in any kind of trouble. I watched as he slid from his chair, fear in his eyes.

  “Bring me your plate,” dad said in that same iron voice.

  Jay turned and took his plate, slowly walking it over to stand in front of my dad. My father looked him over, shaking his head, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

  “I didn’t raise a pig,” he said darkly, “but if you insist on being one, you’re going to eat like one.”

  He suddenly grabbed Jay’s plate and threw it on the floor, shattering it and spraying spaghetti everywhere. I jumped in my seat again, forcing my eyes away and praying I’d disappear. My mom gasped and her mouth fell open.

  My dad pointed to the floor. “Go ahead son, if you’re so desperate to be a barnyard animal, you can eat like one!”

  Jay looked at my mom and I could tell he was on the brink of crying, unsure what to do, begging someone for help.

  “Henry, don’t you think you’re overreacting a little bit?” my mom ventured timidly.

  My dad slammed his hands down again, his voice rising. “Ann, if you don’t raise these kids to be—gggungrate—hate it when the wind blows north!”

  Everyone paused. I chanced a glance at my dad. What?

  My mom said nothing, waiting for her husband to continue. Jay sniffled beside me and I reached out a hand and took his, squeezing it gently.

  My dad blinked and one of his eyes rolled up into his head and then righted itself. It happened so fast I almost didn’t see it. He cleared his throat and gave his head a quick shake.

  My father blinked a few more times and then looked at me and Jay. He saw me holding his hand, Jay on the brink of tears.

  “Tommy, let go of your brother’s hand,” he said, his eye twitching slightly.

  I obeyed, our sweaty palms separating. I watched my father, food forgotten, my throat dry and mouth parched. I didn’t understand why he was acting like this. I had never seen him this hostile toward us. I knew that sometimes when he had a bad day at work he came home frustrated…but never like this.

  What had happened today?

  My father looked at me in my seat, waving Jay to sit back down. “Tommy, your brother was being punished. Do you know why I punish you boys? It’s so that you understand right from wrong. Now, I just saw you trying to comfort your brother.” He leaned toward me, his breath hot. “That tells me that you’re on his side. That tells me you think it’s OK to act like a pig at my table.”

  I shook my head frantically, “N-no, I just wanted—”

  My dad cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Stop. I don’t want to have to punish you for lying as well.”

  He patted the tabletop. “Put your hand on the table.”

  I shot my mom a terrified look, begging her for help. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. She didn’t know how to react, had never seen her husband so cruel or sharp with us. She was speechless, afraid that saying something would antagonize my dad further.

  “On the table,” my dad repeated, his voice hardening.

  Hand shaking, I placed it on the table, palm down. Jay had started to cry next to me, tears dripping from his cheeks.

  My dad picked up his fork.

  “Henry,” my mom whispered, eyes wide.

  I looked at my dad, fighting back my own tears, fear choking me.

  My father gripped the fork. “You need to understand that—” he stopped suddenly, coughing hard and then gasped in a dry voice, “Don’t you hate the wind in the north?!”

  He dropped the fork on the table and his mouth fell open, his tongue stretching to his chin. His eye began to twitch rapidly and he rubbed it viciously, closing his mouth and gritting his teeth.

  None of us moved, paralyzed by the odd display. I had no idea what he was talking about or why he was acting like this. Something was wrong with him; that much was clear.

  After a few seconds, my dad lowered his hand from his face and smiled at all of us. “I think you boys understand now. Remember what I said and we won’t have to do that again, OK?”

  Jay and I nodded vigorously, desperate to get away from the tension, the table, all of this. I felt like I was stuck in some alternate reality, a nightmare I was just waiting to wake from.

  My dad pointed to the floor. “Tommy, could you please clean up that mess?”

  As I scrambled to comply, he turned his eyes to my mother, looking her up and down where she sat. He began to twirl a spoon in his hand and got a strange look in his eye. It was as if he was evaluating her as a person, taking in all her physical features.

  As I was scraping globs of spaghetti into the trash, I heard my father say, “Jay, can you go around to the back of the house and get me a brick?” I heard my brother get up and open the side door to the outside, the hinges creaking in their familiar way.

  “Henry, what’s wrong?” I heard my mom ask in a hushed voice. Even as I
sponged up the mess, I could hear the fear in her voice.

