A Strange and Savage Garden Read online

  Welcome home. Forever.

  Lauren left her hometown of Trinity Falls years ago, with no intention of ever going back. Something bad happened to her in the woods there, so bad that she erased it from her memory—mostly. But now she’s returning for her father’s funeral. Returning to a place where robed men and women circle the town in an endless loop, tirelessly chanting, and where a primeval beast watches from behind the trees, hungering for more than flesh. Hungering for her.

  In Trinity Falls Lauren’s grandmother Madelyn reigns supreme. Lauren escaped her once, but Madelyn won’t let her get away again. This time Madelyn intends to see it through to the bitter, bloody end. No matter what.

  A Strange and Savage Garden

  Tim Waggoner

  Dedication

  Special thanks to Kealan Patrick Burke, who created Johnny Divine for the anthology Brimstone Turnpike and invited me to contribute a tale. This one’s for Tom Monteleone, for his friendship and support over the years. Grazie, Padrone!

  A Strange and Savage Garden

  Running, running…branches whipping past, stinging face, hands, bare legs; leaving marks, drawing blood. Something large crashing through the undergrowth behind her, huge lungs working like bellows, sour breath hot against the back of her neck like wind from an open blast furnace. A sound—half growl, half whine—a combination of excitement, anger, and above all, need—wells up from deep inside the thing pursuing her. It sounds close, so very, very close, and she wants to scream, has to, but she’s running too hard, breathing too hard to make any sound beyond a harsh panting. She feels a tightness in her chest as the scream sits there, trapped, building toward a release which may never come.

  If I can just reach the edge of the woods… The thought trails off and dies. Her mind is given over almost entirely to keeping her legs moving, adrenaline pumping, heart and lungs operating at peak efficiency, senses bright and sharp, pushing aside millions of years of evolution so that the tiny, shivering mammal that resides deep within her brain can come to the fore and do what it’s best at: survive.

  That she might not be safe once she escapes the woods—that the very concept of safe itself might be ludicrous—doesn’t occur to her. She just keeps running…breathing in, out, in…gaze focused on the leaves and branches ahead of her, on the scattered patches of light that, if she’s lucky, might just be the edge of the forest.

  A blow between her shoulder blades, as if she’s been struck by a large chunk of flying concrete. Breath whoooooshes out of her lungs, and she flies forward, body half-twisting as she falls toward the ground. Lands on her right side on moist soil and broken twigs, sharp pain in both wrist and elbow. Broken? Maybe, but that’s the least of her problems now. She struggles to roll over, to face the thing that has knocked her down with one of its leonine paws. She doesn’t want to look at it, wants to close her eyes and hide in the darkness within her own skull while the beast does what it will with her. But she’s strong, this one, stronger than she knows, and whatever’s coming next, she intends to look it straight in the eye.

  Once she’s facing the creature, her gaze is captured by the primeval light blazing hot and fierce in its eyes like two ancient suns, and she finds herself unable to look away. She hears a sticky-wet sound as an organ begins to descend from between the beast’s back legs…long, thick as a man’s thigh, viscous fluid welling from the blood-swollen tip. The air fills with a sharp, rank smell that contains a hint of sweetness, and despite her terror—or perhaps in part because of it—her vagina moistens in response.

  The scream she thought would never be born finally tears free from her chest, so loud and shrill she thinks it just might echo among the forest trees forever.

  And then it comes for her.

  Lauren opened her eyes. She didn’t bolt out of bed, chest heaving, heart pounding, body slick with sweat. She just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, breathing softly. She’d had this particular nightmare too many times to be frightened by it anymore.

