The Legend of Hatchet Jack

355 Hahn Drive was once a lovely home, with a happy family that thrived. Sherman Richardson, his wife, Victoria, and his son, Sherman Jr, affectionately known as “Jack”. Sherman doted on his family, taking care of every need and desire of his wife and son; building a play fort with a swing set for his son, buying his wife’s favorite blackberry pie on his way home from work, telling them romantic bedtime tales by the fire each night. Jack looked up to his father as the perfect image of a man, and Victoria encouraged him to follow in his father’s footsteps. The family was everything that the neighbors wished they could be. Each morning, Victoria cooked breakfast in time for Sherman to go to work, then she walked Jack to school. While Sherman was at work, Victoria did the laundry, then invited over a few friends for a cup of tea and a game of cribbage. Sherman picked up Jack on the way home from school, and Victoria had dinner ready by the time they got home. While they didn’t flaunt wealth, they lived quite comfortably, never seeming to scrape by like their peers. And of course, the family never missed a single church service.

The problems started on the 31st of February. Victoria laid in bed, wracked with pain by a migraine unlike any she had ever had before. Jack offered to help Sherman with breakfast, and the two worked together to craft a splendid array of fruit, bacon, and pancakes for Victoria. Jack carried a tray piled high with the assortment into his parents’ room, followed closely by Sherman. As he approached his mother’s bed, she let out a low, soft groan. Jack set the tray on her bed and climbed up next to her. As Sherman neared the bed, he could see that her normally youthful, rosy face, was as pale as the sheets she lay in and drenched in sweat. Little Jack looked up at his father with his big, brown, innocent eyes. “What’s wrong with momma?” Sherman ran his thumb over his wife’s forehead, and at that moment, Victoria let out a scream so loud it was claimed to have been heard by the neighbors. Jack catapulted backwards and fell off of the bed, knocking his teeth off the hardwood floors.

Sherman immediately scooped up his wife in his big, strong arms, and carried her out of the house and placed her in the car. He ran back inside and found Jack still on the floor, crying and holding his mouth. He picked Jack up and returned to the car. Driving to the hospital, his wife’s moans grew louder and her screams, more frequent. His son’s wails adding to the cacophony chilled his spine. He reached a bridge across a large chasm. An insignificant barrier was all that stood between life and death. His wife let out an earthshaking scream, and a rather dark thought crossed Sherman’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it. The car finally made it across the chasm, and not long after, Sherman turned into the hospital. His wife’s shrieking immediately drew two orderlies out of the building, who quickly placed her on a gurney and rushed her into the building. Sherman unbuckled his son and carried him in.

Sherman and Jack sat in the waiting room, Jack holding ice to his face while Sherman anxiously tried to read the daily paper. The news was delivered by a grey doctor with a grim face. Victoria had a terminal case of brain cancer. There was nothing the doctor could do except prescribe pain medication and pray for a swift and peaceful death. That day, Sherman made the hard decision to bring his wife home from the hospital, that she might die at home and in more comfortable settings rather than in the cold, institutional hospital. The doctor gave Victoria enough anesthesia to ensure she would make it home without waking, then Sherman and his family set out. The car ride back was nearly silent, with only the occasional sniffle from little Jack.

Sherman carried his wife through the doorway of their bedroom. For a brief second, he was transported back to the day of their wedding. Then, with great care, he placed her on the bed, pulling the covers over her and tucking her in carefully. Satisfied, he started down the stairs, where he picked up the telephone in the kitchen. He walked ran his finger down the phonebook until he got to the P’s. Page 43. He flipped their, then flipped a few pages past. PRAIL… PRATTON … PRESLEY … PREVITI … PRICE. He finally reached PRINCE, EMMA G. The phone rang, once, twice, and then the eager voice of Victoria’s sister rang through the receiver. “Hello, Prince here. Howdy do?”

“Emma. It’s Sherman.”

“Hey there, Shermie. What can I do for you? How is the family doing?”

At this, Sherman lost it, and Emma was left hearing only sobs over the phone. The big man’s shoulders heaved as his entire body shook.

“Hold on there, Sherman. I’m on my way. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be okay.” The line went dead, but Sherman didn’t even notice. The receiver dangled off of the table one him as he lay on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes, beside his ears, and onto the ground around him.

Two hours later, when Emma Prince’s car turned down the gravel driveway, Sherman was still in the same position. Emma let herself in through the unlocked front door. As she wiped her feet on the mat inside the door, she heard snores coming from the kitchen. She entered cautiously to see Sherman asleep under the table. She picked up the telephone receiver and placed it back on the hook. A small voice came from behind her.

