The Sweater Curse Ch 17 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Sixteen: The sweater—it’s Jay’s! I designed it for him. It’s the one I gave him at Christmas.

photo by ldyck

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Seventeen

    Something draws me to the bench at the back of a bus shelter. I push past the faceless mass. A man is sitting on the bench. I’m drawn to him. Why? I don’t know him. Do I? Maybe. It’s hard to tell; his face is buried in his hands. He is wearing the sweater.

    “Do I know y—?”

He mumbles two incoherent words into his palms.

    “Sorry, I—”

He jerks his head up. “I said, go away!”

    His face is grotesque—torn pieces of flesh, oozing green pus. One eye dangles from its socket, suspended there by strings of muscle. I want to look away, but I can’t. I read his story right there on his face. He’s a monster. He’s done harm, and his crime marked him. Fear grips me. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed. I look at his hands; they’re covered in blood.

    “Leave me alone!” He roars. He springs at me, catching my throat in his vise-like grip, and squeezes. “She was a bitch like you! A bitch!” There are tears in his eyes. He squeezes harder, and I’m suffocating. He’s dragging me into his Hell…

***

    In a glass-walled boardroom, businessmen in suits and ties sit around a rectangular table. Garrett Smit stands in front of these men, feeling like a sheep among wolves. Sweat pours from his forehead into his eyes. On the floor beside him, an easel holds a chart.

    "You can." His voice quivers. He coughs, takes a sip of water, and tries again. "You can clearly see by this..." He sweeps his hand back—too far. "Ch—." The chart falls from the easel to the fl— Garrett catches the chart but—

    The clients he had hoped to—he needed to impress—pushed back their chairs.

    "Please," Garrett begs, "you need to—"

    The clients make a beeline for the door. Garrett is called into his boss' office. And...

***

    In a quiet suburban neighbourhood, two women sit at a table in an immaculate kitchen, sipping coffee. Bev Smit chats with her friend Mary as she weaves in yarn ends on the man's sweater she has just finished knitting. The cuff on her shirt rides up, revealing a purple bruise.

    "More bruises, Bev?"

    "I'm a klutz." It’s the same excuse she always uses.

    "You're not his punching bag." Mary leaves the table. "Never again!" She heads down the hall to the bedroom.

    Bev is in hot pursuit.

    Mary slides open the glass doors and finds a suitcase in the back of the closet. She puts it on the bed, opens the drawers, and starts to pack.

    "Mary, I can't." Bev notices the time on the alarm clock—5:40 PM. "I need to start supper." She grabs the clothes out of Mary's hands, stuffs them back into the bureau, and rushes down the hall to the kitchen.

    "What are you going to make? I'll help."

    "No, Mary, you need to go. Garrett will be upset if he finds you here."

    "Come with me."

    "I can't."

    On the way to the door, Mary hugs her friend. "Call if you need anything."

    Alone, Bev goes to the fridge and fills her hands with vegetables. She peels and chops. As she works, she glances out the window. Headlights pierce the night.

    She rushes to the freezer, grabs two pork chops, and puts them in the microwave to defrost. She's taking the pork chops out of the microwave when the front door flies open. She runs to greet him. "Hi, honey. How was your day?"

    "Peachy. Just peachy." He spies the extra coffee mug on the table. "Who. Was. Here?"

    She grabs the offending mug—"Mary. Only Mary."—and deposits it in the sink.

    "How many times do I have to tell you? No visitors!" He roars.

    "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. She dropped by, and I—"

    "You're sorry. You're always sorry."

    "Please, please, don't be mad. I have... I have something for you." She rushes into the bedroom, grabs the sweater, and rushes out.

    "Wow," he mocks, "a sweater." He sneers.

    "I know it's not much...just a sweater, but...I made it for you. Please try it on."

    "All right, all right. Oh, my God, woman." In the bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror, he pushes his head into the neck, hands into the sleeves, and pulls it down over his body. He stands admiring himself. And then he sees the suitcase.

    Bev tries to explain, apologize, beg, but Garrett isn't prepared to listen. His anger boils over. He coils his fingers into fists and...

Someone has to do something. Someone has to act.

Before he can kick, slap, or punch, my fingers are around his neck. I’m squeezing. He gasps for breath, and it’s music to my ears. Music. I squeeze, squeeze, until he is dead.

Bev falls to the floor beside him. She should be happy. Her attacker is dead. He’s dead, and she’s safe. She’s free. I long to see her smile, but instead, I hear her sobs. Bev draws her knees to her chest and slowly rocks back and forth. “No, no, no, no,” she moans.

