Clever As The Devil

“Sleep, sleep, sleep

Don’t lie too close to the edge of the bed

Or the little gray wolf will come

And grab you by the flank,

Drag you into the woods

Underneath the willow root”

Bayu Bayushki Bayu

The phone rang a little while after 11:06, and out of everything he could have expected, not one of those possibilities involved hearing the voice of his dead daughter.

“Hello Dad,” She spoke, voice silky. It sounded like she was smiling. He dropped the whiskey glass he was holding, hardly noticing how it cut his foot.

“Honey?” His wife, Mary, asked, coming into the living room, a dish-towel draped over her shoulder. He barely noticed her.

“Rue?” He asked, and Mary froze in the entry. He lifted his head to match her gaze with his, eyes reflecting fear in each other from across the room. He heard a bit of soft giggling from the other line.

“That’s right,” She said cooly. “I mean, unless you and Mom had another bastard baby after you got rid of me.” Frank could hear the smugness in her voice.

“Rue,” Was all he could whisper. His eyes glanced to the left as Mary came to stand beside him. He found himself shaking his head. “No, this is a sick and cruel joke. Whoever you are, hang up or I’m calling the police.” The giggling turned into a barking laughter, and a glance to Mary confirmed she had heard it. She looked froze, tears barely leaking from her eyes.

“My God,” She whispered.

“Oh,” The girl sighed. “How sweet. You really thought, after fifteen years, we wouldn’t find you?” Frank swallowed, his throat tight and thick.

“We?” He asked.

“Oh yes.” Frank dropped the phone, his ear ringing from the chorus of identical voices that seemed to echo the simple phrase. Mary let out a small gasp and grabbed his arm.

“What the hell…” Frank sputtered, holding a hand against his ear.

“Sleep well, Mom and Dad,” She said, and Frank swore she was smiling as she said it. “We’ll be seeing you soon.”

Only a few minutes later, Frank and Mary were sitting at the dining table. Franks foot had been bandaged from where it had been cut, and he’d poured himself a new drink, clinking the ice around the glass as he watched Mary, who sat across from her, the dish-towel fisted anxiously against her mouth.

“Maybe we should call the police,” She murmured after a moment, glancing at Frank, whose eyebrows had shot up.

“Are you kidding me?” He snapped. “And tell them what?” Mary blanched, looking down at the tablecloth, and Frank sighed before tipping back his whiskey glass. He swallowed and set the empty glass back onto the table. Mary was shaking her head as he pushed back from his seat, standing and clearing his throat.

“I need another drink,” He muttered, mostly to himself, lifting his free hand to massage his temples. He set the glass on the counter and reached to grab the bourbon, pouring with one hand.

“It’s always comes down to another drink,” He heard from behind him and turned abruptly, dropping the bottle itself this time, it’s contents spilling all over the kitchen floor. Mary had gasped and started shaking in her seat, her lips fumbling and tears brimming her eyes. She was looking into the foyer, where in the arch, stood their fifteen year old daughter, just as they had last seen her.

She was drenched from head to toe, hair matted with blood down the right side of her head and neck. Scratches and bruises around her wrists, and raw nails. She wore her pyjamas, splattered with blood against her shirt, even one or two droplets on her pants. Her skin was white and seemed to cling to her bones, her eyes appearing hollow and bulging. The houses atmosphere seemed to have dipped into subzero temperatures.

“Rue!” He gasped, and her mouth curled into a sickening smile that put the Cheshire Cats to shame. Both parties looked to Mary, who had begun to choke on a sob. Rue’s smile didn’t falter, but she tipped her head to the side, and water dripped from her hair onto the floor.

“Hello Mom,” She said, in the sickly sweet she had used to greet Frank over the phone. His heart was racing, and Mary looked as though she was about to faint. Her face was a stark white, and she was shaking terribly. The dish-towel had dropped into her lap. Frank began to shake, anxiety pooling in his stomach. “Clearly you didn’t count on me coming back, exactly fifteen years away from what would’ve been my thirtieth birthday.” She said, and for a moment, Frank wondered if he was going to hyperventilate.

“This isn’t real,” He was muttering to himself, over and over, even as Mary cried and howled.

“But it is,” Rue said. “So let’s start from the beginning.” Her smile slowly began to shift into a snarl and the scene around them began to change. The archway Rue stood in became thinner and seemed to plunge backwards, herself disappearing with it. The warm lighting of the kitchen flashed a dim red, eventually settling in a grainy sort of lighting, the kind that reminds you of an old movie. The red flashes would illuminate themselves throughout the scene, and with a quick glance, Frank quickly realized the staging was footage pulled from his memory.

The cabinet holding the liquor was mostly the same, except for one small photograph next to the potted decor Mary had insisted on. With a heavy tug against his heart, Frank took the photograph into his hands; Rues smiling face staring back at him. His brow furrowed, however, when the top of the photograph seemed to engulf itself in a deep red ink. From the pooling line it had settled in, it began to drip down the photograph, and once it had began to leak out of the frame, Frank dropped it in horror, smashing the glass. What was coating his fingers was not ink, but rich blood. He felt nauseated.

“Mom? Dad?” He whirled around, seeing Rue just as she was in the photograph, coming in through the kitchen. His heart began to ache at the sight of her, reaching towards her arm with his blood stained fingers, but passing right through her arm.

Oh right, he remembered sourly, this is just a memory. His nausea was beginning to wrestle with his anxiety as he watched Rue walk in through the archway that brought her into the living room, where he quite painfully remembers the events of the night.

