Lizzy

By Casey Chaplin

Lizzy is just a young girl with a terrible mind, but that wasn't always the case. She lived in a relatively comforting and loving home, with caring parents, and a strong relationship with her best friend, Malcolm. However, despite the stability in her life, she couldn't help but feel as though she was an outsider - somebody who never really fit in with society. She wasn't one to play with dolls, or have tea parties; she was far too sophisticated for that. She was too curious.

Her normal life turned for the worse one evening when she was introduced to a new babysitter: A seemingly gentle elderly man. On that fateful night, Lizzy drank a cup of tea and blacked out, only to awaken in a strange world manifested within her dreams... Or was it. The mystical Gerard welcomed her to his land of intrigue, but also told her things - horrible and awful things which she believed to be true. When she awoke in the real world, her life would be forever changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casey Chaplin
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781489517333

Casey Chaplin

Casey Chaplin is an established writer, using many forms of the medium to express his creative visions. Lizzy is his first full length novel, but not his first publication. Beyond writing the macabre, Casey is also an accomplished poet, having several poems published across multiple forms of print. He is an avid fan of all things horror, but that doesn't mean he won't venture to other genres.He draws inspiration not from real life, but rather his vivid imagination.

Book preview

LIZZY

A Novel

By Casey Chaplin

Lizzy

Copyright © 2012 by Casey Chaplin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 9781489517333

For those who said I couldn’t.

Dedication

Lizzy is dedicated to all those who helped me with this process, be it through inspiration or support, and I thank you all. This book’s existence wouldn’t be possible, literally, without the help of Rocket Hub and my dedicated contributors. But a few stood out. Firstly, Chris Nash – a hero among men; he’s been a friend for years, and is the most creative guy I’ve ever met. He’s an accomplished filmmaker, writer, and actor, so look for big things from him in the near future.

Chapter 1

DARKNESS; IT’S THE FIRST THING I remember. I felt as if I’d been reborn back into my body; I felt strange. I wonder if this is what it’s like to have an out of body experience. My name is Elizabeth P. Walker, but you may call me Lizzy; I was twelve years old, living in a suburb of Chicago. I feel older now, much older, but I remember everything so well, as if it’s happening right now – maybe it is. After all, it is indeed my life, so why shouldn’t this be happening? Why can’t this be real?

Darkness.

However, as often with darkness, it doesn’t last forever and often gives way to the light, and this light brought forth a familiar sight; my kitchen, I felt as if I’d been here before, in this exact position, it felt very familiar. Everything about it had a very déjà vu feel to it, and then I hear it – an all too familiar, yet unwelcome and distant voice to me.

Elizabeth! My mother incessantly shrieked from the front hall. She almost never calls me Lizzy. I hate that about her.

Elizabeth, she said as she passed through the threshold of the kitchen doorway, where I sat at the table. Oh there you...What, what the hell are you doing? She yelled out, overacting as usual. Though, I suppose she has some reason to be angry. I made those rolls for dinner. You know damn well that we’re having the members from the country club over tonight. She screamed at me, as she often did.

However, this particular case had her worked up more than usual. She had baked these dozen or so dinner rolls for her precious socialites that she had invited over for a luxurious - and obnoxious - dinner party tonight. I had destroyed all the bread.

I had picked them to pieces. Not eating them, but rather just dissecting and probing into their life form. I had been sitting at the kitchen table, my feet dangling an inch or two above the floor, and with that banshee squawking, I continued to pick at the very last piece. My mother was infuriated.

I haven’t the slightest clue as to what came over me; where the urge to destroy my mothers work came from. It just simply rose from my subconscious. All I remember is starting on the first one, and not being able to stop.

I had wandered into the kitchen, most likely following the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread. It goes without saying that bread straight from the oven has an intoxicating smell to it. I just wanted to sample one, just one. But when my hand wrapped around that first one, the urge came over me. It was so strong; fighting it would be an inevitable failure.

