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Carnage House

– this is your trigger warning

An Echo of Murder

by Valerie B. Williams

THE SUMMER DADDY went off to fight in Vietnam, the summer I turned eleven, I found out that Granny wasn’t really my Granny.

Me and Mama had gone to Heron Lake to clean up the house that Granny left Mama when she died the year before. The plan was to stay for a few weeks to keep our minds off Daddy and the war. We finished the cleaning and Mama sprawled out on the dock, listening to the radio and smoking Salems. I went back to the house to fetch my book and noticed Mama had left the attic stairs pulled down. So, of course I had to climb up and take a look, especially since she’d told me not to.

There wasn’t much up there but dust and old cardboard boxes. I poked around, opening the boxes and peering in. I was about to give up when I noticed a shoebox tucked inside one of the bigger boxes. It was marked “Mary Margaret” in Granny’s spidery handwriting. Mama’s real name was Mary Margaret, but she hated it and went by Meg. I pulled the lid off and saw an old photo, a yellowed, official-looking paper, and a stack of newspaper clippings. I didn’t have enough time to go through everything before Mama came looking for me, so I tucked the box under my arm, hurried down the stairs, and stashed it in my bedroom closet.

“You sure took your time,” Mama said, peering over her sunglasses as I stepped back onto the dock. She lifted her can of Schlitz and took a swallow.

“Found it,” I said, waving my copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The rest of the afternoon, I tried to concentrate on the book, but kept thinking about that mysterious box. I begged off at 8:30 that evening, saying I was tired from all the cleaning and wanted to go to bed. In the dark, I lay awake for an hour, listening to Mama move around the house. Finally, she stumbled up the stairs and I heard her swear, then her bedroom door closed. I waited ten more minutes, then pulled the shoebox from the closet along with my flashlight.

I focused the dim beam of light on the photo, a small girl frowning at the camera—three years old, maybe four? I flipped it over and read “Mary Margaret, 1935” on the back. I took a closer look. Why would Granny hide this? Setting the picture aside, I reached for the newspaper clippings. Bold headlines leapt out—Murderous Mother Captured. Trial Date Set for Rita Mueller. Mueller Denies Charges, Blames Mysterious Intruder. What Does the Baby Remember? Curious, I stacked the clippings in date order and began to read.

In 1935, Rita Mueller murdered four of her five children by slitting their throats. Before succumbing to her mother’s knife, the nine-year-old girl hid her three-year-old sister, saving her life. Mr. Mueller had come home early and unwittingly interrupted his wife’s killing spree. Rita Mueller ran away before locating her youngest daughter’s hiding place. When the cops caught her the next day, she claimed to have gotten the bloodstains on her clothes while holding and trying to save her children. She blamed a burglar for the crimes, but police found no signs of a break-in. The three-year old, when asked who had hurt her brothers and sisters, said one word. Mommy. The little girl’s name was Mary Margaret. My heart skipped a beat.

I picked up the photo again. Had it been taken before the murders, or after?

Placing it back in the box, I picked up the thick, yellowed document. “Adoption Agreement” marched in bold, black letters across the top. The child’s name was listed as Mary Margaret Mueller. Attached to the back of the document was a single, much older sheet of paper. I held the flashlight close and moved it left to right, following the faded lettering. It said that four-year old Mary Margaret Mueller was being “surrendered” (like she was a stray dog or something) to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. The signature at the bottom read “Stanley Mueller.” How could he do that? My mind went to my Daddy, who would never, ever give me up. I was his special girl.

I flipped back to the front page. Mary Margaret had been five years old when Richard and Betsy Coleman adopted her. My Granny and Papap. Mama had spent a whole year in an orphanage.

I dropped the documents on the bed, heart racing, my world blown wide open. Swallowing hard, I returned to the news clippings.

Rita Mueller was hanged in 1936. The blurry newspaper photo showed her being led to the executioner. Her face looked familiar, her light-colored wavy hair a lot like mine. A copy of my own eyes, and Mama’s, stared angrily back from the photo as she struggled with the men holding her arms, a fighter till the end. Maybe Mr. Mueller hadn’t been able to stand having his surviving daughter around because she looked too much like her mother.

I repacked the shoebox, slid it under the bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. This explained so much. Mama was as ordinary as ordinary could be. Me, on the other hand, I was exceptional. I always just figured I got it from Daddy, but it turned out Mama may have had something to do with it after all. We’d learned about genetics in science class—what were the chances of having blue eyes if one parent had brown eyes and the other had blue, that kind of stuff. But I guess personalities could get passed along, too.

When I was four, I accidentally broke my turtle, Tommy. I didn’t know you couldn’t just press the top and bottom of the shell back together once you pulled them apart. But it was really interesting to see all the shiny, wet innards. I poked at them with a stick until Tommy stopped moving, then took him to the woods and told Mama he must have run away.

