Gram

by John Prescott

The killings didn’t start all at once. They were scattered out over two years' time like a dash of pepper. One here, one there - so no logical connection could be made. It was smart thinking, and it wasn’t until after midnight on a cold December morning two years later that I had the truth of the matter revealed to me.

The horror of it all is still quite mind-numbing, so I sit and write this down for those who come after me. I will do better. My plans will go unspoiled, and the trail I leave will grow over before the next one is even thought about. I get ahead of myself though; since it would seem to start at the beginning as most stories often do, I will, too.

It was early January, and the cold had set in. A bone-chilling twenty-eight to be exact; I remember it well. The southern cold is a tricky thing. It numbs you, pulls the veil over your eyes, and then has you at its whim. It seeps into your bones right to the marrow, and the humid air mixes with the cold and creates a concoction that only a mad hatter could conceive.

The wind was blowing - adding to the terrible mixture and making it even more miserable. I got a call at 6 am from a worried and excited Kalen Sallree, my dimwitted third cousin who would pawn off his kids if the wind changed direction to go hit the hooch or the dog track over in Caposan, God rest his soul now. He told me quickly over the phone that his thirteen-year-old son, Karl, had gone missing. It had been two days since he had last seen him. I could hear the pain in his voice. Karl was his only son out of an ill-behaved pack of six. The rest were girls, pretty things, but high strung. All of them were my cousins. And that’s the bad thing about cousins if they turn out bad - you can’t disclaim blood, you are intertwined with it lock, stock, and barrel to the end. They are yours and you are theirs. There is no escape.

Such was the case with Kalen and his clan. The only good thing Kalen had ever done was marry Emma Bridgewater from Hammond, Louisiana. She was a spunky thing, if that’s what you wanted to call it. Energetic and full of life, she was not too smart but not too dumb either. What she saw in Kalen we never knew, maybe it was sorrow, maybe even a lil’ pity, but secretly we all thanked her for it at night while we lay in our beds.

After I hung up the phone and got angrily dressed, we set out to the fields. We were all strawberry farmers; it was a family tradition. We made a living pricing them fair to the big groceries and even better to the locals. They all repaid the kindness ten-fold. My grandfather, Joseph Sallree, started out with a small, five-acre lot. Today, it has grown to over seven-hundred acres with the sweetest tasting Louisiana strawberries east of the Mississippi River. No one lived on or near the property. We all considered it bad luck to do such a thing. So after a few minutes, I met Kalen and a small group of his friends at daybreak in the north entrance to the fields. The night had been cold, and the bottom fell out right around midnight, staying at an even twenty-eight. The freshly-planted crops fought hard for survival. This time they had won, but if there were a string of cold nights like this one, the crops would all have to be planted again, which meant swears and silent threats from those who bought from our labors. We had seen it before in the drought of eighty-one. It wasn’t pretty, damn well near came to fists, but thank the maker the rain came and the crops were saved.

Looking out over the fields was like looking at an eight-year-old's birthday cake, except this seven-hundred acre cake had silvery icing. After looking over the field, we had a small discussion, then set out going in groups of two, but when the clock passed nine in the morning, we decided to single out in our search. I was in the back portion of the property, alone, tired, and hungry; I didn’t bother to eat breakfast after the phone call, and in less then five minutes, I was glad that I hadn’t.

It was then that I spotted the boy. I dry heaved at the sight. He was on the fence line that joins our property with the Delraux’s. (Pronounced Delrow for non-Cajuns) The small body was bent over backwards. I knew he was dead the minute I saw him. His back had been broken and he lay on the fence like a slumped rag doll. But that wasn’t the true horror. There was a long deep gash that started at his left shoulder and extended down to his right groin. His entrails were hanging visibly, and every known fly and insect were hovering around his body or crawling over it. What lead me to him was the sight of a vulture, God’s lil’ clean up crew. I saw him circling in the back part of the property and headed that way, not telling anyone my hunch and secretly hoping it proved to be false. I calmly got my cell phone from my back pocket and called Kalen. I stood a good deal ahead of the body to warn Kalen before he actually saw his wildcat of a son. When he finally got there, I did my best to console him and warn him of the grizzly sight that would soon be burned into his brain for the rest of his miserable life. It did no good. Kalen wailed, fell to his knees, and then fainted in the morning air. His friends gathered around like a flock of crows at the local wire meeting in early May and helped him back from the blackness of unconsciousness.