Without realizing it, I had grabbed the whole basket in one hand, while still thumbing the bread in the other. It didn’t weigh much, and I only had to carry it a few feet. But in that short time, it felt weightless; probably why I didn’t notice it.

I set the basket in the middle of the faux-wood table and began my path of devastation. I sat there, with the roll in my hand, eyeing it before my thumb broke though the warm flaky shell and into the warm gooey innards. I remember a sensation flow through my body as my thumb penetrated further into the centre of the bun, it was something I had experienced only once before... It was amazing.

Soon my index finger followed suit and pierced the protective shell. I began not only to feel about the inside of the bread, but had proceeded to picking and plucking the cloud like substance that had been so warm.

The roll, a simple inanimate object, felt as though it was alive in my hands. The way the dough fell between my fingers, it was like it was moving on its own. However I know this not to be true, but my young imaginative mind told me that I had hurt this creature. And when the warmth left and the life subsided, I felt somewhat sad... but more curious than ever.

I became more and more intrigued, so I placed the roll aside, respecting its loss of life. But the respect was indeed overcome by my morbid curiosity. I carefully grabbed another bun from the top of the pile, trying not to induce an avalanche of baked goods. This roll felt more or less the same as the last, but there was a slight difference. Its texture was unique from the last, thus suggesting that it had individuality about it; that these rolls were as alive as you and me.

Once again, I knew this was foolish, but I needed to know. Would the warmth – the life – fade from this one like the first one? I carefully broke open the shell. That once delicious aroma hit my olfactory nerves, but this time it was nauseating. Perhaps in my semi-conscious mind I had truly believed that this roll was indeed alive, and I had just killed it. The scent that left its body was akin to that of rotting flesh. Nevertheless, I pressed on. Pulling and peeling with surgical precision until once again, the gooey warm entrails became cold and lifeless. With far less respect than the last, I threw the roll aside and reached for the third.

Roll after roll, I had that same sensation come over me. It was inexplicable, yet I began to think to myself is this what it is to die? When I die, will I feel it as though I’m going cold, being torn apart? I hope my death isn’t like how these baked goods met their end. It seems like it would be rather painful.

That was an intriguing thought. If these rolls were alive, as my imagination tricked me into thinking, was I causing them pain? I wondered that as the warmth left yet another roll.

The concept of death has been studied since the beginning of intelligent man, perhaps even earlier; it’s been pondered over and theories have been hailed and scrutinized. Yet I could grasp its basic understanding at the ripe age of twelve through the dismemberment of some dinner rolls. Could something as complex as death be understood by something so simple?

Also, would the torture and desecration of these buns make me a murderer – a sadist? After all, I was getting an enjoyable sensation from this act. It’s terrifying to think about, nevertheless the thoughts continued to come. The thoughts of a twelve year old girl: Truly frightening.

No matter my feelings and perturbed thoughts, I continued onto the next piece of bread. I soon had felt the warmth leave over a half a dozen fresh rolls. I sustained the thought of the bread being alive, and the more I picked and pried through its hard shell into its gooey entrails the more I felt as though I were killing a living being.

After all, most living things have an outer shell of protection. Many insects have an exoskeleton, reptiles and amphibians have their scales, and even humans have their skin. All of it though is merely superficial. A gash on the skin will heal and leave a scar; but a lesion on the lungs could prove fatal. The superficial does have its merit, and that’s for simple protection.

Though, even with all these thoughts, I didn’t cease my murder of the rolls, for that’s what I think this is. After all, if the crust is indeed its protective shell then the warm cloud like dough must be its organs. I wondered if the rolls felt this torture.

Elizabeth Walker! I hated when she used my full name. It was bad enough when she used Elizabeth, but when she used my surname, it sounded as though she was in disbelief that I was her daughter. The feeling was not a pleasant one.

For as long as I can remember, and for somebody my age that’s an extraordinary amount of time, she has been disappointed with me. It’s clear that she and I are nothing alike. She had evidently hoped for a girly girl; somebody preppy that she can take shopping and out for makeovers. I couldn’t be further from that perfect daughter, and it destroyed her. I believe the only reason she talks to me is because I am not fat. If that were the case, I’d be up for adoption.

