Vein River Read online

  Table of Contents

  Annie

  Charles Oates

  Copper

  Aria

  Abigail

  Angelina’s Diary

  The Water Doesn’t Hurt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Vein River

  Kellie Honaker

  Magic Quill Press

  Copyright © 2017 Kellie Honaker

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical or ethnic events/traditions, locales, real people, living or dead, are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher. Such inquiries may be sent at the publisher’s website.

  Published by Magic Quill Press

  www.magicquillpress.com

  Contents

  1. Annie

  2. Annie

  3. Annie

  4. Charles Oates

  5. Copper

  6. Charles Oates

  7. Annie

  8. Charles Oates

  9. Annie

  10. Aria

  11. Annie

  12. Annie

  13. Aria

  14. Annie

  15. Aria

  16. Annie

  17. Annie

  18. Annie

  19. Annie

  20. Annie

  21. Copper

  22. Charles Oates

  23. Annie

  24. Charles Oates

  25. Charles Oates

  26. Abigail

  27. Annie

  28. Annie

  Angelina’s Diary

  29. Annie

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  30. Annie

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  Angelina’s Diary

  31. Annie

  32. Annie

  33. Annie

  34. Annie

  35. Annie

  The Water Doesn’t Hurt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Annie

  There’s nothing worse than starting a new life when you didn’t think there was anything wrong with the old one. I wish I knew what it is that makes people stop loving each other. I watch the West Virginia countryside roll past my window and try to put my finger on when it started, or I guess you could say, when it ended. I suppose it all started with Dad’s wandering eye, and ended when Mom lost her patience. It also didn’t help that the object of my father’s affection is only six years older than me.

  It started out slowly enough, this hatefulness towards each other. It began with an energy, a prickly form of resentment that hung in the air and filled my core with anxiety. There was a snippiness to their voices when posed with a question, as if passing the butter was a big deal. It escalated to slamming doors, raised voices, and eventually the breaking of a teapot that was handed down from my grandma to me.

  I desperately wanted them to be okay, because if they’re okay, then I’m okay. But as time went on and the nerves frayed, I went from praying that they’d stay together, to praying that they’d get a divorce, because I couldn’t stand for them to be in the same room any more than they could.

  My parents loved one another fiercely at one time; I can see it in the old photos. I suppose passion is two-faced; love and hate on opposite sides of the coin, for when the time came for them to divorce, they fought over ridiculous things. He wanted the silver that had been in Mom’s family for three generations, she wanted his motorcycle. It came down to fighting over possessions that neither of them cared about, but wanted to take for no other reason than hurting each other.

  Then came me. I was the next object to stake claims on. As much as they tried hurting each other, it was me they hurt the most. What really drove the knife in my heart was my dad’s lack of fight over custody. When it was all said and done, it was decided that I was to spend three weeks a year with my father. And he seemed perfectly okay with that. I guess it’s hard to enjoy your new girlfriend with a daughter underfoot.

  They both signed on the dotted line; an oath made void by a piece of paper.

  At the end of the day, dad squeezed my shoulder and said, “you know I love you, kiddo!”

  Sure Dad, sure.

  So, there we have it. My dad got the house and my mom got me. Which is why we’re on our way to my great Aunt Ruby’s. They call it quits, and it’s my life that gets entirely uprooted. New house, new school, new life. “New” suggests the beginning of things, so why do I feel like it’s the end?

  “We’ll be there soon,” Mom says from the driver’s seat.

  “I’m hungry,” I mumble.

  “There’s a diner up ahead.”

  Sure enough, there’s a hole in the wall with a scarcely graveled parking lot. The blinking light on the roof claims that the establishment is called The Floured Fork. I grin to myself when I notice that the R on fork has gone out.

  “The Floured Fock,” I announce with dry humor.

  Mom shoots me a look. “Don’t be crude, Annie.”

  When we open the door, every head in the place turns to look at us. The people look seedy at this midnight hour. We avoid eye contact and slide into a corner booth. The grease hangs heavy in the air, the bare bulbs covering every surface in a glossy sheen. It’s as if the place has been polished with lard.

  I throw a lop-sided grin at my mother. “I’ve taken five breaths in this place and already my arteries are clogging.”

  “You said you were hungry,” she says simply. “It’s this or gas station snacks.”

  I shrug. “I’m not complaining, just making a statement.”

  A woman with a sloppy bun slaps two laminated menus in front of us. “Whaddaya want to drink?” Her tone implies that she doesn’t get paid enough for this shit, and friendliness will cost you extra.

  “Coffee,” I say, and my mother agrees.

  The waitress nods as if she knew it all along and promptly walks away.

  I peel my menu off the table, even though I already know what I want. These greasy spoon places are all the same. Eggs, bacon, and toast are universal.

