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The Tree

Leaving Can Be Deadly

By Kimberly MutaPublished 2 years ago 34 min read
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The Tree
Photo by Arnaud Mesureur on Unsplash

The Tree

I sat in the therapist’s office, twisting my purse strap. I was so sure when I made the appointment that I would be able to talk about it, but now I wasn’t sure at all.

“Ann, what brings you here today?” Leslie asked. She adjusted her pretty salmon-colored scarf and then picked up her pen and notepad from her desk.

“I’ve had some anxiety lately, I guess, and I haven't talked to you in a long time. I thought it was a good idea to check in, I suppose,” I said.

“You ‘guess,’ and you ‘suppose.’ You don’t seem very certain.”

“No, I am. I’m just…” I shook my head. I didn’t know how to respond.

She waited for me to continue, but I didn’t. “What’s going on?” Leslie’s voice held a note of concern.

“I’m...having trouble...with sleep,” I struggled to say.

“Okay, so tell me about that.”

“I fall asleep easily enough. I just wake up in the middle of the night.”

“How’s your drinking?”

“Fine. I mean, I’m not drinking any alcohol. At all.”

“Are you taking any medication before bed?”

“No.”

“Should we consider putting you on some form of sleep aid?”

“We could, but that’s not really the problem. I don’t care that I’m waking up. I care about where I’m waking up,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

“Why? Where are you waking up?”

“Every night I wake up under the same crooked tree.”

“Under a tree?”

“Yes. It’s in the backyard.”

“Ann, you’re sleepwalking. We need to address that, and we need to figure out what’s underlying it.” Leslie scribbled furiously on her notepad. “How long has this been going on?”

“For about two weeks.”

“What happened two weeks ago?” Leslie asked, looking up from her notepad.

“Well, Jake and I moved into the house.”

“Oh, well that’s a major life event. Do you have any anxiety about the move?”

“I don’t think so. My anxiety is more generalized. At least, I can’t figure out what’s triggering it. Every so often, I just find myself wanting to jump out of my skin. My heart rate gets all jacked up. I can’t focus. But I can never pin down a reason.”

“Where are you when you have these ‘attacks’?”

“Um, well, let me think about that,” I said. “I guess I’m always at home when it happens. That’s weird. I hadn’t realized that.”

“Interesting. Are you all unpacked and moved in? Is that what’s making you anxious?”

“I don’t think so. That stuff is all done. We didn’t have a lot to move and unpack.”

“Maybe it’s just being in a new space. The newness is making you feel out of whack.”

“Could be. What can I do about that?”

Leslie tapped her pen on the notepad. “Let’s try a sleep aid that will keep you knocked out. And let’s increase the dosage of your anxiety med. Just to be on the safe side.” She scribbled again. “Okay, so tell me about work, about you and Jake--all the other stuff.”

Leslie and I talked about things until my time was up. She handed me a couple of scripts at the end, and she suggested that I make another appointment in two weeks.

* * * * *

I went home, having taken the day off for my appointment with Leslie. I hit the garage door opener and then pulled up to the mailbox while the door opened. There were three pieces of junk mail in there, all for me. I tore each one in half, pulled into the garage, and dumped them in the bin before going into the house.

It was quiet. I knew that my cat, Howard, was likely in my office, since he had commandeered that space as soon as we moved in. I grabbed some cat treats and went down the hall in search of him. He must have smelled the treats because he met me in the hallway before I got to the office door. “Hi, Howard.” He answered by rubbing against my leg and running a tongue over his whiskers in anticipation. I dropped the treats on the floor next to him, and he bent to sniff them and to begin to gobble them up.

About the time he found the last treat, I was working up a good “attack,” as Leslie called it. I called it “the skitters.” I felt like I was skittering right out of my skin suit. My insides thrummed with energy, but I had no way to expel it. I tried to focus on something, because when I could, I was able to work through the worst of the skitters. When I couldn’t, it was a living hell. I decided to try something different today to deal with it. I went out into the backyard, to the crooked tree.

I had no idea what sort of tree it was. That was out of my wheelhouse, as they say. But it rose straight up out of the earth for about three feet before jutting to the right for another four or five and then angling back to the left. I studied it. It was less ominous looking in the light of day. At night, when I would wake up, it would tower over me, almost as if it were bending down to grab me. I would scramble backward out of its reach, getting dirt and leaves all over my pajamas, before I fully awoke and realized how idiotic I must appear. Then I would hurry back to the house, looking back over my shoulder as if the tree might be following me.

