From Twisted Roots Read online

  From Twisted Roots

  By:

  S.H. Cooper

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  From Twisted Roots

  Book Cover by:

  Taylor Tate

  Copyright © 2018

  Haunted House Publishing.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For the mechanic,

  For the detective,

  For the scientist,

  And for Ma F’n Ma and Dad,

  the most delicate of flowers,

  Thanks for letting me borrow the best of you so I could do the worst to you; I love you!

  Stories

  Fran and Jock

  The Signs Were All There

  As Long As There Are Children

  Her Last Call

  The December Tapes

  Smidge

  The Ringing In My Ear

  Through The Peephole

  Death’s Choice

  The Quiet Neighbor

  Going to Grandma’s

  The Aftermath of Murder

  The Gift That Keeps On Giving

  Ring Once

  Airsekui

  Spider Girl

  Dad’s Souvenirs

  The Lesson of the Tiger

  Daddy’s Little Princess

  Crinklebottom

  From The Basement

  Little Old Lady Magic

  My Brother’s Voice

  The Little People

  Moomaw’s Curses

  The Past Repeats

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  Fran and Jock

  I’m the last in a long line of grandkids on both sides of my family. No one ever said as much, but I’m pretty sure I was an “oops” baby: the result of one too many glasses of wine and a couple over forty who thought unplanned pregnancies were only for teens.

  Oops.

  By the time I came along, both my grandmothers had already passed away. My grandfathers were elderly and lived in different states. Trying to coordinate travel plans for a family of five, including an infant, was difficult on a budget. Neither of my grandpas were up to frequent trips, so visits were rare and spaced out over long periods.

  Both my parents still wanted me to have a relationship with them, so we’d trade phone calls so they could hear my nonsensical baby babble. My grandpas would write me letters for Mom and Dad to read to me, and they’d get crayon scribbles in return.

  When I was three, they both began declining in health: first my maternal grandpa, then my paternal one. Fearing the worst, Mom purchased a pair of teddy bears, the kind with recorders in them so you could record a message that would play when the bear was hugged, making sure to save a message from both.

  My mom’s father died when I was four. A few days after his funeral, I was given a white teddy bear with bright blue eyes that twinkled from beneath its plaid flat cap and green sweater. When I gave it a squeeze, I heard my grandpa’s slightly muffled voice from its stomach.

  “I love you, Sadie.”

  Two years later, after Dad’s father passed, I got the other one. It was a slate gray color, and the stitching on its face gave it a rather serious expression for a stuffed animal. A pair of red suspenders held up its tan trousers. I’d fall asleep hugging it. Some years later, with tears in his eyes, my dad told me that he randomly kept hearing Grandpop’s voice coming from my room throughout the night.

  “I love you, Sadie.”

  I named my white bear Fran and my gray bear Jock. They sat on a shelf above my bed throughout my childhood. Honestly, I didn’t give them much thought; they’d become fixtures of my room, the same way the lamp and dresser were. Every now and again, I’d come home from school to find one of my parents standing beside my bed, looking up at the bears or giving them a little squeeze. Even as time passed, the bears still recited their single phrase without fail.

  Aside from those instances, Fran and Jock were little more than dust collectors from my childhood.

  When I went away to college, the two didn’t make the cut and were left behind while I made my way into the world for the first time. I think my parents were a little disappointed that I wasn’t more sentimental over the teddies, but any memories I had of my grandpas were hazy at best and I didn’t have the same emotional connection they did.

  When Mom gently asked about whether I would like them when I moved into my first apartment, I told her no, that they were probably better off with her.

  “Ok,” she said. “Well, they’ll be here if you change your mind.”

  I was pretty confident I wouldn’t.

  The next time I went back to my parents’ place was to housesit while Dad took Mom on their long awaited vacation out west. He’d been promising her they’d go for over thirty years. They were both buzzing with excitement, although in typical Mom fashion, she was also very nervous.

  “You remember where all the financial documents are in case anything happens to us, right?” she asked from the backseat at least six times on the drive to the airport.

  “Yes, in the white bin under your bed.”

  “And the wills?”

  “Fireproof lock box in the back of your closet.”

  “And th—”

  “I think she’s got it, hon.” Dad said, reaching back to give her knee a squeeze.

  Mom harrumphed and sat back. “Just call if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine, don’t worry! You’re only going for a week.”

  “A lot can happen in a week,” she said.

  I grinned at her in the rearview mirror, unconcerned. She made a face at me, but seemed to relax.

  After I dropped them off, I drove back to their place and started making myself at home again. I tossed my suitcase on my bed and went to the kitchen to cook some dinner and catch up on one of my shows. It had been a while since I’d had a true, completely free week all to myself, and I planned to take full advantage of it. After I ate, I kicked up my feet, stretched out, and commenced “Lazy Lump” mode.

