EPHRATA, 1984
ALM No.95, November 2026
SHORT STORIES
Did my husband already tell you what happened, Dr. Klein? No? Alright. It was Tuesday, I was up late trying to finish a novel, and my husband went to sleep before me as usual, so I had to turn the lights off. Well, you can’t read in the dark, so I searched the nightstand for my reading light, but it wasn’t there. I thought maybe I left it in my son’s room, so I walked down the hall, opened his door, and the first thing I saw inside was the wide open window.
I screamed. Dropped to the floor and kept screaming. Hubby came charging down the hall. Probably thought our kid was dead or worse. Then my son came scrambling back through the window like “What the hell happened?” Christ, he just wanted to lie on the porch canopy and watch the stars. That was all. That should’ve been the first thing that came to my mind.
But it wasn’t. No, when I saw that open window, I thought he was gone. As gone as my Dad. I can’t tell you why I reacted the way I did. Not exactly why. I have an idea, though. Well, nothing concrete, but it’s all I’ve got. You see, later that night, while I lay awake, I couldn’t shake the notion – or, I guess, the understanding – that I’d reacted to a memory. I saw or experienced something. Something bad. And it’s been burned into me ever since.
Well, you see, that’s just the problem. I can’t remember anything that could’ve caused that specific response. You already know all the important stuff. Dad worked on pipeline crews, so lots and lots of moving. Or, at least, that’s what the bastard told me he did. No Mom in the picture. She bailed on us not long after I was born, according to Dad. Just him and me, never in a place long enough to call it a home. If the memory I’m looking for exists, it’s been buried. Buried deep. I’ll have to think hard.
First place off the top of my head is that twin house in Galena, Illinois. We lived in the left half. Only thing we shared with our neighbors was a wrap-around porch, which creaked and complained whenever we stepped outside. I spent whole afternoons on that porch listening to the insects and frogs as they thrummed. Though the couple next door didn’t have any kids I could play with, they did have a golden retriever. He’d stalk rabbits through the backyard. Crazy good at it, too. Slow, patient. Before the suckers even knew it, that dog was already on top of them. One night we just up and left. Dad woke me, told me we were going on a trip, and that was that. Yeah, weird. But I must’ve been six or younger then. I didn’t think anything of it.
Where next? Well, there was that suburb outside Boulder, Colorado. We didn’t stay there long at all. At night Dad would stand at the windows for hours and peek through the blinds. I’d ask him what he was looking for, and he’d say “Nothing, baby girl, go back to bed.” Even back then, it dawned on me that we weren’t just hopping across the country because of work. Dad was on the run. I never found out who he was running from, though I have my theories. Cops? Loan sharks? Could’ve been anyone. No, I don’t think those are farfetched. At all. Don’t look at me like that. Anyone who could do what he did to his daughter isn’t above much else, if you ask me.
After that? I know we stayed in Pennsylvania, and maybe another place after that. Only important thing from that period was what I’ve already told you. One night Dad burst into my bedroom, shook me awake, and said we had to go. I asked why, and he wouldn’t answer. We packed clothes into duffel bags, and I remember he glanced over his shoulder the whole way to the car. Like he was waiting for something. We crossed over state lines, stopping only once, and then he dropped me off at the Tupper Lake Children’s Home. That was the last time I ever saw him. Nah, I don’t think whatever it was I’m looking for happened at the orphanage. I’d rather not talk about the orphanage at all. It was a fine place. Good people. But it wasn’t home. It wasn’t Daddy.
What’s that? We’re out of time? Darn. Sorry if this wasn’t very productive. There’s only so much I can recall. Tell you what, I’ll spend the week going through whatever I’ve kept over the years, and we’ll see if that avails anything. No, Doc, I really do have to. I know, for my own good, that I should let that memory rot where it is. But I won’t. It’s like a hangnail. You know if you nibble at it enough, it’s gonna hurt like hell later. And yet you nibble anyway.
Alright, I’ll be in touch. If I find anything I’ll email you. Yes, I can come in next week. Same time works, thank you.
I found it.
Here. These were crammed behind a drawer. All polaroids, most dated early to mid 80s. Most are of just me, but he’s in a few. Flip through. That one he took at the second house I mentioned. Front lawn. And that one, the fourth. Keep going. Oh, that one? Taken in the fifth house, I think. Hard to tell. 1983, so either we just moved out of the fifth or were just about to. That’s not what you’re looking for, but it’s odd, isn’t it? Just a dark window. Nothing visible outside. At first I thought he took this one by accident. He didn’t. Just keep going. No, not those ones. I’ll tell you which. Keep going.
There.
Ephrata, 1984. A year before he left me. Until then, we lived, for a time, in another twin house. No porch on that one. He’s in the photo with me, so someone must’ve been over that night. Holiday or houseparty, maybe. Look at the window behind us. Not that one. The one on the left, the one that’s barely in the frame. Look a little closer. Closer.
Yeah. You see it. I made that same face when I did. It’s not staring in at the camera, is it? No. It’s staring at us. Dad and
I.
Why this photo? Come on, Doc, think. All those houses, all those moves, uprooting your child, again and again. No father plans that kinda life for their offspring – right? No, they do it because they have to. I had it right that he was on the run. But I always assumed he was on the run from someone. Yes, Doc. You heard me. Look at it again. That thing is not a person.
When I saw that photo, I vomited. Hours knelt over the toilet, puking, shaking. Two reasons. One: Dad didn’t throw me away. Well, yes, he did. But I don’t think he wanted to. I don’t think he ever wanted to. Like I said, I think he had to. I think he looked at that photo, looked into the eyes of the thing hunting us, and then he made the only choice he could. He took me off the board. Then he ran. And I don’t think he made it far.
The other reason?
Well, that room. It was on the second floor.
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