  An old man two booths away keeps stealing sideways glances. He thinks he’s being inconspicuous, but I’m watching him just as he’s watching me. We make eye contact. He’s aware that I’m on to him, but he doesn’t seem to care. I don’t feel particularly threatened by the man, mostly because he’s so ancient. It’s as if God dipped the poor soul in a vat of wrinkles, realized He enjoyed Himself, then did it again. The old codger is positively plagued with them.

  We’ve barely placed our order when the old man doubles over in a coughing fit. It’s one of those rattles that knocks your ribs around, causing those around you to feel your pain.

  My mother winces and steals a glance over her shoulder.

  “Poor thing,” she whispers.

  The waitress digs a menthol out of her apron and places it in front of the old man. “Bless your whiskey pickled heart,” she says. “Here Charles, this’ll help.”

  My mother struggles to keep from gaping at them.

  “Thank you, Rebecca.” A drop of red slips from his lip.

  We hurry to swallow the last of our eggs, pay Miss Congeniality, and climb into the truck with our U-Haul of stuff attached to the back.

  Apparently, the diner is just a few miles away from “home”, because within ten minutes, we’re approaching th
e infamous Vein River.

  “Oh,” Mom says, “I forgot to tell you. The bridge we’re about to cross is haunted.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Supposedly, a girl hung herself from the rafters and when you drive across the bridge at night, you can hear her toenails rat-tat-tatting their way across the hood of your car.”

  “Charming.”

  “Let’s see if she throws us a bone.” Mom grins and pulls onto the covered bridge.

  It’s a small bridge, barely big enough for two cars; creepy too, with the moonlight spilling through the slats like milky confetti.

  Halfway across the bridge there’s a scraping sound. I look at Mom suspiciously.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “What?” She bats her eyes innocently.

  “You’re scratching the door with your fingernail. The noise is coming from inside, I can tell.”

  She smiles and pats my knee.

  At the end of a long and very potholed driveway we reach our destination. It’s a sad little house sitting on a knoll with slumped eaves and a drooping porch. It leans slightly to the east, having shifted with the wind, hunching as if ashamed.

  Aunt Ruby died a few weeks ago, and the divorce was finalized a few weeks before that. I really don’t want to sound like a bitch, but Aunt Ruby’s heart attack had perfect timing. We needed a place to go, and lo and behold, here we are.

  I follow mom up the rickety wooden steps, the paint chipping away as I brush past the railing. Mom inserts the key into a jiggly knob, which is useless really, because one swift kick would bring it down.

  Stepping across the threshold, I’m instantly assaulted by the stench of old age and cat pee.

  “Holy crap,” I gasp, covering my nose.

  “Yeah,” she says squinting, “we’ll bleach this joint tomorrow.”

  To the left of the foyer is the kitchen, to the right is the living room, each decorated in little old lady fashion. The couch is especially hideous, overpowered by obnoxiously large roses. The living room is plagued with clashing shades of brown paisley, floral prints, and retro green carpet. There’s so many conflicting themes that the eye doesn’t know where to look.

  “It’s like the 1930s to the 1980s completely upchucked in this house,” I say.

  Mom snorts humorously. “Such a vivid description, Annie.”

  “Thanks, I try my best.”

  Mom smiles at me and nods at the stairs. “I’ll give you first dibs. You can have whatever bedroom you want.”

  I shift my backpack to the other shoulder and ascend the staircase. Nearly every step groans beneath me. At the top of the stairs to the left is a bathroom with a claw foot tub and a tiled floor. Each octagon shaped tile is the color of ketchup, no bigger in size than a nickel.

  “Well, this is charming,” I mumble, scrubbing my shoe against the floor. “Totally digging the miniature stop signs.”

  The first bedroom is so small that a twin sized bed would have to be shimmied in sideways to fit. It was a nursery at one time, judging from the teddy bears painted on the wall.

  The second bedroom overlooks an overgrown field. A small fleet of headstones play peek-a-boo through the hay, while the remainder of the cemetery holds its own amongst the trees.

  The third bedroom is the master, with a large bay window taking up the biggest portion of the back wall. Even through the dirty glass, the view is simply stunning. Resting high on Cricket Mountain, the house overlooks the town of Vein River. The river sprawls for several miles in either direction, opening to a bay in the east. The town below is sleepy, dark, save for a few houses. The bridge we crossed no more than thirty minutes ago looks lonely and forgotten, beautiful, in its moonlit way.

  “Found my room!”

  Mom plods up the steps and peeks around the corner. “Nice! Good choice.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want this room for yourself? It would be a good writing room.”

  “Nah, I’ll make the nursery into a study. Less distraction makes for better novels.” Mom sniffs the air and makes a face. “I’m sorry Aunt Ruby was the crazy cat lady, but we’ll fix that.”

