Tales of the Blood Moon

Family Dynamics

A young, pretty brunette with a terrible haircut enters the shop,drops really nice jewelry on my counter and asks to use my phone. Under normal circumstances I'd be suspicious, but I have too much onmy mind already. I reach under the counter, pull out my phone andphone book, place them both on the counter in front of her and staredown at the jewelry. She makes reservations (for Paris, no less)and, when she hangs up, I shoot her a number for the jewelry. Shedoesn't bother to haggle, so I just hand her the cash and a claimticket and watch her hurry away.

I haven't seen my son, Zach, in awhile, so I walk out from behind thecounter, put a sign on the door indicating I'll return in an hour andhead upstairs. My father bought this building years ago, when theneighborhood looked much better than it does now, and he fullyintended to only live in the apartment above the store for a fewyears. Contrary to his expectations, he lived there from the day hebought this place until the day he died. My mother abandoned him andme when I was only six, but dad and I made a go of things. When Ifoolishly got pregnant at seventeen, my father was always there forme and my son. Unfortunately, at some point during his mid-teenyears, Zach became hooked on heroin. By that time, a lifetime ofsmoking cigars caused my dad to get cancer, and I was so busy tryingto take care of him, Zach and the shop, that Zach and I drifted evenfurther apart. On his deathbed, my father made me swear I'd get Zachclean, but I've yet to keep my word.

My ring tone snaps me to attention and I pull my phone out of mypocket. The number belongs to my best friend, Alyson. She and Idon't really talk as much as we used to, especially since our liveshave taken very different paths since high school. I continuedworking at the shop and raising my son, while she went to college,got a job as a teacher at a fancy private school and married somebusiness executive. I don't begrudge her anything, but I'm notreally in the mood for any of her so-called "problems". I haveenough real trouble to deal with, so I let her call go to voice-mail. Inhaling deeply at the door to my son's bedroom, I knock and ask ifhe's okay. He barks at me to leave him alone. I back away from thedoor and consider making myself a sandwich and pretending thateverything is okay but, in the end, I wind up going to my bedroom,sitting on the edge of my bed and crying...again.

Almost an hour passes and I prepare to head downstairs when I hear aloud sound from my son's room. I walk cautiously to his door. Wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I knock gently on the door and ask ifhe's okay. When I don't hear a reply, I slowly open the door. Zachis face-up on the floor, his eyes wide and glassy. A trail offoaming drool slides down his cheek onto the fading carpet. Istumble backward into the hallway until my back hits a wall. I slidedown the wall, clawing at my face and screaming my denial. I can'tclose my eyes and yet I can't stand to see Zach this way. I can'taccept he might be dead already and yet I can't bring myself to gocheck for a pulse or even call an ambulance.

For a moment it's inexplicably cold. Zach twitches. I crawl acrossthe floor toward him, but before I can reach him, he suddenly shootsstraight to his feet. He doesn't stand up, so much as simply rise,like a board being pulled up by one end. Confusion leaves me frozenas he spins to face me. While his eyes are often bloodshot, even hisonce-brown irises are now deep red. He regards me as if I'm astranger and walks aggressively toward me, arms extended. I scramblebackward against the wall and curl into a ball, screaming andbegging. He reaches down for me, placing one hand on the back of myhead, with the other under my chin. Even though he is rail-thin, heeffortlessly snatches me to my feet and begins leading me by my headtoward the door to our apartment, which somehow opens by itself.

Despite all my screaming and fighting, he drags me down the stairsinto the shop, then through the door in the backroom that leads tothe basement. As we descend into the basement, I can see it isvastly different from how it normally appears. The walls, usuallyblocked by dusty boxes filled with forgotten items that never sold,are now lined with dozens of aquariums and terrariums, filled withfish, mice, rabbits and turtles. More ominous is the lone fish tank,sitting atop a rusty card table in the middle of the basement floor,underneath an exposed , flickering light bulb attached to the ceilingby only a cord. Within the tank, several silver fish with redbellies, underslung jaws and red eyes, charge through the water,their excitement rising the closer we get. I can see, reflected inthe side of the tank, that no longer is it my son who holds me. I amwithin the grasp of a being so tall its head almost touches theceiling and its clothing is nothing more than a swirling mass ofdarkness, within which red eyes and mouths full of sharp teeth, fadein and out of existence. Its head is a mess of bruises, cuts andsores, while a bandage, stained with blood, is wound tightly around,covering both eyes. Its lower jaw, which sticks out farther than itsupper jaw, carries a row of serrated teeth. It drags me to the tankand forces my head toward the surface. The hungry fish inside thetank practically leap from the water to get at me while I grip thetorn, vinyl tabletop and try to resist.

