Is a dead boy sending me messages?

Tom died ten years ago at a weird time in my life and I just realized he might still be alive. Living beneath the trapdoor I’m looking down right now. I really wish he’d show his face so I don’t have to go down there. It’s so dark. I’m praying that he comes up because otherwise I’ll have no choice. I need to know if he’s down there.

Let me backup. We were both 13 the year he died. My dad Lars, a mean old man, moved our family across the country to be Civil War reenactors. “It’ll be a great adventure,” he promised.

My gentle mom Maggie was skeptical, but she worshiped my dad and went along with whatever he wanted. “Plus,” she told me as she treated me to a manicure, “it’ll be nice having your father around more.” I avoided her eyes because we both knew that was false. Whenever my dad turned his temper on me, which was often, my mom disappeared, slipped into their bedroom and locked the door. I hated her cowardice even more than I hated his meanness. I promised myself I wouldn’t turn out like her. I’d be brave.

I tried to convince my parents to leave me behind and go off on their reenactment adventure together. I wanted to stay with my friends in Los Angeles and go shopping at Sephora after school. I didn’t want to move to a trailer in Chancellorsville, Virginia and talk about the Civil War all day. I was 13! One night over dinner, I tried to talk my dad out of it. “Everyone will think I’m weird when we get back,” I said, copying my mom’s gentle voice. I actually wanted to say that it was a fucking stupid idea and going made zero sense. But I had to keep my tone and words respectful around my dad. I don’t know why I bothered trying to convince him of anything. He just leaned back in his chair and laughed at me. “Maybe we won’t come back,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. I slunk deeper in my chair.

Because no one cared what I thought we soon moved into a trailer at the reenactors camp. The endless heat is what I remember most. It was muggy and buggy, and awful. The air conditioning and WIFI never worked. I wanted to go home.

In case you don’t know much about reenacting, we’re the people you see in costume when you visit the Civil War battlefields. Next time you go, notice the division of labor. The men spend their days by the campfire and every so often, when the bugle blares, hike over to a grassy field to shoot loaded muskets. The boys help the men by the campfire and carry the muskets or the water or whatever. The women park themselves in rocking chairs on the grand porch of the main house, like nice Southern ladies. And the young girls …

We get screwed. Per usual.

My job was sweeping the smokehouse. It sucked. I hate sweeping. I hate smoke. I hate dark stone houses, even in the oppressive heat. There were no windows, only a few open vents very high up. In the center of the floor there was a brick lined firepit. A couple of large barrels lined one of the walls. Next to it, a tall ladder leaned against the wall. I used it to hang the meat. Above me, the rafters just under the ceiling were full of every kind of preserved pork. All those meats hanging over my head all day long. My hair smelled like smoked meat. My dreams smelled like smoked meat. I felt like smoked meat.

“Be grateful that you don’t have to deal with the flies,” my mother chided me when I dared complain. “Oh yeah, bitch,” I wanted to say, “let’s trade.” Obviously, I didn’t say that to her. I would never talk like that to my parents. I was a good girl. If I ever forgot to be a good girl, my dad would take steps to make sure I would never forget again. “Punishment helps you remember,” my mother would say gently afterwards as she bandaged me up. My dad sure agreed with that. So, I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut. But I despised the smokehouse and have been a vegetarian ever since.

One day, in the late afternoon, I spotted Tom. I had just finished in the smokehouse, my period-piece blouse sticking to my developing chest. He was off by himself in the field, muttering as he kicked the grass, every so often picking up a stick and hurling it as far as he could. I considered leaving him alone but then thought that maybe he could use a friend. I walked over. He didn’t say a word as I picked up a stick. I figured I was doing something right since he didn’t tell me to go away. I walked alongside him and hurled sticks too.

We started spending more time together. My dad fumed. My mom gently tried to convince him that it was fine, but my dad would snarl and slam the table. One night he did much worse and yanked my arm hard as he warned me not to spend too much time alone with Tom. “Good little girls don’t do that,” he said in a threatening voice.

