Dead Daughters Read online

  Dead Daughters

  “A dark, twisty-turny little ride meant to keep the reader's nose buried in its pages…”

  – Sadie "Mother Horror" Hartmann

  “Had me on the edge of my seat and then gutted me.”

  – Hunter Shea, author of Misfits and Creature

  “…suspenseful, twisted, and, and will keep you on the edge of your seat until the end.”

  – Jeremy Hepler,

  author of The Boulevard Monster and Cricket Hunters

  “…a tension-fraught, white-knuckle thriller that’ll keep you guessing…”

  – FanFiAddict.com

  Dead Daughters

  by

  Tim Meyer

  Copyright © 2020 Tim Meyer

  Front Cover Design by Kealan Patrick Burke

  Interior art by Bob Veon

  Formatted by Kenneth W. Cain

  Edited by Kenneth W. Cain

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Wake up, a little voice tells me.

  Wake up and be free.

  It’s hard to concentrate. The world shifts like a kaleidoscope, separating and conjoining, tearing itself apart only to crawl back together like doomed lovers. Something wet trickles down my neck, pooling at the base of my spine. I know what it is, but I wish I didn’t. I can’t feel my fingers—wait, yes, I can. They’re tingling with numbness, coming back from a long lost journey of sensory overload, complete system failure. Funny thing when you experience severe trauma and lose consciousness and come back—it’s like your body temporarily forgets it is alive.

  I’m en route to clarity, though, but I can’t get past these roadblocks of pain. It’s a moving pain, one that slinks and stretches, contorts and deceives. It fades with promise and returns with angst. I can’t get ahead of the agony, but I’m trying. Trying to live for the next moment because I want to live after all. We all want to live, don’t we?

  I know I’m bleeding. A lot. Probably more than the average person should bleed, but there’s no point in worrying too much about it—not like I can do anything to stop it. My hands are bound with nautical rope, fastened to the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. My feet are also tied together. I can’t move. Shift a few inches, but that’s it. I think about trying to rock back and forth, knocking the chair over, but that’s dumb. I’d only end up in the same situation I’m in now, only on the floor.

  The floor. Can we talk about the floor? It’s filthy. I’m pretty sure I see mice turds. The bar is unkempt too; bottles strewn across the top, open and bleeding, like the back of my head. The gun rack on the wall behind me mocks me.

  The world around me shifts in shadows. There are no bright colors. Only grays and browns, variations of black. The basement is harboring a darkness, a master shadow, and it’s only a matter of time before it reveals itself.

  I nod in and out of the gray, that space between light and dark.

  Footsteps.

  On the stairs.

  I know I’m dead. It’s only a matter of time. I wish he wouldn’t prolong it. Drawing this thing out hurts. Not just physically. Mentally. It allows me time to think. About my family, the loved ones I’ll leave behind. There aren’t many; only two.

  My thoughts escape me, as they’re prone to do to someone who is on the verge of meeting their murderer.

  Footsteps on the stairs. He’s really dragging this out. More time to think.

  To think about the past and how I ended up here.

  It was quite a ride.

  Thank God it’s almost over.

  A Letter Home

  (I)

  Dear Marianne,

  Do you want to know what it’s like in my brain today?

  I’ll show you.

  Here, come look:

  Cotton-candy clouds, tufts of pink and orange. A candlestick, unlit. A blank slate clapper; they’re filming the movie of my life. Peach waffles. Dead stars floating through space. Dead children floating down a river. Dead daughters floating in utero. A library of dead books, a graveyard of knowledge. Indiana. Indiana Jones and the Temple of I’m-Doing-Awesome-and-Everything-Is-Fine. What are Hoosiers? Underwear with cartoon characters on them. Naked synchronized swimmers. Jamaica is pretty cool; we should visit sometime. Chevy Chase should make more movies. Nicolas Cage should make less. Airplanes are cool until they crash, then they’re not. Road rage. Middle fingers over hugs. Violent kisses instead of high-fives. We’re all dead like Bruce Willis at the end of that movie. Everything is dead, really, if you think about it. The world is a star, not a planet. God is a punk. Satan is my daddy. Life is a parade and someone put a bomb on my float, rigged it to blow confetti and shower us with death. I wish Lana Del Ray sang me to sleep every night for the rest of my life. I wish tacos tasted like burritos, though they kinda do. What’s nyctophobia mean? Because I have that. But love darkness. Light, too. They’re all my friends. I wish Care Bears would make a comeback. That was the shit back in the day. Why can’t we have nice things? Because alone I break everything.

  That’s it for today. Pretty random, I know. But these are my thoughts and that’s all I have since I don’t have you.

  How are you, Marianne?

  I miss you.

  Me? I’m doing fine. Fine and dandy, yes indeedy. Sure, things have been a little rough, a little less than ideal, but hey, at least I’m writing again. Couldn’t say that a year ago. Or even two. Three? Shit, I don’t know how long it’s been since they let me hold a pen. They say I’ve been here for five, but I barely remember that, either. Life crawls now; the world has no hustle. I’m slowly coming back. Remembering things. Things that happened. Moments in time. I can travel there if I put my mind to it. Sometimes I don’t want to. There is darkness behind us. But like the night, it will end. And day will come. And we will be happy. Won’t we? Yes, we will.