Kalen’s sobs were genuine, and I actually felt pain and sorrow for the drunk that was my cousin. I silently prayed that this would be a motivating event that changed his life around. My prayers went unanswered. For some, a dramatic event causes huge changes within themselves. It acts like a kick-start to get their life in order and move ahead on the straight and narrow, but for Kalen, he slipped off the pinnacle and slid to even greater ruin - and eventually death in November of that same year. The funeral was hard to bear. It hit Emma the hardest, as only a mother would know the pain of loss for her only son. I am sure some said prayers in silence that Karl met a timely death and would not hinder anyone else in the world. He was already a stick of dynamite just waiting to blow. He had been in trouble with the law numerous times, and it was only his mother’s sobs that kept him out of youth jail or some military school, if they would even take him.

So the death of Karl came and went. Kalen got worse by the day and Emma seemed as distant as Pluto. I tried the best I could to visit but stopped after my fourth time. Kalen was never there, and Emma just went through the motions, saying very little. It was a miracle for him to even show up to work, and when he did, a six pack or a fifth of whiskey was his best friend and accompanied him. In three hours, he was as useless as a broke-legged mule. Time carried on as it always does. We fall down, bandage ourselves back together, and move on. The winter eased a little, and that relieved some of the tension, but it was in March when the next death came.

The surrounding countryside was in full swing. The early rains had renewed the ground, and our purchase. The honeysuckle was sweet to the senses. A huge patch of it fought war with the north fence, and when you were back in that portion of the lot, it was like being in heaven. The smell would penetrate your senses and take you to a far off land of make-believe and give you the impression that nothing was wrong in the world at that very moment.

In truth, it was my favorite spot of the whole farm. It was pleasant there, and I made sure to be there as many times as I could. The maples and dogwoods were in full blossom and gave it a surreal beauty that no painter could ever get right, even after a million strokes of the brush or pen. I was in that lot when the sun was midway to noon on a cloudless day, and the air was humid but light to breathe. It was springtime at its best, and I was enjoying my day until I saw Gene Lanseer's body hanging from an ancient oak limb that hung out over our lot like a fisherman’s old cane pole dangling down at the creek.

The body was ten feet off the ground and hung limply on the low-lying limb. His clothes were bloody and in rags. Before I saw his horror-etched face, I actually thought it was a bum or a drifter. His face held the grimace of pain and stark terror. His eyes were wide open, and I guessed he died in fright. His mouth was open wide, and a thin line of blood was dripping from its left corner. The dripping blood fell onto the honeysuckle and massacred its beauty. The white petals that held the smell of heaven were now coated ghastly red, and the green leaves of the bush mixed with the blood and made a sickish, brown color like cow shit. The magic of that place was gone in that instant, and it has never returned for me - nor do I expect to in my lifetime.

Beneath the shredded clothing, Gene’s body had been mutilated by something horrific. There were many deep, gruesome slashes in his body. My worst fears rose like a tidal wave. I began to think that we had some kind of insane lunatic in the area. A serial killer “whose engine wasn't running on all cylinders”, as you might say.

Gene had started working for us as a hired hand from Haven, and he was one of our best. We never had a problem with him, and he was always eager to lend a hand or offer to stay late if we needed him. He was a great guy and an even better friend. I let him buy into the family business in eighty-nine, much to the distaste of Gram. Back then, Gram could still talk and still had all her teeth. She protested opening the business up to someone outside the family, and she didn’t speak to me for over ten years after the deal was done.

The afternoon before I found his body, Gene had offered to stay over and check on some new form of insect that was giving all the farmers hell. It was a new breed from across the ocean, and it was going to be a rough season for every farmer in the Deep South. I didn’t even think twice about it when Gene offered to stay and do some checking in the north lot. I waved goodbye to him like many times before - not knowing that would be my last time I'd see him alive on this earth.

