It’s been a while since I read a short story that made me laugh, feel nostalgic, hold my breath in anticipation and gasp out loud. Well, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever had a short story cause that kind of reaction in me. If you’ve got a few minutes to simply lose yourself in a fantastic story, keep reading.
“There’s something in Mrs. Treadway’s root cellar,” I said to Mama’s back. “Something gruntin’ and groanin’ like an old hog.”
Her paring knife stopped circling the tater in her hand. She turned around and looked at me, frown lines gouging furrows in the skin between her eyes. “April May Clark, didn’t I tell you to stay away from there and not be botherin’ that poor woman?” She jabbed the shiny blade in my general direction. “She’s got enough on her shoulders without you snoopin’ around, asking your silly questions. What with her husband up and leaving, and Jesse joining the Army right after. I don’t know how she runs that place by herself…course, truth be told, Jesse wasn’t much help anyway.”
“I ain’t said nothing to her.” I bit into the pear I’d picked out of the scrawny tree out behind Mrs. Treadway’s outhouse. Juice ran down my chin and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. “She didn’t even see me.”
Mama pointed the knife at the half-eaten pear in my hand. “Where’d you get that then?”
I sighed great big. “Off her tree, but she didn’t see me. I didn’t go nowhere near her house. But you know that old root cellar way out behind her garden…something’s in there. I heard it. And there’s a new lock on the door and—”
“April May, how many times have I got to tell you to quit making stuff up—”
“I ain’t making it up, Mama.”
“Or imagining it or telling stories, whatever you want to call it.”
I didn’t know why Mama just didn’t say I was lying—though I wasn’t, not this time. But she put stuff nicer than Daddy; he always said I was plain out lying. And most of the time I guess I was ‘cause the things I thought, well, they wasn’t always so.
“Go outside and play and let me finish supper,” Mama said. “And don’t you go telling your brother and sisters this foolishness when they get off the school bus.” She turned around to the sink. Another go-round of the knife on the tater. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t say nothing to your daddy either.”
“Mama, there really was…I mean…”
I stomped across the cracked, green linoleum and pushed open the backdoor screen, letting it thump shut behind me.
Sometime I got so mad. Why wouldn’t she believe me? Jeeze…
I clomped around in the back yard, every once in a while kicking the big piles of leaves Zack had raked up the evening before, scattering them all back out again. He’d be mad at me when he got home from school, but I didn’t care ‘cause I was mad too. Mama didn’t believe me, and this time I knew I’d heard something. And it didn’t matter if I told Daddy and Zack and Evie and Nora, none of them would go look in that root cellar and see I wasn’t telling no story.
What was in there? It’d sounded kind of like a pig, but maybe it was a dog and maybe it was starving. Maybe that was why it’d sounded so funny. Yeah, it was a dog, alright. I just knew it was.
I liked dogs. They licked your face and grinned and wagged their tails. But we didn’t have no dog ‘cause Daddy didn’t like dogs. But maybe if I got that dog out of the root cellar and he saw how hungry it was—probably its ribs was sticking out—he’d feel sorry for it and we could keep it.
But the root cellar had a padlock on the door with a keyhole in it and I didn’t have no key. How could I open it without going and asking Mrs. Treadway for the key? Mama would call that “bothering her”.
A picture jumped into my mind of Daddy sawing off a lock like that one. Last year, Grandpa had died and Daddy couldn’t find the key that fit the lock on the metal box Grandpa had kept under his bed with his important papers in it, so he’d used the hacksaw we kept in the barn to cut through it.
And I knew just exactly where it was.
It wouldn’t be very long before Zack and Evie and Nora got home, and Daddy a little while after. I didn’t have much time.
I ran into the barn, grabbed the saw off a big, rusty nail driven into the wall, and raced out the open back door and into the woods. I’d get that dog out. I’d show everybody I wasn’t lying.
In just a little while I was back at Mrs. Treadway’s place. Staying just inside the woods, I circled around the house, down the length of the garden that was now just a bunch of weeds and dying plants, all the vegetables picked and canned and stored away for winter. I stayed hidden in the edge of the woods until I was right behind the root cellar.
It wasn’t much more than a knee-high bump with a door and frame set into the grassy top of it. And just like I’d remembered, locked up tight. I didn’t hear no noise, but between the door and frame, I saw light.
And that made me see it was starting to get dark.
Better hurry. I was gonna be in trouble now for sure.
I hunkered down beside the door and starting sawing. And that’s when it started up again.