I didn’t care that I ended up in a cast. I was in love. Of course, my father was going to hate it.

My crush for Tom came on fast and became all consuming. Like that thick Virginia heat. My lips were always shiny with several layers of berry gloss. “You look drunk,” my dad sneered. My hair smelled like lilac from the floral drugstore shampoo. The flies swarmed to the sweet scent. I should have stopped and gone back to Dr. Bronner’s like everyone else, but I was determined to woo Tom. I never knew what I had done to attract my first lover (deeply unwanted) but still I tried my best to replicate those steps. I was a laboratory scientist working through mating theories.

Carol, Tom’s mom, clearly noticed and thought it was adorable. She went out of her way to be kind to me and once we even baked cookies together. It was nice. Though when Harlan, Tom’s dad, showed up the vibe changed fast. His eyes narrowed when he saw me and I hurried out, forgetting to take the cookies with me.

One early evening, when it was still sticky hot out, about an hour before dinner, Tom and I went to the lake to cool down. My cast had just come off. We had our feet in the water, talking about nothing in particular. I swatted flies and snuck looks at Tom. I wanted him to kiss me. Would he do it? I kept waiting, pouting my shiny, berried lips. But he never made a move. Maybe he’s shy, I thought. While he was mid-sentence, I worked up the courage to lean over and kiss him. Awkwardly. He blushed hard and started talking about the smokehouse, stammering about a trapdoor in the floor.

A confused heat crawled over my skin. The smokehouse? I didn’t want to talk about the smokehouse! My stomach clenched as I forced myself to be brave. “Do you want to kiss me back?” I asked.

He looked down, his neck bright red. Slowly he shook his head no. My cheeks burned with shame as I scrambled to my feet and ran off.

I never saw him again. 

When I got back to our trailer, my dad was livid that I had been off with Tom. My mom tried to calm my dad down, but it was bad. I could hear them fighting for hours after I went to bed until suddenly, they stopped and it got very quiet. Probably my mom caving, per usual. In the morning, my father packed me into a taxi and sent me off  to my grandmother’s house several hours away. “You’re spending too much time with Tom,” he said, shutting the car door. I almost told him that he had nothing to worry about, but I hated having anything to do with my father, even talking, so I said nothing.

A few days later, my parents showed up at my grandmother’s house to tell me Tom was dead and we would be headed back to LA. “Accidentally shot himself,” my dad told me when I asked. My mother sat right next to him, her head bowed as if in prayer, her hands grimly clasped together.  “We didn’t want you to spend too much time alone with him,” my dad went on. “But this … Oh, I’m so sorry.” My dad was a monster, but he actually teared up. I didn’t know he was capable of it. Probably it had more to do with his own dad’s death. My grandfather died when my dad was 13. 

It was my first real brush with death. I didn’t know what to do. Or how to act. I forced myself to cry, but mostly I felt confused. The more I thought about Tom, the more I realized that despite my infatuation, I barely knew him.      

On the second anniversary of Tom’s death, I heard that there would be a memorial at camp. Apparently, there had been one the year before, but no one had bothered to tell me. I went. I couldn’t believe my parents let me go, but they eventually agreed it might help with my behavioral issues. My dad was traveling a lot again for work – every time he came home, I swear the meanness looked etched deeper into his face – and my mom was at her wit’s end with my disrespectful attitude, as she put it. Her hair had gone grey, which I felt bad about. When I asked to go to the memorial, my father lost his temper. Why? I have no idea. I had been respectful and everything. The man was like a short-lit fuse. He broke a chair in a fit of anger and stormed out of the house. When he returned, he was much calmer. He told me I could go to Tom’s memorial, but there had better be a reset in my attitude when I got back. He wanted me to be his good little girl again.