Tears rolled down my cheek as I dialed the local sheriff’s office and reported the death of my good friend. I stayed there till they arrived and left shortly after I gave my statement, but not before Randy Searls gave me a funny look and said I had better come down to the station because we had some things to talk about. Randy had a worried look on his face, despite his best efforts to hide it. He was thinking the same thing I was before I even called: serial killer on the loose in the Sellree plantation. It was not good for anything, not good for business, not good for small town gossip, and especially not good if any big-city newspaper got wind of it.

We like our life down here in the South, and we don’t like it invaded by some tight-suit city monkey just wanting to make a buck or get his name in the lights. We have our share of famous people, too, but most move on and live somewhere else. It’s almost a given secret; one learns in his early thirties that we don’t like commotion where we eat and live. Leave us as we are and carry on with your flashy-dashy life somewhere else. Most do, some don’t. Those that don’t find life can become hard. Small towns in the South are like gems, they are exquisite to look at and hold, but if held right and turned the wrong way they can become angry and hard and can cut glass like the finest diamond.

Remember that if you come down this way wanting to make some big to-do of something or other or heard of some great news story that would help make you a big-shot in this now-small world. We can smell it, and we detest it. Now don’t get me wrong, we are a kind people and would more often than not give the shirt off our backs to help anyone in need - but don’t come down here raising a ruckus. We have enough of our own that do that without any outside help at all.

The morning after I found Gene I went down to see Randy. He was a nice man, married for twenty years, four kids, and a nice house. His tall, thin frame reminded me of Clint Eastwood, only a shade thinner. His high cheekbones and jet-black Italian hair garnished him many awards in high school and college. He went so far as to go to the big city up north, the one some call New York or the Big Apple; I still prefer the big city. Randy didn’t last long up there and came back a year later, settling into law enforcement. In seven quick years, he was sheriff and has been ever since.

Randy was only five years my senior, and we were friends. I asked him one time why he came back to this town. His reasonings were truthful I think. He said that the big city had too much death, and he didn’t know anybody up there. He said that in his apartment, his two opposite neighbors had lived in the same spot for over thirty years and didn’t even know each others' names. They only spoke in passing as they went about their lives. This was so out of left field for Randy that it felt alien to him and made him queasy when he heard it confirmed by his neighbors.

Watching the news was impossible for him; there was always death on the news - someone getting shot, some crazed lunatic harming a little girl in that dreadful way, or there was a downright brawl in the Bronx. It was too much for him, and his mind was made up when one of those lunatics opened fire in the bottom of his building, killing a youth and an old gentleman with a cane. That very day he packed up his few belongings, went down to the bank, closed his account, got in his car, and headed for home. I only asked him once why he came back home to Louisiana, and that once was enough for me.

The time I spent in the police station with Randy was filled with question after question and fears made real. He kept it low-key and promised to hush it up the best he could. I went home knowing our town would be invaded soon if this wasn’t wrangled and got under control.

The weeks rolled by and it was quiet around the lot. We carried on with our lives the best we could. After three months, it was all just a bygone nightmare that we chose to forget; only it slapped us right smack in the face in the hot month of July. I wondered then what cruel joke the powers-that-be were playing on me. What had I done to deserve this? Was this some sort of test by someone I had wronged?

I was out in the south section of the lot when I heard the screaming. It was near dusk, and the family was away except for Gram, who was at the house and wasn’t able to travel now. She had her own room, which she sat day in and day out, with her rocking chair and her favorite shawl that she had made back in seventy-one. Gram always wore the shawl over her left arm and left side of her body. It was a pretty thing - baby blue in color and its length was twice that of Gram. She wore it loosely over her and it fell into a puddle on the floor around her feet at times. She was from the old times, which wasn’t a bad thing, but it was a different way of life. I knew I would have to check on her soon, but the new commotion meant she would just have to wait.

The watering system had been acting up, and I had gone out to give it a look and see what was causing the problem. It hadn't taken me long to find it. The south-trailing hose that lead from the main watering feed had burst wide open. I silently cursed at the newly-bought piece of plastic junk. I was on my way back to the main shutoff valve when the high-pitched screams started. I jerked when I heard the noise. It was ear piercing and full of pain. I noticed it was getting dark and thought better than to go up there on my own.