There, 2004 Frank and Mary were just getting home from an early New Years party, sprawled drunkenly across the couch, both drunk out of their minds.

From this new angle, new perspective, he could see the fear, shame, and heartbreak that was painted on Rues face. Her eyes were wide, but drooped. Her jaw had dropped, but slack, almost as though she had given up. And her face was red. But somehow, the fear seemed to be everywhere at once. Frank swallows bitterly, reaching towards her arm again.

This time, when his fingers pass through her, she fades; as if he’d blown her away, and around him, the same happened to the rest of the scene. It left a sour taste at the back of his throat, and he swallowed past it again as the room returned to its present state. He and Mary were back in the kitchen, him slumped against the liquor cabinet, and Mary sitting sobbing at the table. He felt his own eyes begin to prick with tears and blinked furiously, shaking his head.

“This isn’t happening,” He said, pushing himself away from the cabinet, ignoring the throbbing headache and lightheadedness he seemed to have picked up. He ran through the kitchen and into the foyer, pulling at the doorknob, and when it didn’t open, he pulled harder. His heart was pounding in his ears, a line of sweat gathering down his back. He looked to the lock and moved to unlock it, but the brass refused to move. He grunted as he pulled, trying to change the lock, and let out a frustrated yell when it wouldn’t budge.

“She’s locked us in,” Mary’s voice came from behind him, and when he turned, she was leaning heavily against the wall, body pale and seemingly lifeless. Her eyes met his. “She’s here to get her revenge.” He looked at his feet.

“Oh how right you are,” Rue said, almost like a sigh, and Mary closed her eyes, a tear slipping through her eyelashes as she did. Frank looked up, and when he did, Rue was standing mere centimeters in front of him. “Do you remember what happened next?” She asked, her voice practically dripping velvet. Frank shook his head, tears falling from his face as his lip trembled. Rues face split back into the cheshire-like smile. “You’re lying.” She whispered, and she disappeared again, the room changing back into the grainy flashback. Frank wanted to close his eyes, but as hard as he tried, it was as if Rue were standing behind him, her fingers keeping his eyes pried open.

The 2004 scene made him sick to look back on; he and Mary were practically naked on the couch, kissing and groping and moaning. Frank whimpered shamefully as he watched himself turn towards Rue, who remained frozen, just how the last flashback had ended.

‘Rue,’ He slurred, planting his hands beside Mary’s head and crowing to his teenage daughter. Mary giggled from beneath him and kissed against his chest, her fingers toying with the bulge against his trousers. He moaned again and Mary looked to Rue with a drunken smile.

‘Baby, come on,’ She preened, and Frank honest to God believed he was going to be sick when he saw Rues face. She looked like she was about to start crying, and her face was red, her hands shaking. Mary didn’t stop though. ‘Come on…’ She moaned. ‘Please, please, let me see you…’

Mary’s voice trailed off as the scene dissipated in front of him, the hold on his eyelids had dropped and he fell forward suddenly, his sneakers scuffing the carpet, eyes blinking back rapid tears.

“I’m sorry,” He sputtered, pushing himself back onto his knees; and hilariously, looked as though he was praying. “I’m sorry!” The lights above him flickered, and when they came back on, Rue stood in front of him, knees bent to tower over him.

“No,” She hissed and shook her head, water droplets falling as she did. “You’re not.” She loomed above him, and he fell back. “You’ll be begging soon enough.” She hissed again, and disappeared again. Frank took in a gasping breath and pushed himself onto his feet, stumbling back into the wall. Mary, from across the living room, was slumped against the wall, close to hyperventilation; her one hand clenching the fabric of her shirt. Her eyes were closed and her lips trembled. Her face was littered with tears, and drafted with the new ones that continued to spill over.

And honestly; Frank wanted to be a good man. A better man. So he shook his head.

“No,” He whispered, shaking as he slid down the side of the wall. “I deserve this…” He trailed off as Rue’s maniacal laughter hovered above him.

“You do,” She mused. “But you’ll see. They always do.” With this, the scene changed to a third, the last. From where Frank was laying against the wall, he only saw the scene from behind Rue, and there was a sickening bitterness in his stomach with the realization he would share her resting place.

Rue was shaking her head, refusing against 2004 Mary’s protests to undress herself. Frank closed his eyes as the rest of the scene played out. Hearing how he had yelled at Rue, for being disobiedent, for being imperfect. Hearing her footsteps staggering backwards when he stood from the couch, and he bit back on a sob when heard her yelp. His eyes seemed to be ripped open, as they were for the last scene, as Rue’s body fell back against his, passing through, as though he laid in a projection of her.

There was no heartbeat.

No breaths.

Only blood, that pooled from the back of his head, down onto the floor, and staining his fingertips.

He closed his eyes, the same sickness resounding in him. The same sickness he’d carried for fifteen years. There was bile at the back of his throat. He blinked his eyes open again, this time not against the wall, but seeing it from his point of view.

The image of Rue, slumped, lifeless, still, with blood matting her hair down the side of her face, running down her clothes, and caking the wall. Frank shook his head again, choking on a sob.

“Stop!” He choked, chest heaving and eyes watering. “Please!” He pleaded. “Please, please stop!” He cried.

“Why?” Rue’s voice snapped, and when he lifted his head to stare up, she towered above him. Her eyes shone like fire. “You didn’t.”

Later, when the neighbours would give their statements to the police, they would all recount the same, single detail.

That Frank and Mary’s lives didn’t end with screams, or cries.

Rather, with a sinful sort of silence.

Almost as though tragedy had never taken place.