  She lay on top of the covers, hands folded across her stomach. She was wearing a sun dress—pictures of daisies on a light green background—and her feet were bare. Even though the window was open (no screen, Grandma didn’t like them, said they were a cheat, a way for folks to try to keep the window open and closed at the same time) she was warm, and she was glad she’d thought to put on the dress before she lay down. If she’d kept on her blouse and jeans, she surely would’ve awakened sweltering, if she’d been able to get to sleep at all. It was only mid-May in Trinity Falls, but it could get awful hot in southern Ohio this time of year. She longed for the air-conditioned comfort of her apartment back home, but then she thought, No, the other place, the one with the air conditioner, is just where I live now. This is home. Always has been, always will be, for better or worse.

  She sat halfway up, propping herself on her elbows, and looked around what had once been her bedroom. It had been eleven years since she last slept here, eleven years since she’d left this house and never looked back. Everyone always said the places of your youth seemed smaller when you revisited them, but that hadn’t been Lauren’s experience. The town, her grandmother’s house, this room…everything seemed somehow larger. Maybe, she thought wryly, it was she who had somehow grown smaller.

  An instant after thinking that, she realized it wasn’t a very amusing thought. Not at all.

  The walls were still the same powder blue, the floors still polished hardwood. Her mahogany dresser still sat beneath the (currently open) window, which was still framed by white lace curtains. On the floor in front of it was her suitcase and a smaller travel case containing her make-up and toiletries. Hanging on the back of the door was the full-length mirror she had stood before so many times, checking to make sure her clothes and hair were just so. On more than one occasion she’d stood before that same mirror, naked, examining her body, trying to view it as a man might, wondering if someone would find her attractive, ultimately unable to answer the question, even with the mirror’s help. Stuffed animals—mostly teddy bears and unicorns—filled a set of shelves on the opposite side of the room from the dresser. The toys were dust-free, and looked as if they’d been brought home from the store yesterday. Grandma was a housekeeping demon, and dust and dirt kept well clear of her home.

  Home. She was surprised to feel herself smiling at the thought, especially considering the reason that she had come back after all this time. Make that reasons, plural.

  She scooted to the edge of the bed and sat there, looking out the window. There was a bit of a breeze, and the edges of the curtains stirred gently, sheer fabric rippling like water. Outside, green grass and oak trees, blue sky and white clouds, the hush of rustling branches and the lilt of birdsong.

  It was a perfect day to bury her father.

  She found her grandmother in the kitchen, making BLTs. Her mother sat at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her, still full. Lauren would bet the coffee had been sitting there long enough to go cold. Her brother Mark stood next to the refrigerator, leaning back against the counter, arms folded, scowling in that way he had. You could never tell whether he was upset about something or just thinking.

  “Sit down, child. I’ll have sandwiches ready in a minute.” Grandma didn’t turn away from the stove to acknowledge Lauren’s presence. She always seemed to know without looking when someone came into a room. She used a fork to move frying bacon around, the meat sizzling and popping. “And don’t give me any ‘How can you expect us to eat today?’ I already had enough of that from your brother.”

  Mark’s scowl deepened, but otherwise he didn’t respond.

  Lauren almost smiled. Now
she really knew she was home.

  “A body has to keep his strength up, especially on a day like today.” Grandma lifted bacon out of the pan with her fork and set it on a plate covered with folded paper towels to absorb the worst of the grease. She put the fork down and used another paper towel to blot the top of the bacon. Then, moving with a speed and economy of motion that would’ve been the envy of short-order cooks the world over, she forked the bacon onto already prepared beds of toasted bread, lettuce and tomato, covered them with a final slice of toast each, then carried them to the kitchen table, two plates at a time. Four sandwiches.

  Should be five, Lauren thought, and she felt tears well up. BLTs were her dad’s favorite. He especially liked them in summertime, bacon hot, tomato and lettuce straight out of the fridge, cool and crisp. It was stupid; of all the thousand-thousand things there were to miss about her father, she got teary-eyed because of a sandwich…

  “Sit,” Grandma commanded. “Eat.”

  Neither Mark nor Lauren made a move for the table, and Mother didn’t even look at her sandwich, let alone reach for it.