I called Randy and told him to head out here like the wind. I never carry a gun; we keep one in the office, locked up in the safe, just in case. We mainly used it for snakes we found in the lot now and again; little did I know I would be retrieving it for the possible shooting of a crazed lunatic. So I headed straight for the office with my heart racing like a stallion on the last quarter at the race track. I made it there, but not after one final gut-tearing scream echoed across the lot. After that, it was silent. I had forgotten all about the busted hose and was reminded when the sprinkler system started in the east portion. The slow tick...tick...tick broke the silence along with the water pump starting its high pitched whine in the back pumphouse behind the office. I knew it would take Randy close to twenty minutes to get out here, so I went and shut the main valve to the section with the busted hose. To my surprise, Randy pulled up about five minutes after I shut off the water.

After a hasty greeting, we both made our way out to where I had heard the screaming. I knew we were too late, but I followed on anyway - scared shitless as I realized that the killer might still be out there waiting and watching. It was dark now; Randy produced two flashlights for us, and we headed out there not quite a run but at more than a casual jog. It only took us a few minutes to find the body. My newborn curse was in high swing as I was first to spot the body lying in a jumbled mass.

The dead body looked like a cherry pie that had been ripped to bits with its filling spilling out at the tears. I began to realize that the murders were getting more gruesome. This one would have to go to the county coroner to identify the body. It was an unintelligible mass and one that I had no want to sift through to look for an ID or a known face. My legs began to feel loose beneath my weight, so I just let myself fall to the ground in a heap. My head swam after viewing the carnage that was on our property.

Randy called the wagon to come and get the body while I sat there waging war with my stomach to keep it from throwing out its contents. The rest of the night was questions, and during those hours my world felt very small and lonely.

Time again trotted on as it always does, and things settled back to normal after a few weeks. This time the killings didn’t escape our mind; if anything, they stayed in the front of my vision like a bad nightmare and haunted me daily. Business was good, and I drowned myself in the lot and its numerous chores. July crept into August and that slowly bled into September with the heat at its peak. The numerous strawberry festivals were a hit, and it cleared the entire lot; another great season for the Sallree’s.

November was our down time and we wasted no time enjoying it to our fullest, but as the end of the month came to a close, a sense of dread crept into my mind like a slinking snake in the hen house at midnight. The last day of the month when the family and I were on our vacation, I got a call from my brother Ricky saying that Kalen had been killed in the same spot as his son, in the same manner. I didn’t know whether to grieve or jump for joy at his passing. As I stated earlier, Kalen had gone downhill like a rocket with all engines on full-boar. I figured the booze would get him in the end, but something else did. I finally made the decision to end the vacation and head home.

I was not thrilled to know that I would have to spend another one of my days with Randy again, going over the same ole’ shit. When I first saw Emma, she seemed distant, but as we talked while making Kalen’s funeral arrangements, I noticed in her a change. It was like a heavy weight was lifted from her, and despite her grief, I was sure she was screaming for joy on the inside. Kalen’s funeral came and went, and two weeks later Emma and the girls moved away to Georgia; we haven’t heard from her since. God bless them all the well wishes I can muster at this time. We have a way of forgetting things best left forgotten in the South. It is if by magic that we can block things out or tell ourselves to dump the information and hit the magical delete button. Kalen fell into this category, and it wasn’t until today, as I sit and write all this down, that I remembered him and his foulness. I am sure I will forget him again when I finish writing; some things are best left forgotten, even if tied together by blood.

Ole’ Saint Nick came to the house on schedule, and the kids were happy - we all were, despite the previous year. Fall crept into winter’s cold bitter face and we were back in full swing again with the lot. That sense of dread made itself know to me in the middle of the month. Instinctively I called Randy and told him of my concerns. I began to trust my instincts a little more since my forebodings before the last murder, but January came and went with no incident.

