Creative Short Story

Misery Island Massacre

            I’d like to tell you a story. It is not a long story, but I must say, it features twists and turns that make it awfully compelling. So, please, Reader, try not to interrupt. Soon, I will set the scene, giving you an array of details and storylines. I will also introduce you to several people, names, and identities; some bland, some not. But most importantly, I will describe the workings of a truly heinous crime: a murder, committed in cold blood.

If I do an adequate job, you will begin to paint a picture in your head, and although it will not be an exact replica of the events and places, it will be pretty darn close—and that is good enough for me, and hopefully it will be good enough for you. But, Reader, there is one thing I will not do. I will not give you any answers regarding the crime. Do not try and argue, persuade, or bribe me, for I am immune to any and all forms of pleading; I have told this story many a time, and I have refused to provide answers with every retelling. I hold this story close to my heart, and its unanswered questions will go with me to my grave.

            I already know the question that fills your mind at this very moment: Who are you? Well, Reader, that is not for you to know. It is really none of your business to know who I am or how and why I am connected to this story; In fact, I find it quite nosy of you to even inquire. Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to pry? Clearly not, so I will. I suggest you lay off on the personal questions and turn your attention to the story, for it will begin shortly.

But until then, if you are to take anything from this introduction, please note, yet again, that this story will not result in a solution. I will merely hand you jagged pieces and hope that you know how to solve puzzles—I know I do.

***

If you were to look inside the evidence box belonging to the case of one Darcey Marie Wilson, you would find four items:

1.     A grape-flavored Dum-Dum® wrapper

2.     A scrap of white rubber—seemingly latex

3.     A gallon-sized Ziploc® bag

4.     A muddied piece of chicken twine

The cause of the seventeen-year-old’s death was evident within seconds of her body’s discovery: asphyxiation. She was found by two hikers outside of Salem, Massachusetts, two miles east of Misery Island. There is no need to point out the irony behind a dead girl being found near Misery Island; it is already known, Reader. The leaves surrounding Darcey’s body were amber from Autumn’s chill. Darcey was white and blue from lack of oxygen—when a gallon-sized Ziploc® bag is bound tightly around someone’s head with chicken twine, this is likely the outcome. The scrap of white latex and the grape-flavored Dum-Dum wrapper were spotted 20.3 and 20.7 feet away from Darcey, respectively. Generally, 20.3 and 20.7 feet are enough for police to disregard items as pieces of evidence. However, a meager number of clues were found on this particular scene. No trace fingerprints. Far too many footprints—before this area became the scene of a savage murder, it was a renowned hiking trail for tourists. Due to this lack of evidence, it seemed like a smart idea to collect every item within Darcey’s general vicinity.

Much discussion ensued about the Dum-Dum wrapper. Ultimately, it was presumed that it belonged to the killer, as it contained no traces of Darcey’s DNA. This might not be the case, of course, but detectives determined that murderers probably like grape-flavored Dum-Dums (no sane person does).

But enough about the logistics of the case, we’ll get back to them later.

***

Enter Darcy Louise Barlow. She is not the girl who was found in the Ziploc® bag—she is far different. This Darcy does not spell her name with an E before the final Y—she only spells it with the Y. Darcy Louise Barlow had gone by just plain Darcy her whole life; that was until she met Darcey Marie Wilson. They met each other at a Christian sleepaway camp the summer before 9th grade. Neither one of their families was religious; however, both of their families reveled in their homes being daughterless for days at a time.

The girls decided they liked each other within seconds of their introduction because they were both pretty and blonde and at the top of their class, plus they were both unmatched and Gin Rummy (so long as they were not playing one another).

Darcey Marie Wilson liked Darcy Louise Barlow, but she did not like having to share her name. So, in a valiant attempt to save their blossoming friendship, she began calling Darcy Louise Barlow, ‘Birdie.’ The nickname stemmed from Birdie’s ever-so-slightly beaked nose, one that was corrected the moment she turned fourteen and her mother agreed to let her get a rhinoplasty. Darcey thought the nickname was funny, Birdie did not. But let it be known, Reader, that Darcey had a magnetism about her. One that inspired a sense of leadership. Thus, the moment Darcey introduced the nickname, it spread like a viral infection; Soon their bunk mates, then the boys from Boy’s Cabin 9, and eventually the camp counselors came to know Darcy Louise Barlow as Birdie.