Now I took some time to examine it. The bark was rough and gnarled, and I reached out to touch it. My fingers played over the knots and grooves. I looked down where the tree thrust up from the ground. Two large roots jutted out in opposite directions from the base, half exposed. It was between those two roots that I would find myself curled up every night.

What is happening to me? I wondered. Leslie seemed concerned about me, but to be honest, she didn’t seem to be as concerned as I was. I just didn’t reveal my fear to her, though I couldn’t have explained why I didn’t. And I didn’t tell her everything, either.

After several minutes, I felt calmer. The skitters had dissipated. I walked back to the house, glancing back once to look at the tree. To be sure it hadn’t moved.

* * * * *

Late that night, I lay in bed beside Jake. His breathing was slow and regular, a little wheezy. I was comforted by the sound.

Then the scratching started again. It came from the master bathroom, as far as I could tell. It sounded like something was in the cabinet under the sink.

Jake shifted, and his breathing changed. I wondered if he would wake up and hear the noise, but then his breathing evened out again, and I knew he was deep in sleep. I lay there, trying to get a handle on the scratching as it started and stopped and started again. I didn’t bother to go looking for the source. I had already done that days before. Nothing was in the cabinet except a makeup bag and extra cotton balls.

The scratching came and went, and I finally succumbed to the warmth of my blankets and fell asleep.

* * * * *

I was cold. And stiff. My neck hurt. I reached for my blanket, but didn’t find it. Then I felt loose dirt and leaves. I scrambled up, taking a step backward away from the tree and looking up toward the branches that reached down for me. “Damn it!” I said. I closed my eyes and forced myself to stand there for a few seconds before opening them again. The tree was just a tree. It wasn’t reaching out for me. I turned around and walked back to the house.

* * * * *

The next day was Saturday, so I decided to rake leaves while Jake worked on his car. I had been in the backyard for about thirty minutes when I heard a “Hello” coming from next door. I looked up and saw an elderly lady waving at me. She was stooped, with long gray hair put up in a bun, and she was wearing a puffy jacket over a faded housecoat. “Hello, there!” she repeated.

“Hi!” I said. I began to walk toward the fence. She picked her way slowly and carefully toward me.

“I’m Ann Catrell,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Betty Bianchi.I saw you out there raking, and I wondered if I could interest you in a nice cup of coffee as a break from working.”

“I could use both a break and a cup of coffee.”

Betty pointed to the small gate in the front corner of the fence, and I let myself into her yard from there. We walked together to the back door of her house. It led to her kitchen. I helped her out of the puffy jacket, and she shuffled over to a Keurig, which was out of place in her very traditional, very outdated kitchen.

“Pick your poison,” Betty said.

“If you have hazelnut, I’ll take it.”

“Perfect.” Betty placed a pod in the machine and closed the top. She reached up to the cabinet and took out two mismatched coffee cups. Putting one on the Keurig tray, she pressed a button, and I heard the machine warm up.

Betty pointed at a chair, and I sat down. She hobbled over and sat down as well. “Well, how do you like the neighborhood?”

“You’re the first person I have met. I mean, I like it here, but I haven’t been around to meet anyone yet.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have to come to us. We should come to you and introduce ourselves, don’t you think?”

I did think, but I didn’t say anything.

“Maybe I’m just a little old fashioned. Anyhow, this is a good neighborhood. I think you’ll like it here. I’ve been here for almost thirty years now. Shared the house with my late husband, Paul, for about twenty of those years. Now I putter around by myself. The kids are all busy with their own lives, so I only see them a couple of times a year.” She smiled. “Oh my, am I oversharing?”

“Not at all. It’s nice to get to know each other. Jake and I have been together about four years now. We both teach at the high school, and we were looking to move in together and to hopefully get a house in the school district.”

“Oh, that’s nice. You got both your wishes.”

“Yes, we did.”

Betty got up just as the Keurig was beginning to sputter, took the coffee up off the tray, and she set it up again for her own cup. “Do you take anything in your coffee?” she asked.