For my sixth birthday, Daddy bought me a guinea pig. I remember Mama’s worried look when I opened the box and a whiskered nose poked out but didn’t think much of it at the time. I named him Buster, and he made it a few months. But when Buster bit me for no reason, I threw him against the wall. He didn’t move after that, so I carried him into the field behind the house and opened his belly with a fountain pen and paper-cutting scissors. Not much different from the turtle. I made sure to bury what was left of him. Then I told Mama I had taken him outside to eat some grass and that he hopped away when I wasn’t looking. She spent a long time searching for him and seemed pretty upset. I didn’t even know she liked Buster that much.

Daddy started taking me fishing when I was seven, even though I’m a girl. He said I was his son and daughter all rolled up in one. I learned how to use his Imperial knife to cut fishing wire and get hooks out. The knife had a regular blade and a saw blade for scaling, and a mother-of-pearl handle with a brass fish embedded in it. The blades folded into the handle and fit in my hand just perfect. It was beautiful.

Before Daddy left for Vietnam, he gave me that knife. From then on, I never went anywhere without it. Mama tried to get me to leave it behind before we came to the lake, but because I planned to fish, she couldn’t really come up with a good reason. She acted nervous when I played with it, whittling sticks and whatnot. I always thought it was because she was afraid I’d cut myself with it, but now I wonder.

~~~

The next morning, a hard slap to the face woke me up. Mama grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

“Where is it, Dede? I know you took it.”

I started crying, not having to try very hard to look upset. “What do you mean, Mama?”

“The shoebox with my name on it.” She shook me again. “I told you to stay out of the attic.” She scanned the room—her gaze dropped to the floor. With her toe, she nudged the box sticking out from under the bed, then reached down and snatched it up. “How much did you read?”

I pressed myself against the wall, as far away from her as I could get. My shoulders heaved and my voice shook. “A … all of it. But Mama, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her face fell and she looked like a deflated balloon. “I know, sweetie. But I didn’t want you to know about Rita.”

“You mean my grandmother?”

She clenched her jaw and spoke through gritted teeth. “That woman didn’t deserve to have kids or be called mother. Granny is, was, your grandmother.” She rubbed her face wearily. “God, I wish she was here. She’d know what to do.”

“Do? Why do we have to do anything?” I inched across the bed and put my hand on her arm. “I know about gr … Rita now. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” A thought flitted through my mind. “Does Daddy know?”

“Your daddy knows I was adopted.” Mama sighed and stared out the window, eyes unfocused. “Granny told him she didn’t know anything about my parents.”

“So, Granny lied to Daddy.”

I was relieved that Daddy didn’t know. I’d hate to think he was keeping something from me.

She slid her arm around me and pulled me close. “It’s better this way, Dede. I wish I didn’t remember Rita, or what happened. I wish Granny and Papap had been my real parents. I’m sorry I got so mad. I’ve been afraid of you finding out. But just because Rita was evil doesn’t mean I am. Or that you are, either.”

I pulled away from her. “I am not evil.”

“Oh, I didn’t say you were, baby,” she said, but a shadow crossed her face. “I thought you might be worried about it. Come over here.” She held out her arms. I snuggled close and smelled comforting traces of cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5—Mama’s special scent.

“What do you remember about her?”

“Not much, baby. She was always yelling at us. That day, I thought it was just more of the usual until Steffie shoved me in the closet and told me to stay still and shut up. I peeked out through the slats and saw …” She shivered. “Never mind what I saw. Rita was wicked and got what she deserved. I got a better life with your Granny and Papap, and now I have you.” She kissed the top of my head and squeezed me tight. “Now, get dressed and I’ll make pancakes.”

After breakfast, I cleared the table. The windows hung open with a warm morning breeze moving the curtains. The weather was perfect.

“Can we take the boat out and go fishing?” I asked.

“I was going to do some more sunbathing,” she said, frowning and drumming her fingers on the Formica table.

I rubbed my face where she’d slapped me earlier.

“But it is a beautiful day,” she said, with a nervous smile. “And I can get sun on the boat just as well.”

Mama hated fishing, but she liked fresh fish and boat rides. She put on her sun hat and packed a picnic lunch, filling a cooler with Schlitz and some RC colas for me. I brought my rod and tackle box, not forgetting Daddy’s fishing knife. Mama’s cooler still had plenty of room for any fish I caught. I hopped into the rowboat and she handed me the picnic basket, hanging onto the cooler as she stepped in and settled onto the middle seat.

“I’ll row out and you row back,” she said, picking up the oars.

“Deal.”

That was the deal she usually made with Daddy. I’d been practicing my rowing, and knew if you used your legs and back, you didn’t have to be super strong.

We ate lunch. Mama had put a couple extra slices of Wonder bread in the basket so I could roll it into balls for bait. I had some spinners, but the fish in Heron Lake really liked bread. By the time I cast my first line, Mama was finishing her second Schlitz. She was drinking a whole lot more beer than she did when Daddy was around. I think she missed him. She smoked a lot more cigarettes, too, sometimes lighting one off the other.

Before long, Mama was down to two beers. I slipped a couple of bluegills into the cooler alongside the remaining cans, and she giggled.

“Don’t you drink my beer, fish!” she said to the cooler, and giggled again.

By just after four o’clock, I’d caught two crappies to go with the bluegills, so we had plenty of fish for dinner. I’d have to clean them, of course. The only time Mama touched fish was to bread them and drop them in sizzling Crisco.

“Ready to head back?” I asked.

Mama was dozing with her head on her chest, sun hat hiding her face. Her last can of beer rested on the seat next to her with her hand around it.

“Mama!”

Her head jerked up. She peered at me with glassy eyes, then lifted her Schlitz. “Here’s to my tough little girl. I love you, sweetie.” She stood to change places with me but missed her footing and fell backward. Her hat flew off, her head crunched against the oar lock, and she crashed into the bottom of the boat.

I hung onto the sides of the rocking boat and stared, my heart pounding. She wasn’t moving. I crawled toward her.

“Mama?”

I stuck my hand behind her head. It was wet and sticky. I drew back blood-covered fingers. She groaned but her eyes stayed shut. I licked my fingers. They tasted like pennies.

What would Rita do?

I rowed the boat to a secluded inlet.

It really doesn’t take much to tie up a drunk, unconscious woman. Even a child can do it. I looked at Mama lying there, trussed up like a pig, only instead of an apple I’d stuffed an oily rag in her mouth. I had the same feeling of power as when I’d thrown Buster into the wall, and later when I’d caught that stray cat. I’d learned a lot from the cat—he lasted a couple of days. But now I knew where my power came from. I would make my grandmother, my real grandmother, proud.

I started on Mama’s arms, pressing the blade of Daddy’s knife deep into the soft skin between her wrist and elbow, making neat lines and watching her blood well from the cuts. I stuck my finger in the blood and licked it, then lowered my head and sucked on her arm. Salty and delicious. She woke up and made squealing noises through the rag.

“There you go, Mama. Just cleaning up my mess.” I licked my lips. “You always tell me to clean up after myself.”

She shook her head, the whites of her eyes shining like a spooked pony. “Uuunnnhh,” she grunted, kicking. The boat rocked from side to side. I sat on her legs, leaned into her face, and cupped my ear.

“What’s that Mama? You say you’re sorry you smacked me?”

“EeEe” came from behind the gag.

“You know, I’ve always hated that name. Dede. Sounds like a stutter. I might just change it. What do you think about ‘Rita?’”

Tears dribbled from her eyes and soaked the edges of the rag. “Eeees,” she said.

“You’re saying please? Speak up, Mama. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Didn’t you teach me not to mumble?” This made me laugh so hard I got the hiccups. “Can’t understand,” I gasped, after catching my breath.

“I know,” I said. “Let’s play a game. Remember when you took my knife for a week ‘cause I was playing mumblety-peg and you said it was dangerous? And I told you I was really good at it?”

I rested the blade tip gently on the top of my left hand and held the handle in my right. With a quick flip of the wrist the knife spun toward Mama and buried itself in her stomach. She let out an “oof” and moaned.

I pulled the blade out and pointed it at her. “That wasn’t an accident. It landed exactly where I wanted it to.” I flipped the knife into the air and caught it by the handle. “Told you I was good.”

I had a few more turns at the game, flipping the knife off my elbow, my finger, my chin, and even my nose. It made a kind of whizzing sound in the air, followed by a wet thump when it landed. Blood oozed from stabs in her chest, her arm, her thigh, and a couple more places. After a while she stopped moving and moaning and just stared at me.

I got bored with mumblety-peg, so I buried the knife deep in her belly, right where it had gone in the first time. I yanked up, making an opening big enough to stick my hand in.

“Ooh, nice and warm and slimy. Feels kinda neat, Mama. If you’d followed in Rita’s footsteps, you could have been teaching me all along.” I snickered. “Wait, I guess you are teaching me.”

I took my time exploring, cutting here and there. People’s intestines are blue just like critters. And smell just as bad when you cut into them. I finally got tired of Mama staring at me, so I drove the blade into her left eye.

Next came the hard part. I pulled out the knife, flipped the blade toward my stomach, and took a deep breath.