I began to relax again and thought maybe the crazed lunatic had moved on and found better killing fields. The whole ordeal became personal in the last week of February. I found my own brother in the main office, torn to shreds in his chair. His throat was ripped wide open and his arms were barely clinging to his torso. His legs were detached and thrown in opposite corners of the room like a dog's familiar toys. It was too much for me this time. I fought against insanity and nearly lost the battle; I only pulled through because my wife was with me when I found Ricky, and she brought me back to the sane world.

The whole ordeal with Ricky, his funeral, and his family was like a surreal dream. I was just moving through the motions, and I finally talked with Randy after three weeks. I figured it was time to call the Feds in on the job. It would only be a matter of time anyway till they found out. I gave Randy the go-ahead if he wanted to get them involved. I had to have a talk with Gram sooner or later about the entire goings-on; we had it that night after I talked with Randy.

I said it earlier and I will repeat myself again. Gram, Irene May Plankett Sellrees, now one hundred and one, widowed, and in her last days, was from a different time. She married young - like they all did back then - to a Mr. Joseph Earl Sellrees from Carson. Times were hard during those years, but after a meager inheritance after the passing of Joseph’s dad, they had enough to buy a small five acre plot.

They wanted to try their hand at raising strawberries and they both dived in head first. Their toils were hard, and hearing gram, I realized I was lucky to even be here on this earth. Many times they almost closed the lot down and move on in life; the Depression was especially hard on them. The droughts of thirty-six and thirty-seven were also trying times for the two, but it didn’t stop them from bearing offspring.

During those years, Gram had three sons and one daughter. Gretchen died at the early age of three to pneumonia and sent everyone in the house into a severe depression. They persevered though, as we Sellrees always do, and after a few years, things were a bit easier, but Gretch never left Gram’s mind. I remember Gram telling me about her when I was in my early years. She always told me I reminded her of Gretch with my mannerisms and good behavior, but most of all my stubbornness and perseverance. I took pride in that during those years and always enjoyed my talks and play time with Gram.

Joseph had fallen to the same thing which killed lil’ Gretch in fifty-five. This left Gram and her three sons, Gary, Benjamin, and Luke. The latter was my father, whose ticker stop ticking on a ride to town at daybreak one early Monday morning in eighty-five. Gary and Benjamin were taken by Korea and Vietnam - both senseless wars in my eyes. I only know my uncles from pictures, and I feel cheated in a way for not having the chance to know them.

I was eighteen when dad died, and I took over the family business in the lot, staying here ever since. The loss of all her kids changed Gram. She was always stern, quick to discipline, and didn't have a lazy ounce in her soul, but after the loss of her last son, she became like acid. She never ventured out of her house, and it was I who took care of her. Finally, in ninety, I made the decision to move her into the house.

She rarely spoke when she first moved in, and it only got worse as the years wore on. Sally, my wife, God bless her, was the only one who could tend to her without going batty. My wife deserves a gold medal. No amount of thank-yous or gifts can show the appreciation I feel for her. It was true: Gram was growing senile in her old age. The gremlins stole her memories in the night and she was getting light in the upstairs department, as some say down in the South.

I loved her just the same though - no memory, diapers, acid, and all. I thought of all these things as I talked with her about the past years' events. As I spoke to her, she stared blankly out the window with her shawl pulled tight over her left side. I broke down in front of her and she gave me the firm, right hand held high, which meant in simple terms to suck it up and move on. I told her my fears of the killings making it out to the outside world, and then the outside world getting in to us. She mouthed something unintelligible; she had no teeth now, and her dentures were evidently lying somewhere on her dresser like a trophy. I recognized its tone and meaning to be the same as her hand gesture. Seeing that I was getting nowhere with her, I bid her goodnight and had fretful dreams.

Randy didn’t call the Feds. I guess I was grateful that he didn't. Things would be in far worse shape now if he had. He could tell this was wearing on my nerves, and he called or came by to visit me at the lot at least once a week. But life wouldn't sit still for me to wallow in grief or in worry about the past year. In fact, business started early, and it showed signs in increasing by thirty percent. After seeing this, I made a nice little negotiation near the south section for an additional hundred acres to accommodate the new business.

