That first October after we married, Marissa went to one of her “time-outs” and we screwed like rabbits when she got back. A few weeks after she returned, she told me she was pregnant. I was ecstatic and we celebrated with a nice dinner out.
She gave birth to twin girls, Lisa and April, and they grew into miniature versions of their mother. I loved spending time with my girls and watched them grow into beautiful young ladies. I knew they would become heart-breakers and actually thought about buying a shotgun.
Shortly after they were born, I suggested taking them to church and having them christened. Marissa about blew a gasket.
“No,” she said emphatically. “You will NOT take my children to any church.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I went to church with you once and it was the most horrific experience of my life,” she said. “I absolutely will not let you take the girls to any church. End of discussion.”
As she walked away, I wondered what brought all that on. I shook my head and carried on. Other than that one blow-up, though, Marissa and I got along well.
We moved several times over those 20 years. Most of it was due to Marissa’s desire to get something newer and bigger, but part of it was due to the fact that I never really felt comfortable in any of the houses we lived in. Things would be nice at first, but after about two or three years, I would start seeing shadows out of the corner of my eyes. I also heard strange disembodied voices and saw things move all by themselves. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I knew what I had experienced. Eventually, I would get to the point that I didn’t feel safe and constantly felt chills going up and down my spine.
Marissa thought I was being silly, but she didn’t totally dismiss my feelings. We would move — again — and find something bigger, newer and better. And the cycle would repeat about two years later.
Several times I suggested taking everyone back to Kentucky to visit the old home, but it seemed that something always came up to put a stop to my plan. Either the girls had something going on with school or Marissa would have something happen at work to keep us from going. I still kept in touch with Bob and my mother and called whenever I could.
About a month or so before the girls’ 16th birthday, Marissa informed me she would be taking them with her to her next “time-out.”
“It’s time they were initiated into the family tradition,” she said. I would miss them, but I understood.
“What about me?” I asked. She looked at me and stroked my cheek.
“Soon enough,” she said. For a moment, I thought I saw sadness in her eyes when she said that. The girls hugged and kissed me before they left and I waved as they drove off.
When they returned a few days later, things began to change. Sure, children go through a rebellious stage when they become teenagers, but this was different. It was almost as if they shared a deep, dark secret that somehow involved me. They would look at me with near disgust, whisper to each other and giggle as they looked at me with smirks on their faces.
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