The nickname stuck like gum to a desk, and there was little Birdie could do to appease the sticking.

***

Miles Pendergast was assigned to be Birdie’s lab partner in freshman year biology. Birdie didn’t like Miles Pendergast’s last name, but she liked a lot of other things about him. In fact, she had liked a lot of other things about him since middle school. For one, she liked the way Miles didn’t get bogged down by senseless social norms; everything about him screamed, “rebel.” For example, he always had a freshly sharpened, No. 2, Ticonderoga pencil in classrooms governed by mechanical pencil users. And, in middle school, when almost all her classmates, herself included, got braces, Miles did not. This resulted in a subtle gap between his teeth that Birdie found quite charming. Sometimes Birdie wished she had that gap. Maybe then Miles would find her charming. Maybe then he would talk to her about anything other than nuclei or miosis or Darcey Marie Wilson.

Miles liked Birdie too, for the most part. He liked the way she always solved their problem sets without asking for his help and the faint smell of strawberries that lingered wherever she went. But most of all, he liked the way that Birdie gave him insight into her best friend, Darcey’s, mind. Because Miles liked Darcey more than Birdie—a lot more. He liked it when she wore tank tops and her collarbones protruded ever so slightly, and the way she was just as smart as Birdie, but far less obvious about it. He even liked it when she would wrap a section of her hair honey-blonde, around her fingers and smell it; it was odd, but Miles found it endearing.

Maybe it was the way that he looked at Darcey, or the way he asked relentlessly about her, either way, it was under the florescent lights of the bio lab, between slices of a rat carcass, that Miles Pendergast taught Birdie a very important truth; a truth that Birdie would recall every time she stepped foot in front of a mirror: Darcey was far prettier, and far more interesting than herself.

Darcey never liked Miles. She thought him to be vulgar, rude, and far from cool, but she knew that Birdie liked him, so she tried her best to stand his presence. However, this opinion changed one day in Ms. Becker’s English class. Darcey’s heart was left aflame when Miles read a subpar, personal poem aloud in which he rhymed “democracy” with “my hoe n’ me.” Darcey felt something new, something different; she felt something for Miles that Birdie had felt for Miles since the 6th grade. Darcey Marie Wilson and Miles Pendergast started dating two days later.

***

Reader, I now present to you something extraordinarily rare and unlikely: two teenagers, madly in love. I know this is an incredibly uncommon phenomenon, for young adults to love deeply and recklessly, but please, do try to envision it. Picture a boy and a girl. Both so in love that they find it agonizingly difficult to focus on conversations that do not involve one another. Both so in love that they spent almost every weekend sipping sparkling grape juice and discussing just about everything. Their topics ranged from tortured poets and the rampant, deadly effects of global warming to the planning of their future life:

A farmhouse with an eclectic interior, three children (Ailette—the responsible and protective oldest sister, August—the mathematically motivated middle brother, and finally, little Alice—the beloved baby girl), one gecko, two dogs (one big, one small), and most importantly, a quaint garden for Darcey to plant pea pods and squash blossoms.

These discussions between Miles and Darcey lasted for hours, Reader, hours. And they often took place in the same location. Miles knew of a trail where he used to go hiking with his family. He remembered slipping on the mud in his red, rubber rainboots. He remembered the itch of his ankles as he grazed patches of stinging nettle, and, consequently, the hour-long oatmeal bath that followed suit. But what Miles remembered most about this spot, what he envisioned every time he closed his eyes, was the violent crashing of the waves in the distance; the echo that rang out as they collided with the harbor’s jagged rocks. Yes, Miles liked the hiking trail near Misery Island. But he liked to bring Darcey there even more.

***

Detective Theodore L. Bundy was head of the investigative team assigned to Darcey’s case. Theodore L. Bundy has no relation to the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy; however, it was the infamous serial killer, Ted Bundy, who helped Theodore L. Bundy determine his career path; he wanted to make his and Ted’s lack of relation abundantly clear (pun intended).

