The Madness in Us All

The Madness in Us All

By Jason Wallace and Virginia T. Watson

Smashwords Edition

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Published by:

Jason Wallace on Smashwords

The Madness in Us All

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Wallace and Virginia T. Watson

THEY by Jason Wallace

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The Ring by Jason Wallace

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The Diary of Heather Summerall and the Evil of Adams House by Jason Wallace

The Sins of the Past by Jason Wallace

Connect with the Authors

About the Authors

THEY

By Jason Wallace

The Robsons, Vernon and Michelle, thought that their new home at 1278 Mobley Lane was everything that they’d ever wanted or needed. It was perfect, with its well-painted, black shudders elegantly announcing the high, neatly-trimmed and embossed windows that pronounced the immense entryway to the spacious, high-ceilinged parlor and living room making it quite the envy of most onlookers. It had a sort of old-fashioned charm to it that would not allow the family to let it elude their grasp. It seemed to be exactly what parents with hopes of increasing their fold required, enough to allow comfort while providing ample relaxation, despite its obvious necessity of possibly strenuous upkeep. This was all not to mention that the price was surprisingly low for such a house, making it a steal, though neither Vernon nor Michelle could figure out why no one else had beaten them to it, given its six month tenure on the market.

There was a strange feeling of being welcomed every time that the couple and their children walked through the front door, as if the house itself possessed a spirit all its own and wished the family to enjoin themselves to it. The oddest facet of the situation was that no one had lived in the home in more than ten years, yet it was so well-kept and manicured that one would assume it to have been occupied until the very day that the new owners came upon it. Even the yard and bushes were carefully trimmed. The history of the place, however, was elusive and almost ethereal, carved out of nothingness and making no sense to anyone, no ability to comprehend its real progress of ownership presenting itself. Even the agent showing it had little idea about it all, knowing only that the previous occupant had died years prior, leaving it to some relative that, after a number of years, passed it on to another relative, represented only by their attorney, this one, living far away and wishing to have nothing to do with it.

All was well, too amazingly well, for nearly a week. Everyone in the house slept soundly, always waking with immeasurable energy and joy, each day seeming brighter and more beautiful than the previous. The children had another month until the school year would begin, and Vernon still had the rest of the current week to finish moving and unpacking before he would be made to come to his new job, the majority reason behind the move from Atlanta to the quiet, little town only a short drive outside of Pittsburg. It was the first time since the birth of Vernon’s and Michelle’s daughter, Isebelle issy Robson, now approaching three-years-old, that a better position with the company became available, Vernon’s salary increasing by more than twenty thousand dollars per year. It was the happy, better-provided-for, quiet life that the Robsons longed for and knew that they needed.

None of the family had any reason for complaint or unhappiness from the first moment of moving in. That was, until the second Wednesday, at three-thirty-eight p.m., when Vernon stormed, almost falling, up the basement steps, to find Michelle. Hon, I found something, Vernon shouted as he entered the kitchen.

Michelle, more joyed than she’d been in many months, busied herself with baking a cake, a small celebration that was overdue, hoping to have it ready to serve immediately after dinner. She really didn’t want to be bothered and stolen from her task. What did you find, Vern? I’m kinda doin’ somethin’ here. Can it wait?

You have to see it, Vernon demanded, still attempting to catch his breath from the shock and complete riddance of his theretofore serenity.

I’ll see whatever it is later, Babe, Michelle informed her husband, never bothering to look in his direction.

No! You have to come downstairs with me! NOW, Vernon shouted, loudly enough that it caused Mikel, his seven-year-old son, to jolt his head upward, having been, thus far, entranced with his toy cars, making them race and crash on the hardwood of the living room floor.

Michelle trusted that Issy would remain napping in her room, no sounds having emerged from there in nearly an hour, though she wasn’t as sure that she could leave Mikel unattended. Mikey, come with me, Michelle calmly urged, grabbing her son by his hand, guiding him from his seated posture.

The boy’s soft, blue eyes flushed a look of deep confusion and fear, fear that he had done something wrong and was to now be punished. Why, Mommy?

Daddy wants to show me something, Honey, and I can’t leave you here by yourself. I promise you can go back to playing with your cars in a little bit.

Vernon, nearly posed in stoic immovability, slowly ventured toward the door leading to the basement stairs, pulling the chain to the lone stairwell light and ordering his wife to watch her head. Vernon was the only one to inspect the basement, Michelle and Mikel left to wonder what it could possibly be that had issued such alarm. Soon, another light cord was pulled, lighting so little of the darkened rooms that Michelle mused over having Vernon add a few more vessels of luminance to the place. At last, the others were taken to a secluded room, it being the only one sequestered to itself, almost hidden in the back of the large confines, sheltered by a lone, sliding door; however, it was much better lit than all others.