“Nope. Thank you,” I said as she handed me the cup. I sipped it and relished the hazelnut a second before I put the cup down on the table.

“Katie bought me that coffee maker,” Betty said. “She lived in that house before you, with her husband Hank. She used to come over a lot, always bringing me a cup of coffee from her house. Then, right before she left, she brought the Keurig over. She said she had given me an addiction to caffeine, and it wouldn’t be right to leave here without a ‘fix,’ she called it.”

I chuckled at that. “It sounds like Katie is a very thoughtful person.”

“Yes, she was...or is, I should say. They moved to Florida.” Betty suddenly got a faraway look in her eye. I sensed she was not with me.

“Betty?” I said. She didn’t respond right away. After a few very long seconds, she shook her head and refocused her attention on me.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. Got lost in some memories there.”

“That’s okay. It seems like you and Katie were close.”

“Yes, we were. We were sort of each other’s therapist.”

“Oh, yeah?” I was reminded of my appointment with Leslie. “Betty, I have been really curious about that crooked tree in the backyard of my house.”

“What about it, dear?”

“Well, I am...drawn to it, I guess.”

“It is certainly an interesting looking thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Was Katie as intrigued by it as I am?”

“It was special to her. That’s where she buried Max.”

“Max?”

“Her dog. A German Shepherd. A puppy, really.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well…” Betty yawned. “That might be a story for another time. I’m sorry, but I’m very tired. Would you like to come over tomorrow for another cup of coffee?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I’ll see myself out, Betty. You get some rest.” I put my empty coffee cup in the sink and turned to say good-bye, but Betty had that faraway look in her eye again. I showed myself out the back door.

* * * * *

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I woke up under the tree again. On Max’s grave. Clearly, the sleep aid was having no effect. Then later that morning, I had two more episodes of the skitters. Sunday afternoon, after most churches were out, I went over to Betty’s and knocked on the door.

“Well, hello, Ann! I was hoping you would be over today.” She stepped aside to let me into the kitchen. I saw two coffee cups and a couple of Keurig pods sitting on the counter.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Betty. I wasn’t sure if you went to church in the morning or not. So I thought I would wait until later to come over.”

“Oh, I don’t go out much,” she said. “You don’t need to worry whether you’ll find me here or not. I’ll be here.”

“That’s good to know.”

Betty shuffled over to the Keurig and began to make my cup of coffee. “So where were we yesterday when I petered out on you?”

“You were telling me about Max,” I prompted.

“Oh, yes. Such a good little pup. Very well mannered. Katie was teaching him to shake and to roll over when he...passed.”

“You were going to tell me what happened to him.”

“Well, there’s what Katie told me, and there’s what I suspect. Which version do you want?” Betty suddenly had a hard note in her voice.

“How about both?” I asked carefully.

“Katie said that Max fell down the stairs.” Her eyes narrowed, and she continued. “But I find it easier to believe that Max ran afoul of Hank.”

“Really? What makes you think that?”

“Because I could hear evidence of Hank’s temper, and because Katie always had bruises. It’s probably the one thing I regret in my life--not saying something to her about my suspicions. I should have helped her. Katie was like a daughter to me, and I failed her.” Betty’s eyes were watery, and she got up from her chair to grab a paper towel and dab at them. “Oh, my. Maybe I’m oversharing again.”

“You’re not. You obviously care a great deal about Katie. You’re worried about her.”

“I am. Leopards don’t change their spots. I’m sure the move to Florida hasn’t changed his behavior at all.”

“Likely, you’re right. Abusers don’t suddenly stop. Unless they’re in jail. Or dead,” I said.

“That’s true.”

“So you think that Hank killed Max?”

“I’m certain of it. Max was protective of Katie. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that Max got in his way when he was beating Katie, and Hank kicked him, or strangled him, or something.”

Wow, I thought. I’ve only known this woman for two days, and she’s sharing some heavy stuff. “Did Katie ever report Hank to the police?”

“Not as far as I know. We never talked about it, and I feel pretty guilty about that. I didn’t realize they would move when they did. I thought I had time to try to bring it up with her and help her get away. But then they left. And there probably wasn’t much an old lady like me could have done anyhow.”

“I bet it was a blessing to her to have a friend close by. I’m sure you were more helpful than you think.”

“That might be, but she’s still with an abusive husband. And now she’s far away, maybe with no friends to lean on.”

