The eerie monster hovered over
her with its emanation of evil. Elizabeth wanted to cover her head with Grandma
Crandall's quilt, but she could not move. And in any case, she knew from past
experience the monster would still be, visible to her. Her eyes moved
inexorably from the murky green bottom of the figure to the face at the top.
The monster’s body varied from nightmare to nightmare, but the face remained
the same: innocuous with hazel eyes, a pinched looking nose and thin-lipped
mouth -- the whole surrounded by sandy hair plastered tightly to the skull. Not
a memorable face under ordinary circumstances.
But burned into
her memory forever. The face of the boy who had done that thing to her
that had changed her life forever. Would she never forget?
Elizabeth
willed herself to sit up, hunched under the covers. Cold sweat stood on her
forehead. Pulling the pink and white quilt about her face and chin, she closed
her eyes and prayed, "Dear Jesus, help me."
She had to go to the outhouse,
but she literally could not get out of bed, a scream was stuck in her throat
and she was shaking. There was a green pot
with pink flowers under the cast iron bed. The pot was far too pretty
for the use, she often thought. She had
told her mother once that Helen Hayes' mother or Charles Mac Arthur's in a fit
of anger had served soup in one to their guests, and that it was the right
idea. Her mother had been appalled; her father had chuckled. She preferred to
go to the outhouse because she hated to empty the pot. Compressing her lips, she stilled her
trembling limbs, dropped the quilts onto the bed, and leapt onto the frigid
floor. The room was equally cold--Daddy had not gotten up to put wood in the
furnace yet.