This is a harsh memory I am writing right now, but reaching my thirtieth years-old and about to have my first child, I need to get it out of my heart.
I was a kid, around ten, living in a rural town and on top of that in a house far from it. I remember well my parents, especially my mother. She was a loving mother, dedicated to my happiness. Maybe she was because I didn’t have so much friends, given the distance with the neighbors it was not a surprise.
About my father, I remember above all how tall and brawny he was. A strong man, determined, from whom I was quite intimidated. His main rule was that I should never go to the basement, and as I am thinking about it, I should have obeyed.
As I said, I didn’t have many friends, but I had the chance to see other people since my parents were renting a room in our house. The room had been well-furnished by my mother and could easily welcome a family of four people. They were often two though, older persons spending some time in our lovely countryside.
My mother was cooking for them and my father making sure, on top of his work, that everything was going well. On the weekend he would even take them for a walk in a close wood which was hiding a marvelous lake.
I was young and didn’t pay attention to small details, including the fact that the tourists were always leaving our house in the middle of the night or very early in the morning. I never asked a question neither, except once, just before eventually entering this forbidden basement.
During that summer, for a weak, my parents welcomed the Renton family, two parents and their daughter, same age as me. I was always happy when a kid my age was there, it meant a new friend, the end of loneliness for a brief period of time.
Her name was Sarah and I spent the most fun weak of my childhood. I remember her to be very brave, fearless, as we were climbing trees, jumping into the lake, starting fires, or messing around in the barn. For sure it had not been a good weak for my mother as I went back home with dirty clothes every evening.
Sarah’s parents were so different. They looked sad, even depressed. I got a few bits of information during the evening meals, when Sarah would leave the table to go to the bathroom or outside on the porch. Her parents were complaining about her, apparently she was hyperactive, sometimes violent.
I don’t remember her that bad. Hyperactive, maybe, but I followed her with enthusiasm in all her crazy ideas. Was I hyperactive too? Anyway, my parents were discussing a lot about it with them, giving them advice, trying to make them understand she was their little daughter, that she would certainly get calmer as she grew older.
One morning, I woke up, the daylight was intense through the window and I rushed downstairs for the breakfast. As I was worrying about, they were left, no more crazy games with my friend, with Sarah. If it had been only that I would just have kept going with life, waiting for the next fleeting friend. But my mother was crying, crying a way I never saw her. When she heard me, she took me in her arms and kissed me on the forehead.
“I could never do that…”
I looked her in the eyes and even from my young age, I understood something happened to Sarah. After a shortened breakfast, I went outside, their car was gone, the one of my father too. I spent an hour turning around the house, just sad, just bored, still wondering why my mother had been crying, why she said this.
Then, I felt the urge to break the rule, Sarah would have done the same. I sneaked into my own house, listening carefully until I was sure my mother was upstairs, away from the entrance and the basemen’s door. I pulled a chair to the key box hanged next to the main door, opened it, and grabbed the key to the basement.
Here I was, the key in my right hand, the lock in front of me, and a forbidden world just behind, waiting to be explored. I put the key into the lock and turned, hearing the door unlocking. Still with doubt, I pulled on the handle and went downstairs, in the dark.
I found the switch to turn on the light only once downstairs. Everything looked clean, at its place. There were a lot of tools, some I could not even find a utility to. There was also a big freezer and many cabinets.
At the end of the basement, there was another door. I came close and grabbed the handle, there was no lock on it. The room had its own light and inside I saw a metallic long table, a sink, and another freezer. Everything looked very clean too but I could feel something strange emanating from this room.
I don’t know why but I came to the freezer and opened it. Inside, there were several black plastic bags. I opened one, the bigger, the size of a soccer ball…
…
It is hard for me to write this, it calls very bad memories I tried to forget during all those years…
I saw Sarah’s head, her eyes still opened, her skin having a tint of blue. I dropped the bag and closed the freezer in a hurry. When I turned to leave the room and the basement, my father was there.
“I told you to never come here!” He said with a loud and angry voice, a voice terrifying me.
“What happened to her?” I asked, shouting and crying, already traumatized by what I had just seen.
“I can’t explain it to you. You should not have come here.”
“Why is she in the freezer..?” I asked again, more crying than shouting, about to fall on my knees.
“You will never speak about it again, never. Do you understand me?”
“What happened to Sarah?..”
“Do you understand me?” My father said, unfastening his leather belt.
“No, please…” I begged him. He had used it once and it had been painful.
“I’ll ask it one last time. Do you understand?”
I took a deep breath, swallowing my snot, before telling him that yes, I had understood, I had understood I should never speak about it. Wise answer because he didn’t beat me with his belt, at least not that day and not for this.
This is the first time I speak about it and it had been twenty years ago. I can still see my father’s face, the rage but also the fear in his eyes. Something bad, very bad had happened in that basement.
The following years, I sometimes managed to wake up when the tourists were leaving. Two times, I was sure they left with one person less than when they arrived. What was the work of my dad? What kind of service was he offering to them?
I left home the day following my eighteeth birthday, too happy to leave this madness behind me. I only came back a few years ago, my mother called me to tell me my father had died. It had been a sudden death, a heart failure. I agreed to came to his funeral, there was nobody except for me and my mother. It was also the first time I was seeing her in years.
Of course I went alone, officially my parents were already dead for my girlfriend. I drove my mother to her house and was staying there for the night too. Once the car parked, the view of the house reminded me of Sarah. I could see both of us playing around, having so much innocent fun. But it reminded me of the basement too, this gloomy place.
I entered into the house after my mother and looked for the key in the box.
“You don’t need a key anymore, your father had stopped the year after you left.”
“Why?”
“He hoped you would come back and wanted to show you he had changed. He was sad and angry, he felt guilty to have in a way ruined your childhood.”
“But why was he doing this?”
“He loved you, he loved both us, but you know how violent he could be when angry. It was his way to expel and to turn it into money. He was… offering people unusual solutions to their problems.”
“…”
“Sometimes, you can wonder if your life would be easier without a child, a parent, a friend… Your dad was offering them a way to achieve this.”
“He was paid to murder?”
“He murdered no one, the decision had always been from the relatives, but he had the guts to do what had to be done.”
“So he killed Sarah for her parents?”
“Yes. We tried to convince them to not ask for it, but they couldn’t stand her anymore. She was not what they had expected and our offer was a relief for them.”
“How much?”
“A lot. But your father never offered his service again for parents, it was a burden which eventually killed his heart.
“And the police never suspected you?”
“You know how your father was organized. Never did he leave a trace behind him, never, and it was before social networks and the Internet.”
“What is in the basement now?”
“It’s empty except for old furnitures and stuff I should give or sell. If you expect to find something, you will not.”
“I don’t know how to react, I can’t stay, sorry mom.”
“I’m sorry son. We should have done it elsewhere.”
“You should NOT have done it!” Did I shout, storming out.
Now you know the story. My mom is still alive but I can only get her on the phone a few times a year. This is too much for me to come back to this place. You will say that I could tell the police about what my parents had done, but does it matter anyway? My dad is already dead, Sarah had been for a long time, I just hope her parents never had another kid.
I feel better now, delivered, ready to have my first child. I will never forget Sarah nor what my parents did, but I know I can do better myself, I have to.