Hell Within -- Chapter Twelve: The Monster -- Scenes 4-6
Ben discovers the truth of his situation.
-4-
Two hours later, when he opened the door to the master's quarters of his house, his breath caught halfway up his throat, and he stood frozen with his purpose forgotten.
He hadn't seen the bedroom after Amy died. Mandy wouldn't let him. She quietly went about the business of moving the body, and whisked him out of there.
Now he knew why.
The bed stood on its pedestal on the far left wall of the room stripped of its linen, and dark bloodstains covered the surface of the mattress.
Blood had splattered across the wall behind the bed. It looked kind of like mud sprayed across the fender of a white truck.
Ben stepped inside and closed the door behind him, and then he noticed the stains on the floor -- in the shape of his footprints leading from the bed to the door.
And the room was thick with a peculiar smell. He hadn't recognized it at first, but now the memory returned. It was the scent of strawberry shampoo -- a fragrance that he once associated with Amy back when they had first started dating.
He felt cold all of a sudden.
As if everything human left in him and given up the ghost. He backed up against the wall, and his knees gave way and he slid down to the floor holding his head.
"How have you been?" she said.
A chord of terror rang through him. He looked up, but a hot yellow light poured in from the wall of windows behind her, and he could only see her shadow.
But he knew who she was.
Amy nodded and paced away from the light giving him a good look at her now. She wasn't the same woman that she had been when she died. She was young -- like the girl he'd married. And along with the return of her youth her air of defiance had returned -- a quality about her that he'd found attractive when they were young.
"Don't feel bad for me," she said. "I'm happier than I've ever been."
Ben closed his mouth.
She smiled. "Your daughter is doing well. She's looking forward to meeting you. And my dad. . . ."
"My daughter?"
Amy stopped pacing and looked at him now as if recalling an important point.
"Yeah, she's five years old now. She doesn't have to be, and I really wanted to know what it was like to carry a baby around for a while, but she insists on being a little girl."
Ben hung his head.
Amy smiled maternally. "Her name is Liberty."
Ben sighed hard and sat back against the wall -- his eyes welling up so badly now that he couldn't see Amy clearly through the blur. He wished he hadn't come here -- that he'd just turned himself into the police. Amy looked down to the floor.
"My father says hi."
Ben looked back up at her.
Amy nodded. "He's met your parents. They're great friends, you know."
Ben blinked, and Amy laughed as if recalling something especially nice.
"The other day, I took Liberty to see your parents and grandparents. She had the time of her life. We made a kind of Thanksgiving dinner out of it -- the kind your grandparents used to have for the whole family every year? After we finished eating, Liberty sat in your grandfather's lap, and he stroked her hair for the longest time. . . ."
Ben sprang to his feet.
"What do you want from me?"
Amy looked down to the floor.
"I didn't come here to torment you."
A hot tear rolled down Ben's cheek, and he looked away from her angry that he'd come here and angry that he couldn't control himself.
"I just came to ask you why."
Ben lifted his hand and dropped it, and he looked at her then away again biting his lower lip.
Amy stepped toward him and looked him straight in the face.
"There's no hard feelings where we are. You haven't met the man you could've been if they'd ever allowed you to be happy, but I have. Liberty really wants to meet you."
Ben shook his head -- too embarrassed by his lack of self-control to speak.
"I know that you think what you're about to do is going to save someone, but all it is going to do is trap you."
The anger Ben felt now turned suddenly to resolve. He looked Amy straight in the eyes.
"This house can't stand."
Amy sighed. "It was here long before you were born and it will be here long after. There's nothing you can do about that now."
Ben glared at her. "You'd have me stand by and let my living daughter inherit this house and end up as crazy as me?"
Amy shook her head. "You have to follow your path, and she must follow hers."
Ben stared her down a moment longer, and when he saw that she was not going to budge, he nodded and turned away from her toward the archway leading into the sitting room.
"Ben?" she said.
He turned around and gave her a tired look.
"You have to satisfy your own mind that everything you do here is fair and just. If not, you'll spend eternity in hell."
-5-
Darkness.
Ben found himself standing in a hot room unable to make out the slightest shape. And the smell of the room -- the fustiness of an old house mixed with the fragrance of many scented candles -- reminded him of something.
