Charla

By Alexander Beresford

A mother. A daughter. A demon.... Charla kept her unsettling hatred towards her daughter Amelie a secret for so long, but over time it became harder for her to quench her morbid impulses without raising concerns. One lonely dawn, Charla ...divorced, pained, unhappy... ignited events which invoked a horrible demon to disrupt her twenty-five year old’s picture perfect life. She put her terrifying scheme into action ... and the demon began its wave of hell.
"Mommy Dearest meets The Exorcist! Thrilling and deeply disturbing!" ---Francy Weatherman, internet radio show host

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Bed Sheet Books
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781370774869

Alexander Beresford

Alexander Beresford grew up in Los Angeles and part of the time in Maryland and Dallas. He now resides in South Florida with occasional escapes to a haunted cottage in Derbyshire England where he communicates with ghosts, drinks rum, and writes. He is a National Writer's Association Short Fiction Award winner, a proud member of the Horror Writer's Association, and he studied Creative Writing at FIU with creative writing director/author Les Standiford. Alexander has written plays, screenplays, a novella, and "CHARLA" his first novel. www.AlexanderBeresford.net

Book preview

Chapter 1

She’d always hated her daughter.

And she hid it exceedingly well, she was compelled to, because no one would understand otherwise.

Even Amelie never imagined her mother disliked her so much.

Charla Green sat on the cast iron chair in the balcony outside her bedroom on the second floor of the elegant Old Spanish home. The weather was breezy and cool that morning, the sun had been coming up as she finished another cigarette and downed another glass of wine. Her sixth, she thought. She hadn’t slept all night. She had been up thinking, reminiscing, contemplating.

Secretly, she always wished her daughter had died somehow. Every time Amelie crossed a street, went on a school field trip or out with friends until late, Charla hoped the girl would not make it home, fantasizing about her getting run over, hurt in some freak accident, kidnapped, beaten, or even raped, murdered, finished, gone.

She lit another cigarette and thought back to weeks before Amelie was born. Everyone knew she expected a boy, everyone knew she wanted a boy, and when the baby girl was born, naturally, everyone knew she would love her just as much.

But no, she hated her.

Though Charla never knew for sure where such hatred came from, the pregnancy had certainly been a difficult one with severe morning sickness, cramps, back pain, constant irritability, and when the final hour arrived, labor had been nothing short of torture.

Finally, after excruciating effort, a little placental abruption and a touch of maternal hemorrhaging, Amelie was born. The new baby girl got all the attention, but the adoration and pouring of love her new daughter was receiving somehow sickened and angered her.

As days went by she really did try to get the anger under control, to understand it, and she sought help by mentioning it to her husband and a nurse who, with smiles on their faces, brushed this ‘anger’ off as some temporary anomaly. Charla wondered if it might be a form of severe postpartum depression even though no other symptoms were present, or some rare form of hormonal imbalance. Whatever it is, she thought, it will go away soon enough. But the negative emotions remained, festering, alive, creeping up so often it all became quite abnormally normal for her.

So a few weeks after Amelie’s birth, Charla began taking it out on the baby girl. When they were alone and Amelie cried, clearly hungry, Charla would wait an extra amount of time to breastfeed her. The cries didn’t bother her at all. She would stand at a distance staring at her daughter in the crib, sometimes a slight smile settling on her lips as she observed.

When bathing her baby girl, Charla would occasionally draw a bath a bit too cold or a bit too hot for the baby’s sensitive skin.

The baby cried ... but what baby doesn’t?

Before Amelie could speak, her mother would sometimes yank her hair to awaken her. She would also scream or clap her hands loudly near her head to jolt the girl awake. It pleased her to see the sweet girl’s panicked reaction.

When Amelie learned to walk, Charla would stroll behind her and oops accidentally trip her as she ran or played. Sometimes the falls were nasty, a scrapped chin, a busted lip, kids....