"Cindy!" I hear a man shout from behind us, surprising the hellout of me and causing the thing to release me. I drop to the floorand scurry under the table before turning around to see an old man,perhaps in his eighties, at the foot of the basement steps holding achain with a glowing locket of some kind attached. I didn't hear himcome in, but I was screaming pretty loudly all the way down here, soI guess it's entirely possible he broke in and I didn't hear it. Themonster that had a hold of me shrinks, transforming into abrown-haired girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old.

"I knew it was you," the old man says. "I'd heard so manystories and..." he trails off for a moment before a flood of wordspours from him. "I just knew it was you. It took years of work tofind you, but I'm here to tell you that you can stop now. I'm sosorry for everything that happened. When I first met your mother, Ithought she was just eccentric, you know? It wasn't until yearslater - after you were born - that I realized she was much worse offthan that. The mood swings, the anger, the violence..." his headdrops as his words fade. "I couldn't stand to be with her anymoreand I thought if I left her the pet store, she'd have something todistract her. I never thought she'd hurt you...not like that."

He raises his head to look at the girl, a mournful smile etched onhis face. He walks toward her, arms extended, and she walks to him. His arms are almost around her before she's suddenly the tall monsteragain. The thing grabs him, one hand behind the head and the otherunder his chin.

"Cindy! God, no!" he pleads through clenched teeth. "It wasyour mother! I was terrified of her!"

The thing replies in a deep, gargling hiss, "So was I," beforeopening wide its terrible maw.

I close my eyes so I won't have to see it, but the sound of a scream,cut short by a deafening crunch, followed by the thud of somethingheavy hitting the floor, tells me all I need to know. I keep my eyesclosed for awhile and, when I finally summon the courage to openthem, the brown-haired girl is only inches from my nose, looking atme curiously. I'm about to scream when she speaks.

"He still wants you to be his mom," she says. "I can see whathe's seen and I can tell you love him a lot. He knows he's made amess, and he knows you've got your own stuff, but he's waiting foryou to make a change and save him." She looks away and whisperssoftly, "I waited for the same thing."

I'm so touched by her words and the pain in her eyes that, despite mybetter judgment, my maternal instinct compels me to crawl out fromunder the table and reach out to hug her. She flinches backward awayfrom me, wincing and covering her face. That this little girl stillthinks the only way a woman will reach out to her is to strike herleaves me feeling heartbroken (and extremely pissed at her mom).

Sheepishly, she regains her composure, rises to her feet and asks,"Promise me you'll save him?"

I can only stand and nod mutely as she smiles at me and sayswistfully, "You're really nice. I wish you had been my mom." The smile is not one of joy, but the resigned smile of a lost littlegirl who has finally found what she's always been looking for, onlyto realize she'd be wrong to try and keep it.

She grows, transforming back into my son. After a moment ofstillness, a sudden flash of light bursts from his eyes and mouth,followed by a cold wind. I close my eyes and turn my head,temporarily blinded and stunned by what's happened. When I open myeyes again, the basement has returned to normal (with the exceptionof the old man still sprawled on the floor, missing the entire fronthalf of his head) and my son is just standing there, completelyconfused. Before he can say a word, I wrap both my arms around himand squeeze tightly. I can't find any words and, to be honest, I'mnot really trying. The only thing I can do is think about how, afterI gain the strength to let go of my son, I'm going to his room anddestroying every drug I find. He's going to rehab after that,although whether he goes with my foot up his ass or without isentirely his choice. I'm going to save my son, not only because Ilove him, but because I made a promise to two very special peoplethat I intend to keep.