Look Me in the Eyes

Fiction by Jack Goebel

The smell of Mo’s butcher shop woke up Almeda. Her mother’s wailing was the next thing she heard. The putrid smell of death filled the air. Almeda got up to go to the bathroom where she could see Mo skinning a deer out the window, but her mother was crying like Mo was skinning her child. Death felt like it walked into the bathroom with her, so she opened the window to let some fresh air in. Almeda had only been awake for five minutes, yet she already wanted to go back to bed.

She found her mother in the kitchen crying on her father’s shoulder. The room was dank. It seemed like the sink had been running overnight, and the mildew spots on the ceiling had doubled in size. Almeda wondered if the sink really had been left on all night since water droplets were running down the wall. She ran her finger down the wall, and it came away wet. Strange. It was winter, and the walls were usually only like this after a summer storm. She glanced over at her mother and her father. Her mother was babbling on, saying something about her sister Samara being gone.

“Samara’s upstairs.”

Her mother looked at her and stopped crying for just a second before she muttered, “No, she’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, Almeda. I went to wake her up to make breakfast with me, but she wasn’t in bed. Your father and I ran all around the house looking for her. When we realized she wasn’t here, we asked Mo if he had seen anything, but he hadn’t. Your father and some others are going to go out looking for her in the woods soon.”

Almeda didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know why her mother was sad because Samara would just come back later, but she was unsettled to see her mother so upset. Almeda went over to her, sat on her lap, and hugged her while she cried. After a few minutes, Almeda asked, “Can I go out and look for Samara too?”

Her mother didn’t hear her over her own cries, but her father looked at her and nodded.

Almeda felt better now. She hopped off her mother’s lap, put on her boots, and ran outside to go give Mo some firewood. It snowed the night before. The snow crunched under her boots, and the sharp winter wind made her cheeks rosy. Almeda grabbed a log and carried to over to Mo’s.

She liked Mo. He had always been nice, looked out for her, and he always let her play with his chickens. Almeda put the log in his kitchen and ran out back where Mo was skinning a deer. She never minded going near dead animals or into Mo’s cellar where he kept them after he was done with them. He stopped what he was doing to wave at her. Almeda stopped right next to the deer, which seemed like it was looking her right in the eye, and she declared, “I want to go pet the chickens.”

“Okay, you can go ahead. If you find an egg, you can keep it.”

Almeda ran over to the chicken coup, but when she looked behind her, Mo was looking at her longingly with sad eyes like he knew something she didn’t. Almeda hated it when Mo looked at her like that. Mo went back to working on the deer, and Almeda opened the door to the chicken coop where she found only two chickens outside the hen house. One of them was her favorite chicken, her name was Helena, and she was brown with black speckles. Helena kept squawking and jumping around, which made all the chicken feed scatter around. One of the other chickens kept chasing Helena and pecking her. A couple of the spots where the other chicken pecked Helena started bleeding, which made Almeda mad, so she killed the black chicken.

It lay on the ground twitching. Its black feathers were slick with blood, and it seeped out of the chicken’s broken neck. The snow around the chicken was stained red. Almeda started to feel death in the air again, but she didn’t think much of it because she was right next to Mo’s cellar where he kept the butchered animals.

Her father called her over and told her that he and a couple townspeople were going to go looking for Samara in the woods now. Almeda stomped out of the chicken coup still mad the black chicken hurt Helena. Her father and a few others were gathered in front of their house, and her father was carrying a gun.

Together, they embarked off into the woods. Almeda got bored pretty quickly; everything was white with snow, the wind was cold, and she didn’t think they were going to find Samara waiting for them in the woods. Samara would come back whenever she wanted to like her father does when he goes off to work.

Almeda passed the time by catching bugs, chasing bunnies when she saw them poke their heads out of fallen logs, and playing I spy with one of her neighbor’s kids. She had a good time for the couple hours they spent out there. Her father and the other townspeople seemed really worried when they found a shack. Her father said it looked like someone had been living in there, and the townspeople agreed. They tore the whole thing down, which Almeda didn’t think was nice if someone really was living there. They never saw any sign of Samara like Almeda knew they wouldn’t.

The sun started setting, so her father told everyone they should start heading back to town. Walking back was less fun than walking there. Almeda’s fingers started to feel icy, and the bottoms of her feet felt like she was walking on pins and needles. She started getting tired, so she asked her father if he would carry her the rest of the way. He said yes.

The next thing Almeda knew, she was still in her father’s arms, and he was opening the door to their house. Her mother was anxiously waiting in the kitchen and she blurted out, “Did you find her?” Her father just looked at her sullenly and shook his head. Her mother burst into tears again and stormed off to their bedroom.

Almeda told her father she could put herself to bed. On the way up, she noticed the walls weren’t wet anymore and that they were bone dry and dusty. With each step she took, it got a little cooler until the door to her room creaked open. The room was as cold as it was outside, and Samara’s bed was empty. It was so cold in there because she had left the bathroom window open since this morning. Just like she was supposed to.

