The Devouring: Six Macabre Tales

The Devouring

Six Macabre Tales

Renie Tagliatela

Copyright © 2022 Renie Tagliatela

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

The stories in this book are purely fictional. Any resemblance to any location or person, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-6624-8060-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8062-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Coming Home

Time Passages

Old Saddles

The Devouring

Author's Note

Silent Patient

Gypsy Rover

Prologue

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

About the Author

Coming Home

The sound of the old wooden screen door screeching open on rusty hinges intruded upon Mary Ann's thoughts and startled her out of her afternoon reverie. She decided that there was no other sound like it in the world. The sound even had a smell that was all its own, which could not be described, only experienced on a hot summer day. The smell was that of rusty, screen fabric and wind after rain had settled the Oklahoma dust that covered the road, the lawn, the house.

It had been a long time since she had seen the sky so blue and clouds so white it hurt her eyes to look at them. Reluctantly, she turned to look at the woman standing just inside the house, holding the screen door open to better see her daughter.

There you are. Mama's statement sounded more like an accusation than a greeting. I've been lookin' for you. I should've known you would be out here, rockin' in the sun, instead of helpin' in the house.

Just taking a few minutes, Mama. Just thinking, Mary Ann squinted up at her mother, noting that she had not changed over the years. Still tall and proud, her mouth set in a straight line that mirrored her granite chin. Black hair, turning gray was pulled back in a knot. Her kitchen apron pulled tight over an ample stomach that spoke of years of cooking for a family and a couple of farm hands. The farm hands were gone now, the fields lay quiet and fallow. Daddy was gone too, but Mary Ann and Mama stayed on.

Well, that's always been your down fall, girl. Thinkin' but never doin'. Like goin' to college but never finishin'. Never gettin' married. Never been much of anythin' except a thinker. 'Course, thinkin' ain't always such a bad thing. It got us to the moon.

Mary Ann had to smile at that. Of all the things Mama believed were worthless, going to the moon topped her list. Mary Ann looked out across the weeds and dry, yellow grass, then down to the road that ran past the bent, gray, metal mail box that marked the entrance to the driveway a quarter mile away. The sound of a car approaching brought her to her feet. She stood and watched as a rooster tail of dust climbed over the low hills. She waited until the car making the cloud of dust and gravel drove on past, before sitting down again.

Do you think it will be different this time, Mama?

Her mother stood at the door, watching the same cloud of dust disappear in the distance. Should be. Your father's not here to egg him on.

Daddy's not who I am talking about. Are we going to be different? Is Johnny going to be different?

Mary Ann looked at her mother, appraising the woman's tough, uncompromising set to her mouth and wondered if the woman had ever been different from how she was at that moment. Had she ever smiled or really laughed? Had Mama ever felt joy? Mary Ann thought back to her childhood and remembered that there had been a time when her mother smiled.

There had been a new baby, Little Thomas Allen, named after his father. Daddy and Mama had brought him home from the hospital and Mama had introduced the small bundle she held in her arms to Mary Ann. This is your brother, Tommy, named for your Daddy. You're his big sister, and we are goin' to keep him and love him. Mary Ann remembered her mother's look, her eyes shining with love. He's such a pretty baby. The angels must have sent him.

Mary Ann remembered sitting on the porch swing, watching while Mama sat in the wooden rocker and nursed her baby boy, smiling down into his face, motioning for Mary Ann to come close and kiss her baby brother's forehead. The memory felt so strange that she had to look at her mother again, standing just inside the front door. Mary Ann smiled just to see what Mama would do.

No sense in grinnin' like a chessy cat, girl, not when there's work to be done and you not helpin' none. Mama turned and went back into the house, the screen door punctuating the end of the sentence. Mary Ann closed her ears to her mother's comments that filtered through the rusty screen door like an afterthought. Her reverie returned, and she remembered a different time. The memory brought such a feeling of sadness that it washed over her in waves and drove away any warmth from the bright summer sun.

She remembered coming downstairs. It was winter. A cold wind was pushing at the windowpanes, rattling the glass, knocking at the door. But it wasn't the wind at the door. Her father pushed past her, coming from the kitchen, where a fire was burning in the old wood stove, warming the house, but no coffeepot was sitting on the back burner. The memory continued like a faded movie that had been shown too many times at the Main Street Theater.

Dr. Hansen stepped through the front door, shaking off his coat and telling Daddy that he came as soon as he got the call. The operator had said it was urgent. Daddy said nothing, just led the way up the stairs, each tread creaking loudly under their feet. Then Daddy's voice said, Joanna, Dr. Hansen's here.