I stopped sawing long enough to say: “It’s okay, doggie. I’m gonna get you out of there and take you home with me.”
I thought that’d calm it down, but it only seemed to make it worse. Jeeze, it started carrying on awful, and now thumps and bangs joined the gruntin’ and groanin’. If it got much louder, Mrs. Treadway might hear it and it would bother her.
I put everything I had into dragging and pushing the saw blade against the lock, while around me night settled in.
Mama and Daddy was gonna be real mad at me for being out after dark. But maybe when they saw the poor, hungry dog…
With a loud clatter, the lock gave way. I pulled it out of its hasp and opened the heavy, wood door, settling it against the ground as quietly as I could. Light and a jumble of noises raced up the stairs and smacked me in the face.
I had to hush it before Mrs. Treadway heard and got bothered. “I’m coming, doggie.”
I clomped down the steps and into a root cellar that was mostly just a big hole in the ground. And in about the center of the dirt-room was a chair with a man tied in it. Not a dog. A man! He had a rag stuffed in his mouth, and jeeze, was he ever dirty and smelly.
He yelled behind the rag, shook his head from side to side. Then his wild eyes met mine and I knew who he was: Jesse, Mrs. Treadway’s son.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod…” I dropped the saw. “What…why?”
I stepped forward and pulled the wad of cloth out of his mouth.
“Help me,” Jesse said, his voice a raspy whisper. “Mama. She’ll come…”
I stumbled around to the back of the chair and tore at the rope tied around his wrists. Somehow, I managed to loosen it enough that he was able to pull his hands out. Then he leaned over and untied the loops around his ankles.
His legs trembling, he stood up. He braced a hand against the wall, then looked down at me. “Thank you…ah…you’re April May, ain’t you, Dave and Libby’s youngest?”
I nodded my head, “Y—yes.”
“Thank God you found me. I thought I was gonna die in here.”
“How did you…” I swallowed hard. “…get here?”
“Mama. She went crazy. Killed Daddy and put me in here.” He smiled. “If you hadn’t of come along—”
“Dear Lord above, what have you done, child?”
I sucked in a startled breath and turned toward the stairs. Mrs. Treadway stood halfway down the steps, a shotgun cradled to her breast.
I had bothered her and now she was going to kill me.
With a scream that didn’t even sound like it could come from a real, live person, Jesse Treadway pushed me aside and made for his mama. In his hand I saw the gleam of the saw.
“No, Jesse,” Mrs. Treadway said, backing up the steps. “You don’t know what you’re doing. No, son. Stop!”
I didn’t even see her try to raise the shotgun. Tears running down her cheeks, she stopped on the top step, and closed her eyes as Jesse took her down. “You bitch, bitch, bitch!” He screeched.
I heard gurgling sounds and tearing sounds. He was sawing on his mama like I had the lock. And if I didn’t get out of there, when he finished with her, he’d start on me.
Slowly, quietly, I climbed the steps. At the top I eased around Jesse who was still screaming, and his mama. She wasn’t screaming, though; her throat gaped open like a big red mouth.
When my sneakers hit the grass, I took off running. And as the woods closed around me, I heard Jesse Treadway call out: “April May…come out, come out, wherever you are…or I’m coming for you…” Then he laughed, but it wasn’t no nice laugh. It was a mean, lowdown, dirty laugh, so awful it made me wet my britches.
I had to get home. I had to warn Mama and Daddy and Zack and Evie and Nora. I had to tell them Jesse was coming and he was gonna kill me and them too.
Please, God, make them believe me. Please!
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
Bio: I grew up in the hills of Western Arkansas, a shy country girl who could barely speak to a stranger. But I loved books. Every night before turning off her bedside lamp and going to sleep, my mother read; and I knew that for my hard-working mother to crack open a “pocketbook” and steal a little time of much-needed sleep from between its pages, reading must be a glorious thing. I couldn’t wait to be able to decipher all those squiggly letters for myself. Continue reading here.
Faith Simone says:
I’ll give you a few minutes to blink and come on back from those woods with April May. I warned you that you’d lose yourself in this fantastic story. It’s a wonderful play on the boy who cried wolf and I loved every second of it!
Did this story bring back memories of your own childhood adventures? Are you as concerned about April May’s fate as I am? Maybe if we raise enough sand W.K. will tell us what happens next!
Click here to check out W.K. Tucker’s blog and books!
*This story is featured in it’s entirety with permission from the author.