I hired new hands and promoted some to new positions. They all did above and beyond their expected labor. I was pleased. The summer had gone and business did increase - only it was forty-five percent instead of the projected thirty. My mind eased a great deal when the summer was over and no dead body was found in our lot. I was thinking maybe this time the madman had given up for good.

Fall began like all the other Falls in the South. There wasn’t a drastic change in the leaves like they have in the northern states. It’s a subtle change that you almost miss if you aren’t watching carefully. Its only warning is the leaves falling from the oaks that permeate the South the way flies cover shit. We have several different kinds - white, red, water, and a ton more, but they all start losing their leaves together. We have some maples, but none in great abundance; they change but it only lasts a day, and you usually miss it since your mind is elsewhere on different things. The temperature changes, but it’s subtle as well, and before you realize it Thanksgiving is upon you. Then you fret because Christmas is right around the corner, and that means winter is just a skip throw away. The cool air arrives around a week before Thanksgiving.

This year, that week was unseasonably cold: a frost-born thirty-one. The silvery dew drops on the field looked like diamonds when the sun rose and cast its glow over the lot. The serenity of the scene was gone when I spotted Randy’s car midway down the go-between of the east and west lanes of the lot. Its red and blue lights were on, and the driver-side door open. I scanned the area for Randy, but he was nowhere in sight. The exhaust from the running car rising into the air reminded me of a sleeping dragon with a steady stream of smoke billowing from its nostrils. I called out for him but got no reply. I made my way over to his car. Halfway there I noticed the windshield was busted as if a large rock had been thrown dead center. It hadn’t fallen apart yet, but looked as if it would fall with even just the slightest breeze. As I got closer, I could pick out tiny red spots here and there. Also, there was a large dent in the driver-side door that stood open like a carnival ride car, inviting anyone in to take a ride. When I finally approached, my mind began backpedaling, trying not to fall into mucks of fright. I called out again and got no reply.

As I made my way around to the back of the car my mind reeled, and I fought back panic with an iron will. I rounded the corner of Randy’s patrol car, and there he was on the ground - only his head was missing from his shoulders. He was propped up against the bumper, arms loosely down by his side with his legs spread out in a V, and in his crotch was his head. It stared up into the sky with mouth wide open and eyes terrified. His whole body was in a large pool of blood that had collected in the moist earth. I called the sheriff’s office immediately and told them of the scene.

Jeffrey Gossern arrived thirty minutes later along with the meat wagon to collect its victim. Jeffrey was a newcomer to law enforcement. His short, stubby frame seemed to be in a race with his face two see which could get the biggest the quickest. Too many doughnuts at Daria’s Café was my immediate thought, and yes, don’t let them lie to you: all cops eat doughnuts; if they tell you otherwise, its pure bullshit.

There was more endless banter like all the other times, and I could tell Jeffrey was in over his head. I played the dummy, answered all the questions, and gave my concerns like before. I had to hand him a bit to get him going, and I finally convinced him to leave it up to the locals and not to call the Feds quite yet. I made up some lie and proved my reasoning the best I knew how. He bought it hook, line, and sinker.

That Thanksgiving I insisted my wife and children go enjoy the holiday with her parents in Mobile and try to forget about all this for a while if she could. She didn’t argue about going but only wished I would come along. The business needed me...well not really, but I lead her to believe so. Sally usually knew when I was fibbing, but this time if she did know, she said nothing nor hinted around that she knew I was lying. Besides, I had Gram to take care of, and trying to take her out of the house much less out of state would be like wrestling a wolverine with rabies. So off they went. Sally decided to stay two extra weeks if that was ok with me. I gave her my blessing and kissed the kids before they drove off. As I waved goodbye to them, I didn’t know that I would be a changed man upon their return in December.

I also took it upon myself to do my own investigating on our lot. Who knew the lot better than me? Thanksgiving Day came and went like any other. It was quiet, just me and Gram. I made no big dinner and had only takeout from the local all-you-can-eat buffet joint. I began my investigating that night. I began on the Internet, studying serial killers, their habits, and motives. I was sure we had one, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. I traced back through all of our records to see if it could have been an irate customer or disgruntled former employee. However, none jumped off the page at me, no red flags waving. This took me nearly a week to look through everything, since our records are long and extensive.

