Nattie's Triumph

This story contains references to physical and sexual abuse.

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The smell of mold burned her nostrils. Dank and ominous, Nattie hated the old house and hadn’t returned since she graduated from high school, but under the suspicious circumstances of her grandparents’ simultaneous deaths, she could make it through one more night – for them.

While away at church camp, her parents and brothers had tragically died in an automobile accident. Eight years old at the time, they took her in and raised her until she left for college.

A dozen distant family members, faces that looked familiar but difficult to place, arrived for the funeral and shared the house’s six bedrooms. Nattie, the only unmarried member, got the attic bedroom, the smallest with only one bed, the same bed she had slept in as a child. On the third floor in what used to be the attic, she stood in the doorway. At five feet ten, the top of the door frame at most cleared her head by an inch. The pitch of the roof halved the opposite wall above the bed, a chair and table at the foot, all that remained of her childhood. How did I live here?

The memories weren’t good. She cried for her family in the beginning, withdrawing to her bedroom, away from her grandparents. They treated her well, but she could never connect with them. They were – old. Her bedroom became her world where she played and grew up, connecting with friends on Facebook and Twitter. Then the nightmares came.

She shook her head. Wow! Hadn’t thought of those in a while. That part of her life she buried when she left. Her chest tightened. She pressed her hand to her chest and struggled to breathe. Laying her travel case on the bed and opening it she unzipped a side pocket and removed her inhaler. Three deep breaths later, her lungs loosened, and her breathing eased. Her eyes darted from corner to corner. I got to get out of here. She hurried down the stairs and out the back door.

A small garden, overgrown with brambles, occupied a corner of the backyard. Two small spruces, their needles rust colored, bent over like dozing drunks, shaded a birdbath. A large chunk of the bath’s bowl lay on the ground at its base. A rusted wrought iron bench stood opposite the trees. She slumped onto the bench, closing her eyes, and massaging her temples with her fingertips.

She had no memories of the yard, seldom leaving her room. Leaning back, her eyes roamed the exterior of the house. Three stories with a basement, she laughed. It looks like Neibolt Street. The laugh slid from her face, chased away by the memories she wished to forget. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, uncrossing her legs then crossing them again, her foot dancing against the cobblestones. What is it with this place? She hugged her arms around herself, a sudden chill raising the hair on the backs of her arms. God. I can’t wait to leave. She inhaled a deep breath and focused on the air moving in and out of her lungs. Concentrate. In. Out. Like the therapist said. In. Out.

The panic drained from her body. A calm wrapped her like a heavy coat and her eyes drifted shut.

She stood in a large room. Cobwebs hung from the exposed joists. The musty smell possessed a subtle familiarity. She glanced about the room. I know this place. She gasped at a tall, lean figure shuffling toward her. He reached for her, but she backed away. Its thin hooked nose protruded through a hideous mask with a sardonic smile hiding his face. She turned to run, but there was no door. He grabbed her arm, a gold ring with a large ruby on the ring finger of his left hand and pulled her toward a reclining chair.

Don’t be afraid, the mask said. You remember how much fun we had, don’t you?

Stay away from me, Nattie cried. Don’t touch me! I don’t want you to touch me like that!

Nattie leapt up from the bench and then fell to her knees, slapping her arm. She cried in hysterical grunts and frightened moans until her senses cleared and saw that she was still in the garden. Breathless, she scanned the drunken trees, the damaged birdbath and then sat back on her heels. She focused on the ragged breaths rattling in her chest, calming herself. In. Out. Slow. It was only a dream. In. Out. Her heart slowed to a gentle tapping along the side of her neck. She removed the inhaler and took a long drag, folding back the fabric of a tear in the knee of one pant leg. She shuddered when she noticed the sleeve of her blouse ripped, then gulped as she spread apart the fabric of the sleeve and exposed a large purple bruise above her elbow. It was only a dream. Her eyes searched the yard for answers. It was only a dream . . . wasn’t it?

She ran into the house and took the kitchen phone from its cradle. No dial tone. She sprinted up to her bedroom and grabbed her cell phone from the bed. No signal. The other bedrooms, the house for that matter was empty. Down the stairs to the front door. She threw it open. The cars were gone. No phone. No car. They must’ve gone out for dinner. “Thanks for inviting me!” I’ll give them an earful when they get back. “And then you can take me to a hotel!” I’m sure as hell not staying here tonight!

Slamming the door, a yellow Post It note fluttered toward the floor, but she snatched it out of midair. In large, bold print it read, “Tried to find you. Place is too spooky. We all got a place in town. Call the number below if you need a ride.”

Her fists shook and she screamed at the ceiling. “Thanks, assholes! I bet you looked real long and hard for me.” She glanced around the room at the fading slants of daylight and then toward the staircase. “Eight miles to town. Guess I’m staying here tonight . . . but not in that fucking bedroom.”

She took the stairs two at a time, gathered her things, and sprinted back down to the parlor. A dusty, forlorn rocking chair sat under a floor lamp in the corner next to the fireplace. The embroidered lampshade shed a thick cloaking of dust when she tapped it, her finger tearing the aging fabric. She reached under the shade and turned the switch. Nothing. The bulb was intact.

“Great!”

None of the lights worked. She dug a flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen. The double-A batteries struggled to light the bulb, the weak beam wavering between off and bright.

“It’ll have to do.”