What the hell have you done?! This is such a waste – AH! You didn’t even eat any of them, what’s the matter with you? She ranted and raved like a lunatic who’s forgotten her medication. This action happened to be a trademark of hers however, I’ve learned to appreciate the ability she has to question, accuse, and re-question without waiting for a response, all in one breath.

I had not the chance to respond before she called my father into the room. This was her tactic when she knew the cause in front of her was lost. And for whatever reason, she believed me to be afraid of him, though he has never been a tyrant to be afraid of. I always attributed this to the fear she has for her own father. It’s clear that he ruled his household with an iron fist, and that’s all she knew growing up; constant beatings for even the most minor infractions, and nothing but criticisms for her minute flaws.

I also have grown to believe that my mother is jealous of the relationship my father and I have, and she continuously hopes he will punish me, but he never does. I suppose this is another reason for her resenting me.

What is it, Carol- oh... He said as he wandered into the room. He wasn’t a very imposing figure, but he did run short on patience at times. His eyes widened at the sight of the slaughter house of dinner rolls that lay before him. At first I’m sure he wanted to laugh at the mess - he was whimsical in that sort of way – but it was after all a mess, and one that need to be cleaned, and surely he would be the one that was ordered to clean in. I sympathized with him for a moment.

Lizzy, He muttered in a sympathetic tone. Why did you do this? I mean, all these rolls just...destroyed...

I was generally an honest girl; I didn’t like to lie, no matter how harmful the truth may be; but of course we all lie at one point or another – this just wasn’t one of them. Well, I don’t know really. They smelled so good, and I was gonna eat one, but it was so warm. I just wanted to see if another one was that warm because I got sad when the warmth left the first one. Then another and another, I guess I got carried away. I explained to the best of my abilities. Remember, I said I would mostly tell the truth. After all, if I told them I thought they were living creatures, and I happened to be playing God with them they would surely send me to a shrink.

So it was an honest mistake then? He asked with all the naivety in the world. He truly wanted to believe I could do no wrong.

He glanced at my mother. Her face was tight and gaunt, ready to explode if I gave the answer she knew I would.

So naturally, I lied. Of course, dad. I just got carried away.

Well, no use getting upset over...destroyed dinner rolls. We can make more. This was a typical answer. He could never blame me, even if I held the proverbial smoking gun; such as in this case.

Perhaps that’s why my mother went off like she did. After all, I was guilty – and it was obvious, too. Her face turned a bright red, bordering on cherry coloured. The growl that escaped her mouth was akin to that of dog warning off the intrusion of an unwanted guest. This clearly caught my father’s attention. He explained to her that it wasn’t the end of the world and that he would remake the rolls before the dinner party. This did little to ease her tension. However, at this time they were already running late to their engagement at the country club.

It was at that particular moment that the door bell rang. It was quite a coincidence as it appeared that my father would have been decapitated by the wrath of my mother. Hell has no wrath like a woman scorned; I hope I never live up to that title.

Perhaps it was a little too perfect that the bell rang when it did. It effectively saved my father’s life, for all intents and purposes, though in the process may well have ruined mine.

Chapter 2

I KNEW THAT IN MY YOUNG EXISTENCE I was a different kind of girl. I didn’t play with Barbies, nor did I want to ever put make-up on. I never once even thought about playing dress-up or house. I had deeper thoughts, or what I considered to be deeper thoughts anyway. They were about life and death. I had empathy towards others and their feelings, but I never felt their joy; only their sadness.

In fact, I often imagine their happiness as a disease. Perhaps it was jealousy, I cannot say for certain. But when a friend, or a family member or even a complete stranger seemed happy, I resented them. I thought about how they would feel if that joy were to be suddenly stripped away from them. I then thought about ways that I could do just that. I never acted upon it; not yet anyway...