Let it be known, Reader, that Detective Theodore L. Bundy was not a very good detective. In fact, some might even consider him to be utterly dreadful at his profession. However, he was lucky, and these two traits often cancel one another out. Let me give you an example:

Three months prior to Darcey’s murder, another young girl was found face-down in a Highland Park marsh with multiple stab wounds covering her entire body. Upon finding the Jane Doe, evidence was collected and eventually brought back to the police station. After requesting that everyone leave the evidence locker, as the first step in Theodore’s investigations always included spending some alone time with the evidence—weird, but I digress... Theodore L. Bundy began glovelessly touching numerous pieces of evidence. It took all but 6 minutes for each item to become heavily coated in hundreds of his fingerprints. This resulted in Theodore L. Bundy swabbing for prints, finding his own, and deducing that whoever committed the murder did so in an attempt to frame him. The detective only knew of two people who would do something so atrocious to him; two people who would pray so heavily on his downfall that they’d be willing to frame him for a murder.

1.     His step-cousin once removed, Chester

2.     The man who owned the vegan yogurt shop on 30th

He figured he’d start close to home and opted for Chester (plus, speaking to the yogurt man was not something he was psychologically prepared for). He brought Chester into a questioning room and sat opposite him in a chair. For 10 minutes, all Theodore L. Bundy did was stare menacingly (not really, but he thought so) into the beady eyes of his step-cousin once removed. Now, I mentioned before that in lieu of his lack of detective skills, Theodore L. Bundy had an abundance of luck. And this luck led him to solve this case. For just as the detective was opening his mouth to ask, “How many knives do you own,” which was his first question in a series of half-witted questions, Chester snapped. He not only confessed to the killing of Jane Doe in question, whom we’ve now come to identify as Lacy Caddell, but also five other girls within the state of Massachusetts.

Of course, you and I both know that Chester did not kill Lacy Caddell in an attempt to frame his step-cousin once removed. We know that Chester is, in fact, merely a psychopathic serial killer. However, if it had not been for the detective’s fingerprinting fiasco, Lacy’s killer would have remained nameless. And far more regrettably, Theodore L. Bundy would’ve been forced to attend yet another one of Chester’s Cinco de Mayo parties; Luckily, there are no chips and salsa or oversized sombreros in the Essex County prison.

And truthfully, the logistics behind the detective’s case solving doesn’t matter too much, so long as the criminal is behind bars. That is what I tell myself, anyways.

***

Reader, I’m sure you are dying to know more about Darcey’s case (no pun intended); so, I will ease your suffering…

Following the discovery of her body, Detective Theodore Bundy, his team, along with local police, prompted a thorough investigation. But, out of respect, they decided to postpone potential suspect interrogation until after Darcey’s funeral.

Darcey’s funeral was unremarkable and impersonal. Her parents opened the wake up to public and encouraged the community’s attendance; partly because they knew how many people loved Darcey, and majoritely because her mother valued attention above all else. Swarms of students from Darcey’s high school attended. Birdie watched with sunken eyes as girls she and Darcey had never spoken to blotted at their dry eyes with patterned handkerchiefs.

Once the masses of unfamiliar girls had shed their crocodile tears, they left the church in a frenzy—there was a slip and slide party at Henry St. James’. Thus, Darcey’s relatives, her boyfriend, and Birdie were the only ones to visit the Wilson’s house following the procession.

A plastic picnic table, covered in a cheap, white, seemingly latex tablecloth, sat in the center of the living room. The table was large, and the items atop it were small. It was a miserable looking spread: a pale-yellow cake—her mother said it was Darcey’s favorite color (it was not), a crystal punchbowl filled with watered down, red beverage, and a set of “It’s A Girl!,” paper plates, forks, and cups—they were the only ones left at Shop-A-Ton®. When they cut into the cake, they were surprised to find three thick layers of Funfetti cake. They had ordered dark chocolate—as funerals are a dark and dismal occasion—however, there was a mix-up at the bakery; An entirely inappropriate mix up. So, there they sat. In a one-story home, surrounded by a freshly purchased plastic table and a cake littered with vibrant, rainbow sprinkles.

The following day, Detective Theodore Bundy brought in six individuals for questioning, as they were being considered for potential suspects. The six individuals went as follows: Her mother (Darla Wilson), her father (David Wilson), her younger brothers, twins (Daniel and Dean Wilson), her boyfriend (Miles Pendergast), her best friend (Birdie Louise Barlow), and her history teacher (Mr. Howser)—who was a prime suspect due to being recently let go after he was found collecting socks from young girls.

You may be asking yourself: Why is the suspect list so short? Wasn’t Darcey popular? Cool? Utterly adored by all her peers and every living creature who had the pleasure of coming into her undeniably magnetic orbit? These are good questions, Reader; but they are the wrong ones. What we should be asking is why a girl so popular, so well-loved, only had six people she loved back. The truth is, Darcey was known by everyone but known by very few; she only loved those that knew her.