December came and Jeffrey paid me a visit on the second. He was polite, asked where the family was and how I was holding up with them gone. He even asked about Gram. Everyone in the town knew Gram and knew I was taking care of her. I can only imagine the gossip spread about that. After my searches proved naught, I went back home and was settling in after feeding Gram and reading the paper. Sleep seemed elusive as my mind methodically went over each killing in our lot – when it happened, how it was done, and what possible reason why. I procured myself a small notepad similar to one I am writing in now and jotted down ideas and odd notes for myself to check on the next day.

I looked up at the clock and was amazed that it was after midnight. The night was bitter cold, and I got up and was placing some logs on the fire when a sudden loud noise made me drop the wood. It came from the back of the house, towards Gram’s room. Could the psycho be after her? I stopped and listened, thinking maybe something had just fallen off a shelf. The house was silent. My heart was beating like a huge mallet in my chest. I stood there frozen, waiting for some noise so I could spring into action. After another minute, laughter erupted in the house from Gram’s room - only this wasn’t really laughter; it was maniacal yelps. At first I didn’t think it was Gram. No human could make a sound like that, but at that instant it changed pitch. It became throaty with phlegm in its timber.

Realizing it really was her, I made my way back to her room, thinking what a great time this was for her to have an episode. I knocked on the door and asked if she was alright, knocked again when she didn’t answer. More laughter erupted from the small room. I turned the knob slowly and cracked the door. There Gram sat, shawl over the left side of her body, and her head thrust straight up at the ceiling; she was laughing madly.

I eased my way into her room, trying not to startle her. She paid me no mind and continued on. I let her know I was in the room and made my way over to her night table. I poured her a glass of water and turned around. When my eyes fell on her, she was staring at me, mouth agape with a thin line of spittle running down onto her chin, then falling in a thin strand that collected on her lap. Her eyes were crazed. They had an almost gleeful look about them. She started laughing again, and spit flew in all directions. I realized that I had forgotten to grab her night pill and turned back around, fiddling with the childproof top. I then collected not the prescribed one, but two for this night.

I put the pill bottle back on her table, and my eye caught something wet on the floor. I followed the trail, which could only be piss, to Gram’s shawl, which lay on the floor like a styled pudding. My eyes went up, and there Gram was squatting in her chair. My mind reeled at what I saw. From out of her left shoulder was a black, shell-like thing. It was long and slender but was hinged at her waist level. The lower portion of it was in the shape of scythe, only it was serrated and I could tell it was sharp. It swung loosely in the air.

The laughing started again, higher in pitch, and escalated to a squeal. The glass fell from my hand and shattered on the floor, spilling its contents and mixing with the urine. Gram sprang from her chair with the quickness of a grasshopper combined with the elegance of a cat. She rested herself against the window with her scythe digging into the curtain rod. She sprang again, leaping over me and laughing like mad. She darted around the room at great speed, and it took all my alertness to follow her quick movements. Gram landed on the bed behind me. I turned, and she swiped at me with her alien appendage and screamed, “Yuh tuun Yuh tuun,” as spittle flew in gobs from her toothless mouth. I tried to back up, but she wouldn’t have it. She leaped again in front of the door blocking my escape. She hit me hard with the scythe with a strength that felt like it was from another world. I saw the room fly by as I was knocked off my feet onto the bed.

Laughing filled the small room. “Yuh tuun, Yuh tuun” she screamed again. My mind reeled at the revelation. Gram was the maniac killer. Horror played my nerves like a harp as I fought with reality. In an instant she was on me. Her strength was of ten men, and she pinned me with ease. Shock consumed my mind and body, and I lay limp on the bed with what was at the same time my Gram and something else.

Hypnotically, she moved her appendage in front of me. She was graceful as a ballerina with the new horror that replaced her left arm. I waited for the death blow. It never came. I watched as a tiny hole appeared at the end of the thing. She impaled my left shoulder and gave out a loud, wailing cry as her body convulsed. My whole left side erupted in unearthly pain. What felt like liquid fire was being pumped into my body as she convulsed. I felt the tip leave my body, but the pain only worsened. I curled up in pain and squirmed on the bed wanting it to stop, praying for mercy.

