The Deep Place

Part Two - The Jars

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The smell was unbearable—a pungent scent of blood and sweat. It reminded Parker of the emanation of the slaughter house his uncle owned in Vermont. The smell reminded Parker of the screams of the animals and the sound of the saw, munching away with it giant teeth. There was nothing pleasant about those memories. And that smell was so very much the same.

As Parker walked around in the tiny, dilapidated house at 53 Broadway Road, the floor boards shrieked in pain beneath him. He pulled a plaid handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over his mouth and nose, trying to cancel out the smell of the house. He observed all the details—the speckle-patterned stains on the ceiling, the peeling brown paint, and the evidence of grime that covered every inch of the small house. The house, were it clean, Parker thought, would look like any other house in the neighborhood. And from the outside, it looked like any other suburban residence in the small town of Arlington. But, nevertheless, just because the fruit looks good from the outside, doesn’t mean it isn’t rotten to the core.

Parker pushed open a few doors, peering into them to see the hideous mess—clothes, blankets and leftover food and garbage were littered all over the room. The walls were coloured with a sour shade of green and brown. It was a completely uninhabitable place, this house at 53. Completely rundown and broken, like the wreckage in the some haunting fairytale. It scared Parker, the way it looked; so normal, yet so very abnormal.

“Oi! Parker! Get your ass down here already!” he heard his partner shout aggravatingly from the basement.

“Yeah, hold your horses, Grant, I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Parker spoke through the handkerchief as he made his way down the creeping stairwell into the basement.

A single, dimly lit bulb provided the only source of light in the dank space; Parker nearly choked as he walked into it. The smell was so much stronger, so much more fierce, filling Parker’s nostrils with its terrible odor. It took all the power and will in his body to keep himself from gagging at the smell, the scent of a monster’s mouth, hiding in the darkness, waiting to strike, hungry for flesh and blood. Parker could almost hear the Beast growl as flashes of light from a camera lit up the heated basement, and the petite black heart of this piece of Hell.

It was a small, tiny space, enforced by walls of iron and steel, no larger than a closet. There was no room for light, and Parker was quite sure when that bolted door was closed, there would be little air. The steel was covered with marks of copper and age, and chains snaked around themselves on the floor of that little black heart. Secretly, Parker wondered what sort of creature was kept in this little room.

“Jesus fuck,” Grant swore as Parker reached his side, rubbing his tired, wrinkled face with his hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything this fucking bad. Thirty-two years on the force…but hell, this takes the cake.”

“Revolting, isn’t it,” said the medical examiner, appearing by Parker’s side.

Grant shook his head, “Fucking vile. I swear to god, Connie, I’m gonna gag any minute.”

“She was probably kept in this room for extensively long periods of time from the looks of it—see the markings on the wall, I think she was counting time. She was probably only let out occasionally, ‘cause that cot by the furnace doesn’t look like it’s been used much. There are traces of blood on it, probably the girl’s.”

Parker turned. “What about the body?”

Connie took a deep breath, her eyes downcast, almost afraid to say anything.

“It’s not pretty; I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so…inhuman. Work of a lunatic; or a monster,” she spoke. “Here—it’s in the root cellar.”

The two men followed her around the stairwell to a minute door against the corner of a wall, embraced by yellow police tape. Connie turned on her flashlight, pointing it at the door, and gently pushed it open with her foot. For a moment, the two men gazed at the cellar curiously, not sure what they are trying to see; their eyes followed Connie’s light to the jars of preservatives.

“What the fuck are we supposed to be seeing? Billy’s fucking puking his guts out on the front porch—what the fuck are we supposed to be looking at?” Grant cursed.

Connie pierced her mouth. “Look at the jars.”

Grant shook his head. “Connie, I still don’t fucking see—”

Parker’s eyes caught the image. He stepped back in shock, and his body gave way as he fell to the floor. He covered his mouth as his body convulsed, waving his hand in the air. Connie quickly pulled a plastic bag from her pocket, and handed to Parker, just in time, as the man spilled his insides into it.

Grant looked to Parker, and then lit up his own flashlight, pointing it at the jars. He squints his eyes, and then opens them in shock. “Oh fucking hell,” he swore. “Is that—?”

Connie nodded. “I didn’t want to disturb the crime scene just yet. I’m taking it back to the lab today, though.”

Grant ran a hand through his silvery hair as he gazed at Parker’s crumbled form.

“Fuck…that’s messed up.”

“It’s cooked.”

Grant turned to Connie. “See the colour,” she spoke softly as she pointed her light at the jars. “The flesh isn’t raw. It’s probably been preserved for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more. I won’t know for sure till I do some test on it.”

“Is it all there?” Parker asked shakingly, his body still wrought on the floor.

“No, it’s missing a few parts I think, but at least we can I.D. the head.”

“What kind of fucking nut,” spoke Grant angrily, “would do this kind of thing? This is fucked up. This royally fucked up. And Parker, get the fuck up, stop being such a pansy.”

The older man grabbed Parker by the arm, hoisting him up from the dirt covered ground.

“When…do you…estimate the body was…?” Parker asked softly through his handkerchief.

“Probably a month, give or take a couple of days. There are signs of decomposition around the edges, meaning the body had already begun to decay before it was done and preserved,” answered Connie. “I can’t give you guys the complete details but…the house…that room there…there’s signs of habitation for at least a decade or so. That poor kid; never had chance.”

“Doesn’t excuse it though, Connie,” Grant spoke. “That girl…she’s a monster. No normal person would do that kind of thing. And now she’s on the run, with the boy. Who knows what she’ll do. Maybe cut that kid up and cook him too.”

“Oh, c’mon Grant, what a load of bullshit! What that girl went through, I’m not surprised it happened—disgusted, yeah—but hey, if I were raised like her, I’d think I’d snap too. And so would you.” Connie heaved a heavy sigh. “You know what, you two should get out of here, report back to McAlister on what happened. I’m going to check everything out, and take the jars back with me. You’ll hear from me in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure Connie. Say hi to Dan for me, all right,” said Grant as he grabbed Parker by the arm, leading his partner out of the small, dingy basement.

But Parker couldn’t help but steal a last look at the jars.

There was something terrible sickening about it, but absurdly fascinating as well. Parker couldn’t help but stare as he went up the stairs, through the kitchen and living room and out of the house. He couldn’t help but stare at the furniture, and TV, the dirty dishes in the sink, the hideous green sofa, and the rusted stains on the walls. The smell of the house was still in his nose, and he wasn’t sure if it’d every go away.

“How messed up is that,” spoke Grant as they walked out of 53 Broadway, heading to the car. “I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to tell McAlister about all this shit. Oh man, that’s just…fucking insane. Hey, Parker … Parker?”

With his back to Grant and car, Parker stared at the house. It gave off a look of absolute normality from the outside. He breathed in the cold wintry air, and sighed deeply.

“Do you think that girl is a monster, Grant?” Parker asked quietly as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

“I dunno—you tell me. I never looked too much into all that nurture versus nature mumbo-jumbo. What do you think, Parker, ol’ boy?”

Parker thought about it for a long time as he watched the wind blow the snow off the roof-top. The wind was cold against his cheek, burning his skin a bright shade of red. His hands were freezing, his nose frozen cold by the weather, but he could still smell that house, that place, and that room. He could still recall the site of those jars and things, and he’s quite sure he’d never forget about them.

“I just wonder how she got so many jars, Grant.”