Yes mother, p.1
Yes, Mother, page 1
M.T. Ames
Yes, Mother
Obedience Book One
First published by Tirzah M.M. Hawkins 2024
Copyright © 2024 by M.T. Ames
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
M.T. Ames has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
First edition
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Contents
Preface
1. Wednesday
2. Thursday
3. Friday
4. Saturday
5. Sunday
6. Monday
7. Tuesday
8. Thank You!!
Preface
Yes, Mother is an extreme horror novel and is not intended for those who are easily triggered or offended. This is not a romance. There will be no HEA. This book is for those who enjoy their entertainment pitch black.
1
Wednesday
I knew going back was a bad idea. I knew it even before the phone rang.
Meisha and I had just sat down to dinner with little Johnny between us in his high chair. Yeah, it’s a little vain to name your son after yourself, but Meisha insisted that she had wanted a boy named Johnny since she was a little girl. And then when our firstborn was a boy, how was I supposed to tell her no?
There we were, just the three of us, a perfect, happy, little family, living our perfect, happy, little lives. And I had to go and ruin it.
I’m slicing into a flawlessly cooked medium-rare steak when dread settles over me like a heavy shadow. After Meisha learned that medium-rare ribeyes were my favorite food, she practiced and watched YouTube videos every week until she got it just right. Now the bloody, red meat tastes like char in my mouth. My body tightens with revulsion, and my stomach threatens to return its contents.
Something bad is about to happen.
From across the room, my cell phone rings, and I bite back a shriek.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I throw my napkin on the table and rise to answer it.
Every footfall reverberates like a shockwave through my body, disrupting my heart’s natural rhythm. I breathe through pangs of gripping panic. Answering this damn call is the last thing I want to do.
“Who is it?” Meisha asks.
I glance from my phone screen to my family. My lovely wife, with her warm brown eyes and long dark hair, smiles back at me. That smile, the first thing I’d noticed about her, never fails to weaken my knees. Now it terrifies me. Where would I be if I lost the woman of my dreams?
Little Johnny delightedly throws some peas on the floor and laughs. The mess is totally worth the amusement it brings him. I’ve never loved another human as much as I adore this little guy..
The warm sentiments they evoke in me only serve to heighten the stranglehold panic has on my throat and chest. They seem so far away, out of reach, as if I’m looking at them through the wrong end of a monocular. They’re bathed in bright dining room lights while icy darkness presses around me.
“My sister.” My voice is remarkably steady despite my trembling hands.
“Tell Jamie I say, ‘hi’.” Meisha turns back to feed Johnny another bite of pureed steak.
With great trepidation, I answer and hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”
“John. Hi. I have bad news.” My sister’s voice cracks.
No longer can I convince myself everything’s fine. She never calls. This is real.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?”
Meisha glances back at me, her forehead wrinkled and lips pursed in question and worry. My eyes linger on her pink rosebud lips, but when I sigh and close my eyes, it’s not my wife’s lips I see. Instead, an image of my mother’s pursed lips haunts me as she leans toward my father for a kiss.
“She’s dead, John,” Jamie manages to sputter with a heaving effort. From the hoarseness in her voice, she’s recently been crying and still is by the sound of it.
This isn’t the worst part though. This news doesn’t match the heaviness building in my body. What horror am I waiting for?
“I’m sorry, sis. When did it happen?”
Mom’s death isn’t much of a shock to me. Ever since Dad’s heart attack a few years ago, she’s been sickly and fragile. Jamie lived a few miles from her and carried the brunt of taking care of her. I used my new relationship as an excuse to remain distant. After Meisha and I married, she quickly became pregnant, and I used that as a reason to be even less involved.
“Two days ago.”
Two days!? It took her that long to call me?
Not that I judge her too harshly for it. When Jamie’s boyfriend dumped her for another man, Mom and Jamie became pretty co-dependent. She probably hasn’t climbed out of bed in two days.
I brace myself for Jamie’s next words. Dread’s cold fingers grip my spine. This is it.
“You need to go out and settle the estate, John.”
These simple words slam into me, rending the air from my lungs. The room spins. I must sit down before I collapse. I fall into the nearest chair. I can’t go. Not back to that house. Shame washes over me, burning my cheeks.
“They need you there first thing in the morning, between 8 and 9 am,” Jamie continues. “You should probably leave tonight.”
“Wait. Why me?” My sister, though two years my elder, doesn’t seem emotionally equipped to handle this.
“The will wasn’t changed after Dad died. They decided a long time ago to have you as executor.”
This makes sense. Jamie can’t keep a houseplant alive. Who would trust her with an entire estate?
“John? Are you there?”
“Yeah. I’ll go get packed.”
* * *
“Drive safe.” Meisha kisses me, one arm around me in a hug, the other carrying our sleepy son.