I nodded, not really knowing what to say to Betty. Clearly, she cared about Katie and missed her friend. And on top of that was guilt for not being able to help her. I reached across the table and covered Betty’s hand with my own. “I’m so sorry, Betty. I wish I knew how to help.”

“Well, I have an idea about that, actually.”

“Oh? What’s that?” I asked.

“I thought you might be able to reach Katie through her real estate agent. Maybe email her some questions about the house. Get to know her, befriend her, and maybe help her get away from Hank.”

“That’s a mighty big ask, Betty. And you’re putting a lot of hope on a real long shot.”

“True. I would do it myself, but I got the impression from Katie right before she left that Hank would not take kindly to our remaining in touch. I think I might be the reason he took her away. And I certainly do not want to give Hank any excuse to abuse her.”

“Betty, abusers seldom need an excuse,” I said. “But I’ll think about it.”

And I did, for a week. Work kept me busy, but I thought about it almost all the time. I knew by the next weekend that I would reach out to my real estate agent to try to get in contact with Katie’s. In the meantime, I listened to the scratching and woke up under the tree every night.

On Saturday I called Heath, my agent. He gave me the number for Katie’s agent without a single question. I called Mike Mitchell right away, before I lost my nerve. And I was nervous. I really felt a need to contact Katie, and I wasn’t sure that he would give me that information. He answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Mike Mitchell, Home Sweet Home Real Estate.”

“Hi, my name is Ann Catrell. I purchased Katie and Hank Wallace’s house.”

“Yes, I remember. How can I help you?”

“I have some questions for Katie about the house. I wondered if I could get her contact

information from you?”

“Hmm. I don’t usually do that. What’s your question? Maybe I can help.”

I decided to try some honesty. Part of the truth, anyway. “Well, I hear some noises in the house, from the bathroom cabinet, that I can’t account for. I know this sounds silly. I wonder if the house is...haunted.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. “They never said anything about that, but I don’t suppose they would, you know? How about this--I’ll give Katie your email address, and let her know what’s going on, and she can contact you.”

I hesitated, wondering if I should push any harder, but I decided not to. I didn’t want to take a chance on scaring Mike away completely. “That would be great, thanks. My email address is [email protected]. I really appreciate your help. The noises are starting to drive us a little crazy, as you can probably imagine.”

“I’m sure they are. I’ll get your email address to her today. As soon as we hang up, in fact.”

“Thank you.”

Mike hung up. Now I would just have to wait.

* * * * *

By the third day, I was beginning to think that Katie had ignored Mike’s message to her. Then my phone buzzed with an email notification.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

Hello, Ann. Mike said that you’re hearing noises in the house. I’m really confused. I have never heard anything, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you give me more information?

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

Katie, thank you so much for reaching out to me. I’m hearing scratching sounds from the cabinet in the master bathroom. That’s all, but it’s driving me a little crazy. I can’t find any source of the noise. There’s nothing in the cabinet that would cause the noise. I am completely stumped. But that’s not all to the story. I have been sleepwalking, too. Every night I wake up under the tree where Betty said you buried your dog Max. I don’t know what to do. My therapist has me on sleeping pills, and they’re not doing a thing for me. I just have no idea what to do. I was hoping you might have some insights that would help me. Thank you for anything you can do to help me.

* * * * *

Katie didn’t respond right away. In fact, another three days passed before I heard anything else from her. I visited Betty shortly after I sent the email. She was relieved that I had sent it, saying that she didn’t believe that I would go through with it.

“So what did she say?” Betty asked eagerly.

“I’m waiting for a reply.”

“Do you know how you’ll get her to talk about Hank, yet?”

“Nope, not a clue of how I’m going to manage that.”

“Maybe you can get at it through Max.”

“I asked her about the tree, and I said that I heard that Max was buried there. We’ll have to see if she bites.”

“I haven’t thanked you yet. It means so much to me that you would reach out to her.” Betty swiped a hand across her eyes. “If you can help her…I just don’t know how I would ever repay you.”

“Betty, if we can help Katie, that’s all the payment I would need.”