  My dad didn’t respond. I finished wiping sauce from the floor just as Jay shuffled back into the house. He held a brick in his hands, dirt staining his fingers. With downcast eyes he brought it to my father and placed it on the table next to him.

  My dad turned to the both of us, his voice cold steel. “Now both of you go to your room for the night. I’m going to fuck your mother.”

  I heard my mom gasp as Jay and I turned away. I took my brother’s hand in mine, heart racing. I was terrified. I rarely heard my dad use that kind of language before and never in such an abrasive manner. As we quickly walked to our room, I looked at Jay and saw his face was a mess of snot, drool, and tear-streaked terror. His eyes were wet and wide with confusion. He didn’t understand any of this, didn’t understand why his father was being so mean to him. I didn’t either and so I gave his hand a little squeeze, unsure of what else to do.

  We closed the door to our bedroom and stared at each other. We could hear our dad yelling loudly in the kitchen, his voice rising. Jay covered his ears and ran to his bed, collapsing into his pillow. I went to him and put a hand on his back as he cried, his sobs muffled in the cotton.

  Then I heard my mom start to scream.

  I felt tears spill from my eyes and I began to hyperventilate, each breath a desperate attempt for oxygen. I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut as something crashed to the floor in the kitchen. More banging followed and all the while my mother continued to shriek, her voice rising to an inhuman level. There was agony in her cries along with fear, and I kept waiting for her to stop.

  But she didn’t.

  It kept going.

  And going.

  And going.

  And going.

  Jay was weeping now, shaking his head into his pillow, trying to block out the sound. His whole body was shaking and it sounded like he was having trouble breathing. I laid down next to him and clutched his body to mine, my own tears spilling into his hair. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know when this horrible nightmare would end.

  I heard another crash as something shattered in the kitchen. I heard my mother howling and the screech of table legs on the hardwood floor. I heard Jay praying to God, his voice trembling. I clutched him tighter, realizing that I was sobbing as well. My whole body felt like it was a quivering mass of Jell-O, my muscles weak and useless. I was more terrified than I had ever been in my life.

  Finally, my mother stopped screaming. A soft hush fell over the house. I didn’t hear anything except the blood pumping in my ears. Jay had quieted to a series of soft sniffles, his face still buried in the pillow. I looked up from the bed, staring at the closed bedroom door. I begged it to remain shut.

  I heard movement in the house, footsteps that came down the hall and stopped on the other side of the wall, in my parents’ bedroom. I heard shuffling and then a door shut. I waited. I prayed.

  Jay shifted next to me and I told him to be quiet, wiping tears from his face and holding him close. More footsteps in the house, heavy, slow paces. I thought for sure my mom was dead. People didn’t scream like that and live.

  Our bedroom door opened.

  Jay let out a little scream and shrank into me as my dad entered.

  He was crawling on all fours, his mouth hanging open, drool running down his chin, his eyes rolled back into his head. He shuffled side-to-side across the floor, slowly opening and closing his mouth, spittle leaking from his face. He was blinking rapidly, one of his eyes rolling forward to stare at us.

  After a few seconds, he coughed, hacking up phlegm. Growling, he wiped his lips and stood, looking down at us cowering on the bed.

  “Come with me,” he said, his voice a low rattle in his chest.

  I didn’t move. Jay shrank further against me. I could feel his body shaking against mine, sweat beading on his skin.

  My dad took a step toward us. “Get up, both of you, right now.”

  “Where’s mom?” I asked, voice trembling.

  He was standing in front of us now. “She’s resting. She’s had a long day. Now get up.”

  Jay shifted against me and then he was sliding to the floor. Without much choice, I followed his example. My dad placed a hand on each of our shoulders and guided us toward the door.

  As we were directed through the house, I listened for my mother. What had he done to her? Where was she? Was she dead in the bedroom? I didn’t hear anything, no clues as to her condition or where she was.

  We entered the kitchen and I saw that the table was pressed against the cabinets and a few of the dinner glasses lay shattered on the floor. I expected to see blood smeared across the floor or dripping down the surfaces, but there was none.

  At least, that was until I saw the brick.

  It had been placed on the counter by the sink. Half of it was soaked with thick, oozing blood.

  When I saw it, I felt my body tense. My dad must have felt the change in my stance because his grip tightened on my shoulder. Jay was sniffling beside me, his eyes cast down, refusing to look up and potentially see the horrors my father had bestowed on my mother.