That was the first time I saw the message. I spent my time at camp avoiding the smokehouse, too many bad memories. Carol also avoided me. When I first tried to hug her, she gave me a cruel look. I get that she was grieving but I was stunned. I guess she turned out to be no better than any of the other adults in my life.

But I was glad I came. Finally, as the blue shuttle waited to take me to the airport, I poked my head into the smokehouse. We were reading Great Expectations at school and for some reason my immediate impression of the smokehouse was of Miss Havisham’s house. Long drapes covered the top vents so no air could escape. There was a smashed clock on the bench. I walked inside and looked closer. The bench was covered with snipped locks of hair. That’s when I saw the small slip of yellowed paper:

I will never forgive you for leaving me. -T.

For a moment I thought it was from Tom. For me. But obviously that was impossible. The shuttle started honking and I had to go.

By the time I got back to LA, I forgot all about the message.

The next year, when the annual memorial for Tom rolled around, I wanted to go again. I had done well on my pre-PSATs, and my parents were salivating about good colleges and scholarships. I threatened not to go to college unless they let me go to camp for Tom’s memorial. There was a huge blowup with my dad. My mom tried to take my side, and everything went to shit. But eventually after lots of slamming doors, tears, and my father storming out of the house and threatening my mom with divorce for not siding with him, he caved.

Now I know this is fucked up, but while I was at camp for the memorial, I hooked up with Tom’s dad Harlan. It was sick, I know. But we got to talking about Tom, and how Tom’s mom Carol was never the same after the death, and about how mean my dad Lars was and what a pushover my mom Maggie was and how unloved I felt. Whatever. I’m not trying to defend it. I knew it was messed up, especially when he whispered in my ear, “I love that you’re a virgin.” I wasn’t but almost no one knew that, so I pretended.

Because of everything with Harlan, I almost forgot to stop at the smokehouse before I left. I only remembered when the blue shuttle showed. I loaded my bags into the van and ran to the smokehouse. The curtains still hung over the high vents and the smashed clock was still on the bench. The locks of hair had been woven into a creepy wreath and placed on the bench. There was even less meat hanging on the rafters than the time before. The old note was still there along with a new one on the same yellowed paper.

You abandoned me when I needed you most. Why didn’t you save me? -T

I wondered who it was for, but it didn’t have much to do with me, so I ran back to the shuttle and didn’t give it much more thought.

Trying to get to Tom’s memorial the following year turned into the biggest fight yet with my parents. They were united that I should skip it. They wanted me to focus on the PSATs. Plus, a few months back they found an email Harlan wrote me and were suspicious. Obviously, I swore up and down that they were getting the wrong idea and making something out of nothing. But I couldn’t change their minds. I refused to let them stop me from living my life. I would not be a coward like my mom and let me dad scare me. I stole some money for the airfare, told my parents I was staying with a friend, and went to camp without their permission.

It was stupid. I was so sick with worry by the time I arrived that I had stomach cramps. That visit, I had way too much sex with Harlan, got caught in the act more than once by the other reenactors, and was generally a complete mess. I kept waiting for a confrontation with Carol. I was out of control and reckless.

I’m sure she knew because she kept giving me long, knowing looks. But she never said a word. Harlan even gave me Carol’s phone number, so that I could block it, in case she tried to call me. I had him write it on a slip of paper because I kept my phone off that whole trip. I didn’t want to see the messages from my parents. (Funny thing, when I turned my phone on, there wasn’t a single message. Just an eerie silence. That made going home so much worse. Punishments help you remember echoed in my head that whole trip back.)