What, Michelle asked, her eyes attempting to readjust after walking through near dark and now, into bright light.

There, Vernon stated, pointing to the back wall of the room. That.

A painting, Michelle asked, more confused than she’d been before that moment.

Look at it. What do you see?

Before Michelle could utter a response of any kind, Mikel interrupted, raising his hand violently in the direction of the picture, It looks like me, Daddy!

Holy sh… I mean, wow, Michelle exclaimed, realizing who was in her presence. It does look a lot like Mikey. Adding a smile that brought a small strike of pain from its exuberant pull on so many muscles, Michelle added, So cherubic.

Cherubic? Really? You call that cherubic, Vernon shouted, feeling overwhelmed, as if his breath were leaving him entirely.

Are you saying our son isn’t a little angel, Michelle boomed.

No, but that panting sure as h… heck isn’t. It’s creepy, kind of haunting. Look at the eyes. With a gulp, Vernon attempted further remonstrance of his wife’s acclaims but couldn’t find voice to issue any.

Ok. So, there’s a painting in this house that somewhat looks like our son. It’s a strange coincidence at most. It’s interesting, really. Let’s go back upstairs now. I have work to do. Vernon didn’t want to follow the command of his wife but knew that he had minimal grounds on which to stand.

Vernon would have to show the painting to someone else and convince them that it was all more than just a mere coincidence since Michelle would obviously hold no belief in it. He was now certain that he could not enter the basement, unless it was to destroy the painting, or, if he didn’t, to no more than show the painting to someone else. He would have been happy simply sealing off the room and leaving the painting to occupy its place with no further disturbances to it, taking his monetary loss from subtraction of square footage, but the house was priced so low that it didn’t seem to matter much anyway.

As Michelle hurried to fix coffee and continue her baking, having already deposited Mikel back among his toys, Vernon strode outside, dashing quickly to the garage to unhide his cigarettes from within one of his toolboxes. Michelle disapproved of smoking, especially by her husband, necessitating the habit to be quit from view, at all costs. Since moving, Vernon smoked no more than two cigarettes a day, still wanting to be done with it all soon, but now, he felt as though he might smoke the rest of the pack before going back inside. There was something eerie about that painting, and with it, about the house, something that hadn’t been seen, he and his wife too eager to take such a great bargain. So many questioned ran through his mind. Why has nobody lived here in so long? How was the place so well-kept if it’s passed through so many hands? Who is the boy in the painting? Why would it be hung in the basement, in that room? Why wouldn’t someone get rid of it? Why was it hidden? Vernon knew that he had to answer some of these things if he were to make peace with everything. He wondered if it had not all been a great mistake to buy the house and move into it. After two cigarettes and thoughts of having a third, Vernon secreted the remainder of his stash in the bottom of the toolbox and headed back into the house to see when dinner would be ready.

Little was said the rest of the day, though Michelle tried, many times, to engage Vernon in speech. His mind was always somewhere else, thinking about the painting and why it was in the house. Perhaps, he told himself, there was no way to know why it was there or anything about it at all, and it would have to be given away or dismantled in some way. There was absolutely no allowance of leaving it where it was, or leaving it anywhere on the property, for that matter.

That night, Michelle went easily to sleep, though Vernon had little chance of it himself, lying in bed awake, staring at the ceiling, the same daunting questions racing in his mind. At times, he was sure that he heard Mikel talking to someone, but he tried, again and again, to silence this thought. At most, Mikel was probably talking to himself or to an imaginary friend. That was all that it could be, Vernon told himself. It meant nothing.

At last, Vernon’s eyes closed, sleep approaching more and more, finally, the entirety of his body lost in restful bliss, though he, from time to time, shook, startling awake more than once. When he awoke a second time, he saw, in the dismal black of the room, two small eyes peering back at him. It could only be Mikel, he knew, unless he were dreaming. Mikel, what are you doing in here?

Daddy, Charlie says that you need this.

Need what, and who’s Charlie, Vernon asked, panting a bit in worry but not wanting to wake Michelle.

I have a knife. Charlie says you need it. The bad people are coming.

Who is Charlie, Mikel?

He’s my new friend. He talks to me.

Mikel, go back to bed. You’ve been dreaming.

No, Daddy. I haven’t been to sleep. Charlie said I should give you this if the bad people come.

Mikel, Vernon huffed, unsure if he could continue the dialogue, debating with his young son any longer. Go back to bed, but give me that knife. As Vernon reached his hand outward to take the knife from Mikel, he felt his forearm being sliced deeply.

Charlie says the bad people are here.

Mikel, you cut me! Why did you do that, Vernon steamed, jumping from bed, grasping his arm with his other hand, not knowing if he were bleeding profusely or not. Michelle! Michelle! Wake up! Wake the hell up!

It was the bad people, Daddy, Mikel cried, his sobs growing in volume and immensity though seeming to possibly not even be real.