  I managed to get almost three episodes in before I started to nod off. I checked the clock over the TV and sighed. It was only just after eleven; was I really turning into an old, early-to-bed woman already? The horror! I rolled off the couch to shut off the TV and all the lights, plunging the house into a deep darkness.

  Even in the inky black, I didn’t feel even a twinge of nervousness. I’d grown up in the house, I knew it like the back of my hand, and all its creaks and groans were almost comforting. I made my way to my room and flipped on the light.

  It had been at least five years since I lived there, but my parents hadn’t done much to change my room except to store a few bits and bobs in the closet. They said it was so I’d know I’d always have a place with them. I thought it was because changing it would make the fact that I moved out for good more real. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the familiarity.

  As I started to unpack my bag, my eye was drawn to the shelf over my bed. Fran and Jock, ever vigilant, were sitting in the same spots they’d occupied for most of my life. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help but smile and reach out to them.

  I took Fran down first and ga
ve his little cap a tweak before squeezing him around his stomach.

  “I love you, Sadie,” Grandpa said.

  After putting Fran back, I did the same to Jock, who stared up at me with his usual sternness even as I plucked one red suspender.

  “I love you, Sadie,” Grandpop said.

  It was the first time I’d listened to them in a while. Even if they didn’t resonate as deeply with me as they did my parents, I was glad to find their recordings still worked.

  A quick trip to the bathroom and a change into my PJs later, I was in bed and fast asleep.

  I can’t say exactly what woke me. A nightmare, I figured, given that my heart was beating quite quickly, but I couldn’t remember any details. I took a deep breath and rolled over, already falling half-asleep again, and found myself face to face with a dark figure on the pillow beside me. I yelped and sat up, grabbing my phone, my nearest source of light, and shining it toward my bed.

  Fran was lying on his side beside me.

  I let out a small chuckle and gave myself a little shake to dismiss the lingering fright he’d caused.

  “Did you fall off the shelf?” I asked him quietly, picking him up. I must have put him back too close to the edge earlier and gravity had done its duty.

  I gave Fran a gentle squeeze.

  “Get out.”

  I stared down at the bear and blinked once, very slowly. I must be more sleepy than I realized, I thought. I was hearing things. To prove to myself that it had just been my imagination, I squeezed him again.

  “Get out.”

  It was still Grandpa’s voice, but instead of the soft warmth it had always had, it sounded cold, almost menacing. I threw Fran across the room and he hit the wall.

  From over my head, I heard Grandpop’s more gravelly voice.

  “Get out.”

  I whipped around and looked up at Jock. He was sitting in the same place as always, but now he was turned toward the door instead of facing forwards. Had I put him down like that? I couldn’t remember.

  “Get out!” Grandpa’s voice came from Fran again, louder this time.

  “Get out!” Grandpop echoed Jock.

  The two went back and forth, their voices getting louder and louder, until I slapped my hands over my ears and leapt from my bed. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck behind my fear-tangled tongue. I stumbled across my dark room, chased by the voices from my long dead grandfathers.

  “I know you’re down there!” Jock shouted with Grandpop’s voice.

  I froze. Down there? Down under the shelf? I glanced over my shoulder at the gray bear staring silently down from over my bed. I had to get out of my room. I had to get out of the house! I yanked open my door.

  “I see you!” Fran said in Grandpa’s voice.

  I was halfway into the hall, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t know what was happening. Was I going crazy? Was I dreaming? All I knew was that my two childhood toys were screaming threats at me and that I had to get away from them. I turned toward the stairs.

  “You take one more step, I’ll make sure it’s your last!” Jock bellowed.

  “Get out!” Fran roared.

  From somewhere downstairs, a step creaked.

  Someone else was in the house.

  They weren’t yelling at me at all, I realized with a strange mix of confused relief and newly formed horror. They were yelling at the intruder who was making their way up the stairs toward me.

  “Get out!” my grandfathers howled together.

  Footsteps clamored across the wood floor downstairs. Something fell over in the living room with a loud crash, and again in the kitchen. The back door slammed against the counter as it was thrown open, and a car engine rumbled to life.

  I somehow regained my wits enough to run to my parents room and look out the window to the driveway below. An SUV was peeling backwards into the street. It slammed into the neighbor’s mailbox, righted itself, and then screeched off into the night.

  A heavy quiet had fallen over the house again.

  After waiting a few, long, tense minutes, I crept back across the hall and peeked into my room. Fran and Jock were where I’d left them, both completely silent. When they stayed that way, I hesitantly approached Fran, who was lying on his side with his little flat cap beside him. I picked him up and, with trembling fingers, squeezed his stomach.