With all the drama, I forgot all about the smokehouse until I was already halfway to the airport. As soon as I realized it, I forced the shuttle to pull over so that I could get out. I had to see the smokehouse before leaving Virginia, at least that’s what I told everyone. I also wanted to see Harlan one more time. I did both, but in the opposite order. Harlan even came with me to the smokehouse. That’s when I learned that the curtains, the shattered clock, the wreath of hair locks were how people mourned the dead during the Civil War. There was only one hunk of preserved pork hanging from the rafters. Harlan got to the bench before I did. There was another note on a yellowish piece of paper. He picked it up and read it. The color drained from his face. He ripped up the note into small pieces and dropped it on the floor. Then he stormed out without even meeting my eyes or saying a final goodbye. I collected the torn pieces of paper and put it in my pocket. On my way back to LA, I managed to piece it back together.

I died because of you. Your mistake. Your fault. -T

Was this about me? I started to have weird thoughts. Like crazy thoughts. Like maybe Tom could still be alive thoughts. That’s when I turned back on my cell phone and discovered no messages from my parents. In that eerie silence as I panicked about my punishment, my questions about Tom faded.  

The next year, my senior year of high school, I didn’t make it to the memorial. Harlan emailed me only once that year and I heard a pretty new thing had showed up at camp. I was consumed with jealousy. And confused. That’s when the body dysmorphia started. Also, I hooked up with my neighbor’s dad. What a disaster that was. I’m not exactly sure the moment I knew it was mistake, but certainly by the time he whispered in my ear, “I love that you’re a virgin.”

My parents found out and I was blamed for seducing my neighbor’s dad. You can imagine the fight that ensued. I ended up on crutches. To say I was permanently grounded was an understatement. I had nothing to do so I studied hard and crushed my retake of the SATs. That delighted my parents and they eased up on my punishment. I started dating a guy from the local community college that my parents approved of. I had the routine down when he whispered in my ear, “I love that you’re a virgin.”

I started Wesleyan that fall. My body dysmorphia got much worse, but I got much better at hiding it. I was too busy in college to think about Tom. Or Harlan.

I finally came back to camp on the 10^th anniversary of Tom’s death, the year after I graduated college. I was working a shit job for minimum wage and spending all my dollars on therapy. That year at Tom’s memorial, I confronted Harlan. Told him he was a sick fuck to take advantage of me when I was so young. He sniveled pathetically. Told me he had never done anything like that with anyone else. Pointed out how I was of legal, consenting age when it happened. How it wasn’t his fault, he was just so lonely because Carol didn’t want to have anything to do with him since Tom’s death. I let it go and got high with another one of the reenactors. Then I stopped by the smokehouse, this time in no rush at all. Everything was still there, except for the meat, which was all gone. I guess that made sense since the fire couldn’t really burn in here with the curtains over the vents. There were several notes on the bench, all on yellowish paper, more than I had ever seen before. I picked one up. It was angrier than any of the previous notes. And clearly signed.

I hope you burn in hell for what you did to me. You walked away from me, abandoned me, let me die, then went on living your life, having your fun. I know what you did and you will pay. -Tom.  

It had to be someone’s fucked up way of grieving. Probably Carol’s. Because Tom was dead. That had to be what was going on. Carol was writing the notes to herself in Tom’s voice. Some kind of self-flagellation. Because Tom died 10 years ago.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that was the first time I thought to look for the trapdoor Tom had mentioned all those years ago by the lake during our failed kiss. I pushed the barrels out of the way and couldn’t believe it. There, on the ground, was a handle.

A terrible thought ran through me. Was Tom alive? Had he been alive this whole time? No. That was impossible. It had been years. A full decade. I was a child when he died. No one could live under a trapdoor for that long.

I pulled the handle and slowly pulled back a piece of the floor. It didn’t even creak. It must have been well-oiled. I peered inside. There were steps leading down into darkness.

I swallowed hard. “Tom!” I shouted. My voice was shaky even though I felt silly calling out his name. He was dead. Long dead.  

I heard something shuffle and nearly fell out of my skin. My heart was racing a million miles a minute. It’s probably just a rat, I told myself. Or a possum. Or some other animal. Not Tom. Of course it wasn’t Tom. Tom was dead.  

