I drive slowly down Tully Street, moving inch by inch, carefully ensuring no one notices my presence. The last house on the corner remarkably still stands, though its foundational cracks have caused it to lean severely to the left. Or perhaps, it’s telling you to return from where you came. Maybe, it’s doing both, awaiting the day for local officials to finally put it out of its misery. I open the front door and step inside the foyer, feeling the memories of my childhood flood my brain.
I used to live here.
My father moved us into the white craftsman in the summer of 1981, shortly after my eighth birthday. He told others he found a cushier job in a sleepy suburb outside Houston, Texas. This was true, but not the sole reason for the move. Our family doctor recommended a quieter environment for my mother, who had suffered a nervous breakdown the year before.
Even before the breakdown, I knew there was something off about my mother. She was never affectionate with us and just seemed to go through the motions to get through the day. Her condition deteriorated after my youngest sister, Nell, was born, and one day she was pulled over while driving on the wrong side of the road. Baby Nell was in the front seat.
The move seemed to help for a while, as my mom’s outbursts recurred less and less. I step into the living room and see the green Davenport couch she frequented decaying under the smudged bay windows. My mom would lounge there all day while our nanny Nancy cared for us, drinking stale coffee and chainsmoking Parliaments. I remember one day playing hide and seek with my brother Billy and stumbling on my mother during her “quiet time.” I glanced up to see the sun’s shadow covering her face, and when she leaned in to look at me, I saw nothing but pure terror on her face. It was like someone had told her the worst news of her life. Like she knew something I didn’t. I bolted out of the room with my heart racing, never forgetting how scared she looked.
It’s my most vivid memory of her.
I move into the dining room next and am surprised to see the long oak trestle table where my father insisted on eating every night. Our dinners were made mainly by Nancy, who often ate with us. They were usually muted, with my father mostly trying to engage my mother in conversation. Sometimes, he would overdo things and send my mother into one of her fits. They would leave the room, and we would pick at our plates and listen to muffled arguing. My parents would return as if nothing had happened, my mother seeming to have been calmed by either my father or a valium.
Growing up, most sons idolize their fathers. I was no different. My father was tall, with a burly build, and loved lifting us into the air when he returned from work. But while he looked like a lumberjack, he was really a research chemist with ExxonMobil. He reminded me of “The Beast” from my old X-Men comics, strong in stature but with a brilliant mind. He was the complete opposite of my mother, and I wanted to be just like him.
I walk around the corner to the bedroom where my little brother Billy and I slept. The beds are gone, but the bedside table we shared is still there. Shortly after we moved in, my brother and I would hear strange noises from under our beds. It sounded like scratching or cutting, almost like something was trying to cut a hole in our room from below. We’d scream for our father, who would come running to soothe our fears.
“There are no monsters under your bed,” he would say, stomping on our bedroom floor. The scratching would immediately stop.
But one week, the scratching continued incessantly, followed by bangs and muffled whispers. We called for my father, claiming the monster was back. I remember my father coming in and looking almost nervous when he heard the noises. He returned with a plastic bottle of clear liquid and his drill. He drilled a small hole in the ground, and the scratching became more frantic.
“That’s strange,” he said. “Looks like we do have a monster, albeit it sounds like a small one.” My brother and I peered from under the covers with curiosity. “Luckily, I brought some Holy Water blessed by Jesus himself. Watch this.” He poured the liquid carefully into the hole he drilled, and my brother and I heard the monster quietly howling in pain before there was silence. My father then shifted the table back over the small hole.
“Now, Nathan,” he turned to look at me. “Since you are the oldest, you get to be the keeper of the water. Be VERY careful, as it could hurt your skin. Use it if another monster comes back, and DON’T tell your mother.”
Billy and I did Scout’s honor and swore to secrecy. My father placed the Holy Water into the drawers and tiptoed back to bed. I slide the bedside table over and see the hole my father had drilled years ago. It looks back at me with a pitch-black stare.
Billy and I only heard another monster almost a year later. We followed our father’s instructions, even wearing gloves, as he taught us to be careful with liquids with funny smells. Sometimes I wonder….
I retreat to the kitchen where our Nanny Nancy would be, cleaning, cooking dinner, or sorting my mother’s medication. Nancy was a young graduate student in chemistry, and my father was sort of like a mentor to her. I knew there was something odd about their relationship.
My father spent most of his time caring for my mother, but he actually seemed to enjoy spending time with Nancy. They were cozier together, and even now, I think they would have been the perfect couple.
My eyes turn to the shed, where my father would play with his tools. I force the stubborn kitchen screen door open and wade through the uncut grass. One day, my father called for my brother and me to join him in the shed for a project. He had found some animal bones while walking in the nearby woods and wanted to experiment with them.