  “How many cats did she have, exactly?”

  “A colony or two from what I’ve heard. After she died, a few rescue groups came in and rehomed them.”

  Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. “She didn’t die in this room, did she?”

  “Nope. Popped off in the kitchen in front of the Frigidaire.”

  I stare at her.

  Mom bursts out laughing. “Can’t take your dry wit thrown back at you, can ya? Of course she didn’t die here, I don’t think I could live here if she did.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Mom sits down on the bed and runs her fingers through my hair. “Look, I know this is new territory for the both of us. A new start. Once we get settled in and everything is situated, I think we’ll be really happy here.”

  “Sure, Mom.” I throw her a smile I don’t really feel.

  She pats me on the back and heads for the door. “Bring whatever you need from the U-Haul and we’ll call it a night.”

  I rummage through the back of the U-Haul until I find a box containing my pajamas. I return to my room and plunk the box down on an antique dresser.

  The head of a twin bed is directly under the window. Not wanting to feel a draft, I scoot it to the other side of the room. I strip the bed and throw on a clean set of sheets. I flop across the mattress and stare out the window towards the moon. That’s when I notice it. There’s some sort of smudge on the wall where the headboard used to be. I crawl from bed for a better look.

  Don’t ever go to the bridge at night.

  I trace my finger across the words, smudging them until they blend. Pencil. The message is written in pencil and very lightly at that. The words themselves seem to tremble, as if whoever wrote it had a shaky hand.

  The screen door slams and Mom grunts with a heavy box.

  “Mom! There’s some sort of weird note up here!”

  Mom climbs the stairs again and enters the bedroom. She pushes her glasses further up her nose and examines the wall.

  “Well, Aunt Ruby wasn’t exactly wound too tight. I wouldn’t read too much into it. It’s good advice though, no need getting hit by a car. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” She slaps me lightly on the knee. “I’m exhausted kiddo, lets hit the hay.”

  I decide to forget the note. If Mom isn’t bothered by it, then neither am I.

  At 3:17 I awaken to a distant whistle.

  My sleep-addled brain blames a midnight train, until I lie here a moment and listen.

  No, it’s not a train.

  The squeal is so high in pitch that I can’t determine if it’s a child screaming or a tea kettle going off.

  What the hell is that?

  I crawl out of bed and shuffle to the window. The town below looks dead. No trains, no boats, no late night big rigs screeching along the countryside. The squealing stopped. It hushed as soon as my feet hit the floor; clipped off as if interrupted midsentence. I must’ve dreamed it. I return to the sagging mattress, cursing beneath my breath, promising myself that the very next thing I bring in from the U-Haul is my own queen-sized bed. Dad bought me that bed complete with mattress and box springs, a few years ago, and nobody has slept on it but me. This bed however, God only knows what has slept, peed, or died on this bed.

  I grimace and close my eyes.

  Squeak…squeak…squeeeeak.

  My eyelids snap open.

  This is a different sound. A closer sound. It’s outside, but on the opposite side of the house, away from Mom’s room, and thankfully, the cemetery. I grab my flashlight to investigate. Should I wake up Mom? No, not over a squeaking noise. If it ends up being something as simple as a mouse, Mom will be aggravated with me. So, tiptoeing down the stairs I go. Pressing my weight into the banister, I skirt along the outside portion of steps, hoping they won’t creak.

  In order to avoid the screen door tha
t will surely whine when I open it, I bypass the front door, and head for the back door, instead. I get the willies when I walk into the kitchen. I stare at the linoleum in front of the refrigerator where Mom claims Aunt Ruby had her heart attack. Knowing Mom, she was joking, but not really. That’s how Mom copes with things. The worse the situation is, the lighter a deal she makes of it: I just saw your father at a restaurant with his mistress, I hope he remembers to burp her after he feeds her. She busts my balls over my dry sense of humor, but I think she fails to realize that I get it from her.

  I shake my head and open the back door. Stepping onto the small porch, I see the source of the squeaking. A dilapidated old swing set stands crookedly on spindly legs. It reminds me of a spider after it’s been squashed, the limbs all useless and akimbo. A single swing sways on a rusty chain.

  And then it propels forward.

  Squeak.

  And backward.

  Squeak.

  Back and forth, back and forth it goes, the seat rising and falling as if propelled by a pair of invisible legs. Even if the wind were blowing, which it’s not, there’s no reason for it to be swinging with such force.

  Squeeeak! Squeeeak!

  It’s swinging hard now. Manically. No child alive could pump their legs that fast.

  I bolt through the door and slam it behind me, my heart hammering in my chest. I gulp a few deep breaths to steady myself. I force myself to look over my shoulder and through the small window in the door.