“Auntie Emma?”

Emma gasped and whirled around to see little Jack, holding a melted ice pack to his face. She knelt down next to him. “My stars. You nearly frightened me half to death. Can I take a look at your mouth?” Jack hesitated for a minute, then moved the ice pack so she could have a better view. Emma’s tender hands gently lifted Jack’s upper lip. “What happened, Jack?” Still kneeling, she reached up and opened the icebox. She pulled out a bag of ice, handing it to Jack as he started explaining.

“Momma was sick so I took her food in bed. But she screamed and I fell off the bed. It hurts bad, but momma hurts more. That’s what poppa told me.” He took the bag of ice and handed his melted bag to Emma.

“Where’s your momma now, Jack?” Emma put the bag back in the icebox and closed it. She picked Jack up and planted a kiss on his warm forehead.

“She’s in bed again. She must be very tired.”

Emma set Jack down. “Why don’t you go play in the yard for a bit. I’ll take care of your momma and poppa.” Jack looked at her, then at his much larger father asleep under the table, then back at his aunt. Emma nodded knowingly. “Don’t worry Jack. I can take care of them.” She shooed him out the kitchen door and then turned back to Sherman. Sighing, she left him where he was and proceeded up the stairs quietly. The sound of heavy breathing came from behind the door of the master bedroom.

As she placed her hand on the doorknob, Emma braced herself for whatever laid beyond. Taking a deep breath and issuing a quick prayer to the Lord above, she turned the knob and entered the room. Victoria lay on the bed looking pale and tragic. Emma felt her knees buckle as she saw her sister there. Mustering her resolve, she approached the bed and wiped the sweat off of Victoria’s sleeping forehead. A tear trickled down Emma’s face and she turned away. She took a choking breath, trying to calm herself. The door creaked slowly open and little Jack entered the room. He approached his aunt with great caution, taking hold of her skirt and pulling himself close. Emma turned back to her sister, and the two of them stood silently, tears crawling down their faces as they looked at what was left of the woman they loved.

After a short discussion with Sherman, Emma decided to stay with the Richardson’s for a while in order to care for her sister. Sherman offered her the guest bedroom, which she quickly took. For the first week, the mood in the house was dour, despite Emma’s best attempts to fill the shoes of her older sister. Each morning, she woke the house up to the delectable aroma of fresh bread, bacon, griddle cakes, and more. She walked Jack to school, teaching him the names of different wildflowers along the way. On the way back, she gathered a few handfuls of these to show to Victoria, after which she placed them in the vase on the kitchen table. She cleaned the house, did the laundry, and had dinner waiting for Sherman when he returned. Nonetheless, her endeavors to add cheer to the house were for naught. Sherman dreaded the arrival of the seventh day, which the doctor had decreed Victoria would not live past, and his mood was mirrored by little Jack. But the seventh day came and went, and Victoria suffered on in her bed. There were no visible changes, no slurring of the speech, evidence of cognitive decline, not even another headache quite so bad as before. Slowly, gradually, the mood in the house began to improve. Sherman began bringing home the customary blackberry pie, and occasionally a strawberry pie as well, for Emma wasn’t much a fan of blackberry. One day Jack returned from school, beaming.

“Good afternoon, Jack. How was school, my dear?” Emma inquired. Jack’s smile widened.

“I got a girlfriend. Alice from down the street. She liked the buttercups I picked for her.”

Emma let out a loose laugh, a wonderful thing. “Well it seems that all that learning wasn’t for nothing.”

Emma continued to stay and care for her sister, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks, into months, and the months, into just over a year. But just like all good things, this time soon came to an end. In the fifteenth month after the first hospital visit, Sherman awoke to find Victoria stone cold beside him. Strangely enough, the big man didn’t burst into tears immediately. Instead he dragged himself out of bed and down to the kitchen. Here, he found Emma sitting at the table already in tears, the phone dangling once again by its cord. The stove top was empty, it was clear that she hadn’t yet started breakfast. Sherman gawped at her in surprise. He hadn’t known that she would check on him and Victoria while they were asleep.

Sherman sank into a chair across the table from Emma and buried his face in his hands. Emma’s voice trembled, “Mother and father passed away this morning.” Sherman peered at her through his fingers, not grasping the meaning behind her words. “It was peaceful. They both went in their sleep. It’s exactly what they…” Her voice cracked and then cut out. “It’s exactly what they would have wanted. But I don’t know how I will be able to tell Victoria.”

