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A woman’s boyfriend complains that she has a weird smell. He asks her to shower constantly, buying her deodorant, shampoo, body wash, and other products. It’s not until the woman truly sees his mother for who she is that she realizes what’s going on.
And, by then, it’s too late.
The truth behind this so-called weird smell is darker than anyone could have imagined, involving a story with twists and turns that no one could have seen coming.
It is nighttime, and it is winter.
It’s the type of winter that should be in a fairytale storybook, one where the pages are thick, dusty, and lined with gold plating. But fairytales don’t always end happily, and no one knows that better than our runner, who leads through the forest like a mouse through a maze. We’re following at a short distance, but we’re not the ones he’s worried about.
Yet.
The man’s looking over his shoulder, he’s heaving and panting. He looks like a rabbit, running through the forest, scared of a fox. A branch snaps near him, and he takes off. He’s limping, shaking his head, curse words streaming from his mouth.
The dark path down which he runs is only illuminated by silver moonlight.
He doesn’t know where it leads. He doesn’t even know how closely he’s being watched. He just keeps running, running, running.
You can tell from how he carries himself that he isn’t much of a sprinter. He’s on the heavy side, wearing a Yale scarf and wool jacket. He’s not dressed warmly enough for the night. Snow is coming. You can smell it in the air.
He pulls out his expensive iPhone as he runs, checking to see if it has a signal.
It doesn’t. Even worse, it’s dead from the cold. Bad luck, rabbit.
But then!
He sees a small house at the end of the path. He’s not tired now; he’s running even faster, limp be damned. He doesn’t even think that maybe this house isn’t the blessing it seems. Behind him, there is a scream, keen and wailing through the winter forest.
He jumps and takes off, arm outstretched to meet the owner of the house. The warm lights glow in the windows. The lights look inviting, and they’re meant to. Just ask the anglerfish.
Pound, pound, pound. Let me in, but don’t let the person behind me in. Don’t let anyone else in. I’m the right one, I’m not the screamer.
He’s grinning, he’s so relieved. His teeth are white and straight, his plump face a rosy red. He’s been eating well, so well. He’s never missed a meal in his life. That’s a shame.
The person behind him has missed many meals, and that has made them fast and lean.
The door swings open. It’s salvation! It’s someone who will pull him into the warmth and light and pluck him from this waking nightmare.
The man looks at his rescuer. His face arranges itself into an expression of familiarity. Oh, it’s you. But, we must bid him adieu. His pursuer, a dark horse if there ever was one, is coming up behind him, and it’s Christmas Eve, after all. Our part in the story has concluded.
For now.
“Because we’re going, that’s why.”
Janelle looked at her husband’s face, barely quelling her expression of disgust. She opened her mouth to continue what she was saying, but what was the point? Robert James Johnson III would defend his mother to the death of him.
He’d go into a Gladiator match with no armor, all to prove his point that his mother does not, in fact, do anything wrong.
When Janelle looked at her husband’s face, she felt a spark of resentment. This was a new thing, but one that probably wasn’t good for a couple that hadn’t been married that long. He’d become even more insufferable in a short period of time. Maybe he always had been.
Insufferable. That was the word. That word described his whole family. It would describe the whole night to come.
Along with a host of other words, Janelle assumed. She sighed loudly, but Robert didn’t react.
The road to his parents’ house was slick with snow and ice. Flurries were coming down, and Janelle was worried that this Christmas visit could go from an evening thing into an overnight stay. The weather in Massachusetts could be brutal in winter.
This was the same weather the Pilgrims settled in, and look how they fared during those first few years.
Janelle sighed. This was an obligatory yearly visit, and it was time to get it over with.
Driving down the snowy streets, Janelle thought about the Pilgrims, what they’d think about all of the brightly-lit houses, lights, and plates and plates of food and drink. They’d probably be stunned, if not a bit horrified.
Then again, if they went through the starving times, they’d probably ransack the opulent abodes without a second thought.
Janelle stared out into the forest beyond the homes, amusing herself with the thought of Zombie Pilgrims.
It wasn’t as though she hated her in-laws; that wasn’t true. They were wealthy, always boasting that they had been part of this country since the 1600s. A DNA test probably would prove otherwise, but who could challenge Bob Johnson II?
The man owned four hundred New England grocery stores, and he had enough money to buy Janelle’s entire family twice over.
Despite that fortune, Bob was beholden to his wife, Marianne. Marianne ruled the roost, even though she hadn’t held down a job since she was sixteen.
It was pretty typical for wealthy New Englanders; the big businessman, the sidekick wife that didn’t really do much. Marianne was involved in charity, of course, but charity often involved long brunches, gossip, and hilariously inane causes.
It was so stereotypical, Janelle had to laugh. But, not for long, as she was part of this, wasn’t she?
She was part of the wealth now, and she had to get with the program.
Though Janelle had tried to plead her case against going to the stuffy, New England mansion for Christmas, her husband wouldn’t hear of it. Robert was going to stick to his guns, and she didn’t really blame him when it came down to it.
He worked for his father as a middle-management man, one that made six figures doing almost nothing. Rob had led a cushy life, while Janelle…well, her childhood was a bit different.
The two rode in their Mercedes SUV down the snowy New England streets, not speaking.
Eventually, they pulled up to the Johnsons’ stately home. It was a massive, 8,000-square-foot, white-and-brick affair. The windows glowed warmly, and the Christmas lights twinkled bright white (Marianne would never settle for colored lights—too tacky).
Janelle looked at Robert. He reached into his pocket.
No, don’t…she thought. Her face was already reddening.
