The Devil's Deeds

By Latasha Oliver-Pullins

Tina and Charlie were typical children until the untimely death of their mother. They were young when she passed, and her death was a forbidden topic of conversation in their home. When a beautiful woman named Doris enters their lives, seemingly by accident, they are all too accepting. Never really grieving the loss of their mother, Doris seems an adequate substitute. All begins well, but soon Tina and Charlie discover Doris has a dark side contrary to the loving, mother–like facade she put on during their father's courtship of her. Behind her extravagant beauty, a murderous, cannibalistic being was emerging. Doris's true nature was subtle in the beginning but after their father's death would become the violent reality they would mature with. After a deliberate, opportune, and tragic fire consumes their home, the secrets buried within would reveal itself. Along with the fire comes a sense of relief that their nightmare has ended. Tina manages to move on with her life, becoming a caregiver for the elderly. She takes on her last client, Ms. Turner, a feeble, old burn victim. Strange events start happening in her client's home. Tina wonders if the unexplained events at Ms. Turner's are somehow related to her past. One day while snooping around Ms. Turner's house, the truth is discovered. Now Tina must survive the influence Doris left on her physical safety and mental well–being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643508955

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The Devil's Deeds

Latasha Oliver-Pullins

Copyright © 2018 Latasha Oliver-Pullins

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2018

ISBN 978-1-64350-894-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64350-895-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The brisk wind across my face was the only thing I could feel as I watched the fire devour what used to be our home. Unpleasant memories of this house of pain could clearly be seen in the absence of my tears. Paralyzed, I watched the ashes and smoke being carried off by the wind with that distinctive smell of death. An odor that I could only describe as metallic in nature with a sweet undertone. This odor had become all too familiar to me. Kneeling on both knees in the snow, I hadn’t even noticed how numb my face and extremities had become in the bitter cold. Occasional sparks, crackling, and popping of what was left of the wooden frame were the only muffled sounds I could hear. No one even recognized or knew who I was, other than the child that escaped from the fire.

The hustle and bustle of the firemen whisking past me felt like running a race without moving at all. My anxiety was at a level I had never experienced before. Are you OK? one in passing asked. Before I could answer, he was moving on. The firemen never noticed my disfigurement or any of my scars. I stood there by myself wanting a single soul to just ask me my name or maybe even What happened? It wouldn’t be long before those exact questions would be asked a million times. The scene was so hectic it resembled many aspects of a stampede. Even with so much going on around me, I couldn’t help but have my soul feel completely numb and empty.

The fear of the fire was not what chilled me but what lied beneath the flames. Smoke carried the stale smell of death that hung in the air. The nightmare those brave firefighters would soon uncover, once the smoke settled, froze my body and soul more than the subzero weather I was now standing in. The thought was a tragedy but would bring some relief and a welcomed end in knowing the souls trapped in our house would finally be freed. This was the only solemn comfort I could grasp at the time.

Paranoia set in, and my mind began to flood with questions. Where would I go from here? I knew I would now become an orphan with Father dead. Who would take in the child that lived in the house the devil built? Many days before, I wished that old house would have burned down and its secrets revealed. Now that it was happening, it seemed so surreal. If only it had happened before the many that were buried there had a chance to grace its doors. The glaring flames were welcomed not only to burn the paint off the walls but the blood that was splattered on them and the gallons that were soaked in its foundation.

The firemen scurried to put the fire out and address the hot spots to ensure the fire wouldn’t flare back up as they searched for potential survivors. Neighbors could only tell firefighters that a family lived there and not much else. None of them were sure how many children lived in the house and only recalled my father as the only adult living there. Firemen began tearing away at the rubble vigorously, hoping to find anyone else alive. In passing, one of the rescue workers had wrapped a blanket around me to try and shield me from the bitter cold. I was asked several times if there was anyone else in the house, but the shock of it all prohibited my answering. I knew eventually, as they worked through the rubbish, that the bodies would be recovered. The only one I would ever mourn for was my brother, Charlie. Not the brother he became, but the brother he once was. He was so young and innocent when our story began. By the end, I didn’t even know him. I placed my hands in my pockets to try and warm them and discovered my most cherished possession, my father’s ring.

My first memory and knowledge of our nightmares beginning was when I was six years old. I and my younger brother, Charlie, were playing in the living room floor, as we always did, and a knock came at the door. Father was sitting in his favorite spot on the couch reading the newspaper. We rarely ever got visitors, so naturally the light tapping on the old wood door grabbed our attention. It was a knock I wish was never answered.

