Skeletons in the Closet

By Gary Lee

What happens when you want to forget the past but the past won't forget you? Davis Liam Jackson Jr., the son of the infamous serial killer Davis "The Butcher" Jackson is willing to do everything he can to escape his family's dark history. Finally, in the attempt to cut final ties with the house of horrors his father created, Davis decides to fix up the house, sell it, and never step foot in his hometown again.

But two things keep Davis from throwing his past away and never looking back. One is a lost love, Jessica "Grace" Simmons, with whom he reunites when he moves back to town. The other is an unforeseen dark presence that seems to want to keep the secrets of his house, family, and hometown from being known.

Will the secrets be uncovered, or will Davis go mad desperately trying to find the truth while also trying to protect the only person he holds dear?

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889603269

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Skeletons in the Closet

Gary Lee

Copyright © 2023 Gary Lee

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-317-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-326-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Davis

Chapter 2

Grace

Chapter 3

Davis

Chapter 4

Davis

Chapter 5

Davis

Chapter 6

Grace

Chapter 7

Davis

Chapter 8

Grace

Chapter 9

Davis

Chapter 10

Grace

Chapter 11

Davis

Chapter 12

Davis

Chapter 13

Grace

Chapter 14

Davis

Chapter 15

Davis

Chapter 16

Davis

About the Author

Chapter 1

Davis

Everything was the same, absolutely everything. Between the Pentecostal Church from one end to the hardware store, everything was the same. I made my way around these parts for the past hour, looking at everything, trying to find something different. Nothing has changed besides a few buildings torn down and a few with a new fresh splatter of paint on them. I hate it. This town doesn't know how to let go of things. Just like the house that I am driving by right now, this town holds on to every memory it has and refuses to let it die. I believe the man who owned it was named Mr. Foster. He died before my time, but his kids still try to keep his spirit alive with the house. The house should have been condemned years ago; no matter how many shades of new white paint they may put on the place, it will still be aging. Between the wood chippings, shingles falling off, and sunken-in front porch, it should be destroyed for something new. Instead, they are painting a skeleton.

I turn around and go past the Pentecostal Church again, passing their sign that reads God knows all, sees all, and hears all. I can't help but chuckle at this because of how fitting it is for everyone else in this town. The older men who sit at the gas stations and coffee shops knew everything about me even before I moved back here in seventh grade. And if they didn't know anything, they would ask me right out front about it: Hey, kid, you're Davis's boy, ain't ya? or Hey, you're Elizabeth's boy, sorry to hear what happened, you must' a' been pretty young to remember anything.

They knew good and well I was old enough to remember, but they were trying to get as much information out of me to be able to be the first one to gossip about what happened between Davis and Elizabeth Jackson. Of course, I was younger then, and probably would have told them if my aunt Bertha wasn't with me to ask me to get in the car.

Growing up here wasn't too bad though. Every kid was my friend, or at least a buddy. I wouldn't say my friends because I only had three of them. None of the kids knew my real name or knew who my parents were or came over to hang out and vice versa. Same was true for my friends for the most part. I would nearly live with one of them, but I would never let them come over unless my aunt was gone. It wasn't that I didn't want them to come over, but my aunt was a little on the crazy side, and I didn't want them to see that. In this town, every kid knew each other, and each one knew each other's parents.

I was gone from Mena only for a year, but because I was homeschooled, when I did move back here, it was a whole new school to me. My father and mother never let me go to other people's houses or talk to other kids without them around. They didn't trust me to be by myself in case I said too much about what went on at home. No one knew me, and I kept it that way up to senior year because everyone knew me by my middle name, Liam. The only people who knew my full name was the principal and the secretary.

It all worked for years because I only had three true friends that I hung out with, and they were never too nosey about my past; we all four kept our heads low and stayed outta trouble. We were the weirdos that everyone liked but not enough to hang out with. But when it came to senior year, that changed. The school got a principal from out of state that didn't get the information about how I want my name to be pronounced at graduation as just Davis Liam. I came to forgive her for this mistake because she couldn't have known any better since she was new.