He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket and came out with a tarnished brass Zippo, and he flipped the lid open and struck the flint. The orange flame chased back the darkness.
Before him lay a single person bed dressed in navy sheets covered by a blue and white afghan. Mandy lay beneath the afghan half curled in a fetal position with her dark hair spread out over the pillow.
Ben leaned forward and held the Zippo closer to her face. He hadn't noticed it until now, but Mandy bore a strong resemblance to his mother. Her features were not as round as his mother's had been, they were sharper and elongated -- more elegant. The Lancaster blood most certainly ran through her veins.
He shifted the lighter to his left hand and reached out to touch her face with his free hand but the rattling of the doorknob startled him.
He snapped the Zippo shut and stepped backwards just as the door cracked open and the yellow light of the hallway poured in.
And the man standing in the doorway. . . .
Ben's heart stopped.
His hands tightened into fists as his eyes found the kitchen knife in the other man's right hand. The man in the doorway wore clothes consistent with two days ago, and the knife explained a problem he'd encountered Tuesday morning when he'd awakened in his bed fully dressed.
He'd started to stand up and nearly stepped on that knife.
The man stepped into the room and stared at Mandy.
This didn't happen.
But he knew it had.
He watched himself creep across the room and then hover over his daughter with a wild look in his eyes. He raised the knife as if to stab her in the neck, and it hovered over her in mid-air trembling as if he were struggling with an invisible hand.
After a moment that seemed eternal, his knife-wielding-self lowered the knife, and then he nodded as if deciding something, turned, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
* * *
Ben gasped and lurched forward splashing water all over the white tiles on the wall to his right. He looked up at the chrome shower sprayer overhead, and down at the square tub.
Thirty feet over the edge of the tub, a narrow arched window that stretched from the ceiling to the floor peered out into the balcony, and through this window poured silver twilight.
And now he knew.
Coldness settled in on him.
What does it all come down to?
"I can't," he said.
But he could, and now he knew once and for all that he had no other choice. If he didn't kill his daughter, he'd turn her into a monster. That couldn't happen.
"Damn," he said.
And then he stood and stepped out of the tub to make preparations.
(Coming Soon: Chapter Thirteen: The Survivor).
Two hours later, when he opened the door to the master's quarters of his house, his breath caught halfway up his throat, and he stood frozen with his purpose forgotten.
He hadn't seen the bedroom after Amy died. Mandy wouldn't let him. She quietly went about the business of moving the body, and whisked him out of there.
Now he knew why.
The bed stood on its pedestal on the far left wall of the room stripped of its linen, and dark bloodstains covered the surface of the mattress.
Blood had splattered across the wall behind the bed. It looked kind of like mud sprayed across the fender of a white truck.
Ben stepped inside and closed the door behind him, and then he noticed the stains on the floor -- in the shape of his footprints leading from the bed to the door.
And the room was thick with a peculiar smell. He hadn't recognized it at first, but now the memory returned. It was the scent of strawberry shampoo -- a fragrance that he once associated with Amy back when they had first started dating.
He felt cold all of a sudden.
As if everything human left in him and given up the ghost. He backed up against the wall, and his knees gave way and he slid down to the floor holding his head.
"How have you been?" she said.
A chord of terror rang through him. He looked up, but a hot yellow light poured in from the wall of windows behind her, and he could only see her shadow.
But he knew who she was.
Amy nodded and paced away from the light giving him a good look at her now. She wasn't the same woman that she had been when she died. She was young -- like the girl he'd married. And along with the return of her youth her air of defiance had returned -- a quality about her that he'd found attractive when they were young.
"Don't feel bad for me," she said. "I'm happier than I've ever been."
Ben closed his mouth.
She smiled. "Your daughter is doing well. She's looking forward to meeting you. And my dad. . . ."
"My daughter?"
Amy stopped pacing and looked at him now as if recalling an important point.
"Yeah, she's five years old now. She doesn't have to be, and I really wanted to know what it was like to carry a baby around for a while, but she insists on being a little girl."
Ben hung his head.
Amy smiled maternally. "Her name is Liberty."
Ben sighed hard and sat back against the wall -- his eyes welling up so badly now that he couldn't see Amy clearly through the blur. He wished he hadn't come here -- that he'd just turned himself into the police. Amy looked down to the floor.