  “If I went to the work of making the damn things, the least you three can do is take a bite or two. I’ll be satisfied if all you do is move them around on your plates a little.” Grandma smiled to take the sting out of her words, and Lauren couldn’t help smiling back. She nodded, gave her brother a look that said, Please? and they both took their places at the table, Mark on their mother’s right, Lauren on her left.

  Grandma nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll pour us some lemonade and then I’ll join you. But don’t wait; start eating.” She went to the cupboard and began taking down glasses.

  Lauren wasn’t hungry, and she suspected neither Mark nor their mother was either, but the three of them nevertheless did as Grandma commanded, lifting their sandwiches in unison and taking bites, their motions so in sync it was as if they’d practiced beforehand. They chewed slowly, and in Mark’s case, almost sulkingly as Grandma brought their lemonade, then took her place at the head of the table.

  They ate in silence, and Lauren took the opportunity to get her first really good look at them since she’d arrived late last night. Eleven years was a long time, and though she’d seen them in the photos that Grandma or Mom would occasionally send—despite her need for distance from her family, Lauren had always made sure they knew her address, if not her phone number, whenever she moved—this was her first chance to examine how much they had changed.

  Bottom line: they’d changed more than she thought, but less than she feared. Mother had put on about ten pounds, which given her petite frame really made a difference. Her hair was still long and straight, but the black was shot through with gray now, and the texture was dry like straw. Her cheeks were puffier, and she had a bit of a dewflap beneath her chin. Her eyes were red, the flesh beneath them swollen and dark, but that was due no doubt to crying. Lauren supposed her mother had done quite a bit of that over the last few days. She wore a simple dark blue dress that almost but not quite looked black, shoes that were black—but no hose, her mother hated wearing panty hose, especially in summer—and a string of pearls around her neck. Lauren had a vague memory of her father giving Mother those pearls for some holiday or other…a birthday? Christmas? She couldn’t remember which.

  She wondered if her own dress was too casual for a funeral, despite the heat of the day. No one had said anything to her about it before she lay down for her nap, and the only other dress she’d brought—the only other one which was even close to formal—was too heavy for this time of year. Maybe she’d ask if she should change before they left. Or maybe she’d wait to see if anyone complained. Burying her father would be bad enough without sweltering during the process.

  Mark had lost weight, quite a bit of it, in fact. He’d always been chubby—his childhood nickname had been Pudge—but when Lauren had last seen him, he’d been working on growing an impressive beer gut. But now he only had a bit of a bulge around the waistline and his face was slimmer, the cheekbones more prominent. His complexion was ruddy, as if he had a bit of a sunburn, but he always looked that way in summer. His ever-unruly brown hair was in need of a good combing, which Grandma would no doubt remind him of before they headed for the church. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled up and a blue tie, loosened for now, along with black pants and shoes. Despite the fact that he was in his early thirties, he looked like a sloppy little boy who resented having to get dressed up, even if it was for his own father’s funeral. In a lot of ways, Lauren thought that summed up his personality well.

  And Grandma…the years had been kind to her, not that Lauren was surprised. Even time itself would be a little intimidated by a woman as strong-willed as Madelyn Carter. Alabaster hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes glittering and shrewd, the lines of her face sharp and precise. She was taller than most men, and though she was rail-thin, she exuded a fiercely controlled strength that could make her downright terrifying at times.

  She wore a powder-blue suit, white blouse, hose and black shoes. The outfit put Lauren in mind of something Jackie O would’ve worn back in the 1960’s. It seemed an odd choice of clothing for a funeral—especially the funeral of Grandma’s only child—but Lauren didn’t doubt for a moment that her grandmother would pull it off. The old expression “clothes make the man” was turned around in Grandma’s case: it was the woman who made the clothes.

  Grandma didn’t seem to be having any trouble with her appetite. She took big bites of her sandwich and chewed contentedly. But that was Grandma, determined not to allow grief to keep her from attending to a chore, even if that chore was only feeding herself.