As Amelie grew older, Charla often made her eat foods she hated. She placed her in time-out for excessive amounts of time for minor infractions; she would throw away her favorite doll or toy, pretend it had gone missing mysteriously. On rare occasions she would accidentally burn her scalp with a tap of the curling iron while styling her pretty hair, or by keeping the strong hairdryer in one area of her smooth white neck for a little too long, always feigning distraction, always apologizing, kissing to make it better, and as always, nothing obvious, nothing that would leave any evident marks, any clues.

Though she was often tempted to outright hurt and abuse the girl, slap her, scratch her, kick her, strike her with whatever object was accessible, the risks were too high. And for self-preservation’s sake some serious thought and planning would have to be part of the process. She was so subtle with her sporadic inflictions that Amelie suffered no lasting trauma, mental or otherwise, she was never the wiser.

Charla inhaled the cigarette smoke deep into her lungs, watching the sunrise with a slight blur, an alcohol buzz, reflecting again on where all that anger must have come from.

Amelie weighed about seven pounds when she was born, very healthy, all fingers and toes, and though Charla had also been born with all fingers and toes, she had arrived premature, weighing in at just under four pounds and forced to remain in the hospital for weeks.

Barely out of the womb, Amelie was showered with love and gifts by friends and family. Charla hadn’t been so fortunate, having been abandoned by her father before she was even born. And though she doesn’t remember this, her mother had been terribly afraid of the future, nearly abandoning baby Charla in the hospital when the time came to take her home. Even after being convinced to take the baby home, her mother often talked about leaving her at a church step, a decent church, a Christian church.

Charla recognized that Amelie had been born into a world where most of her whims and wishes would likely be granted, and though some of Charla’s whims and wishes had been met much later in life, during her younger years most had been ignored and consequently forced to be buried in some dark corner of her soul.

When anyone looked into Brandon’s blue eyes, they could see the love he carried for his growing little girl. Charla never had that kind of love from her father, a man she found out lived fairly close to her for years yet never cared to visit. Charla did have a father figure, a stepfather, but he was mostly absent, and when around, would often choose to yank on her hair and slap her on the head for reasons she never understood.

Amelie was a flawlessly beautiful girl, personable, well-balanced, smart, a talented ballet dancer, cheerleader, and while Charla had also been attractive growing up (the only plus in her youth though often considered a negative with all the bad attention she received) she had no space in her life for such interests, and even if she had, there was never enough money around for her to explore them. While Amelie grew up with everything she needed, all the luxuries of a spoiled rotten princess, Charla had grown up in abject poverty, and sometimes went a full day with nothing to eat ... not a goddamn thing.

At eighteen Amelie’s body had grown wholesome, graceful, her face settling into an arresting beauty, her hair a glowing, flowing, rich auburn, her eyes, sparkling bluish-green. She had been very popular during her senior year in school, sought after by the handsomest boys and the envy of many of her piers ... but it was around this same age, eighteen (she blocked out the exact date and time it all started) that Charla began selling her body to make ends meet. Some of the more detailed memories fogged by heavy drinking and the use of drugs, a little heroine here, some coke, pot, shrooms; thankfully only faint memories remained of the abuse she had to endure in the hands of men who forced themselves on her, believing they could because they had thrown a few bucks her way, who beat her for the pleasure of it or because they were angry at themselves for not being able to get it up, or perhaps also, Charla thought, because of the embarrassing size of their cocks. They’d called her every name in the book when they fucked her as if she were a writhing (but sometimes also seemingly dead) piece of meat created for their personal satisfaction. On occasion they would, after payment, surprise her with an additional friend or two for the price of one.

Amelie would never know what it was like to live that life, to sleep with perverted strangers for money hoping she could get enough together to claw out of the miserable existence she found herself in, while stripping and doing a little waitressing on the side wherever she could, putting to use the only asset people would bother paying her for: her looks.

It was bad.