  “I love you, Sadie,” Grandpa said warmly.

  I put his cap back on his head and gently put him back on the shelf beside Jock. I backed out of the room, watching them the whole time with wide eyes. As I rounded the corner, heading downstairs to the phone, I heard Grandpop’s voice trailing after me.

  “I love you, Sadie.”

  The police arrived a bit later, following my frantic call to 911. I filed a report, leaving out the bit about my talking bears, and allowed them to collect whatever evidence they could. Every so often, I found myself glancing at the stairs, almost like I was expecting a repeat of whatever had just happened. It never came, and the cops wrapped it up, leaving me alone again.

  I called my parents to tell them about the break in. They immediately wanted to rush home, but I assured them there was no need.

  “Really,” I said, “I don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

  “We could be on the next plane,” Mom insisted.

  “No, I’m ok. Whoever that guy was, I’m pretty sure he won’t be back.”

  It took a few more go arounds, but I eventually convinced them I was safe. I felt it too, for the most part. After the initial shock wore off and I’d had time to process what happened, I really was ok. I couldn’t explain it, I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened without sounding crazy, but I knew it had been real. I knew that as long as I had Fran and Jock sitting on the shelf above my bed, I could sleep easy.

  A few days later, the cops found the guy who broke in. He was a coworker of my dad’s who’d overheard he’d be out of town. He thought the house would be empty and easy pickings. When he tried to tell them about the two crazy guys upstairs and their violent threats, the cops rolled their eyes and laughed at him. He was very surprised to hear that only a twenty-two year old woman had been in the house during his botched burglary.

  When I returned home to my apartment a week later, Fran and Jock were with me. I keep them on the TV stand in the living room now where they have a full view of the front door. Whenever I start to feel a bit anxious about being alone, I’ll give each bear a little squeeze and smile as they speak.

  “I love you, Sadie.”

  And now I respond, “I love you both, too.”

  The Signs Were All There

  Women in my mother’s family have an unusual relationship with death. We believe in signs and listening when the universe, or whatever you want to call it, tries to tell you something. The night before my great grandmother passed, she told anyone in her nursing home who would listen that she was going home. She said that Daniel, her husband of forty-seven years who had pre-deceased her by five, was coming to get her.

  The next morning, the staff found her tucked neatly in her bed, her hair and makeup done as best she could, and a smile on her face. That’s how she died.

  About a decade later, moments before my mom received the call that my grandma had succumbed to pneumonia, she was stopped by an elderly woman at the grocery store who said, “I’ll always be with you.”

  When Mom asked what she meant, the old woman just pat her arm gently and resumed pushing her cart up the aisle. Mom said that when her phone rang shortly thereafter and her brother told her the news, she wasn’t surprised. Underneath the rolling waves of devastation that accompany such loss, there was a sense of peace.

  I thought about those stories sometimes, especially during a particularly long and difficult shift. Although we were trained and advised to stay detached, watching a patient take their final breath was never easy. It helped to think that there was some kind of afterlife waiting for th
em.

  On one such shift I should have gone home about an hour before, but a surgery had run long and I was exhausted. Still in my scrubs, I’d stopped into the cafeteria for a coffee, needing a moment of respite before changing and heading home. I’d actually manage to get back before dinner was ready! The sun would still be up for a few hours, so maybe a relaxing walk would be in order. Then I’d be able to slip into the bath; nothing sounded better than a nice, long soak in my claw foot tub.

  “Excuse me?”

  A girl, maybe nine years old, had come to stand beside my table. She was looking at me shyly from behind a curtain of dark hair, and she had a small white bear clutched tightly to her chest. A visitor pass stuck to her shirt gave her name as Arianna. I did my best to smile through my weariness and put my coffee down.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Dr. Drakeson?”

  “I am,” I replied, trying to covertly look over her shoulder to see if I could spot anyone searching for their child.

  “She said she’s ok. She’s not hurting. She loves you.”

  A tingling chill ran up my spine. The girl stared at me with a solemn expression, no hint of teasing or mischief sparkling in her eyes. My mouth went dry. I slid from the chair to take a knee in front of her so that I was on her level. “What did you say?”

  Arianna hugged her bear tighter and cowered away from me a bit. “I was just supposed to tell you.”

  “Who told you to say that?”

  “Molly.”

  I learned in that moment what it truly felt like when your heart stops. Every hair on my body stood on end. My throat constricted painfully. I could barely form the words I needed.

  “Molly? How do you know Molly? When did you talk to her?” My rush of questions frightened the girl, who took a large step back. Her eyes had the watery look of someone on the verge of tears. We were starting to draw attention, but I hardly noticed. “No, no, you’re ok. You’re not in trouble, sweetie. I just need you to tell me when you spoke with Molly.”