  My dad pushed us outside through the side door. The night air was humid and sticky on my skin. A fat, yellow moon hung in the sky like an out-of-place Christmas ornament. Stars twinkled across the black canvas and my ears were filled with the sound of chirping night critters. Contrary to inside, everything felt alive out here, pulsing in unison to the night’s dark heartbeat.

  We were led around to the back of the house toward our old shed. My dad didn’t keep much out there, just a few tools and the rickety lawn mower, both of which weren’t used much throughout the year. I didn’t like the shed; something about it always haunted me. At night, as I lay in bed, I would imagine some creature hiding inside, waiting until I fell asleep before emerging and creeping into my room to watch me.

  Jay and I jerked to a halt as my dad squeezed our shoulders.

  “Wait here,” he said, his voice sounding far away and strange. I glanced over my shoulder and saw he was rubbing his eyes.

  “I want to go back in, I want mom,” Jay sobbed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  “You can go in when—came up and traveled in the wind,” my dad said, his sentence fracturing into two nonsensical statements. He coughed hard and stuck his tongue out like he had a bad taste on it. I saw a shudder wrack his body and he looked like he was about to gag. He gained control of himself with a quick shake of his head, closing his mouth so hard his teeth clicked together.

  I watched as he came around us and walked toward the shed. He looked back, making sure we were obeying, and then went inside. Jay looked at me, his eyes full of fear. He expected me to have some kind of explanation, an answer to the madness that surrounded us. I couldn’t summon the words to comfort him, didn’t know what combination of soothing syllables I could possibly string together to calm his terror.

  “What is he going to do to us?” he whispered, the warm moonlight shining in his eyes.

  “It’s going to be OK,” I said softly, the words tasting like a lie.

  We heard movement from the shed, our father’s actions hidden behind the closed door. A warm breeze stirred the distant trees and the night was filled with the sound of rustling leaves. My hair danced across my forehead in the wind and I begged to blow away with it. Jay and I remained frozen in place, neither of us knowing which would be worse: facing whatever my father was preparing or running away and facing the wrath that came after. It’s not like we had anywhere to run; where could we possibly go? Whom could we flee to? Our minds were trapped inside our youth, doomed to the almighty authority of our father.

  The shed door opened, snapping me out of my thoughts. My dad stepped back into the night, his figure draped in shadow and dark moonlight.

  “Both of you get inside,” he ordered.

  Jay grasped my arm as we shuffled forward, our father stepping aside to let us pass. The smell of rotting wood and old
grass assaulted my senses and I rubbed my hand across my nose, trying to scrub the stench away. My dad had illuminated the cramped space with an old electric lantern. It sat on the workbench on the right, our small lawnmower catching the light on its dull metal surface. Tools piled around the lantern, an array of rusted hammers, screwdrivers, and pliers. I couldn’t remember the last time my dad had actually used any of them.

  But all of that was seen with a passing glance. That wasn’t what held my attention. Something else did, my eyes drawn to it like fire and gasoline. Jay’s fingernails dug into my skin as he saw it, too, his breath catching in his lungs.

  A noose hung from the crossbeam, dangling down into the empty space. The rope was knotted tight, the twisting cords more menacing than anything on the workbench.

  My dad entered behind us, shutting the door .

  He went and stood by the noose, motioning me forward. “Come on now, Tommy, let’s get this over with.”

  “D-dad,” I croaked, mouth dry and voice cracking like a dead twig, “w-what are you going to d-do?” My heart was pressed against my ribs, throwing itself against bone, a wild beast in my chest.

  Dad traced the hanging loop with this fingers. “You’re going to be my wind chime, son. I need to know when the wind will blow north. I think you’ll make a good chime once I empty your insides out. But I’ll do that after.”

  “Why are you doing this, daddy?” Jay cried, wet tears rolling down his cheeks.

  He didn’t answer, just waited for me to go to him. I didn’t move, didn’t know what to do. Was he serious about going through with this? He couldn’t be; this was my father! He loved me, he would never do anything to seriously hurt me.

  At that age, blind trust is a dangerous thing. It filled me, the memories and kindness my dad had shown me over the years. I trusted him. He was my father. But that darkness in his eyes, that black spark, it terrified me. Reality and faith collided together in my mind like oil and water, the mixture turning my stomach in sick horror.

  My father gripped the hanging rope. “If you don’t come over here right now, I’m going to use Jay instead.”