Take Your Turn, Teddy Read online

  New Degree Press

  Copyright © 2020 Haley Newlin

  All rights reserved.

  Take Your Turn, Teddy

  ISBN

  978-1-63676-555-6 Paperback

  978-1-63676-132-9 Kindle Ebook

  978-1-63676-133-6 Ebook

  For Jeremy,

  You were my Samwise Gamgee of this journey, protecting both the story and me as the carrier of it. You reminded me that the shadow, the darkness, is only a passing thing. “And when the sun shines, it will shine the clearer.”

  Thank you for always being my light.

  For Nanners (Hanna),

  Who collected me piece by piece in the moments when doubt shattered my connection to this story. You reminded me I was stronger than I felt. And no matter how much the shadow told me I was alone, I could turn to you, my oasis in a vast desert and my island in a stormy sea.

  For my reader before the readers,

  You’ve been with me from the start. I take great comfort in knowing no matter where I am in the world—whether I deliver chapters to you myself or send them in an email from Timbuktu—you’ll always be ready to read and waiting for more.

  Lastly, for my editor, Clayton, who helped me do the crime and the time. I owe the spookiest parts of my being to you, the first person who helped me see that my stories wanted to be darker and I was meant to write horror.

  “Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.”

  —Stephen King

  Contents

  Note from the Author

  Part 1 The Act You’ve Known for All These Years

  Part 2 A Vile, Merciless Killer

  Part 3 The Maple Street Massacre

  Part 4 Counting Casualties

  Part 5 Confessions of a Man Gone Mad

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Note from the Author

  “Villainy wears many masks, and none so dangerous as the mask of virtue.”

  —Washington Irving

  Dear Readers,

  I have grown since we last spoke. I have learned even more about the offerings of the quaint genre of horror—for readers and creators. But more than anything, I have learned a lot about myself.

  It has been a difficult year for me, one where the inner demons I had let come to the surface when writing Not Another Sarah Halls couldn’t be silenced. And the more I tried to press a pillow over their faces, the more powerful they grew. With every attempt to beat them, I sank lower, feeling six feet under despite the hammered beating of my anxious heart.

  In writing Not Another Sarah Halls, I tried with everything I had to make myself vulnerable to you, readers, in honor of what I was asking you to do—allow horror to prompt self-reflection. Allow the genre to take you deep into your inner consciousness, open the locked boxes you have created for the stowaway demons of your mind, and ask, “Why do you make me vulnerable? How do I beat you?”

  With that, I uncovered a wave of darkness I didn’t know how to face. The anxious tics, the panic attacks, the feeling of being physically present but emotionally absent—within and without as my favorite author, F. Scott Fitzgerald, would say—became a part of my everyday life. And this wasn’t the first time.

  I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression my entire life, but especially the past year. I overthought everything. I misread body language or misdirected anger and plugged it into my worsening mental health condition. I was giving up control to the sinister orchestrator within my mind. And I let that shadow run amok, even allowing it to tell me that the shortness of breath, the sleepless nights, the bursts of anger, and the darkness were normalcy in my life.

  As I’ve studied the craft of storytelling, I’ve heard professors, established authors, and publishing professionals say time and again, “Write what you know.”

  So, it was no surprise that when I began building my protagonist in Not Another Sarah Halls, who I named Autumn as a reminder of the change that’s always waiting around the corner, she also struggled with depression and anxiety.

  When readers thank me for the inclusion of sensitive topics in Not Another Sarah Halls, one scene comes up nearly every time—Autumn’s near suicide attempt. For readers who are here for the first time, this isn’t a major spoiler, but it is a critical element of Autumn’s character arc.

  Autumn has scars across each of her arms, reminiscent of a release when she needed to feel something aside from the internal pain that plagued her peace of mind.

  But one scar stands out more than the others. It was the only pink singe of a blade that lay vertically on Autumn’s wrist. And that scar, by far, stretched the farthest. It ate the most skin.

  Autumn says the scar “sits permanently puffed above my pale skin, a bulging reminder of how close I had come that day to ending it all.”

  The day Autumn made that nearly fatal cut, she had a moment when the sight of the physical wound made her realize she was choosing death. She realized she didn’t want to die, only to find an end to her pain. Though it felt nearly impossible as someone who has sunk that low before, I knew I had to pull Autumn out of that scene. She was the only one who cared about the string of cold cases in Oakhaven. She was the only chance of breaking the curse in the town. Autumn had to be there for the rest of the story.

  Writing that scene, and pulling Autumn from it, served as an out-of-body experience for me. To make an impact, to offer hope to others who struggle with mental health, I had to pull myself out of my own preconceived idea that the demons of my mind would cloud my life with their darkness and discouraging taunts forever. I had to believe something within me could outshine the shadow.

  So, like Autumn, after the scene with the deepest bite of the blade, I got help, and I white-knuckled that sense of control I thought was long gone.