In the parlor, she yanked the dust cover off the sagging couch, releasing a plague of dust motes. She rubbed her eyes and fell into a fit of sneezes and coughs. On the couch a neatly folded quilt, pleasantly dust free, lay on one of the cushions. She took it, grabbed the poker from its stand beside the fireplace, and slumped into the rocking chair. Laying the flashlight on the small table next to the floor lamp and the poker across her lap, she wrapped the quilt around her shoulders – and rocked.

The hours passed at a snail’s pace. Somewhere near dawn, her eyes began to dim, and her head nodded. She shook, jerking upright and rolling her shoulders. No! No! You can’t sleep! But sleep would not be denied. She raised her head and shook it, but her lids never climbed above half-mast and then her head bowed until her chin rested against her chest, rising and falling in the gentle, rhythmic pulses of slumber.

The dank hallway stretched dimly before her. Why am I here? she thought. Her steps hesitant but beyond her control, she continued down the hall, stopping next to a door.

Open it, the strange but familiar voice said.

She did as she was told. A stairway descended into a darkened room.

No! I won’t go any further.

But you must, the beguiling voice chanted.

Why?

You want to.

She reached for the light switch. Have I been here before?

Yes. But don’t turn on the lights. We won’t need them.

The words chilled her but like hypnotic commands pulled her down the stairs until she stood at the bottom. The door shut with a slam. She shivered, blind to her surroundings. Her body tensed. A hand, coarse, rough, stroked her hair, her arm, and guided her to the reclining chair. There, his hand fondled her, groped her. She pushed it away, but he persisted. The hand opened her blouse and reached inside.

“No!” Nattie sat up in the rocker and grabbed the flashlight. The beam remained dark when she moved the switch, but then she struck the flashlight against the table and it flashed on, dim, but enough to see the thin man with the sardonic mask leering above her. His hand with the ruby-embedded gold ring squeezed her breast.

“You didn’t mind it when you lived here.” The face behind the mask chuckled.

She threw the quilt off and struck him across his hooked nose with the flashlight. “I’m not that little girl anymore,” she said and jammed the poker into his crotch. He doubled over and let out a thin, high-pitched scream. She leaped from the chair and smashed the poker into his mouth and then across his nose. He fell and scooted across the floor, holding his forearm across his face. She slammed the poker against his forearm. The bones responded with a vicious crack. He struggled to his feet and ran down the hallway, Nattie following, screaming, and swinging violent strokes with the poker.

She stopped. He had disappeared into the blackness of the hallway. Panting, she bent over and rested her hands against her knees. In. Out. It’s over. Slow. In. Out. Walking back to the parlor, a wellness swept over her, a feeling foreign to her but good, buoying her spirits for the first time in as long as she could remember. An obstacle, a stumbling block to her life destroyed; removed; gone forever.

Into the parlor she marched, her back straight, her shoulders back, and a broad smile on her face. The light of a new day filled the room with its warmth. A sudden shock widened her eyes. The room looked as though a small tornado had vented its wrath. The floor lamp bent at its middle and the shade shredded, leaned against the fireplace. The screen in front of the fireplace lay folded against the wall below the windows. The coffee table sans a leg, lay on its side, a large gouge in one edge. A front window was broken, and the flashlight lay in the yard beyond the porch. She still held the poker.

When she looked up, three faces peered in at her through the broken window. The front door swung open, and a rotund man stood gaping in the doorway, a cousin or family friend Nattie vaguely remembered.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” she said.

He shook his head and blinked his eyes. “What?”

“Never mind.” She dropped the poker and waved her hand around the room. “Bad dream. Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.” She glanced at the confused man, his face pinched, pointing a finger at her. She looked down at her open blouse and her exposed thin lace bra. She shrugged and said, “What time’s the funeral?” while quickly buttoning the blouse.

“Huh?”

“Forget it. Can I borrow your car?”

“Ah . . . yeah . . . sure.” He held his keys out, staring at her. “It’s the green Range Rover.”

She snatched the keys from his hand. “Thanks.”

***

The sparsely attended funeral proceeded as funerals often do except for the double caskets and a final viewing at the end. She stood in line, wondering why she stayed after the events of the last twenty-four hours. Something drew her back, like watching an accident unfold. An odd feeling welled up inside her, not the tenseness and unsettling fear she had the previous night, but a growing satisfaction, a final end and a new beginning.

“Did you know them well?” a voice behind her said.

She turned. “Excuse me.”

A woman she recognized but couldn’t remember her name, repeated her question. “Did you know them well?”

“Yes. They’re my grandparents. They took me in after my parents and brothers were killed in an auto accident.”

The woman gasped. “It was you.”

“Me? What?”

“He . . . you.”

“He, what?”

Before the woman could answer, her husband pointed over her shoulder, clearing his throat.

Nattie glanced toward the coffins and the large gap that had formed in the line. She hurried up to close the space, the woman’s nagging question spinning in her mind. When she approached the first coffin, she peeked in and froze. Her mouth dropped open. She stared at the body of a tall thin man with a long angular face and a large, hooked nose. The nose had been broken and a chunk of skin was missing from his lower lip. A sinister scowl filled his face. His hands were crossed on his chest and a large gold ring with a deep red ruby shined from the ring finger of his left hand.

She leaned over the side of the coffin and punched him in the face.

A collective gasp filled the room. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode out, ignoring the gawks and gasps and glancing into her grandmother’s coffin as she passed. A smile creased the old woman’s face.