I almost didn't stand when they said my name. I haven't heard it said in so long all in one sentence. Davis Liam Jackson Jr. I stood up and walked down the red carpet in the gym, with my classmates on both sides. Very few of them clapped: the ones that moved here and don't know the history of that name. The rest of them just stared at me like I was a wild animal. Some of them pointed. Just the same in the crowd, very few clapped. Either new people or visitors.

While I was walking, I was able to pick out my two friends on the rows on each side of me. Ivan Kennedy, whose name did not fit his face or personality at all, was mouthing, Why didn't you tell me? while Nick Roger, whom we called Bubba at the time, had his face looking down, his face almost as red as the graduation gown he had on.

I truly didn't care about them at that point. They had known me since seventh grade, they have eaten after me, they have fished and hunted with me, they have been with me for every good and bad decision I have ever made, and if they see me as a different person because of the actions my father has made, then I don't need them anyway. But there was one person I needed to not turn their back on me.

I looked around, trying to find her. Face after face I just kept on getting frowns and mouths wide open. One guy I didn't even recognize gave me the middle finger. But behind him was the face I was looking for. Jessica, but we all called her Grace. I'm not sure why, but here in the South, it seems like we call a lot of people by their middle name.

Grace was so much more than a friend; she was everything to me at the time. We started dating in eighth grade, and there wasn't much time we were apart since then. Her middle name described her perfectly. Not only did she do everything gracefully, but also just the way she talked and looked at you was graceful. But when we made eye contact, there was nothing too graceful right then. Her eyeliner was running down her cheeks from the tears, and she had her hand over her mouth.

I gave her a small smile and mouthed I love you. Trying to smile, she said, I love you too, but as soon as she said it, she turned back in her chair to turn toward the front. It wasn't much, but it was enough for me to put my best foot forward and keep on going all the way to the principal and grab my diploma.

Let's give this young man some applause, Principal Shores said, giving me a handshake.

The crowd and my classmates gave me a clap, but it wasn't much of one. No one was happy to give a hand to the son of Davis the butcher.

The next few months were hell. Got hate mail telling me to leave town or else. No one talked to me, and then people started vandalizing my house. Leaving roadkill in the front yard with their organs spread across the yard and signs saying, The butcher's house. My only comfort was my aunt and Grace. But even Grace was no comfort deep down for every time we were alone now, she pulled away a little, or she would find an excuse not to come over if my aunt wasn't home with us. Course I can't blame her; her mother was one of my father's victims. Her father has never liked me, and now when he sees my face, he threatens to kill me. Grace was more understanding and didn't blame me on sight for my dad's doings or said I'll be like him. But I still can tell it bothers her. Why wouldn't it? So I did what I thought would be best: I left without a trace.

Now that I am back, all these memories are coming at me like a flood, and I wish it would just stop. This is the third time to drive through town, and everything here has a memory that comes back like a needle to a balloon. It leaves me deflated with defeat. But I came here for a purpose. I kept on driving through town and came to the outside of it and pulled into a house out on the left, right before you hit the city-limit sign. I got out and grabbed my bag from the back of the truck and sat it at my feet.

I look at the old house, and just like the house I saw earlier, the wood was falling apart and the paint was peeling. The difference being that this house has not been shown any kind of love in years; it was truly a skeleton of its greater days. The grass is grown around the two-acre lot about three feet high. I can smell the honeysuckle in the air, and the wind is blowing across my face, blending the smell of the grasses and honeysuckle and the fresh flowers coming up to tell this beautiful day hello.