* * * * *

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

Good morning, Ann. Yes, I buried Max under that tree. I have no idea why you’re sleepwalking there every night. As for the scratching, well, I have an idea about that. But I don’t know if I believe it. It seems so crazy. I used to put Max in that cabinet to hide him when my husband got angry. I didn’t want any trouble, you know, so I would just put him in there. I had a child lock on the door, so he would stay in there until I thought the coast was clear. Do animals have ghosts? Is that even possible? Like I said, it’s crazy to even entertain that idea.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

It is crazy, isn’t it? But maybe. How did Max die? I’ve heard that when there’s a violent death, the victim’s energy hangs around for a while. Is that possible?

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

It was an accident. I’m sure Betty told you. He fell down the stairs.

So the truth wouldn’t be quite as forthcoming as I had hoped. I decided to take a chance. She might cut off communication, but she might relent, too. The many nights of sleepwalking and the nearly constant scratching made me desperate for an answer.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

She told me. But she said she thought there might have been a different cause of Max’s death. Is it possible that Max was killed in some other way?

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

It is possible. What else did Betty tell you?

Well, she seemed to be opening the door. I wasn’t sure how to proceed without scaring her off. I decided to move somewhat slowly.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

Betty says that she’s worried about you. She thinks that Hank has a violent temper.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

He has a temper, yes. Max got under his feet one night, and Hank kicked him. He didn’t mean to kill Max. It just happened.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

I am so sorry to hear that. That sounds like quite a temper. Is Betty right to worry about you?

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

I’m fine. It’s only when I do something stupid that Hank gets upset with me. It’s my own fault. So do you think that the scratching is Max? Like, a ghost of him? Are you sure it’s nothing else? That sounds so farfetched.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Noises in the house

From: [email protected]

I have looked at everything around that cabinet. I just don’t know what else it could be. By the way, it is not your fault that Hank gets upset with you. That’s on him.

I waited thirty minutes but didn’t get a response from Katie. I was a little concerned that I scared her off with my talk of ghosts and my foray into the discussion of domestic abuse. I decided I would be patient, but if she didn’t respond in three days, I would reach out to her again.

Later that night, I stood in the master bathroom while Jake slept. The scratching had awakened me this time rather than finding myself outside under the tree. “Max,” I whispered, “I am trying to help her. Give me some time.” I went back to bed and in the morning, I was still there.

* * * * *

Two days later, I received an email notification on my phone.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Betty is right

From: [email protected]

Yes, Betty is right to worry. Hank saw my emails to you. It was bad. It’s really risky to email you again, but he usually doesn’t check my phone again right away. He waits a few days. I think I need help.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Betty is right

From: [email protected]

I’ll help you. What should I do? Call the police there?

To: [email protected]

Subject: Betty is right

From: [email protected]

I don’t think so. Hank is really charming when it comes to the police. I’ve called them before. I know this is a lot to ask. I was hoping you would get me a plane ticket back there. I could get out of the house and get to the airport while Hank’s at work, but I don’t think I could sneak that expense by him. If you can’t, I’ll figure out something else.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Betty is right

From: [email protected]

Let me see what I can do.

It was time to bring Betty and, more importantly, Jake up to speed. Betty would be easy. Jake would likely be a little trickier. I walked over to Betty’s house shortly after I sent the last email to Katie. I caught her up on the email threads, and she was clasping her hands together and crying by the end.

“She’s going to leave. Thank God,” Betty said.

“Yes, if I can help her.”

“Can you?”

“I need to talk to Jake. He has to know what’s going on. I can do it financially, though. My concern is what happens to her once she gets back here. Where she will go, what she will do–that sort of thing.”

“Let me work on that. You go talk to Jake.”

The conversation with Jake was easier than I thought it would be. He was admittedly skeptical of the scratching since he had never heard it, but he did recall waking up to find me missing from the bed a few times. He had just assumed I was in the living room or kitchen. He seemed concerned for Katie after I told him what Betty had shared with me. So when I got to the part about the plane ticket, or tickets, I should say, he was willing to help.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“Yes. I really want to help her. I feel like it’s something I am meant to do.”

“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”

I hugged him hard, knowing that it was a leap of faith on his part and loving him for making that leap. I got online, first to let Katie know that I could help and then to get the tickets. I would fly to Florida and bring Katie back with me. I put in for paid time off for three days. I would be leaving the day after tomorrow, so I had some time to prepare.

