Dark and Dreamy Family Secrets

“Edward, remember when we went to change our wills, and I included the order for no embalming of my body?”

“Yep. I put that in mine, too. We want to decompose naturally, as nature intends for all life. What about it?”

“Daddy sent me a letter telling me to do it. He died before I could let him know, so I whispered to him at the funeral viewing that I had done it.”

“I don’t know why we’re talking about this. Can’t we just forget all the horror? Whoever tried to kill you and Barry hasn't been found. It's horrible - they suffocated him and strangled you. After the service, I made them open the coffin one last time before they covered you both with dirt in your shared coffin. The whole thing makes me want to vomit. I have nightmares about you being buried alive! That medical examiner was fired for incompetence. Locked-in syndrome. That’s what the doctors said. But you’re fine now, and Barry’s fine. Please, Jeannetta, just drop it. There is no use going over and over it. Please!”

I walked out of the room before he noticed how hurt I was by his harsh tone. In the fireplace light, I curled up in the big recliner, holding Daddy’s crocheted Afghan coverlet. I made it for him in college, in wide stripes of burgundy and heather gray yarn. I held it to my nose, breathed in his scent, then wrapped it around my legs. I flipped on the extravagant brass-finished Ralph Lauren Barton lamp he had gifted me when I graduated from college, and delved into Peter Straub’s novel, In The Nightroom. I was only a few pages in when I felt myself drifting off.

**

“Daddy, how are you feeling today?” I sat on his bed, feeling the mattress give beneath my weight. His eyes were closed, and his chest barely rose with each breath. “You’re so weak. I brought you the broth you like, the one that cures colds and the flu. It’s a little hot, so take sips.” I cradled his head with the cup, a napkin beneath to catch the dribbles I knew would come. Mother had closed the curtains again. I set the cup down, then tied the heavy drapes back. A gentle smile tugged at Daddy’s lips.

“I love you, Jeannetta.” His voice is so fragile that I barely hear him. Fragile, as he has become these last months. I help him sip more broth until he grows tired and his eyes close.

Mother isn’t home, so I decide to search the bedroom and bathroom. I rifle through the drawers and closet but don’t find it. Yet I know there’s something, even though the bathroom gives up no secrets. Peering out the window toward the road, I see no sign of Mother’s car. I bolt down the basement stairs, worried she’ll return unexpectedly, as she often does, quietly appearing and startling me.

The basement’s musty smell assails my senses; good, not bad, memories come to me. Daddy and I spent many hours down there playing board games, and he showed me how to use household tools, how to hold a nail and hammer without smashing my finger. A smile spread across my face at the memory, and I inhaled deeply. What is that scent? I sniff again, deeply. Almonds. My hands push the heavy paint cans. Each can has a paintbrush swatch on it to show the color. I remember Daddy doing that. Sky Blue for the bedroom. Tawny beige for the dining room. Lemonade yellow for my bedroom. The paint brushes hang on a pegboard, cleaned and looking new. Daddy was always so neat. Pushing the cans aside, I search behind them. I climb a ladder to the highest shelf, and here I find the source of the fragrance and the likely cause of Daddy’s failing health.

“What are you doing, Jeannetta, my girl?” I almost fall off the ladder at Mother’s voice.

“I’m organizing the shelves. Daddy was sleeping, and I got bored. This old paint should be thrown away, Mother.” I climb back down the ladder and try to slip past her, but she grabs me by the shoulders. My mother has incredible strength. She’s still stronger than I am, thanks to her ballet training and years of professional tennis. Mother slams me against the wall and twists my wrist until I cry out.

“You little shit. You are snooping,” she hisses. “Again!” she screeches at me. “You need another lesson, don’t you, my sweet?”

“I was not snooping. Stop it, you’re hurting me!” Grinning, she squeezed and twisted harder, then slapped me across the face, my head snapping with each blow. She dragged me to the water-filled cistern in the basement. The house had running water, but the cistern was filled with rainwater for emergencies and to water the grounds. She dragged me, kicking and twisting, down the stairs into the waist-high fresh water. Mother pushed my head under the water and held me there. I had learned from all the punishments to hold my breath for long periods, but she knew my limit. My head bobbed to the surface, and I gulped air before she pressed me under again, sitting on my shoulders.