I killed him for you! I want to scream. I want to shake her and say, You’re free! He’s dead. I killed him. And now you’re free.

Of course, I can’t. She can’t hear me. She’ll never know what I did for her.

Who is killing these sweater-clad men?

Me.

Someone needs to stop me. Someone needs to break the curse and set me free. Someone… Someone… Maybe you?

Yes, you.

Don’t you see how he looks at you, like a lovesick puppy? I’ve crawled inside his mind. I know he longs to touch you, hold you, kiss you, make love to you. I know you love him. You should love him. He’s a fine, gentle, loyal man.

Knit my sweater for him. He’ll wear it, declare his love, and I’ll be free.

Don’t you see?

It’s the only way.

Thank you for reading The Sweater Curse.

photo by ldyck

Canadian Cancer Society February Knitting Challenge

On this blog in February

...and the knitting continues...

Sunday, February 15

Knitting Patterns

7 knitting patterns that have received 1,000 page views or more on this blog.

Sunday, February 22

Rebellion

knitting-themed one-act play

New content shared on this blog each Sunday at approximately 4:40pm

Much thanks to Colleen Fraser (publisher, editor, and print production) for including my story in the current issue of the MayneLiner.

photos by ldyck

Items of interest for writers and readers...

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby by Leanne Dyck (Ch 16)

Chapter fifteen: Aster takes her worried self to the ferry and sails to Mayne Island.

photo by ldyck

Chapter sixteen

Aster followed a white-haired couple with bikes, a teenager with a backpack, and a woman with a small dog from the ferry to the ramp. She pushed two suitcases forward and returned for the third—forward, back, forward, back. Her progress was made a little easier because the suitcases had wheels, but it could have been a lot easier if—

The woman with the dog was greeted by a man with a peaked cap who gave her a hug and a kiss. The dog jumped into the man's arms, and the three of them carried on together. 

Where was Kenneth James?

“Please keep to your right.” A navy-uniformed woman directed the group.

All compiled but Aster. She didn’t budge. She just stared up the steep hill that was her next challenge after she had gained victory over the ramp. A challenge Aster refused to accept.

“Please keep to your right,” the woman repeated.

Still, Aster didn’t move.

So the woman rolled two of the trunk-sized suitcases to a corner of the covered walkway.

Aster followed with the third.

“Thank you. I—?” Before Aster could finish her sentence, the woman returned to direct the ferry traffic up the hill.

It was pleasant enough under the covered walkway for Aster to be content to remain there until Kenneth James came to collect her. She looked from the cloudless sky to the rippling sea. She watched cars and trucks drive off the ferry and others drive on. Soon those passengers would sail away. She watched cars and trucks drive up the steep hill and out of the terminal. Soon only the BC Ferries workers would be left behind, and then they would end their shifts and go home. Soon Aster would be alone. She didn’t mind. But... What... Wild animals? Drug addicts? Vagrants? Soon Aster would be alone. And she did mind, in fact. It unnerved her. But with those trunk-sized suitcases, she couldn’t move. She was stuck, which made her vulnerable. And what if—? She grew more and more concerned.

The uniformed woman came back. “Come with me,” she told Aster. “I’ll take you up the hill.” She wheeled two of Aster’s suitcases to a white truck with ‘BC Ferries’ on the door.

“My husband was supposed to be here to collect me.” Aster pulled the other suitcase behind her.

“He may be waiting for you in the parking lot.”

“The...parking...lot?”

What if Kenneth James had been waiting, but because she hadn’t walked up the hill, he had thought...? And now he was... What if she were...? Now...

No, for her, he would have waited. He would have. He was waiting. He was in the parking lot.

“Yes, that’s where he must be. He’s waiting in the parking lot,” Aster told the woman and climbed into the truck.

The woman loaded Aster’s suitcases into the truck bed and drove Aster to a row of three trucks and two cars parked in front of a fence—the parking lot. Kenneth James’ truck wasn’t waiting there.

The woman unloaded Aster’s luggage and carried it across the street and up a small grassy hill to a bench under a tree. “There’s no way your husband can miss you. And if he does, I’ll tell him where you are. Don’t worry.”

“Worry? Why would I worry?” Aster pulled a hanky from a side pocket of her oversized purse and dusted a corner of the bench.

photo by ldyck

Mrs. Kenneth James Stevens Wants A Baby

Chapter seventeen

Aster expected Kenneth James to be eagerly waiting for her at the ferry--but he wasn't. Where was he? When would he come to collect? Had he forgotten about her? Or had something happened to him?