Almeda got ready for bed and wrapped herself up in the covers since her room was so cold. She wasn’t tired, and she didn’t try to go to sleep. She closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, she saw Samara climbing out of the chest in the corner of her room. Her hand reached over the side first, then her head slowly rose over the edge. Her brown hair was matted and clumped together. She bumbled over to her bed, which wasn’t surprising considered she had been in a chest for almost a day. Samara passed right in front of the light coming in from the window, but it passed right through her. As if nothing had happened, Samara climbed in bed, but she wouldn’t look at Almeda.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Silence.

“Samaraaaaaa . . .    LOOK AT ME!”

Her father burst through the door.

“Who are you talking to?”

He looked around the room but didn’t see anyone. No one was there. All he saw was Almeda lying in her bed. She could see the look of concern on his face and knew she needed to reassure him.

“No one. I’m just really sad Samara hasn’t come back. I miss her.”

“I know, honey. Are you alright? Do you think you can sleep?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

“Almeda, why is the window open? It’s so cold in here, and now it smells like Mo’s cellar.”

Her father walked over to the window and closed it. The hinges on the window squealed when he closed them, and he latched it shut. He kissed Almeda goodnight, paused, and took one last look around the room before walking out.

“Okay, good night. I love you.”

He closed the door.

Almeda never fell asleep. She lay awake in her bed for hours wondering if Mo ever used that log she left in his kitchen. Did he even see it? Her dad had chopped up that wood about a month ago before it started getting cold. He stored it in their shed attached to the back of their house, so it stayed dry all winter. Almeda liked to take wood over to Mo’s because it gave her an excuse to go see him and play with Helena and the other chickens for a while. Now she was thinking about the black chicken again. She never liked the way that chicken had walked around. Its beady eyes always made her angry. She was glad it was dead now, so it couldn’t bother any of the other chickens anymore. It was better that way.

It was late at night now. Everyone in town had gone to sleep in their houses, and the stars had come out from behind the clouds to light up the night sky. Almeda heard a tap . . . tap . . . tap on her window. She got out of bed, careful not to make any noise, and she tiptoed into the bathroom where Mo was waiting outside on a ladder. She undid the two latches and very slowly shimmied the window open, so it wouldn’t make any noise. The wood of the windowpane rubbed up against the frame, but it didn’t make any noise anyone else could have heard. It only squeaked right when it was all the way open. Mo climbed inside.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“In the chest.”

Mo and Almeda crept out of the bathroom and towards the chest. They both just stood there staring at it.

“Are you gonna open it?”

Mo looked at Almeda.

“Go ahead.”

Almeda wasn’t sure why Mo was making her open the chest, but she didn’t really care. He told her what to do a lot because she didn’t think he wanted to do it, which was fine. She didn’t have a problem doing whatever he wanted to most of the time, but everyone once in a while he would ask her to do something she didn’t want to do. When Almeda didn’t want to do what Mo asked her, he usually got angry with her, so she tried to always do what he said. That way nothing bad would happen.

She lifted the chest open, and death came wafting out. Almeda didn’t really mind; she was used to it by now. Inside, Samara’s body was contorted so that her leg was touching her head, and her arms were bent backwards behind her. She was face down, but the bruises around her neck were obvious even from behind. Parts of her neck were almost black by now. The rest of it had splotches of purple, green, and blue. It was kind of pretty.

Mo lifted Samara’s body up out of the chest and ordered Almeda to close it. He laid Samara down on the bathroom floor while he climbed back out the window onto the ladder.

“Hand her to me.”

Almeda picked up Samara by the arms and passed her through the window to Mo. Then she climbed out the window and descended out onto the muddy ground. Almeda took a couple steps and noticed she was leaving footprints.

“Snow will cover the ground by tomorrow morning. No one will know.”

She believed Mo, and they walked next door to Mo’s cellar. He stopped and turned around.

“Go get the ladder and bring it down here. Then stay here and make sure no one sees us.”

“Okay.”

Almeda was already getting bored again. The wind was cold, and her feet were all muddy. She was going to have to wash them off in the bathroom, so she didn’t track muddy footprints into her room. Almeda didn’t know why she had to stand out here in the cold when all the townspeople and her mother and father were obviously asleep. Plus, it was so dark no one would see them even if they were out. She went and got the ladder, and she carried it to the cellar door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move by the chicken coop. It was Helena.

Almeda put the ladder down and ran over to the chicken coop. She opened the gate, stepped in, and stood next to Helena.

“Sorry Helena, Mo said no one could see us.”

She reached down, picked her up by the neck, and snapped it. Almeda carried Helena by the neck back over to the cellar. Helena’s body was still twitching, and Almeda almost dropped her.

“Helena, stop it.”

Her muddy feet splatted down the stairs of the cellar. It was even colder down there than it was outside. She stopped and looked at the two rows of meat hanging from hooks in the ceiling.

At the very back of the room, Almeda saw Samara hanging on a hook while Mo was starting to skin her. Samara had a blank look on her face, and she was staring straight at her. She hated it when Samara looked at her like that.

Acknowledgments

“Dagon” by H. P. Lovecraft

“A Death” by Steven King

“The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe

“Lacrimosa” by Silvia Moreno-Garcia