My father and mother approached the door, I stayed in the kitchen. I had no interest in seeing Samantha, my perky-preppy cheerleader of a babysitter. I had a slight view of the front foyer thanks in part to a well placed mirror angled just right to bounce a view of the front door right to where I happened to be sitting. So, it was somewhat shocking to me when I saw who I saw on the other side of the threshold when my father opened the door. It was definitely not Samantha.

Samantha, as I said was a cute preppy girly girl. The person in the doorway was not. In fact, the person in question couldn’t be further from a preppy cheerleader looking to make a few bucks to sustain her addiction to Speed. This was an elderly man.

I had seen him a few times before around the neighborhood. I’ve never spoken to him, but he would sit by his window and watch the streets. I noticed him while I was walking home from school one day. I don’t believe he looked right at me, at least we never made eye contact, but he still creeped me out. Although I may have had some odd thoughts for a twelve year old girl, I still was just that: a twelve year old girl.

The way he stood made me think of Quasimodo, his back slouched as if he spent his years tolling a bell in a church tower, though this could be skewed by the mirror. He didn’t present himself overly well, either. His shirt was mis-buttoned, and his pants didn’t quite meet his shoe line, exposing two dark coloured socks; but I was sure one was a different pattern or colour. His shoes were normal enough, simple brown loafers. I felt the need to get a closer look. This strange man standing at the door reminded me of a disfigured creature from a Clive Barker story – a monster.

I proceeded from the kitchen into the front hall, attempting to be stealthy in the process. I wanted to see him, but I didn’t want him to see me. I’m sure I presented myself in a defensive stature, which could make him feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to offend the monster since I had the inane fear that he might want to eat me.

However, it appeared that my stealth ability falls short of that which an assassin would possess. I was discovered, quite quickly I might add, by the monster standing in my door. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced in my direction and made solid eye contact. Eye contact which I could not hold. I’m certain that I looked away instantly, but that instant felt like an hour. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, a chill came over me, and I could feel the beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead. I went from curious to terrified in that instant our eyes met.

The human body is indeed a curious thing. We have our built-in instincts, such as the fight or flight response. I always figured that most sensible people have the flight nerve fire, and they would run for their life. However, in some cases, when it came down to it, the fight stimulus would take over. Often, I assumed this would turn out poorly. But in extreme cases, such as the protection of a loved one, or in a life or death situation, it would become the most power weapon available. I would soon find this out.

It wasn’t until our brief, yet everlasting eye-contact ended that I realized how old he actually was. From the few times that I had seen him through the window which he peered, I had known he was older; but he appeared nearly ancient. His hunch wasn’t nearly as bad as my first impression made it out to be, but his face was older than I expected. It wasn’t that he had wrinkles, and seen perhaps too few suns; it wasn’t that his hair was thin and white; it wasn’t that his bones looked as brittle as glass...It was his eyes. They had more age about them than any other part of his body could even fathom to show.

The rest of his body was very fitting; he was an older man who probably worked as a manual laborer his entire life, and as many laborers of his age, he probably didn’t have a whole lot of money either, so he ate what he could, leading to all sorts of diet related symptoms and issues. But it was his eyes, they were like nothing I had ever seen, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

His eyes were gray and cold. They projected a sadness which, at the tender age of twelve I could pick up on, but not quite comprehend. All I could understand from them is that they were frightening. The gray seemed unnatural, like nothing on earth could possess such an exotic colour. Once again, he appeared more of a monster than a man. But of course, this was foolish. Ghouls such as Pennywise didn’t exist in the real world. He was just a neighbour stopping by, or so I thought.

Lizzy, this is Mr. Gabriel. He’s going to be watching you tonight, my dad said. I’m sure I gave off some hint of fear, as I could clearly feel my heart drop. I felt light-headed, and had to steady myself on the doorframe.

He looked at me. I didn’t make eye contact, but I could feel his gaze upon me. It must have appeared harmless, or my parents would have picked up on something. Clearly, their instinct wasn’t as astute as mine had been.

C’mon, don’t be shy. Say hello. The words came from my father again.