Mary Ann remembered going to the kitchen, looking for her mother, and then she heard it, a high-pitched, keening wail that no human should have been able to make. Mary Ann knew it was her mother, and the sound was so loud and lasted so long that Mary Ann had covered her ears and hid under the table. Little Thomas was dead. Dr. Hansen called it a crib death. Sometimes, babies just stopped breathing in their sleep and never woke up. Mama had just kept whispering Why? until she quit talking at all.

Mary Ann's memories of her father carving a small pine coffin with his own hands brought tears to her eyes. She had not thought about the simple funeral in years, remembering how the ladies from the church had sewn a silk liner and crocheted a white woolen blanket to keep her tiny brother warm. Neighbors came and went, offering their condolences, speaking in hushed tones, approaching the silent woman sitting in a straight-backed chair in the front room, talking to Daddy saying those useless things one always said at funerals: If you need anything, we'll be happy to sit with Joanna if you need us. It's so sad about the baby. The whole time, Mary Ann sat in the rocking chair Daddy had brought indoors, the chair Mama swore she would never sit in again.

It felt like all the laughter and all the love Mama ever had was buried a long time ago in the tiny grave with her baby boy. Mary Ann pushed to her feet and took six careful steps to the edge of the porch. The boards were weathered and cracked, but like the house and the women who remained, they continued to hold up, and the hand-carved railings continued to run straight from pillar to post. Mary Ann looked out over the empty fields, refusing to shade her eyes from the Oklahoma sun. The sky was still blue, and the clouds were still there, pushing one another around, forming bigger clouds and then breaking apart.

She did not stop watching them until she heard the sound of the rocker moving in the breeze that played across the porch and danced under the eaves. She looked at the rocker moving gently back and forth, and she let the memories move in unison with the old chair like quiet ripples on a still pond. She shook her head. Today seemed to be a day for dragging up all the old memories. Oh well, she had nothing better to do while she waited for Johnny to come home. She returned to the rocker, settled in, and let the memories come.

It was the first day of school, and she was in the second grade. Daddy had pulled her hair back into two neat braids and had ironed the plaid dress she had picked out at the Woolworth store. Her face was scrubbed, and her white socks were rolled neatly down to the tops of her penny loafer shoes. She was feeling so special until Mrs. Wilson, the school principal, stopped them in the hallway to inquire about Mama. Is Joanna feeling poorly? We've missed her at church.

All of Mary Ann's special feelings melted away with Daddy's carefully worded reply: She's fine, just a little tired, but Dr. Hansen says she and the baby are doing just fine. Daddy was careful not to mention how angry Mama was that she was going to have another child, one she did not want and wished she did not have to bring into this world.

But the baby did come into the world, born at home during one of the worst thunderstorms Mary Ann could remember, but even the sound of the rain and thunder could not drown out the baby's cries. Daddy had come downstairs long enough to call Dr. Hansen and let him know Mama and the baby were fine. No need to make a trip out from town.

Mary Ann had crept upstairs and watched as her mother drifted off to sleep. Daddy had come up behind her and motioned her to the side of the new crib he had made to replace the one Tommy had slept in.

Mary Ann's fingers traced the memory of running her hand along the crib's rail, stroking the porch railing the same way she had stroked the crib. She smiled at the memory of a little red face and a tiny fist poking out of the blanket Daddy had wrapped around the baby. Daddy had laid his hand on Mary Ann's shoulder. Mary Ann, this is your new brother, Johnathan David, but I think we will call him Johnny for now. He's too little to carry his full name just yet. Mary Ann had reached through the slats to touch the tiny fist.

Mary Ann let the motion of the rocker carry her back to another time. She had been watching Daddy in the kitchen warm a bottle of milk on the stove. He showed her how to test the milk to make sure it was not too hot. She could see herself seated there in the rocker, her feet sticking straight out in front of her. Johnny was in her lap, wrapped in a blanket, its hem almost reaching the floor.

Daddy? Doesn't Mama love Johnny like she loved Tommy?

Yes, Mary Ann. I'm sure she does.

Then why won't she pick him up?

Mary Ann looked down at her hands gripping the porch railing, reliving the memory as if it had just happened yesterday. Why, Mama? Mary Ann whispered. It wasn't his fault. He didn't ask to be born.

Did you say something?

Mary Ann jumped at the sound of her mother's voice. No, Mama, not really.

Stop mumblin', girl. I heard you. Speak up. Spit it out. Mama reached up to straighten her hair, pushing hairpins back in place.

Mary Ann cleared her throat. I said, why didn't you love him?

Her mama dropped her hands. What?

Why didn't you ever love Johnny?

Mama stood just inside the screen door, and her anger was a palpable, physical thing. That's a fool thing to say.