~~~

The rowboat was bumping up against the shore when the hunter found us. He sucked in his breath and said, “Jesus Christ,” in a shaky voice. I kept my eyes shut but let out a low moan, which wasn’t too hard. Even shallow cuts hurt. Mama was way past moaning. He stumbled into the water and scooped me out of the boat. I screamed when he touched me, and he almost dropped me. While he struggled to hang onto me, I slipped Daddy’s bloody fishing knife into the side pocket of his cargo pants. He laid me on the shore, and I screamed again. I wouldn’t let him near me. After a while, another man ran up to us and I scooted away from the hunter, crying and pointing.

“Keep him away from me!”

My savior’s name was Mike, Mike Tompkins. Or is it Thompson? Never can remember. And he really did save me. Oh, I wouldn’t have died from the stab wounds. But, thanks to him, I left the hospital and went home to Daddy, a lucky survivor of a horrible crime. Mike, he’s serving a life sentence for murder and attempted murder. My heartbreaking testimony and grief over my murdered mother convinced the jury.

How did I know the hunter would come along? I didn’t.

That, I truly believe, was Rita looking out for me.


About the Story:
This story arose from a prompt about evil children. I wanted to play with voice, balancing childish curiosity with cold-blooded violence. The question of who children idolize and why is also addressed. The answer may be surprising.