But things began looking up for Charla as she started doing Tarot and palmistry readings, which brought her desperately needed cash. She used a scrying mirror to discover a deeper part of who she was, bringing her some spiritual companionship, some comfort. She soon managed to clean herself up, got away from the drugs, distanced herself from prostitution, and with the inner strength she had been able to accumulate (it was either that or succumb to death), she earned, saved, and even stole a little money to become independent, putting herself through a couple of years of college and dropping out when the opportunity to work in an upscale English Pub where the tips were good enough to make a difference came up.

The pub was owned by a wealthy Englishman, a handsome older man who loved laughter and drink. Charla considered seducing him, she knew she could do it, he had given her clues to his willingness, older man, younger woman, that type of thing ... but fortunately she didn’t try, because his nephew worked there one summer as a waiter and that nephew turned out to be Brandon Green, the man of her dreams, her soulmate (back when she believed in such things). They fell in lust, then love, and married a few years later. Charla thought it was going to be happily ever after. But it was not meant to be.

She thought of Amelie sailing into her twenties, having gone through life fairly sheltered and oblivious to the reality many people face on a day-to-day basis. Amelie never worried about money or bills, she had a new car every two years, she enjoyed regular manicures, pedicures, hair appointments, pricy gyms with attractive personal trainers, yoga, traveling, dancing, singing, skipping around everyone else’s misery. If all that hadn’t been enough, at twenty-two she got engaged to Michael Leonard, a good-looking, wealthy, well educated young man headed for a prominent career as a lawyer in his father’s respected law firm.

Charla often hoped Amelie’s boyfriends would hurt her, scar the little tyke, but with the exception of one boyfriend whose family moved overseas separating the two lovers, causing Amelie a brief period of sadness, there had been no significant discomfort in her life. Charla always felt there should be a balance of good and bad as part of anyone’s spiritual growth, but for her daughter, it was always aaaaall good. The girl seemed blessed and protected, and her mother hated her for it.

At the previous year’s Halloween party, Charla caught Michael looking at her with what she thought (and hoped) was desire in his eyes. Dressed as a very sexy genii she was tempted to push him, tease him, seduce him, but how would she get away with it? That he was checking her out, that he had that look in his eyes, didn’t surprise her. She took very good care of herself and appeared a good deal younger than her forty-seven years (she looked to be in her thirties some would say). She still had it in her, she knew it, and though she never contemplated cheating on her husband, anything to hurt Amelie was always a consideration.

Charla was a beautiful woman on the outside, but on the inside, she had been systematically rotting. Even during the happy years with Brandon, she had never felt complete, finding comfort in a constant alcohol buzz, and she drank, for many years, without anyone suspecting a drinking problem. She was great at hiding things like this. People would see her as just someone who enjoyed a few cocktails, and they would often joke about her Irish blood. When she had a little too much, she handled it well, not an alcoholic by any means, she would tell herself when the thought came up, which wasn’t often.

She was shocked when Brandon suddenly suggested counseling.

For what? she asked.

For your drinking problem, he calmly replied.

But Charla continuously refused, and instead of insisting, he chose not to deal with it any longer, allowing himself between other women’s legs. Charla never believed that was the reason he cheated, she thought he did so because he was a man, and unfortunately that’s what men do. Animals. Pigs. It was one of those situations she disapproved of but felt she couldn’t get away from. She never blamed herself for the affairs, she tried pleasing him as often as possible in whichever way he liked and wanted, blow jobs, anal sex, she worked out, she kept herself slim, desirable, she never nagged, avoided arguments as much as possible, and took care of most matters related to the house. But the first time she found out he was having an affair, Brandon chose to use her drinking as an excuse for his infidelity.

Bullshit!

Not bullshit, Charla, not at all, you think I like coming home to a drunk?

I’m not a drunk, you bastard, since when have you seen me passed out like a drunk, unable to make sense like a drunk. I’m speaking clearly now, am I not? I’m no drunk! She hit him on the chest with a balled fist.

She eventually kicked him out, but she didn’t really mean it, and quickly forgave him, welcomed him back.