I kiss her back fiercely and ruffle my son’s soft, brown hair. With his beautifully blue eyes, he’s the perfect mix of the two of us. “Daddy loves you both.”
“Call me when you get there,” my wife requests as I slide behind the wheel and close myself in.
I roll down my window to wave at them. “I will. I promise.”
Moments later, it’s just me, the open road, and a deep, foreboding twist in my gut.
The night had been clear when I left my house. After driving for about twenty miles, rain rushes down in sheets reminding me that I forgot to replace the worn windshield wiper blades.
The torrent takes me back to that day when everything changed.
I sat on the polished wood floor in the great hallway near the grandfather clock. Jamie and her best friend Becky dash in squealing from outside where the sky had just opened up and was dumping buckets. My tenth birthday had recently passed, and Becky’s birthday had been the day before. She carried a large, shallow case under her arm that looked like the fanciest Monopoly box I’d ever seen. Their hushed giggles attracted my attention, and I looked up from my Matchbox cars.
“What’s so funny?”
“Where’s mom and dad?” Jamie ignored my question, her head swiveling around as if our parents could materialize at any moment.
“In their bedroom, I think. Mom said something about needing a nap. What are you guys doing?”
“I got an Ouija board for my birthday.” Becky beamed, hugging the box to her chest as if it was precious. “We’re going up in the attic to play with it.”
“What’s that?” Their obvious excitement had me curious, but I probably won’t be allowed to play with them. When Jamie was with her friends, especially Becky, I was her “annoying little brother”.
Jamie’s eyes sparkled. “It lets us talk to dead people. And spirits. We’re going to get all kinds of answers from them.”
“How do you know it does that?”
My sister rolled her eyes. “Because Becky’s mom is a Wiccan. She knows all about these things.”
“Can I come?” I knew better than to ask, but this sounded like fun.
“No, you can’t,” Jamie responded harshly. The girls turned and ran down the hallway in the opposite direction.
As I turned back to my toy cars, I could hear their feet pounding up the stairs. My brow furrowed, and my lower lip pushed forward in a pout. Why did Jamie always have to exclude me from the fun?
Finally, I touched my fingers to my cars, but I just pushed them around now, no longer interested. I kept thinking about sneaking upstairs to spy on the girls. The stairs are creaky though; they’d probably hear me before I got close and send me away.
I was about ready to pick up my cars when I heard a roaring sound that reminded me of waves crashing at the beach. It came from the direction of the stairs that lead to the attic.
When I turned in that direction, a burst of wind whooshed toward me. My skin breaks out in great big goosebumps as it passed by. I followed and found the impossibly h
Intrigued, I crawled over to the hole and peered through it. What I saw made me stifle a gasp to avoid being heard.
My parents were in bed, but they weren’t sleeping. They were both completely naked. Dad laid over Mother, kissing her, and rocking his hips against her. She moaned and ran her hands over his bare back and hips.
Between me and them, I could see the “gust of wind”. As if it was waiting for me to find it again before it moved on. When my eyes focused on the blur that reminded me of how air dances above sweltering asphalt on a scorching summer day, it moved and whirled its way into my mother’s open mouth.
I couldn’t take my eyes off my parents. Something held me in place like a stone statue. Though I didn’t know what they were doing, it felt wrong to watch them. Tension in my pants slightly distracted me, and I dropped my hand to my lap to massage it.
Dad moved faster, and Mom moaned louder. Their skin was flushed, their breathing heavy. Sweat dripped down my father’s face.
I sat glued to every movement, every hitched inhale.
Mom cried out, a startling sound that surprisingly didn’t indicate pain. Dad’s body stiffened as he grunted and shook. He fell on her, and it seemed to be over. Much too soon. Some part of me wanted them to keep moving.
They both got up, and Mom moved to a chair between me and the bed to put on her stockings. I watched her soft hands smooth them up her silky legs.
She turned her head and her sultry eyes met mine.
“What are you doing?”
I nearly jumped from my skin when my sister’s disgusted voice boomed behind me.
* * *
As I pull into the drive of the mansion, the wave of shame washes through me yet again. My cheeks burn with the same embarrassment I’d felt back then. The humiliation of being caught touching myself while watching my parents through a hole in the wall hadn’t faded over time.
I’m surprised to remember that day so clearly—or at all; I’d forgotten about it until just now. Call it a repressed memory. One that I wish had stayed that way.
Why my sister never told on me begins to make sense. I can still see her, face as pale as a sheet, standing across the hallway.
At first, I thought her wide eyes held disgust, but as she continued to gape at me I recognized the look for what it was: terror. Becky stood beside Jamie with a similar look, clutching her stomach as if she would be or had been sick.
As quickly as I’d been noticed, I seemed to be dismissed. Jamie’s eyes morphed from horrified to vacant and drifted away from me.