Mikel, stop with this bad people stuff! You just cut me! What is wrong with you?! GO TO BED NOW! IN THE MORNING, WE’RE GONNA TALK ABOUT THIS! With a loud stomp, Vernon made his order clear, Mikel trudging back to his bedroom, though his sobs were now very much real.

The stomp succeeded in waking Michelle from her slumber, the lamp next to her now being flicked on, the light from it dancing off of the woman’s brown locks. Her eyes, on the other hand, much the same color as her hair, were equally as shielded from the sight of her husband by their dreariness and the owner’s wont of keeping them opened.

What is going on, Michelle ordered, situating herself against the headboard of her bed.

Mikel, he cut me, Vernon screamed, now seeing that the knife had entered his flesh enough to send voluminous amounts of red fluid spewing everywhere, a great measure of it having already seeped through the fingers clasping against it.

He… he cut you? Little Mikey cut you, Michelle asked, still unable to fully fathom the matter at hand.

Yes! He had a knife, and he cut me!

Michelle had little urge to deal with the accusation that she was sure had to have come from a bad dream. With a quick turn from her husband and immediate sight of the carnage before her, her face turned ashen white, she scurrying more into the headboard, now sitting completely upright, staring into the bleak realization of what had occurred during her sleep. What?! How did he get a knife? Why did he have a knife?!

Like I know, Vernon screamed, growing hoarse from so much of it.

Ok. Ok. Mikey cut your arm because why?

Like I said, I DON’T KNOW!

No. No. No. There was a reason. What did he say?

Something about his new friend Charlie telling him he should give me the knife in case ‘the bad people come.’ I don’t know what the hell that means!

Without another word said, Michelle sprang from bed, running to the bathroom for alcohol and bandages, paying little attention to the groans of Vernon as the liquid was poured onto his gaping wound. You’re gonna have to go the E.R., Vern. That’s pretty deep. You’ll need stitches.

Great, Vernon moaned, barely audible, his list of problems now much bigger.

The kids were snatched from their rooms and hurried into the family S.U.V., Michelle speeding to the nearby hospital to see to her husband’s treatment, hoping that there weren’t any cops watching the roads. Luckily, there weren’t, at least, not in her path.

After three hours, the family was once again loaded into the family vehicle and now brought back home, a screaming Issy put to bed while a very confused Mikel questioned what had happened. Mommy, it was the bad people. I didn’t do it. Daddy keeps saying I did it, but it wasn’t me. A bad man did it.

Ok, Honey. Go to sleep, Michelle urged. Vernon left the task to her, not wanting to have it placed at his feet, knowing that he might snap at his son if it were, but Michelle wondered if she could do more than shrug it all away. Mikel, she was certain, needed help, professional, psychiatric help. That would have to be dealt with accordingly very soon, but whether or not it would do any good and how to get the boy’s cooperation seemed to be fleeting knowledge.

It was now six a.m., and though not enough sleep had been gained, the day had begun, now too unlikely that more sleep could be gotten or that it was a good idea. Coffee was made while Vernon headed to the garage for a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Where do you think you’re going, Michelle beckoned.

The garage.

Let me guess. You have a stash there, huh?

Maybe, I do. So what?! I need one after this! Vernon’s announcement was cold, callous, unflinching. Michelle’s words usually convinced him of familial burdens and that she was the one holding the family together, her orders to be followed, without question, though Vernon found numerous ways, often, without Michelle’s knowing, of appearing to follow those orders while doing what he wanted to do.

With blood-stricken white t-shirt and his wavy, blondish-brown hair matted and caked in sweat and still more of the blood, it flying so much around the bedroom that its places of landing had been unseen, Vernon stormed off to the back of the garage, trembling with anger and fear. He was afraid of what was happening to his son, and especially, of what might still happen. He, too, had reached the same conclusion as his wife, that Mikel needed mental evaluation at the hands of a well-trained and experienced doctor.

Staring down at the fourteen stitches in his right forearm, Vernon haphazardly yanked the tray from his toolbox to reveal his much-sought tobacco-filled friends, ripping one from its pack and happily lighting it, taking in deep drag after deep drag until it had been finished, feeling much better and not in absolute need of another. Now, he could have coffee with Michelle and maybe even a little bit of food before showering and making some kind of arrangement to get immediate help for Mikel. It surely would not be a good day, but at least, it could be better dealt with now.

Much to the joy of Mike’s parents, there was a psychiatrist one town away that was willing to see him early that afternoon, squeezing him in over his usual lunch hour. After nearly an hour of sitting in a very drab seating area, Vernon and Michelle were whisked into Dr. Cardroy’s office to discuss the problems facing their son, Mikel to be watched by the doctor’s receptionist while he played with the few small toys brought from home.

Mr. and Mrs. Robson, the doctor began, motioning for both to take a seat across