  The silence stretched on as they ate, and Lauren began to feel uncomfortable.

  “What time is the service supposed to start?” she asked, more to break the quiet than because she really wanted to know.

  Grandma shrugged. She finished chewing her latest mouthful of BLT and swallowed before speaking. “It depends on how long it takes the Offertories to circle the town. Some of them are getting along in years, you know. They’ll ring the church bell when they’re finished, and the service should start about a half hour after.”

  Sound echoed through Lauren’s mind: words that were a polyglot mixture of Latin, Italian, French and other languages she couldn’t name, notes rising and falling in a sound somewhere between singing and chanting. She thought of heavy black cloaks, large hoods, hems dragging the ground. Sandaled feet shuffling slowly around the circumference of Trinity Falls, as the Offertories used their voices in a ritual that sounded like a medieval mass but was something else entirely.

  Lauren shuddered; she’d never been comfortable around the Offertories. She glanced at her mother to see if she had any reaction to Grandma’s words, but she just kept chewing and staring down at the surface of her cold coffee, untouched glass of lemonade sitting next to it, beads of condensation covering the glass. Lauren wondered what she was looking for in the black depths of her coffee cup. Maybe it wasn’t so much a matter of what she hoped to find there, Lauren realized, as what she was trying to avoid.

  There was something Lauren wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure now was the right time. Then again, given the reason she’d returned and the awkwardness of her homecoming, she decided that there probably never would be a “right time”.

  “What did Daddy die of?”

  The three of them looked at her as if she were crazy.

  “I know it seems like a stupid question,” she hastened to say, “but when you called to let me know Daddy had passed on, Grandma, I was in such shock that I never asked. I suppose in the end it doesn’t really matter, but I’d still like to know.”

  Both Mark and her mother automatically turned to Grandma for guidance, and Lauren almost smiled. How many times had she witnessed family, friends and neighbors do the same thing when she was growing up? How often had she done it herself?

  Grandma opene
d her mouth to answer, but before she could say anything, Lauren saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye. She glanced at her mother and saw…saw… She wasn’t sure exactly what she saw. It was as if Lauren were seeing two different images, one through each eye. One image was of her mother, still sitting at the table, still looking at Grandma, but the other was of a vaguely human-shaped mass of moist dark earth with green moss for hair, empty hollows for eyes and dried, broken twigs for fingers. The two images seemed to waver back and forth, as if they were vying for dominance, struggling to determine which one would be real. But then, just as quickly as it started, the flickering was over and the only image left was of Mother, sitting at the table in her dark blue dress and looking expectantly at Grandma.

  Confused and frightened, Lauren turned to her grandmother as well. The old woman’s face was calm, even complacent, but was there a look of uncertainty in her eyes? Maybe, Lauren thought. But if so, it was quickly replaced by a gaze of stern disapproval.

  “It should be obvious what killed your father, child.” She gave Lauren a tight-lipped smile. “You did.”

  Where the hell am I?

  Lauren looked at the map lying unfolded on the seat beside her, but it was too difficult to make out any detail without lifting it closer to her face, and she was reluctant to do so while driving. She had gotten off the highway about a half hour ago in hope of finding a gas station or fast-food joint so she could use the restroom, but all she’d seen so far were rusty fences, rocky plains and stunted, mean-looking things that might have been trees once. No houses, no road signs, nothing to let her know where she was and how she might get back to where she wanted to be. The road was narrower than she was used to, the surface pitted and cracked, as if it had been abandoned decades ago. Weeds grew up through the cracks: wild, twisted, queasy-colored plants that she didn’t recognize.

  She drove with her window down because her Escort’s air conditioner used up gas, and she didn’t have all that much left. The hot desert air rushing into the car smelled odd…stale somehow, as if it had been filtered through an air-exchange unit one time too many. Still breathable, but only just.