I looked up and met this Mr. Gabriel’s gaze. He had been staring – watching me. I shuddered; I knew that this one was visible as my parents exchanged looks. My mother’s was surely irritated, but I caught my father’s glance. He had a slight look of concern.

Hello, I muttered in the politest voice I could muster. It must have sufficed as it generated a smile on Gabriel’s face.

Although I was clearly distraught, my mother intercepted any sort of move my father was going to make in terms of protection.

Elizabeth, don’t give him a hard time tonight; for god’s sake, just listen to him and behave, my mother said, without an ounce of concern or paternal love. Everything in her world was fine as long as the rules were followed. She didn’t care about anybody or anything else, so long as her order was kept. It was my father who often showed the love and concern of a parent.

...And, he continued off my mother’s orders, the emergency numbers are on fridge And, Lizzy, you know my cell. Don’t be afraid to call if you need me.

He did that often. He would use me instead of us when it came to emergency matters, like he knew his wife didn’t care. She had a cell phone, but I can’t remember the last time she answered one of my calls. Also, I had noticed he did not inform me to give Mr. Gabriel the cell number, and I knew it wasn’t on the emergency list. I did just that, and kept the number to myself. Gabriel didn’t push the matter.

It seemed with that, my parents had left. My mother went to the car, but not before reminding me to behave. My father left me with a kiss on the cheek. He shook Mr. Gabriel’s hand and passed over the threshold of the front door. It clicked behind him.

Hello, Lizzy, he said in a cheery voice. He had an accent, I couldn’t pinpoint from where, but it was clearly of a British nature Scotland? Perhaps Ireland?

It unnerved me slightly that he called me Lizzy. Though I did prefer that name to Elizabeth, it sounded strange coming from him. It wouldn’t do, not if I were to spend the evening with him.

Elizabeth, actually; my dad just likes to call me Lizzy, I lied. It was only my mother who ever called me Elizabeth – her and now Mr. Gabriel.

He eyed me curiously, Ah, very well then, Elizabeth. He smirked as he said those words. The smirk was terrifying. It was sinister and scheming. His eyes seemed to become darker than before as the grin forced them shut. He reminded me of an evil Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carrols’ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

His transformation was almost complete. He first appeared to me as Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. However, even under Quasimodo’s grisly exterior, he had a kind heart and soul. Mr. Gabriel seemed to have become transfigured beyond that of a kind hearted monster, but rather a demon, surely as ugly on the inside as he is on the out.

But perhaps my imagination had gotten away from me again. After all, he is just a meek old man.

We stood in the front hall for what felt like an eternity. Nobody broke the silence, and even though I avoided eye contact, I could feel his gaze penetrate my protective shell. Then he spoke.

Do you like tea, my dear? he asked. It seemed like every nuance of his speech perturbed me in some way. The term my dear is a harmless phrase used to speak to younger women when trying to be nice. It’s akin to saying lad, son, sweetheart. Yet, the way he spoke those two words shook me to the core. Still, I answered him.

I do, but only with lots of honey. I didn’t lie, there was no need to. Once again, I calmed my nerves. I wouldn’t let my imagination get the best of me He nodded and continued to smile. Very well then. To the kitchen?

He held out his hand in a motion implying I should lead the way. I promptly did so. I walked towards the kitchen with my head down. It’s not a long walk, but I realized the aftermath of the dinner roll massacre had yet to be cleaned up. I felt a wave of embarrassment come over me just as I passed over the threshold into the kitchen.

Although this slaughter was for all to see, Mr. Gabriel walked into the kitchen nonchalantly. The mess didn’t faze him; it was as though he didn’t even notice. Perhaps he thought it wasn’t his place to say something, but it was like he didn’t see it. And if he did, he certainly didn’t care. His focus was elsewhere.

I pointed him in the direction of the tea kettle while I took out two cups complete with saucers. He filled it and placed it upon a stove burner. He sat at the table, across from where I had taken up residence.

Mr. Gabriel, I asked, "why did my parents ask you to watch me tonight? What