  Remember us? We were so good. You and I. Just the best. The sweetest couple. Damned near perfect. We had everything, then we had nothing, then life played us like the miserable shits we were, knocked us through a gaping loop and handed us our asses. Am I right? Shit, man. We had so much love back then but we let it go, let it slip away, let the ether eat us up and spit us out, jam its fingers up our high, happy asses. Have its way with us. Tear us apart. Break us down. Fracture us. Pulverize what was left into powder. That’s all we were then. Powder. Fine bits of—

  What? Say what now? Sorry. I got carried away. Cotton wouldn’t approve. He doesn’t approve of much these days, but that’s okay. I’m getting better. Coming back. Slowly coming back. Back on track, yes indeedy. Don’t you worry your pretty head none (heard that in a movie once). Sooner or later, we’ll get this thing fixed, this thing inside my head they say is broken. And I’ll be back in the saddle again, just like that song says.

  I’m glad you’re better again, Marianne. I’m glad it all worked out. I’m glad you beat the devil into submission and forced that whiny bitch back to Hell. I’m working on it. My devil is tricky. My devil is persistent. My devil is lonely and it needs a friend and it’s selected me for BFF. I hate my devil. I want to burn it out. But you can’t beat a devil with fire, no sir, you cannot. De
mons love fire. They live in fire. And boy, I’m blazing.

  But I’ll beat him, though. I’ll get the devil off my porch before next summer, I guarantee it. Everyone says I can. They have confidence in me. Trust in me. Take their time with me, time my parents never gave me because they’re devils in their own right. So many devils among us, but I’m with angels now. And they all wear white, how funny is that?

  It’s good to be writing again.

  I’m back, Marianne! I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. We live in the land of no pen no paper. Also, I was fucked up and disbarred from sharp objects, but good news—I’m no longer a danger to myself. I’ve never been a danger to myself, but that’s just MY OPINION. Suicide is not the answer. Revenge is not the answer (I know that now, duh). There are no answers, no true ones, only questions and opinions and opinions are like assholes: Everyone has one and they all stink except your own which smells like blueberry yogurt drinks.

  Sorry, I’m getting off track again. Was I really just talking about smelly assholes? Yes, I think I was. I apologize. My mind wanders. Where was I?

  Oh yes. I’m back. Back in the saddle and giddy up horses; we got riding to do.

  I wanted to write sooner but Cotton wouldn’t let me with my head wrong and missing and in all the wrong places. He said I’d done things, Marianne, things I don’t exactly remember doing. I mean, I do. But they’re all fuzzy, like an old broken childhood dream. Could be real, but could also be a dream. Can you help me, Marianne? Help me find out what I did?

  I know you can. You were always there for me. Every step of the way. But were you? I can’t remember. It’s fuzzy. You were there, and then you weren’t? I don’t know. Help me remember. Please write back.

  Want one more second in my head?

  Do you?

  Of course you do.

  Pistachio ice cream topped with dried earlobes.

  LOVE,

  Your Moon and Endless Sea of Stars

  Part I

  THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH

  Chapter One

  “SURPRISE!”

  My heart struck my chest like a kick drum pedal and I nearly stumbled backward through the front door, tripping over the aluminum threshold. I caught myself on the doorframe, preventing a spill down the stoop. A grin spread across my face, impossible to stop even if I wanted to.

  The living-room lights flipped on and I found myself staring at about twenty-five faces, each flashing cherubic smiles. An ear-pounding applause erupted throughout the room, and my bowels nearly let go. A rainbow array of balloons covered the ceiling. Trays of catered food on tables lined the far wall, their combined smell causing my mouth to water. A stack of gifts sat in the corner, a waist-high pile you might expect to find at an eight-year-old’s birthday party, not someone who’d just turned thirty-eight.

  Once I pulled myself up and stood straight, my blood beginning to circulate again, the numb pins-and-needle feeling abating, I padded into the living room and greet my guests, the close friends and neighbors my wife had secretly invited over.

  She was the first to greet me, administering a hug and a wet smack on the lips.

  “Happy birthday, baby,” Eve said, wiping her ruby-colored lipstick from my lips with a damp napkin. “I hope you were surprised.”

  “Surprised?” My lungs labored, working hard to restock the lost air. “I think my left arm went numb. Can you check to see if I still have a pulse?”

  She tapped me on the arm with her knuckles. “Stop. Don’t even joke about heart attacks. I have to hear enough of that nonsense at the hospital. Old people have the most morbid sense of humor.”

  “Well, I guess when you’re on the brink of death, what choice do you have? Laugh or die. Isn’t that their motto?”

  She shot me an icy glare but retained her smile. She leaned in and kissed me again, this time much less forceful, leaving no lipstick behind.