Father sluggishly removed himself from the couch and made his way to the door. On the other side of the door stood a lady who introduced herself as Doris. Father didn’t bother introducing us at the time. Father engaged in casual conversation as she tried to sell him vacation shares to a condo on the other side of town.

Her sales pitch was detailed and drew a mental picture of a beautiful property. After she finished her sales pitch, Father invited her into the kitchen by offering her a cup of coffee. Father and Doris made small talk after he convinced her he was not interested in buying any time shares. The conversation seemed to be going well as Doris giggled here and there throughout their talk and my father returned the fancy. Father changed the conversation by asking Doris on a dinner date. Hesitantly, Doris agreed, and their courtship would begin innocently enough.

After a few more giggles, Doris ended their conversation assuring my father she would meet him at a local tapas bar the next night to take him up on his dinner offer. Father was all grins as he watched Doris exit our front door and descend the three steps off the porch to the cement walkway. She walked so gracefully it appeared as though she were floating down the sidewalk. His attention was only abruptly interrupted by Ms. Nelly calling for him in the basement where she was doing our laundry.

Ms. Nelly was our babysitter during the day when father was at work. She had missed Doris’s visit and was unaware of anything that had transpired upstairs.

Ms. Nelly was a pudgy, older woman who really didn’t do or say much at all. Her hair hung to her waist, which she kept neatly tied back in a braid. Her daily attire always consisted of a knee-length skirt, elbow-length shirt, and a white apron. Knee-high stockings were also a part of her attire, but they looked more like ankle socks because they never stayed up on her knees. She more or less just made sure we stayed out of trouble and didn’t hurt ourselves or each other. She was also responsible for the meals. Father paid her once a week to basically sit on the couch most of the day, cook, and watch us play. Although she made attempts to do the laundry every now and then, she appeared to be a complete waste of space to me. Father insisted that she not attempt his laundry anymore after she shrunk his favorite dress pants and his T-shirts came out looking like Charlie could wear them. She started babysitting us shortly after mother passed away.

Ms. Nelly would randomly occupy us when father was at work, with tales of her family, which she always described in some heroic way. Other times she would tell us about her family traditions and old folk stories that she grew up with. Her meals would be of her traditional Mexican culture, and we loved Mondays, when she would make tacos. Tuesdays would be tamales, which me and Charlie didn’t mind other than trying to unwrap them from their corn husk casing. Beans and rice were a regular staple in our lunch and were very filling. Wednesday would be a simple meal of chicken and cheese quesadillas. Ms. Nelly loved Wednesdays because she didn’t have to stand over the stove slow cooking anything. It took her about ten minutes to whip up this meal. Thursday was chicken covered in a tomato and chili sauce. Fridays were potluck days, which consisted of whatever was left over during the week. Saturday and Sunday, she was off, so Father would attempt to make us TV dinners.

Besides her boring stories, we didn’t have many complaints about Ms. Nelly. Although her English was broken, her facial expressions let us know her demands, and we had grown accustomed to reading her face. Once Doris and father’s courtship began, she was promptly dismissed of her duties. This was suggested by Doris, who insisted that we were mature enough to watch ourselves for the few hours a day that Ms. Nelly was employed. Even at my young age, I knew this was illegal, but I wasn’t given a choice in the matter. I soon realized that Charlie was a handful to babysit and I missed Ms. Nelly dearly. Once I tried to express to Father that Charlie was too much trouble and I was too young to babysit him. Unfortunately, I did it in front of Doris. She batted her eyes and assured Father we were perfectly safe. After her reassurance, Father wouldn’t hear anything else of it.

It was approaching the two-and-a-half-year mark of our mother’s death. She died in a car accident during deer hunting season. A scared foe had run out in front of her, and she swerved to miss it. Ultimately the car flipped several times and landed in an embankment. At her funeral, I remember her face being puffy and she appeared to be simply sleeping. After the initial talk about her death, we never discussed it again. It was a forbidden subject. Anytime we tried to bring Mother up, Father would shut down and immediately change the subject. After a while we just stopped trying to communicate or reminisce about mother. Ms. Nelly was at the funeral offering my father condolences. She came by the house a few times after the funeral before Father decided it best to hire her. When Father released Ms. Nelly of her duties, it was the first time I ever felt resentment toward Doris. Her presence was a constant reminder of loss.

The courtship between father and Doris started simple enough. Sometimes they would go to dinner or a movie and sometimes dancing. Father would come home lit up like a Christmas tree after a date with Doris. He would rush right in and tell Charlie and I about the date. He would go on and on about how beautiful she was. Meanwhile, we were entrusted to watch ourselves, and we knew all the rules about not answering the door or telephone. However, Father still felt the need to go over the rules every night.

