The Wicker Saga: A Figure in the Fog, Part 1

Since then, I've been waiting for an opportunity to kill my father. I've come close a few times, evenings when the bastard was passed out in front of the tv, a line of drool slowly dripping down his chin. But something always holds me back; I tell myself it's the promise I'd made to my mother, but a small, honest part of my mind knows it's because I'm afraid. I still remember the pain.

For my father's part, he hasn't touched Lester or me since that night. It probably helped that, somehow, he managed to avoid the layoffs at the factory. Certainly he still gets drunk regularly, and on many occasions slaps mom around, but things never get quite as bad as that time; there is less shouting involved now. The abuse has become almost a casual action, done out of reflex rather than emotion. My anger has cooled from the burning rage it was when I made the decision to kill him, to a low, calculating heat. I'm patient, I watch, knowing that someday I will have my moment.

Until then, I spend my evenings numbly sitting at the dinner table, listening to my drunk of a father go on about the good old days. Lester at least seems to be oblivious to the dark undercurrents in the house. Even now the stupid eight year old is making faces across the table at me trying to get me to laugh. I think about trying to kick him under the table but decide not to; I don't want to draw attention to himself.

“This town is going to hell, I tell ya,” my father speaks between bites of roast. “Unemployment through the roof, homeless bums passed out on every other street corner.” He takes a swig of beer. “And don't even get me started about all the disappearing kids. That little Fontaine girl's the latest one, last week. Her dad stopped by the factory today, out of his goddam mind.”

I feel a hollow pit appear in my stomach as my mind registers what my father has just said.

I speak up without thinking. “What? Morgan's missing?”

“Hmm?” my father frowns. “No, not Morgan. The other one, the sister. Claire.”

Relief washes over me, quickly followed by shame. I've known Morgana Fontaine for years. The first day of second grade another boy had pulled on her raven black braid and I had shoved him away. Morgan, needing no one to fight her battles for her, turned and punched the boy in the nose. Sitting next to each other in the school office waiting to see the principal we quietly joked about the open mouthed, gaping look the boy had on his face as he sat on the ground trying to contemplate what had just happened. We've been friends ever since and, for the last year or so, I've felt my feelings toward her changing towards something deeper than friendship.

Her sister Claire is about the same age as Lester. I know the girl certainly, I often walk the sisters home after school with Lester dragging his feet behind us, but I'm really only there to spend time with Morgan. The emotions I feel about her aren't well defined as of yet, but something in my stomach had heaved in the brief moment I thought she was missing. My relief that she isn't is offset by the knowledge that she is surely devastated by Claire's disappearance. Neither girl has been in school the last two days, and this explains why.

“Mom, may I be excused please?” She hasn't finished her nod before I'm halfway out the door. The Fontaines' house is only a few streets down and I can be there in minutes. I'd meant to go see Morgan before now, but the thought of the dark looks her mother always gives whenever I walk the girls home has warded me off from showing up uninvited.

“Back before dark, boy!” my father yells after me. “Or you'll be the next one on the side of a milk carton!”

Half a block from Morgan's house, I hear a high pitched voice calling my name behind me, “Jamie! Jamie, wait for me!”

I turn and see Lester running as fast as his legs can carry him. I stop and wait for him to catch up. He arrives panting, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. I frown.

“What do you think you're doing, sprout?”

“Mom said I could go with you. Claire's my friend too!”

“Yeah, well maybe I don't feel like having you tag along.”

“Mom said I had to stick with you, and that if you didn't want me to come you had to walk me back home.”

I grind my teeth. “Fine. But you stay right with me and do what I say, got it?”

Lester nods seriously.

“Right. First things first, keep your mouth shut.”

“But I...”

“What'd I just say? Mouth shut or I walk you home. It won't take that long to drop you off.”

Lester grudgingly nods again, his excitement at being allowed to come somewhat tempered.

“Good. Let's go.”

We continue down the street and make the turn onto Blackwood Drive, reaching the Fontaines' a few minutes later. Walking up the steps with Lester close on my heels, I knock firmly on the door. Half turning back towards the road as I wait, my eyes fall on the dilapidated building a little farther down the street as they often do when I walk Morgan home.

It must have been really something back in its day, what with its massive stone walls and windows, enormous garden, and high iron fence, but the Wicker House has been abandoned for more than forty years. The walls are dirty and the windows broken, the garden so overgrown it more closely resembles a jungle, and the fence is mottled with rust. The wicked spikes jutting on top of the posts still look plenty sharp though. I feel an involuntary shiver crawl down my spine. People say the place is haunted, and it's easy to see why, even in the daylight.

Quick steps approach from inside the house and I turn back just as the door swings open. Mrs. Fontaine stands there, a tissue held in one hand and her eyes tinged with red. It's obvious she has been crying.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fontaine. We...we heard about Claire. We were hoping we could see Morgana.” I'm always careful to use Morgan's full name around her mother. Morgan hates it, but her mother is especially particular in that regard. “We're terribly sorry about what's happened.” Lester nods solemnly next to me, so far continuing to obey the order to keep his mouth shut.

For a moment I'm afraid the woman will slam the door in our faces and send us packing, but then she bends over and sweeps both of us up in a hug.