Saturday, April 29th is Canada Indie Bookstore Day

April 30 at 1 PM

Agricultural Society Hall on Mayne Island, BC

National Geographic Explorer and author Erica Gies reads 

from her non-fiction book: Water Always Wins 

(University of Chicago Press)

Is the Reverend Dead? Ch 16 (a mystery inspired by remote island life) by Leanne Dyck

 chapter fifteen: Mrs. Hazelton tries to take Conner and Paisley to the police station so they can confess--but they escape.

photo by ldyck

Is the Reverend Dead?

Chapter Sixteen

Arthur puts the key in the slot but doesn’t start the car. “Let me get this straight. You’re intending to take Conner to the police station.”

“It’s not like we have a choice. He told me he killed the R—”

“How?”

“They made a device that remotely turns off pacemakers. They tested it the day the Reverend fell. They killed—”

“Helen, stop saying that. You’re making a pronouncement that isn’t based on any proof.”

“They told me that they—”

“I can’t believe that you want our grandson to confess to committing this murder.”

“He didn’t mean to. Knowing that, understanding that, the police will go easy on him. It was all that Paisley’s fault. And science. Science is evil.”

“The police may, but what about the other people on this island? If Conner walks into the police station… If he confesses to this… They’ll judge him. And that judgment will last for the rest of his life. To them, he’ll always be a murderer. If he wants any peace at all, he’ll have to leave. He’ll be ostracized for something he may not have done.”

“He knows he’s guilty. Why else would he have run?”

“Feeling guilty and actually being guilty are two separate things.”

“And you think we should let him run. What do you think will happen when Officer Boyd solves this murder? When he finds out what happened, he’ll come looking for Conner. If he catches Conner running, then he’ll think that Conner is guilty. But if, on the other hand, Conner cooperates from the start, things will be so much better for him.”

“I think we should leave Conner…. Leave this all alone and let Officer Boyd find the real murderer. If there even is one.”

“What do you mean by that? I told you what I saw. How can you—"

Arthur pushes open the car door.

“Where are you going?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t turn around, he just heads in the direction of the house.

I crawl out of the passenger seat, walk around the front of the car, and climb into the driver’s seat. Someone has to do what’s right.

My bad hip makes it impossible for me to twist my body to look out the back window. So I don’t back out of the driveway. I drive out. I pass the house. Arthur bangs on the window and points at me. He still thinks he can make me change my mind. I just keep driving. He waves two hands, points with two fingers. I pay him no heed.

Most roads on Plumper Island eventually lead to the ferry. The road from our house is one of the shortest routes. The ferry isn’t due to dock for a while yet. I’ll find my grandson.

I pass a truck. The driver honks. I pass a youngish woman walking her dog. She waves. I had no idea I was this popular.

The ferry terminal parking lot is full. So I park along the side of the road. I climb out of the car, and Paisley rolls right past me on her roller skates—down the hill to the ticket booth. She couldn’t have been that far behind me. I wonder why I didn’t see her on the road.

“Granny.” That’s Conner’s voice. “Granny, you have to help me. Granny, please.”

Where is he? I walk in the direction of his voice; I walk to the back of the car. There he is struggling to undo the clasp that attaches him to the car. That’s why I didn’t see Paisley on the road. I was pulling them.

I don’t lift a finger to help him. “I thought you wanted to talk to Officer Boyd.”

“I did.” He tugs harder on the clasp. “But Paisley said that he wouldn’t understand. She said all he wants to do is solve the case and throw someone in jail.” He sniffs like he’s near tears. “She said he won’t care if we rot in there, for all the trouble we’ve caused him—not just with the Reverend but also with breaking and entering and… I mean with the houses we’ve been visiting. And… And… And she said that this was a good way for him to get rid of us. He’d just lock us up and walk away. We’d be in jail for the rest of our lives. Granny, please. I can’t go to jail. I can’t...” He looks so scared. He’s trembling. My dear, darling grandson. I can’t… I just can’t…

I undo the clasp.

“Thanks, Gran.” He rolls away.

The hill is too steep; he’s going too fast.

“Be careful, Conner.” I cringe.

Paisley’s waiting for him at the ticket booth. He wraps his arms around her waist, and she giggles like the floozy she is. Conner is a good boy. This whole mess is her fault.

photo by ldyck

Chapter Seventeen

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