“Tom!” I shouted again, my voice cracking.

“Go away,” a raspy voice shouted back.

I actually peed myself. Hot liquid drenched my underwear. My heart was beating so hard that I could barely breathe. Was that Tom? I pulled my phone out of my pocket to turn on the flashlight. My hands were shaking and I dropped the phone. It landed in some pee. I picked it up, wiped it on my shirt, and after a couple of swipes managed to turn on flashlight. I shone it down the steps.

“Who’s there?” I shouted. “Identify yourself.”

“Go away!” The voice was forced, unnatural. Raspy. Deep.   

I needed to find out who it was. I really didn’t want to go down there. But I had to know. I had to see. I had to force myself to be brave.   

“I’m not going away!” I screamed. It came out sounding much more confident than I felt. My mouth tasted bitter. I smelled like pee. “Tell me who you are! Or I’m coming down!”

There was no response. Fuck! Now I had to go down and check. I sucked in a breath and gritted my teeth. Then I stood. The worst that will happen is that I’ll die. I’ll die and it will happen quickly and I won’t even know it. So there’s nothing to be scared about.

That’s when I typed this whole post. I kept hoping whoever it was down there would identify themselves. But no such luck. But now there’s a record of everything that’s happened. I guess there’s no more delaying it. I have to go down these steps to check.

“I’m coming down!” I shout nervously.  I start slowly down the steps. As I reach the third step, I can feel the difference in the temperature. It’s pleasantly cool down here. Holy crap. Maybe someone could survive under here. My mind races. Was Tom living here this whole time? But what would he eat? I guess meat from the ceiling, although who knows if there’s been any lately.

It was possible. But why?

I take a few more steps down. It’s so dark, my iPhone illuminating only a few inches at a time. I scan my phone across the space. A table with a candle. A mattress. There’s a lot of room down here.

But where’s Tom? My heart pounds as I scan under the table. Nothing. Then I notice the long corridor. Wow. Is there a bathroom down here as well? I smell bad, but this cool area smells just fine. I get to the landing. No cobwebs or anything.

“Don’t make me chase you!” I yell. “I will find you. Show yourself.”

I hear a shuffle in the hall. My heart feels like it’s on cocaine. I see a figure move. I suck in a sharp breath as he comes towards me. He’s stooped. Probably from having spent so long down here. I can’t breathe as I lift my phone flashlight to his face.

I scream.

What the fuck!!??

“Dad?” I whisper, totally confused. What’s he doing here? I might faint. The air is suddenly too thin to breathe. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Visiting Tom,” he says quietly.

Wait? He’s alive?!?!? “He’s alive?” I ask, my throat bone-dry.

My dad’s quiet for so long  that I think he won’t answer.  Finally, he says, “He’s buried here. I like being with him.”

My head pounds. My dad likes being with Tom?? What the hell does that mean?  “Why?” My throat is so dry.

“I had an affair with Carol many years ago.” His voice is so quiet, I have to strain to hear him.

For a few moments, I feel nothing because the words don’t make sense. I wait for my brain to piece the meaning together. To make it make sense because all I feel is a weight so great pressing down on me, it almost like the ceiling collapsing on my head. I actually drop to my haunches just to collect myself. Tom was my half-brother. Did he know about the affair between our parents? That’s when a thought pops into my head. It’s crazy but the thought comes to me so suddenly and clearly. My dad killed Tom. Tom found out and my dad killed him. My dad is a monster. I’ve always known that. I need to get him to confess.

You promised to be brave and not scared of him, I remind myself. I lift my iPhone flashlight to his face so I can see his reaction. In case he lies. Then I’ll know.

“Did you …” my voice trails off as I try to collect the words. I start again. “Did you kill Tom?”

He bites his lip as he slowly shakes his head. It reminds me of Tom shaking his head all those years ago after I kissed him at the lake. I watch my dad swallow hard. “Your mother always said punishment helps you remember.”