“I’m going to go.” Becky’s voice had been hollow, and she looked around dumbly as if she didn’t know where she was or how she got there.
Jamie didn’t even acknowledge her friend. Becky left, and my sister shuffled off to her bedroom without another word or glance in my direction.
I climb out of my car and stare up at the three-story sprawling building. Why a family of four ever lived in such a large place, I’ll never know. Its presence towers over me as much now as it did when I was a child. Two lit windows on either side of the door make the house look like a fiend ready to swallow me.
I hold an umbrella over my head and stand there, delaying my entry as my body trembles in protest. No part of me ever wanted to return to this place.
None of us were the same after that day.
My father began to have heart problems and needed to see specialists frequently. Becky never returned, and Jamie never mentioned her again. I think the Ouija board had been abandoned in the attic, but I never had the courage to confirm this suspicion.
My sister became a weak, empty version of herself. She was most alive around our mother as if she received some sort of nourishment from the strange interactions.
I began masturbating nightly from that day on. Occasionally, I found some of my dad’s girly magazines or borrowed some from friends at school. No matter how attractive the women in the photographs were, my final strokes, the ones that brought me to a climax, only happened while picturing my mother’s new eyes.
Standing outside my childhood home, I realize that I’d forgotten about my family shame after I moved out. I had regained some normalcy by my absence which increased when I met Meisha. She helped me heal and move on.
It wasn’t until the drive back that I remembered any of it.
Maybe I should have brought her with me. I could drive back now, sleep in my bed next to my wife, and return with her in the morning.
Except I won’t. I can’t bring her to this place. Nor my son. They’re the only good things I have in this world.
This house changed my mother, emptied my sister, and ate my father. I know that now, and I won’t give the beast any more victims. Especially not those I love.
I survived it then. Barely. But I can survive it again. Just one night; just long enough to go through the house with the appraiser in the morning, sign the papers, and never see this front door again.
With a deep breath, I square my shoulders and trudge up the damp walkway.
After a turn of the brass knob, the ornate, burgundy door creaks open. I feel rather than hear a voice say, “Welcome home, John.”
This is not my home though. My home is elsewhere with…is with…. For a moment, I don’t remember.
* * *
As I stand in the big, empty foyer, inhaling the strong scent of lemon that my mother would use on all the woodworking, I’m drawn to walk down the hallway to the left. The old grandfather clock still stands where it always has. For a reason that escapes me, I need to inspect the wall behind it.
The antique piece must weigh close to a hundred and fifty pounds. I don’t know how I ever saw behind it as a child.
The wooden panels of the entire wall are smooth and without peepholes. After wiping a few beads of sweat from my face, I muscle the clock back into place and turn away.
A stiff drink should help me settle in for the night. My dad used to keep a whole cabinet of scotch in his study. Some of it was rare and worth quite a bit of money. Mom never did like the stuff. I wonder if she got rid of it after he died.
My footfalls echo eerily through the mostly empty hallway as I proceed to the study. The double pocket doors are shut but slide back easily when I push on them. The air inside is stale; these doors might not have been opened since Dad passed. I know I haven’t been inside this room since then.
The scotch collection appears untouched. Three shelves hold probably sixty bottles or more. Being a bourbon drinker myself, I don’t know much about scotch, but I’m hardly in a picky mood. I reach in, grab a dusty bottle at random, and pour a healthy amount into a crystal glass.
It’s not as sweet as what I’m used to and has a smokey, vanilla flavor to it. In a pinch, it’ll do.
The two large wingback leather chairs that have always been in the study look ghostly under the protective sheets. I uncover one and sit down. The end table next to me still holds one of the ornate ashtrays Dad used when smoking cigars. A cigar sounds delightful right now.
I investigate the cabinet doors and find a built-in humidor with a dozen stogies inside. Because it’s plugged into an outlet, it never stopped running. I’ve only smoked a cigar twice in my life, but I remember the smell of smoke lingering on my dad. In a drawer nearby, I find a lighter and cigar cutter and return to the leather chair.
I take another sip of scotch, light the cigar, lean back, and close my eyes.
I’m transported to the body of my younger self, walking to the study, looking for my dad, knowing where he is because of the rich smell of smoke. When I reach the doorway, I’m surprised to see my mom’s face over the top of the wingback chair. She’s straddling his lap. When she hears me, she looks up and meets my eyes. They’ve permanently changed somehow from what they were before the day I found the hole in the wall. Now, they’re more sultry. More animalistic.
She gazes at me with her intoxicating, foreign eyes and slowly licks her lips. I’m turned on and horrified at the same time.
My eyes fly open, and I sit upright in the chair with the same uneasiness and lust filling my body. I have a strong sense of being watched, certain those eyes are lurking in a corner somewhere. Coming back to this house has caused my imagination to run wild.