* * * * *

On the day I would leave to get Katie, I put a change of clothes in my backpack and a book to read on the flight there. Jake kissed me goodbye before he left for work. “Be careful,” he said. “I know Hank will be at work, but I still want you to promise me that you’ll call the police at the first sign of trouble.”

“Absolutely,” I assured him.

Katie and I were texting now, and she deleted the texts as soon as she memorized the information in them. She knew when I was supposed to land, and she knew that when I texted her, she should be ready to leave. She planned to travel as lightly as I was.

The flight to Florida was uneventful. I read peacefully all the way there. It was a blessing, as I was nervous and fidgety. I needed to take my mind off what I was about to do. Revival by Stephen King was the perfect answer. It held my attention and my imagination until the captain announced that we were beginning our descent. Once we had landed and taxied to the gate, I texted Katie. She responded with a quick “okay.”

There was, mercifully, no line at the car rental counter, so I was in my Toyota and on the way to Katie’s house quickly. After a twenty-minute drive, navigated by Siri, I pulled up to a stucco bungalow on Albatross Drive. I didn’t see the Ford Explorer parked at the house, which was my sign that Hank was away. I checked my phone to make sure I had the emergency number ready, and then I honked twice, waited a beat, and honked once more. The door opened and a lovely blond in white capris and a sleeveless blouse came out, carrying a backpack similar to mine. Her sunglasses shaded her eyes. She strode quickly to the passenger door, opened it, and got in.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you, Katie. I’m Ann.”

Katie burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “I can’t believe I’m leaving him. Thank you so much.”

“It’s okay. We’re heading right back to the airport. We’ll be out of Florida in just a couple of hours. Hank won’t even know you’ve left.”

She continued sobbing, but she nodded her head in acknowledgement. I took that as my sign to get moving, so I turned around and went back to the airport. By the time I pulled up to the rental return, Katie had calmed down. Her sobs ceased, and she seemed more comfortable with the idea of leaving. Our flight left in ninety minutes, so we checked in, and when Katie removed her sunglasses at the security checkpoint, I could see dark circles under her eyes. I also noticed, for the first time since meeting her, a purple bruise on her temple, partially hidden by her hair.

The wait at the gate was tense, to say the least. I tried to take her mind off things by telling her about Jake and our jobs at the high school. I thought of some of the funnier moments in the classroom to share with her, and she did manage to smile once or twice. Finally, the gate attendant started the boarding process, and within twenty minutes, we were on the plane. It wasn’t until the plane left the ground, however, that I heard Katie take a deep breath and release it. It seemed as if she had been holding her breath all that time. She looked at me, straight in the eye, and said, “Thank you” again. Then she grabbed my hand. I held it until we landed at home.

* * * * *

Betty had said that she had prepared things for Katie, so we went straight to Betty’s house. “Oh my God, thank you,” she said when she saw Katie. She took Katie’s face into her hands, slowly turning it one way and the other, examining her. “You poor thing,” Betty said when she saw the bruise. “But it’s alright now.”

“I’ve missed you,” Katie said.

“I know, so have I. I have a room made up for you here. My friend Tim at the bank would be happy to interview you for a job there. And I took a little money out of savings to get you started.”

“Betty, you don’t need to do all that. I feel so guilty that you two are doing so much for me. I just don’t know when I will be able to repay you,” Katie said, her eyes welling with tears.

“If we don’t watch out for each other, who will?” I said. “If any one of us were in trouble, I would hope the others would come to her aid.”

“That is certainly true, Ann. Well said,” Betty agreed.

Betty took Katie upstairs to her room, and I went home to see Jake. That night, I anticipated my first really good sleep in weeks.

I didn’t get it.

* * * * *

At about 2:00 a.m., the scratching started again, more insistent than ever. I got up and went into the bathroom. “Max, she’s safe,” I whispered. “You can rest now.” I went back to bed and slept.

The next morning, I woke with a sense of dread and anxiety. I couldn’t pin it down, but I knew that Max’s continued scratching had something to do with it. Jake went to work, but I stayed home, using my last day off. I puttered around, trying to take my mind off whatever was niggling at the back of my mind. At about 1:00 p.m., the doorbell rang. I thought it was likely Katie coming over to thank me again, and I opened the door, saying, “Really, you need to stop thanking me.” A man stood there, tall, with light brown hair and a goatee. He titled his head and grinned. “Thanking you for what?” he said.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my wife.”