If you were to ask any one of her peers about her, they would tell you that she was pretty and blonde and at the top of her class, plus she was unmatched at Gin Rummy. There was also the fact that Darcey liked cottage cheese on her bagels instead of cream cheese, that she broke her wrist at a competitive jump rope competition when she was 10, and that she was abnormally susceptible to mosquito bites—these are Darcey’s facts, but they are not her truths. Darcey’s biggest fear was that she would be swallowed whole, she spent a substantial amount of time thinking about all the wonderful things she would do for her family if she won a scratch lottery ticket, and the only thing made her wake up every day was her (false) belief that one day she would get married to a nice young man and start a beautiful, blonde family—these are Darcey’s truths. Nobody knew these truths besides Darla, David, Daniel, Dean, Miles, and Birdie.

Miles Pendergast was immediately removed from the suspect list. On the date and time of Darcey’s murder, he was tending to his ant farm. His half-hourly updates on his hit blog, “Milit-Ant Miles,” attested to this. Additionally, during his interrogation, Miles cried so hard that he threw up. Detectives found no puddles of throw up near Darcey’s body; they figured that if he cried that hard after two questions—what his name was, and what his relation to Darcey was—it was unlikely that he could’ve strangled her without throwing up.

Darla, David, Daniel, and Dean were also disregarded as suspects. On the date and time of Darcey’s murder, her family was partaking in an at-home artisanal soda tasting; lengthy VCR footage revealed this alibi to be true. Fritz’s Fizz Co.® Groovy Grape flavor was the unanimous favorite.

Mr. Howser, or Mr. Sock O’clock as he’s now known to the students of Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School, was a prime suspect who ended up being far less than prime. On the date and time of Darcey’s murder, Mr. Howser was hosting an American Girl Doll mixer in his mother’s basement. Please don’t ask for the details on this mixer, Reader, I’d rather not recount them. Nonetheless, his mother and her book club vouched for his whereabouts.

When it came time for Birdie’s interrogation, the final interrogation, Detective Theodore L. Bundy knew beyond a reasonable doubt that she was the killer; mostly because there were no other options. This reasoning was proved doubtful about 25 minutes of her questioning, after detectives revealed to her how Darcey died. Birdie informed them, with utter transparency, that she could not have been the murderer because she is deathly allergic to Ziploc® bags. Don’t laugh, Reader, it is true. The detectives laughed as well, but they were promptly silenced when Birdie requested a Ziploc®, touched the plastic gently, pulled an Epi Pen from her school bag, and handed it to Theodore L. Bundy. Within seconds, the room watched in disbelief as Birdie’s cheeks turned red, swelled, and protruded with hives. The detective brought his arm down swiftly and stabbed Birdie’s left thigh. Birdie’s name was crossed off the suspect list.

I’m sure you’re frustrated, Reader. You’re wondering who, if not these six individuals, violently murdered seventeen-year-old Darcey Marie Wilson. I commend you for your patience, but I also want to re-inform you that I will not be telling you who committed this murder. So please, Reader, do not resent me for the ending of this unfortunate, anti-climactic tale. But before said ending, let me tell you a little bit more.

***

Darcey and Birdie spent just about every second together. They walked pinky in pinky down the hallways of school, laughing about everything and nothing. They ate their lunches in the quad—despite the constant layer of rain clouds that hung over Wenham, Massachusetts. Darcey ate a sunflower butter and grape jelly sandwich, packaged in a small Ziploc® bag. Birdie ate an Oscar Meyers® ham and Velveeta® sandwich, packed in a small paper bag. Sometimes, though, the Barlows ran out of Birdie’s special paper bags, and her sandwiches were forced to be packaged in small Ziploc® bags.

It wasn’t that Birdie’s parents were unfit or cruel; they felt horrible whenever the paper bag supply ran out. It was just that both of her parents worked full-time jobs. Her mother as the CEO of her own company that sells the award-winning, viral invention: BlueBrush®—the listen wear ever you go, Bluetooth speaker hairbrush. Birdie’s Father spent his nine to five in a lab where they conducted tests on RATS®. No, not real rats. Her father does not believe in animal cruelty; in fact, quite the opposite. With his development, RATS®: Robotic Alternative To Saddles, Birdie’s father saw a bright, new future in horseback riding. Scientists found that when riding, the saddles often leave chaffing on the horses’ backs. RATS has built-in massage features that create an easy ride for you and your steed. David Wilson and his team of experts spent their days developing protypes and testing new ways to relieve equine suffering.