I was left in charge of Charlie, who could be a handful at times. Father never left us more than three hours when he went out with Doris. The dates were planned around Father’s hectic work schedule, and normally on days he would plan to get off early. He would come home long enough to shower and change his clothing before whisking off to see Doris.

Doris was a tall, beautiful woman with long brown hair that hung just past her shoulders. Her dimples were a cute accent to her pale but even skin. She had piercing emerald-green eyes that stood out like jewels and thin lips that covered an almost perfect smile. Her coke-bottle shape was straight off the runway of a New York fashion magazines, and she was always well dressed. Smelling of sweet perfume, her visits became a warm welcome at first. Their dates began as two or three times a week but soon became almost daily as my father became more smitten by her beauty. The more smitten he became, the more frequent her visits and more often the dates.

In the beginning, her presence was fun, and we enjoyed her company. On rare occasions, Doris did many fun things with us such as picnics, trips to the park, swimming, and fun days in the sun. It was a treat to Charlie and me to just get out of the house. When we were at home, she would make it just as fun by engaging us in educational games and occasional hide-and-seek. In the beginning the house felt more like a home when she was around. We finally began getting real meals instead of the ordinary and usually stale TV dinners we had grown accustomed to since Ms. Nelly’s departure. Father worked long hours, and they were the only thing he could cook without filling the house with smoke. The burned edges of the TV dinner tray were a reminder of his adolescence in the kitchen. Although Doris couldn’t take the place of our mother, she was an adequate substitute. Father was delighted to see we accepted her and even more delighted that she seemed to enjoy spending time with us. It was a complete feeling we hadn’t felt in a long time.

After about a year of steady courtship, Doris was more or less a permanent fixture in our lives. One day we had just returned from an outing with Doris to find Father standing in the living room dressed in his best work suit. He appeared to be heavy in thought and was sweating profusely. This was unusual because Father was hardly ever home in the middle of the day. The silence was broken by Doris asking Father how his day was and asking why he was home so early. Father’s eyes immediately began to fill with tears, and he dropped to one knee. His voice was shaky as the words came out, Doris, will you marry me? Doris hesitated before giving a squeal and answering Yes! at the top of her lungs. Father leaped up and swooped Doris up in the air and twirled her in circles. This was the happiest I had seen Father in a long time. Normally he would put on a happy front, but today it was genuine.

Charlie and I stood in shock. For a brief moment, I was angry that father had not consulted with us first before popping the question. We were young, but we knew what marriage was and that him marrying Doris would make her our stepmother. The anger dissipated with one look of how happy Father was. I had never seen him so choked up. The last time I remember him crying was the last day we saw our mother. Even at Mother’s funeral, he didn’t shed a tear.

Father slid a small ring onto Doris’s finger, which she admired for a few moments. I mentally left the room as they began smooching. Once they finally stopped swapping saliva, Doris retreated to the kitchen to begin dinner. This calls for something special, she said in glee. Charlie and I gave father a hug and kiss before we began making our way to the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

After washing and changing our clothes, we entered the kitchen and sat at the table. The aroma coming from the stove was delightful. Once served, grace was said, and the eating began. There was some kind of pork chop, vegetable medley, and mashed potatoes. Doris and Father could hardly keep their hands off each other. They were whispering back and forth to each other while playing hands and footsies at the table. How disgusting, I thought to myself. Their faces seemed to be stuck in permanent smiles as they giggled in between whispers.

As soon as dinner was finished, we were ordered off to bed with a hug and kiss from both Doris and Father. I laid in the bed and imagined what life was about to be like for us. I knew Charlie was in his room imagining the same. Just before drifting off to sleep, I heard the opening and closing of the front door as Doris left to return to her home, wherever that was. In all this time, we had never visited her home or knew where she lived. She would tell us about the delightful place she called home, but for some reason she had never invited us or taken us there. At the time it didn’t bother us because her description of it was enticing enough to hear.

Soon she began living with us, and things began to change. She began showing more and more attention to Father and less and less to us. The picnics became home-cooked meals at the table, the trips to the park became sitting in the living room, the swimming became playtime in the tub, and the fun in the sun became nonexistent. Since our mother had passed when I was just four years old, her presence bought us happiness in the beginning mainly because it brought our father happiness. He smiled more and seemed to be very much in love with her. But shortly after she moved in, we began to see another side of Doris that I would learn to first dislike, and then to hate but always fear. This other side she would hide from my father’s presence. Doris was Doris when Father was around, but when he wasn’t, she was a very cold, mean, manipulative opportunist with a thirsty compulsion for destruction. Her ability to break one’s will and hope was hidden delicately behind her stunning beauty.