Oh shit! It’s Hank! I thought. I tried to shut the door, but he stuck his foot inside and shoved the door open. I fell backward, and he hovered over me. “Where is she, Ann?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scrambled backward to get away. He advanced slowly, knowing that he had all the time in the world to get the information he wanted.

“Is she here?” he demanded. He looked upstairs. “Katie!” he yelled. Turning back to me, he bent down, grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “Take me to her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeated. His grip on my arm tightened until it screamed in pain. He dragged me with him as he started upstairs. “We’ll find her, and then you both will be sorry,” he growled.

I stumbled after him, trying to get my feet under me. I bumped up the stairs in his wake. Once we got to the top of the stairs, he yanked me to my feet. “Let’s take a little tour of the house, shall we? I think I remember where things are,” he said. He pulled me after him, bellowing for Katie, and shoving his way into each room in search of her. Finally, he got to the master bedroom.

“If she isn’t here, you will be telling me where she is.” He opened the door and pulled me inside. “Katie! It’s time to stop this nonsense!” He looked around, checked the closet, glanced in the bathroom, and turned back to me. “Alright. Where is she, Ann? It’s time to tell the truth now.”

“I. Don’t. Know,” I said through gritted teeth. That’s when he hit me. I didn’t even see it coming. I just felt pain explode in my head. My legs crumpled beneath me, but Hank grabbed me, saying, “Oh no, you don’t. You stay conscious until I get the truth out of you.”

“Fuck you,” I growled.

He hit me again, this time in the jaw. I went down, and he didn’t stop me. He towered over me, repeatedly demanding to know where Katie was and kicking me in the stomach and legs. I remember thinking that he was avoiding my head simply to keep me from slipping into unconsciousness. I felt pain everywhere. It blossomed anew with every kick.

Then I heard the scratching. It sounded louder now than it usually seemed. “What’s that?” Hank asked, stopping to look at the bathroom doorway. He stepped over to the door, and I heard a loud crash. Hank’s mouth formed a perfect O, and he stumbled backward. Then I saw Max coming out of the bathroom. He was no puppy. He was a fully grown German Shepherd. He growled, teeth bared, hackles raised. He moved toward Hank, who seemed momentarily frozen. “What in the hell?” Hank whispered. Then he came to his senses, and he turned and ran from the bedroom. Max charged after him.

I didn’t see what happened next. I imagine that Hank and Max collided at the top of the stairs, because I heard someone falling down them, then a crack and a thud. And then silence. I rolled over, got to my feet, and used the wall to steady me as I stumbled to the stairs. I saw Hank at the bottom, twisted in unnatural ways, eyes open and staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Max was nowhere to be seen.

I sat down at the top of the stairs. Black spots bloomed before me, and I laid down in the hallway right before everything went dark.

* * * * *

Jake filled me in on what happened after. According to the police, Hank forced his way into the house, dragged me upstairs after kicking and beating me, and then we fought at the top of the stairs, ending with my pushing him backward down the stairs. Self-defense, of course. They believed that he had intentions to rape me until they sorted out his identity and the whereabouts of Katie. Then they got to the truth, except for Max’s role. I didn’t correct them.

* * * * *

Katie and Betty came over to visit while I recuperated. They cried tears of grief, joy, and guilt.

“Really, you two. I don’t have enough kleenex for all of this,” I said at one point. They laughed through their tears, and then they both made an effort to stop crying.

It took three days for me to feel capable of getting around without help. On the third day, I walked gingerly over to Betty’s house. “Come with me, you two,” I said. The three of us walked to the crooked tree. That’s where I told them what really happened.

* * * * *

I sat in the therapist’s office, waiting patiently while Leslie finished her notes. “So, is sleep good now?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s fine,” I assured her.

“The meds must be working.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Well, when do you want to come in again?”

“How about I just call you if I have any other problems?”

“That’s fine.”

I left Leslie’s office, making one stop on the way home.

* * * * *

“Jake, I’m home,” I yelled. I put the wriggling, snuffling little creature on the floor. “Come say hello to Max!”

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Kimberly Muta

I am a 55-year-old high school teacher in Iowa. I have just begun to write creative works after thirty years of academic writing.

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