I hate her. I have always hated her. She pinched me when I was little, whenever she didn’t like my behavior. She locked me in my bedroom in the dark, even though I begged for a nightlight. When she washed my hair, she tugged it hard, deliberately, and let the soapy water run into my eyes. Daddy protected me from her cruelty when he was home; then that cagey bitch waited until he was gone to give me what she called “necessary corrections.” I was no match for her strong ballet legs and muscled tennis arms. I despise the sociopath that is my mother. Even now, the punishments haunt me and possess me.

Then, I see my body floating face down in the cistern water, and her feet climbing the stairs after drowning me. Somehow, even though I am dead, I can still follow.

The scene shifts, and now I’m peeking through the keyhole. She is rocking my baby boy, and every few creaks of the rocking chair, she stops and holds an eyedropper of golden liquid to his lips. He opens his mouth, and she lets the drops fall into it. I try to scream. To open the door. No sound comes out of my mouth, and the door won’t budge. She knows I’m watching and smiles, her eyes fixed on the keyhole.

Another scene shift, and I watch in horror as she removes the stopper from the container I found in the basement. I smell almonds, even in spirit form. Daddy slept, but she poured some of the liquid down his throat.

**

“Miss, are you okay?” Someone gently shook me. I could hear people talking and tried to wake up, but it took a long time to float back to consciousness, like the feeling after surgery when you are under anesthesia. “Miss?” He helped me sit up. “Can I call someone? You're cold, lying here on the grass.” I blink and see a blond gentleman in black trousers and a pale green Oxford shirt.

I found myself in the cemetery beside Daddy’s pinkish gray granite gravestone, where we laid him to rest 3 months ago. A fresh grave had been dug beside his, ready for the next day’s burial. The headstone bore Barry's and my name, along with our birth and death dates. I looked at my watch, and today’s date matched the death date.

Another attempt by my psychopath mother. Not. This. Time.

I run from the cemetery, not pondering how I got there. I pay the Uber driver extra to break every speed limit and run red lights – anything to get me home fast. Her car is in our driveway.

Inside, she is preparing tea for Edward and juice for Barry.

“ALMONDS!” I scream. Her mouth opens, forming a round circle, and her cheeks flush a deep crimson.

“Yes, almond tea,” she calmly responds. I silently hold my hand out for her to give it to me. We are locked in a stare, Edward looking back and forth between us.

I see the bottle on top of the fridge. She follows my eyes, then moves next to Barry, offering him the juice. He whines, rubs his eyes, and holds his arms out to me. Edward carries him to me.

“You’re under arrest.” I turn around to see the Uber driver walking toward the psychopathic, sorry scum that is my mother, handcuffs jangling. “You’re under arrest for murder and attempted murder.”

Edward’s mouth hangs open. I fill him in with a rush of words: “She tried to kill Barry and me. I know she killed Daddy. The Uber driver was staking out a drug deal. I hopped into his car because it had the Uber sign and told him to drive fast. He asked me what the emergency was, and when I explained, he broke his cover, raced here, and called for medical and police backup."

“Sir, did you drink any of the tea?” Edward shook his head, denying it, and added that Barry had not tasted the juice. The police secured the evidence. I told them what I knew.

The Uber-AKA-policeman and his partner followed us back to the cemetery to photograph the headstone and the newly dug grave and to obtain the funeral director’s name.

“The nightmare won’t be over until they lock her up, but we’re safe from her.”

“She murdered your father.” Edward stood with his arms around me while we processed the events. “She almost killed my family,” he continued.

“Twice,” I replied, and felt the shivers run up his spine.

☠️ ⚠️ #family #secrets #murdermystery #evilmother #darkfiction

Copyright © 6/9/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin Thanks for stopping by! 😃 If you like ♡ my scribbles, hit the subscribe button. Please consider leaving a comment. ✍️❤️