Charla had no real friends, her friends were his friends, and even those were keeping their distance. She didn’t like the situation she found herself in and didn’t want to lose the man she loved in spite of it all. To her, divorcing him would mean loneliness, seclusion in this big planet of ours, a mere speck in this mysterious universe, and she was deeply afraid of that. She realized she had become emotionally dependent on him, on that structure, on that life. Money would not be an issue anymore but where would she go? What would she do? She feared change, she didn’t want to go back to what it once was, and even though she realized it would never be the same, the thought of changing her accustomed lifestyle frightened her enough to forgive his affairs. She found out twice, suspected three or four, maybe more, then stopped looking, snooping, and just accepted. She loved him. Whatever she thought love was.

Charla lit another cigarette and remembered the beginning of the end with Brandon, the conversation where he informed her he was leaving and divorce papers had already been drawn.

That morning after awakening, he left the house unannounced and called a couple of hours later to tell her he had something important to speak to her about and that they should do it over lunch, Fiorentina’s, his favorite Italian restaurant. She didn’t care much for the Italian food in that place, small menu, limited options, with a heavy focus on seafood, which she wasn’t fond of. She preferred old favorites like spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, and even pizza, simple tastes. When asked what her secret was for staying in shape while enjoying such foods, she would always say ‘portions’.

She thought the request was a bit strange, but agreed to meet anyway. She enjoyed having lunch with him, and those opportunities had been getting fewer and fewer. When she arrived at the restaurant he was already sitting in his favorite little corner next to the replica painting of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, away from the kitchen, away from the bathrooms, away from other patrons, quiet, private, cozy. Looking at his expression, even from a distance, she had a strange intuition of what may be coming: he was going to tell her he cheated on her again and for her to forgive him. She would be mad at him for a few days, she thought, give him a hard time about it as well she should, as any good wife would, but in the end she would stay. She didn’t want to live without him, she loved him, and she had given up trying to fight that, so she chose to coexist with the infidelity. As she approached the table, the thought of divorce didn’t really occur to her, at least it hadn’t at that moment. After all, he came and went as he pleased, and she convinced herself he needed her to some degree as well. But she was dead wrong.

As Charla sat, he got up a fraction acknowledging her arrival, always a gentleman, handsome, tall, and in no need of dye in his hair because even at fifty he had a healthy mop with a brushstroke of distinguished grey on the sides.

So this is nice, she said, deciding not to prolong her curiosity, It’s been a while since you’ve taken me out to lunch like this, I hope it’s a sincere attempt to ... relight our fire? She forced a smile, already knowing it wasn’t. It was all in his eyes.

He wasn’t smiling. I’m afraid not. He looked down, shook his head slightly, looked back at her. You know I love you, Charla, in a lot of ways I do, but ... things have changed.

Tell me about it. She was clearly annoyed, "Are you going to tell me you’ve had another affair, Brandon? Is that why you brought me here? Because you could’ve saved our money and told me this in the privacy of our home like you did the other times."

I’m trying to keep this civil. I wanted a chance to discuss things without ... hysterics.

Oh, another forced smile, that’s what this is about, she got serious. You think I’m above hysterics here in this restaurant?

Charla, please. He leaned back in his chair, eyeballed the glass of Scotch ahead of him and picked it up raising it to wet his lips.

She closed her eyes, bringing a hand to her temple, feeling pressure already mounting on the sides of her head. She opened her eyes, looking straight at her husband. He didn’t look like the man she fell in love with anymore. Am I still in love with him? She felt she was. Am I just fooling myself? Maybe a curable case of emotional dependency? Charla imagined what was coming and wondered if it was worth fighting for or simply giving up, letting go. Brandon. I hope this is not what I’m... she stopped short as the waiter approached, asking her if she needed more time. She ordered a glass of wine, flipped open the menu, picked out the first thing she saw: Shrimp Scampi. Food was the last thing on her mind.

The drink on the other hand....

After the orders had been taken, Brandon looked