"My father says hi."
Ben looked back up at her.
Amy nodded. "He's met your parents. They're great friends, you know."
Ben blinked, and Amy laughed as if recalling something especially nice.
"The other day, I took Liberty to see your parents and grandparents. She had the time of her life. We made a kind of Thanksgiving dinner out of it -- the kind your grandparents used to have for the whole family every year? After we finished eating, Liberty sat in your grandfather's lap, and he stroked her hair for the longest time. . . ."
Ben sprang to his feet.
"What do you want from me?"
Amy looked down to the floor.
"I didn't come here to torment you."
A hot tear rolled down Ben's cheek, and he looked away from her angry that he'd come here and angry that he couldn't control himself.
"I just came to ask you why."
Ben lifted his hand and dropped it, and he looked at her then away again biting his lower lip.
Amy stepped toward him and looked him straight in the face.
"There's no hard feelings where we are. You haven't met the man you could've been if they'd ever allowed you to be happy, but I have. Liberty really wants to meet you."
Ben shook his head -- too embarrassed by his lack of self-control to speak.
"I know that you think what you're about to do is going to save someone, but all it is going to do is trap you."
The anger Ben felt now turned suddenly to resolve. He looked Amy straight in the eyes.
"This house can't stand."
Amy sighed. "It was here long before you were born and it will be here long after. There's nothing you can do about that now."
Ben glared at her. "You'd have me stand by and let my living daughter inherit this house and end up as crazy as me?"
Amy shook her head. "You have to follow your path, and she must follow hers."
Ben stared her down a moment longer, and when he saw that she was not going to budge, he nodded and turned away from her toward the archway leading into the sitting room.
"Ben?" she said.
He turned around and gave her a tired look.
"You have to satisfy your own mind that everything you do here is fair and just. If not, you'll spend eternity in hell."
-5-
Darkness.
Ben found himself standing in a hot room unable to make out the slightest shape. And the smell of the room -- the fustiness of an old house mixed with the fragrance of many scented candles -- reminded him of something.
He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket and came out with a tarnished brass Zippo, and he flipped the lid open and struck the flint. The orange flame chased back the darkness.
Before him lay a single person bed dressed in navy sheets covered by a blue and white afghan. Mandy lay beneath the afghan half curled in a fetal position with her dark hair spread out over the pillow.
Ben leaned forward and held the Zippo closer to her face. He hadn't noticed it until now, but Mandy bore a strong resemblance to his mother. Her features were not as round as his mother's had been, they were sharper and elongated -- more elegant. The Lancaster blood most certainly ran through her veins.
He shifted the lighter to his left hand and reached out to touch her face with his free hand but the rattling of the doorknob startled him.
He snapped the Zippo shut and stepped backwards just as the door cracked open and the yellow light of the hallway poured in.
And the man standing in the doorway. . . .
Ben's heart stopped.
His hands tightened into fists as his eyes found the kitchen knife in the other man's right hand. The man in the doorway wore clothes consistent with two days ago, and the knife explained a problem he'd encountered Tuesday morning when he'd awakened in his bed fully dressed.
He'd started to stand up and nearly stepped on that knife.
The man stepped into the room and stared at Mandy.
This didn't happen.
But he knew it had.
He watched himself creep across the room and then hover over his daughter with a wild look in his eyes. He raised the knife as if to stab her in the neck, and it hovered over her in mid-air trembling as if he were struggling with an invisible hand.
After a moment that seemed eternal, his knife-wielding-self lowered the knife, and then he nodded as if deciding something, turned, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
* * *
Ben gasped and lurched forward splashing water all over the white tiles on the wall to his right. He looked up at the chrome shower sprayer overhead, and down at the square tub.
Thirty feet over the edge of the tub, a narrow arched window that stretched from the ceiling to the floor peered out into the balcony, and through this window poured silver twilight.
And now he knew.
Coldness settled in on him.
What does it all come down to?
"I can't," he said.
But he could, and now he knew once and for all that he had no other choice. If he didn't kill his daughter, he'd turn her into a monster. That couldn't happen.
"Damn," he said.
And then he stood and stepped out of the tub to make preparations.
(Coming Soon: Chapter Thirteen: The Survivor).
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