#normal:task2

TASK 2 // THE BEST OF TIMES, THE WORST OF TIMES

We’ve all made some questionable choices and the same goes for The Murder Club. Whether they would change what they did or not, there’s something your character has done that they regret or feel remorseful about. For this task we want you to channel that character’s specific memory and write about what exactly was the worst thing they’ve ever done. This should be in self-para form, but it can be written in different ways (the character reflecting on the memory, the memory as if it was happening right then and there, etc).

OOC //

play with me, play with me!

alfie was all wide eyes and curlicues. kaz grabbed his excitable hands, leading him downstairs where he could make breakfast for them both. eggs, scrambled and a little burnt, with extra cheese for alfie, because

“that’s the caldwell secret. it’s why all the chicks dig this handsome smile, ‘cause...” 

CHEESE! 

alfie finished the sentence for him, already well aware of his brother’s ancient wisdoms.

an afternoon spent carting his younger brother around on his back. so many afternoons like that. kaz was the fast one, so his shoulders were well worn by the small limbs that rested on them. piggyback rides were his speciality. alfie’s preferred way of moving about town.

the caldwell boys, a familiar sight around normal. kaz and his brother-shaped backpack. alfie with too large eyes who shared stories of the corpses that had recently shipped in to their family funeral home. kaz’s smile was a beam that shot through the discomfort of others who weren’t quite sure how to talk to the awkward younger one.

alfie and his hyperfixation. his desire to make friends but his inability to understand how. the only time he braved the horrors of social interaction were the ones with his hand firmly held by kaz’s warm, calloused palm. 

the world was harder for people like his brother. that was what his parents had told kaz. sometimes he needed extra help. that was okay. kaz would always be there.

he made varsity the spring of sophomore year. something he had worked so hard for. kobbs’ voice echoing in his head, words like captain and scholarships and future. a future away from normal, away from the graveyard, away from the south side. pride and glory and a sense of belonging in the world. 

practices started to take up more time and that was when the babysitter came into the story. alfie had cried the first time they left him with her. 

she grew on him, but she never quite filled the shoes of his big brother. every day, the hope that his afternoon would be spent with kaz. every day, the disappointment as he was shuttled off to the babysitter’s house.

kaz, 16, a boy with a life. with a team, with a best friend, with a girlfriend. games, parties, midnight fortnite sessions. the time he made for his brother grew shorter and shorter as he grew more distracted by the particulars of teenage life.

a cold november day. fall break from school. a text from sara, his on again off again that was currently off (again). come over. let’s talk. 

alfie in the kitchen downstairs, feet dangling from a chair. his eyes lit up at the sight of kaz, at the prospect of what days off together would bring.

can you take me to the park?

“i can’t, buddy. but i can call abby and she’ll take you.”

why? why not you? you never hang out with me anymore. you like everyone else better than me.

“that’s not true. it’s not. i’m busy, but you’re still my favorite dude. we’ll hang out tomorrow, alright? just you and me.”

tomorrow. you promise?

“cross my heart and hope to die. tomorrow will be the most epic brother day we’ve ever had.”

epic. alfie had tried the word like he’d never said it before. mimicking the way kaz spoke, testing it out for himself. later, when kaz dropped alfie off at abby’s, he echoed it again. 

epic. tomorrow, right?

“tomorrow.”

tomorrow a town-wide manhunt. tomorrow their mother’s frantic sobbing. tomorrow a thousand missing posters printed. tomorrow an empty bedroom. tomorrow an empty promise. 

tomorrow the worst thing he’d ever done. tomorrow the thing he’d always regret. 

@murderclubhq 

The sensationalized headline would forever be imprinted in Holly’s mind. It sat in a box under her bed with all the other keepsakes from her childhood and sometimes she would open it up and fumble with shaky hands through the contents. The edges of the newspaper clipping had been cut with shaky hands, folded carefully in a sheet protector and placed right under her stuffed dog Max, like maybe he could protect her from the visions. Various other trinkets and baubles from her family’s adventures sat inside the slowly weathering cardboard. At one point her room had been littered with these things: sand from Atlantic City, snow gloves from Alaska, keychains from Montana, string dolls and quartz necklaces supposedly imbued with good luck.

Holly fiddled with the edge of the paper, printed four years ago to the very date. Maybe it was a form of self flagellation, looking upon this piece of newsprint every so often so she could continue to ground herself in the ever increasingly abstract definition of reality. A keepsake of her biggest regret, her own personal failure.

She had killed five people. That blood would always be on her hands.

It had seemed so innocuous at the time.A  phone call ended early thanks to preteen rebellion and ever fluctuating hormones. The suspense and excitement of the supernatural her life had been immersed in since adoption was fading day by day. Where there once were fairies playing tricks in the backyard were fireflies caught in pesticides. The frightening monster under her bed wasn’t anything more than an old overcoat long forgotten and devoured by hungry moths. There were no fairies come to play and Bigfoot was a fairytale to keep drunken hunters on their toes.

The family, Mr and Mrs. Woodhouse had been calling for nearly a week straight, leaving voicemail after voicemail that eventually clogged the machine. It was an unspoken rule in the Knights household that Holly keep her hands to herself and only answer the phone after a prompting from her parents. It wasn’t like anyone would ever be calling for her anyway, so most days she ignored the incessant ringing and went about her day writing stories or playing make believe by herself.

But that day she had been so angry, resentful that she was home alone again. That instead of a family dinner and board games she was climbing up the cabinets just to be able to reach the last of the microwave popcorn so she could eat a lunch her parents had forgotten to leave. 

The phone rang again, a shrill sound that was starting to give her a headache. Frustrated, Holly went to the phone, determined to tell the family to call back after her parents were back from their weird adventure in Nebraska. 

“Hello? Is this the home of Dr. Knights and Dr. Knights? My name is Roe Woodhouse and my family and I have an emergency that meets their expertise. We suspect our house is haunted. The ghosts or spirits or poltergeists or whatever have been increasingly aggressive as of late. One of them even lit the fireplace when we weren’t home!”

She would never be able to forget the words that tumbled from her lips, like a record scratched on repeat to haunt her nightmares.

“Sorry. The Knights no longer live here.”

A simple lie. That’s all it had been. Something to give her peace of mind and maybe, just maybe, a night with her mothers that felt something next to normal.

Two weeks later, the papers had printed the story. An electrical fire, an accident, doors that wouldn’t open and five bodies burnt up in their beds, like they hadn’t even tried to get out of them. Only the family cat had made it out alive that night. The police had ruled it an accident.

After that it had been a whirlwind of ripped papers as her walls became barren. Her parents never confronted her but the voicemails were there as proof and the way Lizzie looked upon her like judge, jury, and executioner was enough. That had been the day it all fell apart. A skeptic trapped in a house of horrors.

Holly looked down at the fading newsprint letters: a secret she would take to her grave. She curled up tighter in the warmth of Kaz’s sweater as the tears rolled down her cheeks.