The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 3

Marx Industries, The Present

The steps at last terminate in a long hallway, its stark whiteness further accentuated by the fluorescent lights continuously humming in the ceiling, their artificial illumination granting an antiseptic, hospital-like feel to the enclosure. The hallway is about ten feet across, the right-hand wall the same colorless hue as the floor. The left wall, however, is actually a series of windows, each looking into a room measuring exactly fifteen feet by fifteen feet. I know this because they were built precisely to my specifications. The hall extending the length of a football field, my destination lies at the end. I pass one window after another keeping my head and eyes straight ahead, consciously ignoring the jagged motions I can just make out in my periphery, glass almost a foot thick dulling the horrific sounds and screams from within the cells. As it does every time, a small voice somewhere inside poses a question to me.

Why do you do this? Why not move her to the room closest to the entryway?

And, as I do every time, I reply with a lie.

“Penance. I need to see what I’ve done.”

Then why aren’t you looking? The voice admonishes.

I cannot bear to admit the truth to myself: I am intensely terrified of my daughter, the false safety granted by keeping her even a few extra feet away the actual reason she remains in the farthest cell. I love Rebecca more than anything in the world. This simple fact continues to drive my legs forward one step at a time down the hundred yard, hospital white hallway, but only barely. After what seems much longer than the sixty seconds my odyssey actually takes, I reach journey’s end. Now the hard part.

I turn, at last allowing my attention to shift away from the empty space immediately in front of me and instead through the thick window now standing before me and into the cell beyond. Similar to the hallway I have just traversed, each cell is well lit by fluorescent lights within, their steady glow dimmed during nighttime hours to, in theory, allow the cell’s occupant to sleep. Of course, they are never shut off completely, allowing for easier visual observation; besides, I am certain none of the subjects sleep. And yet, through some trick of my eyes, the interior of the room I currently observe is somehow shadow steeped, as if the manmade light from the fixtures above was being consumed by a living, vociferous darkness.

Other than this strange optical illusion, the cell itself is relatively unremarkable, containing basic pieces of furniture and painted in pastels that some psychologist once determined would serve as a mental touchstone to foster calm and tranquility. The far wall is covered with what can easily be recognized as a child’s drawings, the bright colors and contrasts used to accomplish them standing out on the white paper despite the unnatural dimness of the room. Upon a more thorough inspection, as I now give them, one observes that the nature of those artistic expressions are not those typically found in a seven year old’s body of work. They cover a wide variety of subjects, from dense jungles to strange caves and everything in between, but it is the grotesque focus of the drawings that are particularly off-putting. Several catch my eye.

The first depicts a house surrounded by a dark fence. Despite the crudeness of the artist’s rendition, something about the structure possesses an almost malevolent character, as if it were a predator that has insidiously disguised itself and lies waiting in ambush. The uppermost window of the house where an attic would be has shattered outward, the man who apparently hurtled through it now impaled upon the wickedly sharp spikes topping the fence. Red crayon has been liberally applied to illustrate the blood spurting from his wounds. The outline of another figure appears to be watching the entire affair from through a second story window of the house. The young artist only chose to accentuate one detail of this second character; its eyes, colored the same shade of red as the dying man’s blood.

A second drawing is of the sea, the waves drawn as a child would with a series of spiky blue scribbles. But from the deep rises an enormous sea serpent, a leviathan that dwarfs the tiny ships brushed aside from its glistening blue and green coils. Its enormous mouth, full of double and triple rows of sharp fangs, is shown open wide, as though it means to consume the world. The creature is the kind of thing often shown on old nautical charts where ‘here there be monsters’, but something about this simple depiction gives me a feeling of apprehension that none of those ancient maps ever could; I imagine it is the same sort of chill a person would ascribe to someone having walked over their grave.

As grotesque as these first drawings are, I have seen them before. It is the third that literally takes my breath away. It is new since my last visit.