There were many instances that her cruelty could be seen. One occurrence happened one afternoon while we were watching television. Doris, Charlie, and I were gathered in the living room watching a nature program. Out of nowhere Doris started humming and abruptly left the couch and went into the kitchen. She went to the silverware drawer and removed a large butcher knife. Standing at the sink, she fancied it, just glaring at it with marvel while continually humming some awful tune. In the blink of an eye, she sliced her hand and watched her blood drain into the sink. She didn’t even flinch and never missed a beat in her humming. Watching this, I was terrified. When she turned and caught me watching, I swiftly turned my head back to the television as if I had seen nothing. Once I felt her eyes were no longer on me, I returned to observing her. Her blood was running in the sink like a small stream running from the faucet. She stood, like a statue, watching it. She showed no emotion of pain.

She then took a small kitchen towel and dabbed her hand. Holding the towel, she applied pressure on the slit that she cut to stop the bleeding. Then taking a small tube of ointment out of her apron pocket, she began administering the lube to ensure it would not continue bleeding. She then placed a bandage, which she also retrieved from her apron, on the cut on her hand. Her humming never raised even an octave as she did this. She then started her cleaning as if nothing was wrong. After she finished the dishes and wiping the countertop down, she presented herself in the living room entryway. My father, who was just getting in from work, saw the bandage on Doris’s hand and immediately questioned, What happened? Doris lied in detail. She told father that she had dropped a glass, and while cleaning it up, she had cut her hand. My father took her hand gently and kissed her boo-boo while instructing her to be more careful in the kitchen. Doris smiled at his reaction, informed my father she was fine, and continued to the couch to assume her position and engage in the program we were watching. I watched her purposely cut herself but dared not to challenge her explanation to my father at the time.

Another incident happened in the wee hours of the morning before anyone would be up for breakfast. I was awakened by a horrible shrieking sound. At first, I hesitated to get out of bed, but the sound was so horrific that it sent chills up my spine and I could no longer lay there, nor could I fall back to sleep. Creeping down the hall, I made it to the kitchen entrance. I was thrown into a fear I had never known when I saw Doris, again over the kitchen sink, holding a cat by its throat and skinning it with her other hand while it was still alive. The cat squirmed and screamed, fighting to get away. Doris was humming and turned to see me after hearing me gasp. Her face, hands, and arms were covered in blood and bits of flesh and fur. She didn’t say a word to me but returned to the cat and with a mighty force slammed the cat’s head into the countertop. This stopped its squirming, screaming, and suffering. I wanted to run away and return to my room, but I was frozen in fear. Soundly asleep, no one else heard what was going on in the kitchen. I couldn’t believe Charlie and Father had slept through the awful noise. I wish I had slept through it and not had those images burned in my head.

Laying the cat’s body on the countertop, she continued skinning the cat. She was precise with the knife, peeling the fur off the animal the way one would peel a banana. Its fur was laid to the side in a pile. Now wielding a hatchet, she removed its paws, tail, and head. The cracking of its bones was like nails against a chalkboard to me. Blood and pieces of flesh splattered on the counter, back splash, and two of the cabinets above the counter. She continued to butcher the cat, hacking at its torso, separating it into small pieces. Once she was done cutting the poor creature up, she placed the pieces in a strainer and rinsed the meat off with water from the faucet. She placed the pieces in a large mixing bowl and proceeded to toss the pieces in several different salts and spices. Still humming, she drizzled a little olive oil over the pieces and gave them a final toss. The tune she hummed had an eerie tone that coincided with the terror in the room. It was a symphony of fear. She discarded the innards, fur, paws, tail, and head by tying them up in a garbage bag and setting them to the side. Later she would discard them in the trash receptacle just outside the back door.

She then cleaned up the bloody mess and placed the pieces of cat in a pot on the stove with a little water. Briefly disappearing into the pantry, she returned to the counter with potatoes, onions, and carrots. She went to the fridge and acquired some celery stalks. As she diced up the vegetables and placed them in the pot with some chicken stock and more spices, my muscles finally loosened up enough to move.

I made it down the hallway and to the bathroom, where I threw up. After relieving myself and rinsing my mouth out, I made it slowly to my room and back into bed. As I lay there trying to understand what I just saw and the reason for Doris’s