  For the first time in my life, I confided in a doctor and was diagnosed with chronic depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and bipolar disorder. After speaking with me, my doctor also speculated that I had traces of an eating disorder in high school, a torment that still visits from time to time.

  The more I talked about it, the better I felt. It was like in Not Another Sarah Halls, I had uncovered a new formula of life: triggers + unresolved trauma + the belief of having no control = monstrous manifestations. These mind-made conjurings were far worse than anything I had ever written or read within a horror story.

  Autumn’s story was about regaining control of both her life and her town. You got to see what it was like for her to put herself before the shadows within. Not Another Sarah Halls was meant to show the impact of confronting our inner demons in order to battle manifestations in the outside world. When Autumn let the voices of the lady with the broken bones consume her, she was distancing herself from uncovering the truth of the disappearances in Oakhaven.

  While Not Another Sarah Halls was meant to be a story of guidance, Take Your Turn, Teddy is more of a cautionary tale.

  Psychologist Carl Jung theorized that four core archetypes make up the human consciousness. These are realized through a unique experience, such as a traumatic incident like that of the night Teddy and his mother pack everything they can fit into her station wagon and drive fifteen hours away from his father and the life he had always known.

  One of the four archetypes, the shadow, exists in the darker side of the psyche, representing wildness, chaos, and the unknown, each of which takes their turn with Teddy through the physical manifestation of the shadow. In his book Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung
said of his archetype, “The shadow is a living part of the personality and therefore wants to live with it in some form. It cannot be argued out of existence or rationalized into harmlessness.”

  While we can’t completely shut the shadow out, sometimes allowing it to spill over in bursts of anger or jealousy, we do have control over how much of the shadow comes to light. Repressed ideas of hate and aggression bring the shadow archetype to the forefront.

  The cunning shadow manifestation in this story tells Teddy that some people ignore their shadows and let them starve.

  To keep what he believes to be his only friend in the Indiana township, Teddy gives his control to the latent dispositions of the shadow until its chaos consumes all of what makes him who he is. As his relationship progresses with the shadow, so do Teddy’s acts of greed, envy, hate, and aggression. The violence and betrayals allow the shadow to gain more control over Teddy until it dominates his mind and demolishes the retaining wall, releasing a wave of blood in the name of loyalty (truly a mask of desperation).

  As I did in my first novel, I urge you, readers, to bask in what I believe to be horror’s highest quality: the way it asks you to consider what the situation of the story would look like for you. How would you be vulnerable to the manifestation presented?

  In Take Your Turn, Teddy, my intentions are not to give a negative perception of those who struggle with mental health. Instead, I seek to personify depression and the darkness of our minds. I want to show that each mental trial is an exercise in control—either giving it up or fighting to reclaim it.

  People who suffer from depression, anxiety, PTSD, or any other mental health illnesses, believe that when you’re in a dark place, the darkness has won. But that’s not true. The ultimate control comes from us, a lesson Teddy will have to learn in hopes of regaining his true inner self.

  The hungry shadows in our minds want us to believe our control is long lost. But it’s not. As Shirley Jackson says of fear, “We yield to it, or we fight it, but we cannot meet it halfway.”

  I learned so much from Autumn’s character. I lived through her decision to get help for her suicidal thoughts and anxious tendencies. And that changed my life. But my battle is long from over. In fact, the better I get, the more I come to understand that my depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder will always be with me. The shadow lives in all of us. But I am far more equipped to fight it than I have ever been, and now, thanks to all my readers who have shared their stories with me, I know I’m not alone in the continuous fight for control in my life.

  I leave you with comforting words from the master of horror himself, Stephen King, “Things can get better, and if you give them a chance, they usually do.”

  Thanks for going on this journey with me, my spooky friends.

  I believe in you all more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for believing in me.

  Yours (Horrifically),

  Haley Newlin

  Part 1

  The Act You’ve Known for All These Years

  1

  Excited chatter filled the bus coming from Oakhaven Elementary. The kids had gotten an early release because of an electrical difficulty at the school. With just a few days left before summer vacation, administrators were feeling lenient.

  Teddy sat on the bus with Pete Marsh, who had lived next door to him his whole life.

  Pete glanced over at the unopened package in Teddy’s hands. “I’ve got a busted set. Who did you get today?”

  Teddy peeled back the wrapping on the pack of baseball cards his mother had just given him that morning. As they did every time they got new cards, Teddy and Pete waited to open the packs together on the bus ride home.

  Teddy shuffled through the set of ten. No one too exciting in the first few, though he did get a Ted Williams. But Teddy had so many of Williams already. Teddy’s dad had collected cards when he was younger and passed them all on to him.

  But the last card was everything—one Teddy would add to his framed collection. One that would impress someone with an array of Hall of Famers and Cy Young Award Winners—someone like his dad, Arthur Blackwood.

  Before Teddy could say a word or mention how excited his dad would be, Pete protested with envy, “What? How do you always get the good ones?”