So, God forbid, as the busy entrepreneurs they are that Birdie’s parents sometimes forgot to restock on more paper bags. And, no, the sandwiches could not have been packaged in reusable containers; Birdie had already lost far too many in her schooling career. And, no, the sandwiches could not have been wrapped in Saran Wrap; Birdie has the same, if not worse, reaction to Saran Wrap. And, NO!! The sandwiches could not have been wrapped in tinfoil; Birdie doesn’t like the sound it makes whilst being unwrapped. Ease up, Reader, and stop asking so many questions. Let’s proceed.

On the rare occasions in which Birdie was faced with a small Ziploc® bag, the girls abandoned their usual quad seating and perched themselves, unseen, behind Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School. It was here that Birdie was able to secretly slip on a pair of disposable white, latex gloves in order to painlessly remove her sandwich and eat it. Reader, don’t ask me why she was allergic to Ziploc® bags but was still able to eat sandwiches that had touched Ziploc® bags; it is not my job to know this information. It is merely my job to tell you how Birdie ate her sandwiches and by what means she was able to do so.

The girls like these days because they were rare, and so, they felt special. They referred to them as the Ziplawk Days or the Rubba’ Glove Days, depending on the mood they were in—please note that both options are intended to be read in a Bronx-style accent. One thing about Darcey and Birdie is that they could laugh. Boy, could they laugh. Especially on those Ziplawk, Rubba’ Glove Days. The two would take turns striking poses in the latex gloves and speaking in various accents until the other would break into that kind of laugh where you laugh so hard you go silent for a few seconds and momentarily lose your breath. Don’t ask me why, Reader, it’s not like I find it funny. But they did, and I think that is what really matters.

There were, of course, the anti-Ziplawk Rubba’ Glove Days. Days in which Darcey found Birdie’s poses and accents to be far less funny than the days prior. Days in which the topics of conversation that Darcey had been on Birdie’s side about just days before—like the sleazy length of Camilla Cromwell’s cheer skirt—she now wholeheartedly opposed.

On the days in which Darcey became the Devil’s most faithful advocate, Birdie felt like the only thing she could do right was to keep her mouth shut. For, on those days, if the sky were blue to Birdie, it would be purple to Darcey.

***

Miles liked it when Darcey was mean, and she liked it when he liked when she was mean. Perhaps it was all the occasions that Darcey ditched Miles to spend more time with Birdie, or maybe it was the fact that Birdie scored higher on the biology final than him, either way, Miles especially liked when Darcey was mean to Birdie.

So, one afternoon in early April, upon Miles’ request, Darcey brought him and his friends to join her and Birdie for their Rubba’ Glove Day lunch; this was, of course, only after Birdie had slipped her latex gloves on. The boys laughed at Birdie, Birdie cried in the handicap stall, Darcey watched Birdie go and made-out with Miles behind Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School. No one is quite sure when the change occurred, not even me, Reader, but at some point, Darcey realized that she didn’t mind making Birdie feel empty, so long as Miles was full.

***

Following her interrogation and impromptu allergic reaction, Birdie’s mother brought her home, tucked her into bed, and told her that she would get her anything she liked. Birdie requested potato leek soup and politely asked if she would bring down the stale bag filled with last year’s Halloween candy for her to pluck through. Her mother obliged and left her alone.

Birdie sat silently and thought about Darcey. She recounted her freckled cheeks and the funny face she used to make by crossing her eyes and tucking her tongue into a loop. When she made the same face, Darcey never laughed. So, maybe it wasn’t a funny face, maybe it was just that Birdie loved Darcey more than Darcey loved Birdie. Darcey was prettier than Birdie, so maybe she was more lovable as well.

Birdie’s mother returned with a mug of lukewarm potato leek soup, a mixed Ziploc® bag of Halloween candy, and two white latex gloves. She thanked her mother and allowed her to tuck ice packs against her swollen, allergy-ridden cheeks.

Her mother shut the door. She pulled the latex gloves on tight and began violently digging through the bin of stale candy until her fingers found what they were so desperately searching for. Birdie unwrapped the white and purple paper containing the only type of candy she’d ever come to like; She gently tucked the grape Dum-Dum within her right cheek.