TenTerrifyingTales
A Collection of Short Stories
by Marie Prato

THE KILLER WITHIN

The front door opened. I swung around, dropping the knife that was in my hand.

"Sorry we scared you, Mom," said my son, smiling engagingly as he picked up the knife and put it back in the sink.

"A dropped knife means company," I recited, wiping my hands on my stained apron.

"Hi, Mrs. Galimo," said the shy teenager who had recently become Brian's steady date.

With her light eyes and blonde hair she looked like Brian's sister instead of his girlfriend, I thought, trying to control the pain that clutched at my heart.

"How are you feeling today, Mom?" asked Brian, reaching out to touch my arm.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away," I said, moving casually aside so that only the tips of Brian's fingers actually made contact with my shoulder.

I walked over to the stove. After turning on the gas, I quickly faced sideways. "A watched pot never boils," I said, looking at the girl. "Would you like a nice hot cup of tea?"

"No, thank you," stammered the girl, glancing sideways at my son.

A penny for your thoughts, I said to myself. There was pity in the girl's hazel eyes. Soon, like all the others, the pity she felt for me would turn to anger and disgust. I could hear their thoughts, "How sad that outgoing, bright Brian was tied down to his neurotic mother," I silently mimicked.Crazy as a loon was what two of his friends had whispered about me when Brian had gone in to change and the boys thought I wasn't listening. Better to be a live coward than a dead hero was what I believed.

"Would you like some cookies?" I said to Brian. The eyes are the mirror of the soul, I reminded myself, hurriedly lowering my gaze. It would be safer to keep that saying in mind at all times. "I made your favorite ones, Brian."

"You're so good to me, Mom," answered my son, reaching to take a chocolate chip cookie from the plate. "Isn't my mom great, Sarah?"

"Yes," quickly answered his girlfriend, nodding her head a little too vigorously. "And you're a great son, Brian. Isn't he, Mrs. Galimo?"

"A daughter is a daughter for the rest of her life but a son is a son until he takes a wife," I answered, neatly evading her question.

Sarah stared at me as if I had suddenly sprung another head.

"We just stopped by to tell you that Sarah and I are going to a movie tonight," injected Brian, giving his girlfriend a stern look as if daring her to think ill of his crazy mother. Brian always acted very protective of me when people were around.

"Enjoy yourselves," I said, trying not to sound relieved that Brian would soon be leaving.

"Why don't you come to the movies with us, Mom? Being alone so much isn't good for you."

"No, no," I stammered, taking a step back. As much as I hated being in this house, going out would be even more dangerous.

"After the show," continued my son, ignoring my protests, "we're stopping at Joe's for a mushroom pizza with extra cheese. You know how much you like their pies."

"No, you two go and enjoy yourselves."

"You would feel so much better if you got out more often," continued my son, looking at me with concern and compassion. "I worry about you, Mom."

"A woman's place is in the home," I answered, shaking my head from side to side.

Stepping next to me, Brian planted a kiss on my cheek. A kiss of death, I thought, clutching the rim of the sink. I tried to control the shudder that raced from my spine to my temple. Body language, I chided myself, it was very important if not vital that I control my body language. A prudent man sees danger and hides himself, but the simple go on, and suffer for it.

"Have a good time," I said, trying to sound cheery. I busied myself at the sink until the kitchen door slammed shut behind them.

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness," I whispered, leaving the unwashed pot in the sink. I clutched onto the cabinet to steady myself. Images of the girl seared across my mind. Denise would have been about this girl's age if she had lived. Maybe, if Sarah was lucky, my son would tire of her quickly.

The year, month, week, day, hour, minute and second when I knew or rather accepted the fact that my son was a murderer I would never forget. But when had I started suspecting him? For so many years I had lived with the truth that I barely remembered a time of peace--the calm before the storm.

I remembered searching through the woods for my five-year-old's pet ducks. Brian had scrambled under bushes and called until he was hoarse for the drake and two females. When I had insisted that we stop searching, the boy had cried so hard I had to carry him in the house. What a good-hearted child, I had thought at the time, especially considering how the drake had attacked the boy on several occasions and how none of the ducks had seemed to like Brian. Yet, here he was sobbing his heart out over them.

Even after the neighbor found the ducks in the grave, I wasn't suspicious of my son. Didn't some animals bury their kill under a thin layer of dirt to hide the meat from other predators? Weren't there also a few strange teenagers in the neighborhood that I was pretty sure wouldn't mind committing a sadistic act if they thought they could get away with it?