Page 26 of Wed By the Lumberjack

How had he gotten inside? How had he managed to destroy Gran’s beautiful home in such a short time?

How had he gotten out of jail?

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, taking a stumbling step back.

His bald head emerges from behind the couch as he rises. He looks the same as I remember with a few more homemade tattoos or rather doodles added to his neck.

“What the hell do you mean, girl?” he smiles. His gums have receded. Way more than they had been. “I live here.”

“N-no you don’t,” I shake my head and clear my throat as I try to remain calm. “This was Gran’s house. And it’s my house now that she's gone.”

His laugh is cruel. “Your house? Let me see your name on the will... Oh, that’s right, mother dearest didn’t have one. Do you know what that means?”

I swallow but don’t answer.

“Seeing as I’ve been a part of the legal system for decades, I caught up on the laws of our county. Turns out the next of kin inherits her home which is,” he points to his chest. “Me.”

“That can’t be right. Gran told me she was leaving the home for me–”

“Because she thought I’d be incarcerated for the rest of my life,” he lifts his shot glass. “Thank you Judge Matthews for my pardon.”

“How? How on earth could he–”

“Pardon me?”

“I had one more appeal and wouldn’t you know it, my conviction of second-degree murder was changed to manslaughter, with the acknowledgment of time already served. My last shitty court-appointed attorney didn’t submit all the evidence on my part, like witness statements he couldn’t be bothered to get. Statements corroborating that the drunk swung at me first. I was just defending myself and it got out of hand.” He smirks at the last part, like he doesn’t believe it either.

“That’s rich. You calling anyone a drunk.”

“It takes one to know one,” he smiles again, lighting up another cigarette.

“No,” I shake my head. “I won’t let this happen. We got you out of our lives for good, and that’s exactly where you’ll stay.”

I cross over to the front door with far more bravado than I feel. “Get out.”

He laughs but I’m not laughing.

“I mean it. I’ve been living here for over ten years. I have rights and until I speak with a lawyer, I’m not going anywhere. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a squatter. Get out or I’m calling the police. I bet they’ll be interested to know you’ve just gotten out of jail and are already using substances.”

Douglas gets to his feet, slides on his slippers, and grabs the big whiskey bottle off the coffee table.

As he approaches me, I can’t believe my luck that one little threat had worked–

The rush of air as Douglas lifts the glass bottle to smash it against my head warns me to move. To run.

I duck under his arm just as he lifts it. The bottle misses my head and rams into the hollow wooden door that splinters as it’s forced shut.

I barely make it into the living again before his footsteps are directly behind me, and the heavy bottle plows into my back, sending me face forward onto the coffee table.

The next blow that connects with the side of my head is so swift, I see stars before I even feel the pain.

“You think I’m ever going back to that hell hole?” He sneers in my ear, spittle flying onto the side of my throbbing face as he pins my neck against the table. “I’ll end it all before I ever let them take me again. Before I let a little cunt like you even reach the phone.”

His fingers dig into my collar, and for one second my head is lifted off the table before it comes crashing back into the wood again.

My vision blurs but I try to focus, to stay alert as I zoom in on the closest object beside me. The whiskey bottle.

“You think because you’re a fat bitch now that I still can’t shove you in a kennel for a week the way I did when you were a kid?”

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