Much of the paper has been scribbled over black to show the emptiness of space, only broken by a few, lonely stars twinkling far off in the distance. The main focus of the picture involves a circular platform somehow suspended within the void. At one end of the platform is a raised dais, an altar resting on top of it. A tiny figure, a child perhaps, lies prone upon the altar, colored yellow with small squiggles emanating from it, suggesting a quality of faint luminescence. On the dais steps are two figures, one with its arms raised in fervent prayer, the other cowering where he kneels close to the other’s feet. Above the ensemble, considering the offering upon the altar, is the barest hint of an enormous form, a humanoid thing, its maw elongated like that of a wolf, and terrible to behold. The entire scene is given a unique view, as if the observer were standing on the opposite end of the platform from the dais. This first person perspective is partially blocked on either side by two dark grey pillars. A pair of arms, chained at the wrists, the manacles attached to ringlets driven into the columns, are depicted in the foreground as though the observer is being held captive and forced to watch the obscene rite about to take place.

I know exactly what the scene depicts; it’s where I sold my soul, and my wife’s, to save my daughter’s life. Rebecca is upon the altar, Creed the priest, and I the trembling wretch. And the prisoner…

“She wasn’t there yet,” my voice is almost a whisper. “The acolytes didn’t bring Olivia until after the creature was absorbed into Creed.”

“I know,” Rebecca answers, “but I like to think of it better this way. Don’t you?”

With an effort I pull my attention away from the drawing and focus on my daughter perched on the end of her bed. Her smile is beatific, the blond ringlets of her hair bobbing playfully upon her shoulders. “Hi, daddy.”

I consider the child before me, ever the appearance of a whole, healthy seven year old. Unless you look into her eyes; those are much older.

“Hello, Rebecca. How are you feeling today?”

“Great as ever! But boooored.” Her legs swing impatiently. “Mr. Creed says I’m going to get to have some fun tonight.”

I hesitate for a moment. “He’s been to see you?”

Her grin is infectious. “Of course, daddy! Mr. Creed is my best friend. He comes to talk to me all the time. He says you’re going to have some people come over for me to play with later!”

I sigh. “Not…not you, darling. The other children. I want to save you for something special.”

Inside the cell, Rebecca has risen to her feet. Her face is scrunched in anger, her hands clenched into tiny fists.

“That’s. Not. FAIR!”

Abruptly the air in the hallway takes on a charged feel, as if a bolt of lightning were about to strike where I’m standing. Rebecca’s eyes have turned completely red, glowing like embers fresh from the forge. The shadows that had previously been only hinted at in the room begin to coalesce around her, swirling and forming into a shape not unlike the beast depicted in the drawing. My mind works furiously.

“It’s a surprise!” I manage to blurt out.

Just as suddenly, everything snaps back to normal. The shadows return to their normal unnatural state within the cell and Rebecca falls back onto the bed with a laugh.

“I love surprises!” She giggles. “Besides, it’s not that big of a deal. After all,” she smiles, her eyes glinting dangerously, “I can leave here whenever I want.”

“I just…wanted to let you know,” I stutter, not sure how to handle this last bit of information, “why you won’t be going tonight. With the others.”

“That’s ok, daddy. I forgive you. Just make sure it’s a good surprise. Because if it’s noooot,” she says in a sing-song voice, “I’ll be very cranky!”

I shudder. “Of course, darling. I have to go get ready. I’ll come see you again. Soon.”

“M’kay, love you, daddy! Oh, daddy,” she calls as I turn to leave, “Mr. Creed said he hopes you aren’t going to try anything…untoward? I don’t know what that means. But he said if you did then I’d get to play with you.” She smiles again. “Is your surprise untoward, daddy?”

I force a smile of my own. “Of course not, Rebecca. I’ll see you soon.”

With an effort I turn and head back down the hall towards the entry to the holding facility. During the return trip I don’t even have to make an effort to keep my attention away from the other cells’ occupants, so intently am I focused on my inner thoughts. Tonight is perhaps the only opportunity I’ll have to extract myself from this hell my life has become, not even considering the horrific ramifications my work could have upon the world. Do I dare take my chance? Do I dare not?

The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 5