Buried Truth Read online

  Chapter 3: My Childhood Room

                                                   

  Trying to rest with a headache and an obsession with unanswered questions is apparently a lost cause. Because no matter how much I want to sleep, I can’t return to that semi-unconscious state where everything melts away. My alarm clock reads 11:17 a.m.

  Didn’t I have something planned with mom and dad? Think. My headache that still hasn’t resided despite another batch of pills starts pulsing like waves through my brain. Wow, don’t think that hard. I think they wanted to have… lunch. At 12:30? Well 12:30 is when we always do lunch at the house. So yeah 12:30.

  The sunlight piercing the room through the blinds speaks to my aching body, beseeching me to get some exercise, to take a nice run in the warmth of this calm spring day. That should get all these aches and pains out and help me clear my mind. My calculations prove I have just enough time to run instead of taking the quicker drive to my parents’ house. So, I throw on my sweat pants and prepare to run down the few blocks.

  The streets are busy with traffic, but the sidewalk waits for me abandoned except for the occasional dog walker. A beautiful day greets my skin with a nice breeze, just warm enough to make me sweat, but not muggy enough to make it seem like I’m running in a swamp. The sweet fragrance of lilies from the park floats through the breeze into my running lane. My feet pound against the sidewalk as the sweet fragrances set me at ease until I slip away into the music from my iPhone.

  A lady walking a dog nears me, and my shoulders brush hers as we almost collide head on. The dog snarls at me with its sharp teeth sparkling in the sunlight, showing that it’s ready to sink its protective bite into my tasty flesh. My head bows apologetically as the woman pulls on the leash. That was close.

  My thoughts and ambitions clear as I continue running. I have always found comfort in nature. Everything has a purpose. There is both beauty and destruction, but through it all there is purpose. A certain clarity is found when spending time with nature; it’s pure and undefiled, unlike many human interactions.

  Two houses on opposite sides of the street near as I slow my pace to observe the scene. One is a house built in the 90s with a modern structure, nothing special or different about it, but the other is a renovated home from the early 1900s. Every time I run, the beauty of the picturesque surroundings blows me away, and it always amazes me how our little town seems to bring together a clash of modern architecture with a splash of vintage Victorian. It’s as if this part of Georgia is stuck somewhere between the past and future, bringing to life the present age mixed with a little of everything. The irony is that our particular piece of paradise is called Everton, Georgia. It's no wonder the local joke throughout out little town is we are a little bit of everything from Georgia. I never found it that funny, but it sure does fit.

  All of a sudden, I am jolted from my admiration for the surrounding sights by a car pulling out onto the road. The car barrels right out in front of me nearly hitting me. The sudden encounter brings uncontrollable rage and anger to my consciousness that is just waiting to explode out like an atom bomb. I try with all my might to keep it down, but once this particular bomb is armed, it usually blows. Before I can defuse it, I shout out some obscenities that I don’t even realize I’m saying until they are already out.

  Flustered by almost being bitten by a dog, then nearly killed by a grandpa behind the wheel, I try to concentrate on just getting to my parents’ house. I’m already getting close, so on any other day it shouldn’t be a problem. In fact, I should probably call and let them know that I’m almost to the house. I call their house phone as I run using my Bluetooth device. The phone rings and rings and rings, but no one answers.

  That is weird they should be home. They are the ones that wanted to eat lunch and congratulate me. Maybe I should leave a message. “Hey, mom and dad. I’m almost to the house. Y’all wanted to make me lunch remember. See you guys in a bit. Love y’all.”

  With rising concern, I decide I should call their cell phones just in case they are out of the house. Once again, it goes to voicemail. I start getting a little more worried as I come to a rest, beneath a tree branch that is hanging out over the sidewalk. This is not like them at all. They are probably fine. I’m just freaking out. They will get the message that I left. I’ll be to the house shortly anyways. Nothing to worry about.

  I’m about five blocks away, so I pick up my pace a little. The music doesn’t carry me away this time, because I can’t shake a bad gut feeling. They are ok. They live in the middle of town in a crimeless neighborhood. They are ok. Nothing is wrong. Today is a good day, a great day. They are fine, probably just still in bed.      

  I reach their block in no time at all, and the house comes into view. The childhood home where my parents raised my sister and me. The nice two-story house with a picket fence always reminds me of the popular saying about the American dream. As I make it to the fence gate, I take a glance up at my old room as I do every time the house comes into view. It is just a habit that I had picked up over the years that was probably forged because for much of my life that room was my life. Every day when I would get home, I would look up at the window at what my life was and yearn for what my life could be outside of that room. How childish was I? That childhood room is the only place of true safety I have ever been able to keep.

  This time, unlike any other time, something feels off. I don’t want to know what I’m going to see when I look up. It could be that the recent big moment in my life has made me afraid to think about my existence without that room because even now it’s my shelter in times of turmoil. There is never anything up there. It’s just a habit. Calm down. Besides, the only person I have ever seen up there is mom changing my bed or putting away my clothes. And my life is good now; I have made a name for myself.

  As I sneak a glance up at the window, I can make out the shape of a person or what I think is a person. Well, look at that—it's mom. See they are fine, nothing to worry about. I walk toward the house still looking at my window. The figure becomes a little easier to make out, but for some reason the face is out of focus.