I saw Gram slowly make her way back to her chair. It seemed to me that the appendage had gotten smaller, but I was sure it was my eyes deceiving me through the pain. I sat up and then staggered in agony, holding my left side. It was still on fire and didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. She slowly sat down; all hysterical laugher had left her. She was my Gram once more. A coughing spell racked her frail body and blood flew from her lips onto the floor. She looked at me pitifully and said. “You’ll change when you know, Scotty. You will change when you know.” Those were Gram’s last words on this earth.

A stronger coughed erupted from her chest followed by a mouth full of blood that sprayed out over her nightgown and onto the floor. She fell out of her chair onto the floor with a thud and ceased moving. I stood in amazement as the black, alien appendage slowly transformed back into her arm and hand. My pain had begun to abate a little now. I slowly left her room, still holding my left side.

I made my way to the kitchen, opened the cabinet above the fridge, and found the whiskey bottle in the back that I stashed there and only visited when in dire need; this time warranted such an occasion. The lid came off with ease and I turned the bottle straight up and swallowed several times. I slid into one of the kitchen chairs, bottle still in hand.

To my mind's disbelief, everything started to clear, as if dust was being washed away by some invisible force. I knew things now, and the new knowledge darted in front of my eyes like a runaway projector. All of sudden I saw Karl in one of his sisters' rooms. I saw him pull back her sheets and lower her panties. He then started to masturbate as his other hand slowly slid up her seven-year-old thigh. I also saw her face. She was awake and tears fell from her fear-stricken eyes. The scene shifted to Gene as he sat in front of a computer screen which had cards all laid out in row. I could tell it was a poker website, but it was only when he placed a new bet that it become clear to me.

He withdrew from the family bank account. How he hid it from us is still a mystery, but I will find out some day. What was so alarming was that it showed his total withdrawal from that evening, a stellar fifteen thousand dollars. Some great friend, eh? The scene shifted again, this time to Kalen; it showed him in his room with his daughter, Beth, who was the oldest at fifteen. It showed them fighting, Beth screaming until Kalen pulled a pistol from the back of his pants and put it up to her head. She slowly knelt, unzipped his fly, and unbuttoned pants; they fell from his waist into a bunch around his knees. Tears ran down her cheeks as her mouth opened and he inserted his manhood.

The scene shifted again, and I saw my brother, Ricky, sitting at a computer. On the screen was some lady one step away from trash with enough makeup on to layer a birthday cake. He had his headset on and was talking to her; he produced a tiny box from his drawer and opened it for her. The box held a huge diamond ring along with a certified check for twenty thousand dollars. I sat dumbfounded as the show unfolded in my brain.

The vision blurred again and coalesced into Randy he was also busy typing away at a computer, too, while stacks of papers and pictures were cluttered about him - pictures that I knew all too well. He hit a key and the screen came into focus.

The title read: The Sallree Killings. The vision moved to the left to an envelope which was addressed to the New York Times. There was a long blankness of space and time in my mind. I thought the visions were over, but they materialized again for me one last time. When everything cleared I saw Jeffrey going through Randy’s things in his desk. He found the sealed envelope. He opened it, read the cover letter, and then inserted the CD into the computer.

I watched him read the entire report, sometimes skipping over things, sometimes rereading things. When he finished reading, he tilted back in his chair as if in thought. He got up out of his chair and returned shortly with new pictures and papers.

The start read: “The Killings Continue at the Sellree’s Lot.” My mind went blank, and a strange feeling began in my left side. A new sense overcame me - one of animal instinct, brutal in feeling, careless in emotion, but protective in nature.

I still sit here; whether you believe it all or not is up to you. Only now on my left side is this alien shell which has replaced my arm. Jeffrey’s days are limited. I will protect my own. He will pay. I only hope and pray it changes back before Sally and the kids arrive home in two days. Now where is Jeffrey’s cell phone number? We must have a talk!