  “Thanks for throwing this shindig together, Evelyn Lowery.”

  “You’re welcome, Andrew Lowery,” she said, and addressing each other so properly brought giggling grins to both our faces.

  “Seriously, though.” I wrapped my forearm around her neck and pulled her against my body. “This is really nice. I’ve always wanted a surprise party.”

  “I know,” she said gently, nibbling at my earlobe. “I remember.”

  “You have a great memory. That was, like, so long ago. Years.”

  “I remember what else you said you wanted on your birthday,” she whispered so only I could hear. Her hot breath tickled my nerves and made my groin swell.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, this is going to be the best birthday ever.”

  “Damn right it is.”

  She pulled back and I stared into her green eyes. Even after ten years of marriage, Eve continued to surprise me. Whether it be coming home with a classic movie I enjoy on Blu-ray or dropping by the gym where I work to bring me lunch, she was always giving. But she’d never gone out of her way to throw a party without me knowing. This level of generosity went beyond her average niceties, and I couldn’t adequately express my gratitude beyond a simple “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, running her nails down my chest. “I hope you enjoy your night.”

  “I plan on it,” I said, sneaking a peek at the small mountain of gifts. “I can’t believe you arranged all this.”

  She shrugged like it was no big deal. “You deserve it. You’ve been working so hard lately, and I know you haven’t been feeling so hot.”

  “They’re just headaches, Eve,” I said. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…you deserve it,” she said with her trademarked dimpled smile.

  She winked at me and my heart fluttered the same way it had when I first met her twelve years ago. She was finishing up nursing school and I was… Well, I was going through a rough patch. I’d just moved down the shore from a small North Jersey town, and I was looking to start fresh. New job. New friends. Brand new life. When we met, I was overweight, addicted to opiates, and penniless. She took me in, showed me hope, then showed me love. Because of her I shed the extra poundage, kicked the addiction, and scored a back-breaking job working construction, which I hated and eventually quit to make a career as a personal trainer, helping others shape themselves the way they wanted, much like what Eve did for me. I’d never be able to properly thank her for changing my life, but I strived to be the best husband I could each day.

  “You’re an incredible woman, you know that?” I didn’t care if anyone else heard it; it was true. She was. Time and time again, she had proved it.

  “I’m all right,” she said, slapping the air. “Go have fun. Your friends are waiting for you.”

  Before I could kiss her again and tell her how much she meant to me, something as high as my hip crashed into my leg, pushing me aside.

  “Daddy!” a screeching voice called into my gym shorts. I looked down and saw my seven-year-old clinging to my leg, looking up at me with those bright blue peepers. “Daddy, Happy Birthday! I missed you!”

  “Thank you, my little love bug!” I said, dropping to one knee and throwing my arms around her tiny frame, squeezing her tight. “I missed you too.”

  “We got you a cake!”

  “You did?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. Ice cream. Your favorite.”

  “That’s right.” I squinted and pressed my forehead against hers. “How’d you know that?” I asked, tickling her.

  She giggled. “Mommy told me!”

  I glanced over at Eve, who watched us with nothing but affection in her eyes. “Well, Mommy knows me better than anyone, so she’s an expert on such things.” I turned back to Dinah. “Which flavor is my favorite half? Do you know?”

  “Chocolate! Duh…”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s an easy one.”

  “I know you can’t have much because you like to
stay in shape, so can I have your slice if you don’t finish?”

  I kissed her forehead. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

  After getting all the hugs in, the ones I’d probably beg for a few years from now, I put Dinah down and began to make my way around the room.

  I said “hello” to everyone, shook hands, bullshitted accordingly, and even inspected the gifts. I told everyone they shouldn’t have, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious to tear into them. It was the kid in me, I guess. I came from a poor family and we didn’t have presents, let alone parties. If we got to eat that night, that had always been good enough.

  After presents, Dale Armstead, my next-door neighbor of about three years, approached me with two beers, one in each hand. He extended the can in my direction and offered a broad smile.

  “Know this will probably kill your calorie intake for the day,” he said, putting the ice-cold can in my hand, “but it’s your goddamn birthday, and a man always drinks beer on his birthday.”

  I couldn’t argue with that logic. Cracking open the can, I patted my neighbor on the back. “Thanks for coming by, Dale. It’s good to see you.”

  Dale Armstead moved in three years ago, bought the place from the widow next door, Mrs. Avalon, at a pretty good bargain if I remember correctly. The woman had let the house go to hell since her husband died. I tried to help her out by cutting her lawn and doing small odd jobs, but eventually the work piled up and I couldn’t do it anymore, not with my own house to deal with. Dale, a widower himself, seized the opportunity and fixed the place up pretty nicely. I helped him hang some drywall and put flooring down before he moved in, and he thanked me in beer and Cuban cigars, both of which I enjoyed marginally. Though we’d never grown as close as some neighbors do, we’d gotten along pretty well over the years, even during the election when he littered his lawn with Trump signs and Eve decorated ours with Hillary ones.