  Teddy held the card before them, marveling at its divineness, and whispered, “I got Hammerin’ Hank.”

  “Not just Hammerin’ Hank,” Pete said as he waved his black curls from his face. “That’s a limited-edition World Series card.”

  The bus’s breaks screeched to a halt as Mrs. Womack looked up in her rearview mirror and yelled, “Alright, Blackwood, Marsh. We’re at your stop.”

  Teddy and Pete looked at the rows of empty seats before them and then out the window. Teddy was surprised to see his red oak-colored house already. The excitement of the Hammerin’ Hank had made the ride home fly by.

  With barely so much as a wave, Teddy ran from the bus to the garage door. He turned his key in the lock at the center of the door and threw the weight of it just above his head so he could climb under. Teddy was excited to see his father’s navy blue 1970 Ford Ranch Wagon parked inside.

  Dad must’ve gotten an early release too.

  Teddy maneuvered around the bikes and baseball bats, careful not to let his bookbag hit the car. The alarm on that thing was so delicate, and Teddy wanted to surprise his dad.

  Teddy stepped into the house, bursting with excitement. “Hammerin’ Hank. Wait till Dad sees this.”

  He went through the yellow floral wallpapered kitchen and set the less exciting cards on the counter. His dad’s office light was on, so Teddy continued slowly to be sure he wasn’t interrupting a phone call. He pressed his back against the paneled wall, out of sight, and waited for a “This is Arthur Blackwood.” But the room sat quietly.

  Teddy peeked around the corner. It was empty. Odd.

  He heard movement down the hall—a gentle but consistent thumping.

  “Dad?”

  No answer. But the thumping continued on the far side of the wall. Teddy pressed his ear to the door to his parents’ bedroom and heard heavy exhales, like when his mom used the stationary bike in the basement. The thumping picked up, as did the exhales.

  Teddy could tell then that it was a woman’s breathing he heard. Soft moans came with each sound of breath. He hadn’t seen his mother’s car parked in front of the house.

  “Oh, Arthur. Arthur,” a voice said.

  The door in front of him rattled like an energy shot across his parents’ room.

  “Faster, Arthur. Faster.”

  The voice didn’t sound like Teddy’s mom. But, if his dad had a friend over and they were playing a game, Teddy wanted to play too.

  Sometimes his dad would let Teddy sit with the guys and watch on Poker Night.

  He thought on the “faster, faster.” What game could they be playing? Teddy wondered if his dad had moved the Magnavox console into his parents’ bedroom like he had when he was stuck home for two weeks after his knee surgery.

  Dad is slow at Table Tennis. Teddy tried to teach his father to play, but at best he became a little less reminiscent of a zombie spaz. That’s what Pete always called Teddy when they played catch and Teddy got distracted by something in the street or on the radio they kept outside.

  Teddy still had the Hammerin’ Hank card in his hand. No matter what his dad was doing, he would want to see this. His father might even want to show his friend something as rare as this limited-edition find.

  The other side of the door was quieter now. So, maybe I’m not interrupting now. It was like when Teddy waited outside his father’s office before going in. Talking meant his dad was with a customer or his boss. Quiet meant, at worst, Teddy would get a finger signaling one more minute. Then his dad would take his glasses off and say, “What’s up, Ted, my man, my grand slam?”

  Teddy reached for the gold door handle and pushed
it open, saying, “Dad, you won’t belie—”

  Teddy bit into his lip and brought his eyebrows together in confusion, causing vertical furrows between them.

  Dad and his friend weren’t sitting on the floor playing the Magnavox. The woman was atop his parents’ bed on her hands and knees, the way Pete and Teddy crawled under his mother’s window when they wanted to sneak out and watch the thunderstorms at night.

  The woman’s dark hair flew from the front of her face to her arched back when she heard Teddy. Her pale, petite breasts hung from her chest. Her rose-colored lipstick was smeared not only on her face but on his father’s too. It took him a minute because her hair was lighter than it used to be, but Teddy knew her. It was Amber Dae. Amber used to babysit Teddy before she went to Plymouth for college.

  “Amber? What are you doing here?”

  With a slick sound, Teddy’s father shouted and pulled away from the woman as he grabbed his work shirt to cover himself.

  The shout startled Teddy and he stepped back toward the hall. Amber scrambled for her dark green Plymouth sweatshirt wadded up on the floor, holding the satin sheet over her chest.

  Amber didn’t say anything, but the heaviness of her breath and quickness in her movements showed how frazzled she was.

  When Amber failed to grab the sweatshirt while maintaining the sheet, Teddy reached for it and tossed it to Amber. Then, he immediately wished he hadn’t. The sweatshirt hit the bed in front of her. Amber’s eyes avoided Teddy, and her attempt to avoid him made him feel sick to his stomach.

  Amber readjusted one of her arms for coverage as she slipped the forest-colored crewneck over her head.