Brian Freeman - Dark Screams - Volume Six

Even as Lydia’s face scrunched tight, mouth open, eyes flashing with rage and cheeks blister-red.

It’s like she just wanted to cry.

Josh lifted the corner of the blanket. Soft cotton, a pretty pattern of pink and white stripes. He crumpled the corner into a ball, judged the size of his daughter’s open mouth.

A gag, only. He’d remove it if she had trouble breathing.

He was so tired. What if he pushed the blanket into her mouth, pressed his hand over it to further muffle the sound, and what if he accidently covered her nose as well? And what if he fell asleep?

Josh, what are you doing?

Cheryl, in her nightdress, stood in the kitchen doorway. Her voice carried loud and clear. He was afraid to look in his lap.

She misses her grandfather. Are you taking her to him?

Josh heard himself say, “Yes, Yes, that’s what I’m doing. Would that be so bad, really? Our daughter favors him over us. We get proof of that every day, every night…”

Then Lydia’s scream came back, full force.

It had never faded. Josh looked at the wailing baby in his lap, then back to the doorway where he thought he’d seen his wife. Her voice had been too clear. He never could have heard her over Lydia’s cries.

A political prisoner suffered similar distress: sleep deprivation, continual loud noises to interrupt rational thought. His will was broken; hallucinations prompted him to consider the unthinkable.

But what if…? What if that vision of his wife had proposed the best solution?

Josh didn’t know why the idea hadn’t occurred to him earlier. Take Lydia to her grandfather. She misses him.

Or rather, Bring Lewis here. Through mimicry.

He’d never brought home his imitation of Lewis’s mechanical voice. His wife, certainly, wouldn’t have seen the humor in it. And now that his father-in-law had passed on, the idea seemed to be in especially poor taste.

But now he was alone with his inconsolable daughter. Her grandfather had been the only one who could comfort her. His strange voice, at least.

Could he still do the imitation? And what should he say?

Josh cupped one hand behind his daughter’s head, and he brought his mouth close to her ear.

“Hush, little girl,” he said in a slow monotone. “Quiet, little Lydia.”

Josh couldn’t hear himself very well, but he knew the voice didn’t quite come out right. Lydia kept crying, but a hint of interest crept into her eyes.

“Recognize me?” Josh buzzed and droned. “Who does Daddy sound like?”

Lydia seemed fascinated, but she didn’t stop crying.

Josh figured out the problem: His imitation lacked authenticity. He was an actor who didn’t believe in the character he portrayed.

Because he’d never believed in this current incarnation of Lewis Hampton: the same man who, while raising his own daughter, insulted her on a daily basis. When Josh courted Cheryl, witnessing the oppressive atmosphere Lewis created in their home, he had always wondered: How can a father treat his own child this way? His own beautiful, innocent daughter? A parent isn’t allowed to think such things, let along speak them aloud, yet Lewis hadn’t seemed to care.

That part of Lewis was missing from Josh’s attempt at mimicry. But he didn’t dare incorporate such awful messages into his imitation.

Then he remembered a joke he and his brother used to play with the family dog. You could say anything to Prince, as long as the tone of your voice remained sweet and loving. Would you like to go back to the pound? We can take you there, and have you put to sleep. And the dog would run to the front door, excited to go outside. How would you like me to cut off your tail, boy? Slice it clean off with a kitchen knife? And that same tail would wag happily.

Josh realized it didn’t matter what he said.

It would be okay to talk to his daughter with Lewis Hampton’s robotic, cancer-ravaged voice, and to evoke the real Lewis with each word choice.

Stop crying now, he buzzed near Lydia’s ear. Or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.

The baby gave a quick hiccup, then took a sharp intake of breath as if ready to enter a fresh bout of screaming.

You’re ugly and useless, his version of her grandfather said. You’re ruining this family.

Lydia grew instantly calm.

The next morning, Josh opened the bedroom curtains and blinds to let some sunlight through. Cheryl was still in bed, waking gently before the rude shock of their alarm clock.

She rolled in bed, blinking, a raised hand blocking the light—obviously surprised to find herself feeling so well rested. A sudden rush of fear washed over her: The night had been silent, too silent. “The baby?”

“Sleeping.” Josh crossed from the window and stood beside the crib. “Last night, your daughter and I came to a kind of agreement.”

As if in answer, Lydia’s shape stirred beneath her pink and white blanket. After a familiar intake of breath, she began her signature wail.

“Oh, here we go again,” his wife said. She winced and began to get out of bed.

“No, no,” Josh said. “Allow me.” He lifted the baby and brought her head close to his mouth.

Josh had one particular advantage over his father-in-law’s voice box. He could lower his volume, practically whisper into his infant daughter’s ear.

The baby would hear him, but his wife would not. Cheryl wouldn’t know that he imitated her father. She wouldn’t know the exact words he spoke.

I wish you’d never been born, he whispered.

The mechanical buzz cut beneath the child’s shrill wail. Lydia stopped crying.

“That’s amazing,” Cheryl said. “What did you do?”

“I guess some of your father finally rubbed off on me,” Josh said. He set the calmed baby back down, then gave a token shake to the butterfly mobile above her crib.

Josh took comfort in the fact that his infant daughter couldn’t comprehend his words.

But someday, she would.

Daddy was driving us home. Three of us in the backseat and Lula, who was his favorite, in the passenger’s seat.

Lula cried, Oh, Daddy!—look.

At the side of the road, in broken grasses, was something small and furry-white, which appeared to be alive.

Oh, Daddy, please.

Daddy laughed. Daddy braked the car to a stop. Lula jumped out of the car. We ran back with her, to discover in the broken grasses three small kittens—white, with black and russet markings.

We picked up the kittens! They were so tiny, fitting in the palms of our hands, weighing only a few ounces! Each was mewing, its eyes scarcely open. Oh, oh!—we’d never seen anything so wonderful in our lives! We ran back to the car, where Daddy was waiting, to beg Daddy to take them home with us.

At first, Daddy said no. Daddy said the kittens would make messes in the car.

Lula said, Oh, Daddy, please. We all promised to clean up any messes the kittens made.

So Daddy gave in. Daddy loved Lula best, but we were happy to be Daddy’s children, too.

In the backseat, we had two of the little kittens. In the front, Lula was holding the whitest kitten.

We were so excited! So happy with the kittens! Lula said she would call the whitest kitten Snowflake, and we said we would call our little kittens Pumpkin and Cinder because Pumpkin had orange splotches in his white fur and Cinder had black splotches in his white fur.

For some minutes, Daddy drove in silence. We did all the chattering! You could hear tiny mews, if you listened hard.