It’s unclear whether Sherman was in shock, or simply just in a very poor mood, but for whatever reason, his response was brusque. “You won’t have to worry about that. She’s dead.” He slapped his thighs, stood up, and exited via the kitchen door. Emma was left to sit in stupor as the world around her collapsed. Unsurprisingly, this was the moment that Jack chose to pad into the kitchen, his stuffed dog tucked under his little arms.

That day, Emma chose to let Jack go to school without finding out about his mother or his grandparents. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how to convey it to him, and she wasn’t sure she would ever have that ability. She just walked him to school, and in a turn of events, it was Jack who pointed out the wildflowers to her. Sherman didn’t make it to work, and by the time Emma returned to the house, he was once again in the kitchen at the table. When she entered the room, they both looked at each other and immediately burst into tears.

Grief does terrible things to man. For some, it’s a matter of sheer emotional distress. For others, it relives inhibitions they didn’t want lifted - intensifying suppressed passions, desires, lusts. On that fateful day, it caused Sherman and Emma to end up in the master bedroom. In the heat of the moment, Victoria’s body was unceremoniously rolled out of the way, dropping onto the floor with a sickening thud. Sherman released the pent up energy from months of chastity, and Emma devoted herself fully to him as she ventured to suppress the reality of the situation.

After that day, the choice was made that Emma would continue to stay with the Richardson’s, although to the public eye she was made to stay in the guest bedroom. For the first few months, it seemed all would be well, despite the disturbing affair behind closed doors. Jack wasn’t quite old enough to be perturbed by the new arrangement, in fact it was quickly becoming obvious that Jack was slipping behind his peers in school anyway.

25 years came and went, and the three of them continued to live in the same house. At some point during those years, it had become apparent to Emma that Jack couldn’t be trusted to live on his own, a diagnosis that Jack did not much appreciate. Unbeknownst to those around him, Jack had begun to hear voices in his head. At first they seemed to be quite innocent, instructing him to do things like pick flowers for his Aunt, showing him the way to a swimming hole that nobody else knew about. Emma still cared for both of the Richardson boys, Sherman still went to work each day to provide for all of them, and Jack mostly puttered around at the age of 31. One afternoon as Jack sat in the living room, watching his favorite television show, Gunsmoke, Emma wandered into the room. “Why don’t you go on outside and find something to do. It’s a beautiful day, Jack, and you shouldn’t waste it inside staring at that box.” Jack grumbled a reply, but nonetheless he hoisted himself off the couch and slipped his shoes on. He left out the kitchen door and headed for the swimming hole. By the time he reached the hole about an hour later, dusty sweat dripped from his brow.

He wiped it with his sleeve, then pulled his shirt over his head and began loosening his belt. As he did, he noticed a fox next to the water, licking at it. You don’t want that filthy animal in YOUR water hole, do you Jack? This water hole is only for YOU. Besides, it has no right to drink up all that water. Teach it a lesson, Jack. Put that belt to use. They said to him. Jack began swinging the belt around, faster and faster. Silently, he crept up on the fox. When he came within arms reach, he gave the belt one last loop, then sent it hurling at the fox. It clipped the fox’s shoulder, sending it stumbling a few steps into the water. The fox yowled and turned around quickly, but Jack was faster. With lightening speed, he stepped into the water and grabbed the fox by the neck. He lifted it up, unsure of what to do next. Unlike many of his peers, Jack was by no means a farmer boy.

One time when he was young, a neighbor boy had invited him over, and they had played among the farm animals. When it came time for dinner, the boy’s father had offered to let Jack wring the neck of a chicken to be prepared. Jack had squeezed at the poor thing’s neck, but wasn’t quite able to do the deed. When the boy finally took it from Jack and finished the job, Jack lost the contents of his stomach right on the boy’s father, and had to be sent home. He was never invited back. Wring its neck, Jack. Just squeeze. You can do it, Jack. But Jack couldn’t do it. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t” Jack sobbed as the poor fox wriggled and shrieked. Plunge it under the water. Hold it there. Don’t let it back up. Jack stepped further into the water and pushed the fox’s head under the water. It writhed, feet splashing at the surface of the water as it struggled to free itself. Further. Push it all the way under. Jack took another step into the water and fully submerged the fox. Slowly, the struggling grew weaker, and then it finally ceased. Jack began to life it out of the water. STOP. Keep it under the water, Jack. The fox is clever. It wants you to think it’s finished, but it isn’t. Hold it there for another minute. So Jack held the fox there. Each time he began to raise it, the voices joined in a chorus begging him to hold it under the water. This continued until long after the sun had set, at which point the voices allowed Jack to finally get out of the water. He dug a shallow grave a few feet from the bank, and buried the fox there. Then he headed back to the house.