But with all this beauty of nature there was this scar on the landscape, this monster that sits here haunting not only mine, but everybody's dreams who came to know the horrors of this house. This is the house where my father brought his victims. This is the house someday will be torn to the ground and put to rest like the victims that it consumed in its shadowy presence. But before it comes to the ground, I will try to find every secret in it. I will try to understand what happened in this house and try to come to peace about what happened here. I must know so I can move on with myself. For the next two months, my father's house of torture will be my home. While I'm here, I might as well fix it up as much as possible and sell it off so it won't be my problem any longer.

I looked toward the top window, and I thought I saw someone standing there, but before I could think too much, there was a honk behind me. That honk was like a bomb going off in my head. I dove in front of my truck and was looking for my M4 and waiting for orders from my platoon sergeant.

Where is my weapon? I screamed in my head, getting ready for a mortar to hit me any second.

But I feel grass under my hands, not sand. There is no mortar or weapon or threat to worry about. For sure there is no Sergeant Clark. Just me in front of my truck acting like a gun-shocked vet.

I rose from my feet in anger. I can't believe I let a car pull up behind me without even realizing. I was ready to cuss this guy out, and would have done it to anyone else if it wasn't her. She stepped outta the car with her brown hair that I had buried my face in so many times waving in the wind. The sun hit her eyes, and I saw the blue from them hasn't changed a bit. I had always compared them to the ocean before I actually saw it; the ocean is nothing but a murky pond compared to these eyes. Or at least they were to me.

Hey, Davis, where've you been? Grace said with a smile that would kill.

Chapter 2

Grace

Rhonda Wilkins was a very nosey, very loud, and very large woman who had nothing better to do than sit behind her desk at the courthouse, wasting her money away on the vending machine that calls to her every hour, telling her that one more Snickers bar won't hurt. What better place to work than a courthouse to know what the newest gossip in town is?

Rhonda and I became acquaintances when I became a part-time janitor there while I was going through college. I didn't like Rhonda at first. Not just for our age difference, with Rhonda being nearly twice my age, but also because everyone knew Rhonda as a gossiper. As months went by, Rhonda and I started to talk a little more and more and eventually went out to lunch sometimes. Took a liking toward Rhonda since she would talk to me. I was just a janitor, and everyone else in the building seemed to hold their noses up to me. I was only good to talk to when a spilled Coke needed to be cleaned up or when the bathroom didn't have any paper. Even if Rhonda just played buddy-buddy to my face and then talks behind my back, at least I'll get a free sandwich out of it on Wednesdays.

Our relationship became stronger, though, earlier that year. I was working there for two-and-a-half years, and my work was really showing off. So much so that Judge Hart couldn't help but notice how I was the only janitor who got everything done around the courthouse. I showed him how I had everything set up in a chart for the day and had everything organized. But of course, I wouldn't be able to get all this stuff done with the short time I have, so I've been doing overtime since I started this job.

The judge couldn't put true hard work to waste. It was the next day the judge demanded that I become assistant for his secretary and learn how to be one until the secretary retired the following year. Of course, I didn't refuse. But it was only a week later that Rhonda came up to me and let me know that the word around town is that the judge hired me because I was pretty and was willing to do some special favors for him on the late nights when we were working together.

I wanted to ask Rhonda why the people felt so comfortable talking about me to her but decided that Rhonda was probably the only thing close to a friend and decided not to. So I let it slide, and we've been friends since. But it was nice having a friend who loved letting you know every single thing that walked in and out of the courthouse. Today's information was the best of all.

Davis is back? I said over the phone, sitting in the parking lot at the courthouse. I had just sat down in my car when Rhonda called me.

Yes, that's what I just said, Rhonda said, a little annoyed that it was taking so long to sink in.

Are you sure? I mean, he hasn't been here for years. How do you know it wasn't someone else? I said, trying to not get my hopes up that it could be someone else.

I don't think there are too many Davis Liam Jackson Jr.'s in this town, and I really don't think there are too many that are gonna pay the taxes on his daddy's house of horrors.

"Wait,