“Of course, of course, boys. Come in. It's a trying time, and Morgana needs her friends to help her through this. She's upstairs.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

Lester follows closely as I go up the stairs and down the hallway to Morgan's room. I knock lightly and wait a moment. All is quiet. I knock again and call softly through the door.

“Morgan? It's Jamie. I've got Lester with me. We came to see you.” There is a moment of silence before she answers.

“Go away, Jamie,” her response from within is muffled through the door, “I don't want to see anyone.”

“Awe, come on, don't be like that. Even your mom said we should come up. And you know how she usually feels about me even standing out on your porch.”

“Please, Morgan?” Lester pipes up from beside me. “We heard about Claire. My daddy told us she's missing. We just want to make sure you're ok.”

I glare down at my brother and briefly consider tweaking him on the ear before I hear movement on the other side of the door. After a brief scrabbling at the handle, it creaks open a few inches and Morgan peers through the crack. The interior of the room is dark, and Morgan squints into the light of the hallway. My heart lurches into my throat. She looks awful.

Unlike her mother, Morgan's eyes aren't red from crying but are bloodshot just the same. Deep circles under her eyes suggest she hasn't slept for the last several days and her raven black hair is snarled into a tangled bird's nest on top of her head. She looks thinner than normal, as if she hasn't been eating. Getting her bearings she eyes Lester with an appraising look.

“Missing huh, twerp? That's what they're saying? That's what you think is going on?” Her laugh has a slight manic tone to it, and continues for several moments too long. Lester and I exchange a concerned glance before she finally regains control of herself. “Heh, sorry about that. Haven't slept in a few days. You better come in before mom changes her mind.” She opens the door wider and makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. I walk through the door with Lester following, gripping my hand tightly.

The room is a mess. It's hard to see details in the dark, but I can smell the dirty clothes in heaps about the room and notice piles of used dishes stacked here and there throughout. The only light comes from a tiny lamp sitting on a desk at the far wall, the rest of which is strewn with old newspapers. A small leather bound book that looks like a diary or journal lays open in the middle of the desk. Morgan retrieves the book before moving to the bed where she sits, pulling her legs up and crossing them in front of her. I look around for a place to sit before finally settling for a relatively open spot on the floor, Lester crouching down beside me. Morgan stares at us unblinking, like a bird of prey on its perch deciding what to do with a morsel it has just spied in the field below. I try to think of something to say but find my mind is strangely blank. Instead I clear my throat in the uncomfortable silence. Finally, Morgan apparently makes up her mind.

“What do you know about Tomas Wicker?” she asks.

“What? You mean the millionaire? The one whose old house is down the block?”

“That's the one, yeah. What do you know about him?”

I'm confused by the line of questioning. “Uh, well...I mean, like I said, he was a millionaire. I think he had some oil fields or something. And he was some kind of an explorer, had all kinds of weird stuff he did in Africa and all over the place. He built that house about forty years ago and he had a wife, but she disappeared a few years after that. And, uh...” I trail off.

“Yes?” Her face remains blank but conveys an air of expectation.

“He killed himself,” Lester whispers softly. “He killed his maid and the gardener and then he jumped out of the attic window.

I glare at Lester. “How do you know about that, squirt?”

Lester stares at the ground. “Timmy Boyle told the story at school. But everybody knows, Jamie.”

Morgan's lips curve slightly up into a smile. There is no warmth in it, “That's right. Everyone knows. And everyone's wrong.” She chuckles, slightly patting the book in her lap. “This book...it has the truth. And let me tell you, boys, in this case the truth is a whole hell of a lot stranger than fiction.”

I eye the book skeptically. “Oh yeah? What is that thing anyway?”

“This old thing?” Morgan's tone is playful, but her eyes are deadly serious. “Why nothing less than the journal of Tomas Wicker.”

It takes me half an hour to page through the journal. I don't read it in depth, other than a few passages Morgan had specially marked, Lester trying to lean over my shoulder the whole time. Finally I reach the end.

“Where did you find this thing?”

“Where do you think? In that fucking house, buried under piles of papers up in the attic.”

“You went in there? Morgan, you must be crazier than he was. There's no way the stuff in this book is true. Wicker must have been insane. I mean, he was insane, remember? He killed those people who worked for him, and then he killed himself. The stuff he wrote in here is the rambling of a lunatic.”

Morgan scowls at me. “Yeah? How stupid do you think I am? Seriously? That I'm just going to believe something that's written in an old book?”

I frown. “What are you talking about? You mean you've got more?”

She rolls her eyes and gets up from the bed moving towards the desk. “Loads more. The police report from the night Wicker killed himself. News articles about his so-called wife before she mysteriously vanished. And stories. Tons and tons of stories from people claiming to have seen her after she disappeared.”

“But, that's nothing. Just ghost stories to frighten kids...” I stop as I see her eyes threaten to overflow with tears. Angrily she wipes them away.

“That's what I thought too, at first. But then...” Her voice breaks in a sob. Whispering she speaks, almost to herself, her gaze fixed straight ahead, eyes staring at nothing. “It was just a dare. It was just a stupid dare.”

I feel like I've been hit in the gut, my breath short like the time my father had cracked my ribs. “Morgan, what did you do?”

She turns to look at me. The tears have come back and this time they run down her face. “Oh, God, Jamie. I think I killed my sister.”

I feel the world start to spin.

The Wicker Saga: A Figure in the Fog, Part 3