A month passed before Jack heard from the voices again. He was out walking along the road when he suddenly felt very thirsty. We wants something to drink. Etwas zu trinken. We want orange juice. Get orange juice Jack. Jack stopped walking and stood next to the road looking around. He hadn’t been paying much attention to where he was. After a few seconds of looking around, he decided that it would be faster to go home than to the store. There had better be orange juice at home, Jack. We want orange juice. Orangensaft. Jack was too tired and hot to care very much what the voices said. By the time he arrived at home, he was panting heavily. He entered the kitchen door to find Emma hovering over the stove, cooking dinner. “Get me some orange juice.” He gasped at her.

Emma whirled around, her typical calm demeanor nowhere to be found. In its stead were eyes of fire. “That is NO way for you to speak to me. Here I am slaving over the stove to make dinner for you just as I do every night, while you putz about, and in you come and demand that I get you a drink? Either ask properly or get it yourself, because I am by no means a servant.”

The voices hissed and and all began talking at once. That’s no way for her to speak to you. Don’t let her put you down like that. She’s a weakling, a pawn. Put her in her place. Jack opened up his mouth and roared at her. “GET ME ORANGE JUICE NOW.” Emma was blown away from him by an unseen force and slammed into the refrigerator. She fell to floor and laid at an awkward angle. The front door opened, and a pair of headset footsteps resounded through the silent house. Sherman entered the kitchen to find Jack at the kitchen door, face contorted in anger, while Emma was splayed on the ground in front of the refrigerator. He immediately drew his own conclusions and advanced towards Jack.

“Why you little …” Jack’s anger was red hot, but Sherman’s rage radiated through the kitchen in a pure white wave. It was only his fatherly instinct that stopped him from throttling his son. “Pack …. your …. things and GET OUT.” He bellowed at Jack from inches away, spittle flying all over Jack’s face. Jack didn’t wait around for his father to change his mind. He practically flew up the stairs to his room. He rummaged around in his closet until he found his suitcase. It had been a gift from his mother 27 years ago for the family trip to Ohio, and now was buried under a few years of magazines. Jack gave it a solid tug and it came loose, sending him backwards, out of the closet and across the room. He slammed into the wall rattling the shelf above his head. The shotgun his father had bought him for protection toppled down. Take it, Jack. Take the gun. Go downstairs. Do it now. Jack picked up the gun. It was already loaded. As if in a trance, he walked down the hall. From the top of the stairs, he could hear Sherman’s voice over Emma’s sobs as he tried to soothe her. Go down. Don’t stop now, Jack. You can do this.

The stairs were uncharacteristically silent as he descended. In the kitchen, Emma sat at the table. Sherman sat across from her, on the phone. Shoot her. Jack crossed the distance between them in seconds. Emma turned her face away from him in fear. Her face contorted as if screaming, but Jack heard nothing. Pull the trigger, Jack. Jack placed the barrel on her ear and pulled the trigger. Now your father, Jack. Teach him a lesson. Show him what happens to people who hurt you. He spun towards his father. Sherman’s body curled away from his son, but he didn’t have time to react. By the time his eyes had widened at the death of his lover, Jack had already turned the gun toward him. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Right in the forehead, Jack. We always hated that forehead. Jack stuck the barrel on his father’s forehead. He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. His father slumped back, against the wall, and Jack put a fourth round in his forehead. Streaks of blood ran down the white wallpaper. Very good, Jack. Now take care of the bodies. Jack pushed open the kitchen door, and headed outside to the lean to. He grabbed the hatchet hanging on the wall and returned to the kitchen. He laid Emma on the tile floor and spread her limbs out. From beneath the sink he pulled a trash bag, which he shook open. He set the open bag next to her and lifted the hatchet high. It was hard work, cutting them up, and Jack considered going back for the full sized axe. No, Jack. The hatchet is good. Use the hatchet. So Jack continued with the hatchet. By the time he was done, he had filled three of the garbage bags. He took the hatchet to the sink and rinsed it off, thoroughly, carefully. He went back out and returned the hatchet, trading it for a shovel. He walked away from the house, whistling a short tune. Right here, Jack. Dig. And Jack dug. He didn’t dig very deep, for he was very tired from all the work he had already done. When he finished, he fetched the bags from the kitchen and placed them in the shallow grave. Then he covered them back up, put the shovel away, and went inside. He ignored the scene of carnage that greeted him in the kitchen, but proceeded up the stairs to his room, where he put the suitcase back in the closet. He grabbed a fresh set of pajamas from the dresser, and headed to the shower.