Mary Ann looked squarely at her mother for the first time in a very long time. Johnny's coming home, but I don't think you want him here. Do you, Mama? Do you want him here?

Her mother's response was harsh. I've got work to do. Then louder, she said, You can come inside and help or stay out here and watch the road. Suit yourself.

Mary Ann watched as her mother walked away. Was it just a shadow on her mother's face, or had Mary Ann seen a tear on her mother's cheek? Off in the distance, she heard children laughing, the sound ebbing and flowing as the children came closer, then moved away, but it seemed to come from overhead. Mary Ann looked up at the sky. It was what she thought.

The sound of laughter was the sound of geese swirling in circles overhead as they looked for the thermals that would help guide their way south. She had to smile. There were times when migrating geese sounded exactly like children laughing in the sky, just like there had been times when there was music and laughter in the house she grew up in.

Johnny had bought a six-string guitar down at the Woolworth store, brought it home, and then taught himself to play. Daddy had found some old church music, and the three of them would sit on the porch after dinner and after the evening chores were done and sing. The songs were so familiar. She remembered Daddy singing Bringing in the Sheaves in a baritone voice that Preacher Collins had said would have made the angels weep to hear.

Some evenings, Johnny would set the guitar aside, and they would sit and talk. Mary Ann would always choose the old rocking chair while Daddy and Johnny would choose the steps leading up to the battered porch. Mary Ann remembered that her mother never came out on the porch. She would busy herself inside with sewing or knitting or reading her Bible.

But times changed, as times were known to do. The laughter and singing came less often. Mary Ann and Johnny had grown up, and Daddy had grown tired. The Oklahoma drought took its toll. The wheat would grow one year and die in the field the next. Daddy grew tired of the farm and the dust and talked about selling out, but Mama would have none of that. Johnny talked with his father about moving on, getting away from the farm. He wanted to do something special with his life, but Mama would have none of that either. She would listen to her husband and her children talking from inside the house and would barely control her anger.

You need to stop eggin' him on, Thomas. This farm is a good farm. It just needs his attention instead of him wanderin' off to be with his friends and comin' home with ideas of goin' to go see the big city or goin' 'round the world. Why do you let him talk like that when you need his help here? Daddy and Johnny would just look at each other and know what each one was thinking. Eventually, the laughter and the singing came to an end.

Mary Ann graduated from high school and took a part-time job at the new Sears and Roebuck's. She began hiding a little money away each payday, hoping to have enough to pay for college one day. Johnny made good on his promise to go and see the world and signed up for the army. Mary Ann remembered the day he stepped off the porch and never looked back. His letters from Fort Riley and, later, Vietnam revealed a changed man.

Mary Ann left for college, her heart set on writing novels and stage plays, but then a phone call from the family doctor brought her back. Her father was dying, the long, slow death that came from inhaling too much grain dust and too many cigarettes and not enough rest.

Mama spent her days working around the house, leaving Mary Ann to try and coax another crop out of the fields and pay the bills. She spent her evenings rocking on the front porch, listening to her father try to breathe, trying not to argue with her mother over the cost of oxygen and medicine. Their small herd of cattle was sold to satisfy the bank for one more year, but there was little to nothing left to cover the cost of running a farm. One by one, the farm equipment was sold off, the farmhands were let go, and neighbors, with kindly intent, leased the fields.

Johnny came home for his father's funeral. The service was short; the trip to the cemetery, next to the church, even shorter. Neighbors brought food to the house, and Mama went through the motions of thanking them for their kindness. Underneath all the expressions of sympathy, there were very few tears. Neighbors had a way of seeing through the comfortable facade of grief. Comments were made in private to Mary Ann, whispered condolences about how her Daddy's leaving was a blessing and a relief from the pain, when what they really meant was, dying was an end to living in a house with a wife who had quit showing love or affection a long time ago.

The neighbors left as the sun set behind the Oklahoma hills, and it was like the cover of darkness gave permission for all the pent-up hurt and all the anger of all the years to be spoken. The floodgates opened, and Mama had her say. Mama started ranting about Daddy, how he had never worked hard enough, had never set anything aside for when he was gone, and now she was left to take care of the place and try to make a living off a farm that was dry and not worth two cents to sell. Then she turned on Johnny, waving aside Mary Ann's attempts to quiet her down. It was fine for him, being in the army, living God knows where, as long as the army sent him there. And Mary Ann was worse than useless, going off to college with no plan to ever live in this house again.

Just ask her. She's told me so any number of times. And you, Mr. Army Man, with your uniform and your friends, drinking up all your pay so you could never send any money home. You're no help now, just like you were never any help before you left. Each word was like a hammerblow, nailing brother and sister to the porch where they stood. Mama flew back into the house and came back out with Daddy's hunting rifle.