  Wait, that doesn’t really look like my mom or dad. What’s up with my eyes? Why can’t I tell who it is? Why are they just standing there? Who is that, and why are they dressed solely in black? Damn, I can’t make out who is in the freaking window. It could be mom or dad. But, what if it's not? Who is in the freaking house?

  I climb up the porch steps at a brisk pace and dash to the door. I reach for the door handle, but I stop short because I notice the door is ajar. When has that ever been good, ever? I got a very bad feeling. I bump the door with my foot, and the door creeps open. Just as I cross the threshold of the house, my phone goes off.

  The startling buzz makes me jump back. They are fine. However, the call is not from my parents. It is from the dean’s office at the university. I decide to let it go to voicemail. “Mom? Dad? Is anyone here?” There is nothing but silence. “Hey guys, this isn’t funny.” Where are they?

  The kitchen comes into view, and I’m still half expecting to see them at the table preparing food for lunch. However, there is nobody in the kitchen and nothing but silence throughout the house.

  Then I notice the lights are on and the table is set ready to eat. There is a roasted ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, and bread resting in the center of the table. The smell of apple pie is lingering throughout the room. The only thing missing is my parents.

  The anxiety builds, and my chest tightens, I take a deep breath. Think. Where could they be? Think. Relax. They are fine. Chill out. But a voice from deep within me is screaming. You know this isn’t good. You know what this means. You know. Out of the painful silence of the house, a loud noise reverberates from upstairs.

  I run out of the kitchen and head toward the noise. I let out another scream for mom and dad. There is no answer once again. I walk up the stairs two at a time listening int
ently for another noise. My eyes move from the landing back to the steps. I notice a pool of liquid covering the last step before the landing.

   Please, don’t be blood. Please, God, don’t let it be blood. I approach the last step with caution, clinging to hope, but from a few steps away, I can already identify the liquid. I get to the final step and my heart sinks. My being is filled with heart-grieved fear. “Mom! Dad!”

  I climb over the final step and onto the landing. There are four rooms upstairs. My sister’s bedroom, a bathroom, a small closet, and my bedroom. I sprint to my sister’s room and open the door. There is nobody in the room just a neatly made bed, and the things my sister decided to leave at the house when she moved.

  The next room upstairs is the bathroom. There is nobody in the room, but the shower curtain is wrinkled and closed. I pull the curtain open while raising a fist ready to throw a punch. The shower is empty except for a loofah hanging on the faucet. However, a towel has been knocked off the towel rod and is lying on the floor next to the tub.

  That’s odd everything is always so neat up here. You know what it means. You know. My eyes briefly glance at the towel, but in that glance, I see enough to tell me everything I need to know. It has a red stain that is of course blood. That makes two places with blood. That can’t be good! My chest tightens even more to the point that I can hardly breathe or move for that matter.

  The door to the closet is also uncharacteristically open, and I make myself walk by it, knowing there will be nobody in the cramped room. Sure enough, the room is empty with only a few clothes and household objects scattered on the shelves. One room left. Are they dead in my childhood room? No, they are ok. They have to be ok. This cannot be happening. You know.

  I walk to my door and notice a slight bloodstain by the doorknob that appears to be dry. I open the door, and my biggest fear comes true. I knew.

  Time seems to stop as I take a step into my childhood room, but perhaps it is just myself breaking. I stand there paralyzed, my body in complete resistance to any expression. The room that always brought me safety and peace takes on the form of a casket in a graveyard. A room where I laughed, smiled, and cried becomes the room where my parents died.

  The inceptive shock hits me in the gut like a ton of bricks dropped onto my groin. It doesn’t make any sense. My parents lying there on the floor almost as if they are sleeping, except they are drenched in blood, so much red, on the walls and on the side of my bed, grounded onto the carpet—everywhere.

  My body continues to seize up in terror until I snap out of it and rush to my parents. “Mom! Dad!” Tears begin to swell in my eyes as the shock wears off and the raging fire of reality burns over me. My parents are dead and someone murdered them. Who could have done something like this? What monster?

  I reach in my pocket and pull out my cell phone. I call 911 and report the murdering of my parents along with the address. The operator tells me to wait outside until the authorities arrive, and that they are on their way and should arrive in the next five minutes. I take one last look at my slain parents then turn and start walking out the bedroom door. Wait. Who was in the window? Someone else is here. It couldn’t have been my parents. So who was it?

  I turn back into the room, surveying it for any signs of a hiding intruder. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I am scared out of my mind. I can make out something on the bed. What is that? I walk over to the bed and see that it’s a crumpled up sheet of paper with writing, and a blood smear near the bottom. I pluck the note up and study it.

  Written on the note is a list of numbers and letters. Something doesn’t feel right with this note. The hand writing… it looks familiar. It looks like dad’s shorthand script. Dad had to be the person who wrote this, could he had written it as a final message before his death?

  I decipher the message using dad’s encryption technique he taught me as a kid. If he wrote it this technique will reveal his thoughts.

  ‘I know the secret. The truth lies in languish beneath the right guardian waiting to be set free. Don’t let them get our…’