“Since I want my sons to be scientists, I want to show you how powerful some chemicals can be.” He poured a tub of hydrofluoric acid and placed the animal bones in a glass jar. “Now I want you boys to come back tomorrow and write down what you see, ok?” Billy and I nodded, excited to help our dad. We watched in amazement as the acid dissolved the bones over time and documented everything. Sometimes my dad would find new bones and supervise us as we got to pour the acid ourselves. I was so happy at how much he trusted us.
I leave the shed and walk back into the house, listening to the sound of the wind rattle the creaky floorboards. My ears dart to the door next to the guest bathroom, dusty and dripping with cobwebs. The entrance leads down to the basement, and I can feel my heart beating in my chest. My body clearly remembers this place, though I do not. I hesitate to go in but open the door, where I am greeted by a rotten staircase leading to darkness.
This is where it happened.
Around two years after we moved to Tully Street, I was up late at night reading a book under the covers with a flashlight, careful not to make a sound. Nancy’s car was still here, which wasn’t totally unusual since she sometimes stayed late while my dad helped her with coursework. But rarely did she ever stay past midnight. I could hear them shuffling around in the basement, where my dad kept his chemistry set. We weren’t allowed to be there, as my dad did not want us to break the expensive equipment.
But that night, I broke the rule.
I was almost finished with The Hobbit when I was startled by several loud bangs and a scream. They sounded almost like firecrackers, but I could tell they were different. Two more cracks followed, and then another one. Nell began to cry from her room.
I hopped off the bed while Billy rubbed his eyes, “Nathan, what was that?” he said groggily. I told him to stay in bed and rushed to the basement, but what happened next was a blur. I remember seeing blood on the floor and walls, so I went back to the kitchen and instinctively called 911.
The police arrived minutes later and escorted my siblings and me out of the house. We sat in a room and played with toys for a while, then slept on uncomfortable beds at the police station. None of us really knew what was going on.
My father’s brother, Uncle Charlie, arrived with my Aunt Karen and took us to their home in Dallas. We lived with them for the rest of our childhoods, sheltered from the events of that night. Hell, Nell thought Uncle Charlie and Aunt Karen were her real parents until she started grade school.
When I turned thirteen, Uncle Charlie and Aunt Karen sat me down in the kitchen, saying I was old enough to learn the truth. Nancy and my father were having an affair. My mom, in a manic episode, shot them both dead before killing herself. I was the one who discovered their bodies, even though I don’t remember what happened very well.
I was shattered and conflicted. How could my mother do such a thing? She didn’t even want to be one in the first place! Yes, Dad was having an affair, but that didn’t mean he and Nancy needed to die! He was a bright, gentle, and kind man. We deserved to grow up with him, even if it meant moving on from my mother.
I hated her all my life. All my life. I often thought that if she was so upset about the affair, she needed to just off herself. Why take others with you?
Billy took it harder. He lashed out at others after he heard the news, often violently. When he wasn’t angry, he was withdrawn, often isolating himself from the rest of us. Billy started getting into trouble around middle school, and my Aunt and Uncle sent him to a boarding school when they found animal bones in his room. I tried to explain that he was just doing an experiment we did with our dad, but I’d never seen my uncle so concerned.
Billy has been in and out of jail since high school. The charges ranged from petty theft to public indecency. Around ten years ago, Billy robbed a liquor store and shot a clerk in the leg. The judge gave him fifty years, effectively sending him to prison for the rest of his life. Nell, who looks so much like our mother, still visits him regularly. She tells me he got a job teaching the other inmates science for their GED requirements.
I’ve been far luckier than Billy. I graduated from college and found a cushy oil job in Houston. I’m divorced with two kids, and my most severe regret was not being a good father to my kids like mine was to me.
But now I’m not so sure.
Two weeks ago, my Uncle Charlie passed away peacefully in his home. I visited him the day before he died, and he whispered in my ear that he left something for me under the floorboards in his closet. Initially, I thought he may have been delirious, but I checked the closet after the funeral.
Under the floorboards was a shoebox containing dozens of polaroids. To my horror, each photo contained a random young woman, bound and gagged. My father and Nancy were in some pictures, and I recognized that he had taken them in the basement. The Polaroids were labeled in chronological order, and the near the middle, I picked one up and almost fainted.
It was a picture of my mother, bound and gagged.
The year was 1972. One year before I was born. After vomiting profusely, I put the shoebox back in the closet and bolted home. I haven’t been able to sleep for days, not knowing what to do with the revelation that my father was a monster. And we helped him. I think of my mother, finally understanding why she was always so petrified and believing she saved our lives.
So now I’m in the halls of my childhood home, standing in the basement where my father committed the most heinous sins to mankind. I’m unsure what to do now or who to call, though I’m determined to make the right decision. I place the shoebox on the table where my father played with his chemistry set and feel the fragile brick walls, wondering what’s behind them. This house really has been abandoned for years.
And yet, I do not feel alone.