Here. If you want to make yourself useful, throwing open the screen door, Mama threw the rifle at her son, knocking him off the porch, "take your Daddy's gun and catch us some dinner. Or maybe go ahead and kill yourself like you've been talkin' about. I heard you last night cryin' like a baby about what you seen and done. You think you're the only one to ever come home from a war with bad dreams?

I used to listen to my daddy screamin' in his sleep after the Great War, and no one coddled him or took him to the doctor. No, sir. The only thing I see wrong with you or this family is the way your daddy raised you. Soft. The man was soft and raised you to be the same. He wasn't worth the powder it would take to blow him to hell, and neither are you!

Johnny regained his feet, the rifle in his hands. Mary Ann was suddenly afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Johnny carefully broke open the breech on the rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, closed it, and just as carefully aimed the rifle at his mother. Mary Ann heard the shot and wondered how it could sound so much like the screen door slamming shut when the spring was new. Loud. Bang. Then nothing.

Mary Ann looked up at the clouds, still glowing white in the blue sky. She spoke to the woman standing just inside, out of her line of sight. He was so mad, so angry, that night. Do you think it will be different when he gets here, Mama?

Mary Ann heard her mother take a deep breath, releasing it in a long sigh. Should be. Your daddy's not here to egg him on. Mama stopped, then sighed again, taking her time before answering. Time's gone by. A lot of the pain's gone too. For you. For me. Maybe it's time to forgive. Let it go. It was the first time Mary Ann had ever heard her mother talk in such a way.

Mama continued to look out through the screen door, past the road. I don't think he meant to hurt us. I just think he was hurt inside. Maybe I should've let him talk more. Maybe I should've listened more. Mary Ann watched as her mother wiped her hands on the front of her apron, the way she had done a thousand times before. I think I'll go lie down for a while, Mary Ann. I'm awfully tired. You call me when he gets here.

Mama… Mary Ann struggled to speak, but all she could see was her mother moving through the house, away from the door, away from her daughter, back into the house where all the memories lived with her. Mary Ann turned to look down the road. She had always been the one to come to her brother's defense when he and Mama got into fights. She had been the one to step between her brother and her mother that terrible night. Now it was finally over. Johnny was coming home, and all the things that had gone wrong would be put right.

Mary Ann looked up as another cloud of dust made its way down the hill and past the driveway, a driveway that led to an empty, shuttered house, where forty years before, a young man had come home from Vietnam for his father's funeral. Still in uniform, he had shot his family to death, one bullet from his father's deer rifle killing both women. The sheriff found the young corporal on the porch, his sister's head in his lap, his mother lying just inside the screen door.

The hearse drove on to the cemetery near the church. After forty years in Leavenworth, the hearse was bringing Johnny home to rest beside his family. A cloud of dust followed the single black car. The screen door hung on silent, rusty hinges. The rocking chair rocked once, twice, and then was still.

Time Passages

The bodies were found right where the perpetrator had told the sheriff they would be. Two little boys lay at the bottom of a dry well on an abandoned farm, dressed in summer T-shirts and shorts. Their sneakers were scuffed and dirty. There were scratches and scuff marks on the walls of their makeshift prison, the dirt found under their fingernails giving mute testimony to the boys' attempts to climb out. Dirt and leaves had been spread in a thick layer over the piece of plywood used to cover the opening, smothering any sounds the boys might have made. If they had cried out for help, their calls would have gone unheard.

The coroner's report revealed that one of the boys had suffered a fractured skull, multiple broken bones, and a ruptured spleen caused by the twenty-three-foot fall to the bottom of the well. The child's injuries were most likely compounded when the other boy fell on top of him. The second boy had suffered a broken arm and three fractured ribs, escaping more serious injuries when his fall was cushioned by his brother's body. Dental records had confirmed the identity of the two boys: Kyle and Steven Streator, ages seven and eight. Given the rate of decomposition of their bodies and their clothing, the coroner determined that the boys had been at the bottom of the well for a year and seven to eight months.

*****

Steven and Kyle spent the past four years of their lives in and out of foster care. Theirs was a history of neglect by an alcoholic mother who had a weakness for Jim Beam and men. Marla Streator had a reputation for being a troubled teen who grew up to be a mother by the age of seventeen and then repeated the experience at the age of nineteen. Too often, her boys were found alone and hungry in an empty house with an equally empty refrigerator. It did not take long for Child Protective Services to set their sights on Marla and her two boys.

Each time the boys were taken away from their mother, Marla would throw herself on the mercy of the court, begging the judge, Please don't take my babies away. Each time, Marla would promise to