Little Landry

My life was pretty run of the mill, at least until Little Landry’s accident.

He was my little brother, you see, and named Little Landry on account of being the little one of us two Landry brothers, and we were named Landry on account of being our Poppa Landry’s sons.

Being the big brother, I had to look out for Little Landry. We’d walk to school together. We’d go to the store together. We’d play games and watch movies together. Poppa told us that we Landrys ought to stick together no matter what. And so we did.

But I made a big mistake, the kind that no big brother ought to make. We were playing chase, Little Landry and me, but too close to the road. He was just six then, and I was eleven. So he didn’t know any better. When I was It, he was running away from me, and ran onto the road. I shouted at him to stop, but he thought it was part of the game I suppose, so he kept running, right on under the two-door sedan that was cruising down the road.

It’s hard to remember much of what happened right after that. I just know that two months later, we were back home, us three Landrys, but life wasn’t so run of the mill no more. Little Landry couldn’t do much of anything no more.

The doctors said he had broken his neck, broken his face, and cracked his cranium, and that it was a miracle he was alive. But they also said he might not really be alive at all — just sort of there, if you take my meaning. They told Poppa Landry that he ought to put Little Landry down, with medicine. Poppa Landry nearly got arrested then, because he was so mad that the doctors told him such a thing.

Anywho, we brought Little Landry home with us, because us Landrys ought to stick together no matter what. But he wasn’t right no more. His eyes were open all the time, but it was just whites there, like the parts of the eyes you see with were rolled up into his head and wouldn’t come back out. His mouth was open too, in some kind of a lopsided, spread too far smile, like a clown gone drunk or something of the like. And the cuts and stitches from his accident had all kinds of lines and cracks running along his face that were all kinds of wrong.

He just laid there in his bed, all day and all night, looking all creepy-like, not moving or speaking or anything, like he was dead. But he wasn’t dead, because he still breathed — it was this sickly sort of crackling sound. And he ate, though you had to move his mouth for him, and he shit, though you had to clean his ass for him. Matter of fact, I had to drop out of school on account of Little Landry needing someone to feed him and clean him. Poppa said he had to work a lot so we could keep the house and afford Little Landry’s needs, so for most of the day it was just me and Little Landry at home.

That was when I started to lose my marbles a bit. I’d sit next to Little Landry, day in and day out, taking care of him, feeding him, cleaning his piss and shit, and even reading books out loud in case he could hear, or watching TV loud enough in the other room that he could listen. All the while he’d just stare at me with those blank whites of his eyes, and smile at me with that nasty crooked cracked at the edges smile.

I swear, I started seeing that face in my dreams. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and feel like I could still see Little Landry’s nasty mug hanging right over me. It was like when you look at a bright light, and then look away, and the bright light is still there, but sort of fading. Little Landry’s nasty mug was there, hanging over me, but fading, like he’d been there a moment before or somesuch.

But that was nonsense, because Little Landry never moved. He just laid there in his room, staring at me any time I was around, making that nasty crackling sound with his breathing. Which is why it was so peculiar and downright unsettling that day when Poppa Landry found that one note.

He got home, thumping in through the front door and slamming it shut behind him, and before I could even get up and go say hello, he called out to me. “Landry!” he shouted down the hall. “Get over here.”

I walked over right quick and said hello. Poppa didn’t answer though — he was staring down at a little sticky note, like the ones you see at the grocery store for school. It was smudged and old, like it had been left for years in some attic, and on the wall, a glittery white patch stuck out from the rest of the dirty wall, where I suppose Poppa had grabbed the note from.

Poppa looked up at me, frowning heavy, and asked, “What’s this, boy?”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

Poppa had a way of crinkling his forehead when he was getting mad, and when I said “I don’t know,” he started crinkling his forehead in that way, so I knew I had to watch my step. “I don’t know what’s got into you, boy, but no more of this nonsense,” Poppa rumbled.

“Yes, Poppa. Sorry, Poppa,” I said politely.

Poppa shoved the note into his pocket then thumped down the hall to his room. He didn’t even look in on Little Landry. He rarely had done after the first few months.

I hadn’t put up any note, that was for sure. What did the note say? Why was Poppa mad about it? I thought hard on that as I went about my day, and I even checked the trash cans in case Poppa had tossed the note. I had no luck on either count, so I figured I’d let it lie.

I went back to Little Landry’s room to get on with my usual thing. There was a book about animals I’d been reading, so I got back to that, reading out loud in case Little Landry could hear it. But before long, I noticed the damnedest thing. Others might not have noticed it, but I coulda sworn by it, seeing as I spent so much time with Little Landry.

Little Landry was smiling bigger than ever. That torn and crooked smile of his stretched and curled farther than it had earlier even that same day. And his crackling breathing was a little louder than usual. I’ll be damned if it didn’t creep me right out. Especially ’cause his damn eyes hadn’t changed a bit: they were still the same blank whites as always.

I called Poppa over to take a look. He was irate over me bothering him and said it was nonsense and wouldn’t get up from his armchair. I got a bit upset at that and called him out over him not checking in on Little Landry much. After that Poppa agreed to come see, though he didn’t look pleased about it.

When he entered the room, Little Landry was laying there, same as always, but with that extra wide smile. “See?” I said to Poppa.

I felt that Poppa had gone a little pale, but all he said was, “He’s the same as always.”

I glanced back at Little Landry then, and I swear, the extra wide smile settled back into the normal one. “Did you see that?” I said to Poppa.

Papa’s forehead was crinkling. He looked at me, all pale and all wide eyed. “I didn’t see nothing,” he grumbled. Then he stomped out of the room.

And he didn’t stop there. Hell, he stomped right out of the front door. That was the last time I saw Poppa.

It was just Little Landry and me after that, which was a problem on account of me not being able to afford Little Landry’s needs. I got some advice on that from Lorie, our neighbor, who told me I oughta write the government for help, since now Little Landry and me were orphans. I had no better idea as to what to do, so I went ahead and took her advice.

A few days later, I saw the mailman come round and drop a letter into our mailbox. Hoping it was the government offering to help, I was quick to head out the front door. Lorie happened to be there, out for a walk.

I smiled and waved to her as I got to the mailbox, then I pulled out the letter and saw that it was in fact from the government. Just as I ran my finger under its lip to open it up, Lorie spoke to me.

“Oh!” she said. “Your father’s back, son? That’s good.”

What an odd question, I thought to myself. With a frown I replied, “No ma’am.”

Lorie sighed and said, “Oh, sorry hun. Just assumed that’s who was in your kitchen.” She waved in apology and continued along the sidewalk.

Confused, I spun round, and I damn near fell over.

I saw the outline of a person in the kitchen behind the mesh curtain. But nobody was home except Little Landry and me. Bewildered, I dashed back inside, and went straight there.

But there was nobody there. The kitchen was the same as always . . . except for a small yellow note on the wall.

I snatched it, leaving a white patch that stood out from the rest of the dusty wall. I looked down, squinting as the paper crackled, and saw big words splayed across the faded yellow of the paper.

“DON’T.”

Now that made no sense to me. And it sure as hell didn’t answer for why I had seen a figure standing in the kitchen. Nearly wetting myself, I started creeping round the house, expecting to find someone standing around. The floorboards creaked something fierce as I went along, making me even more uneasy.

There was nobody in the house — at least not the parts of the house other than Little Landry’s room. I had almost hoped I’d find some robber or somesuch in Poppa’s bedroom, but there was no one. Leaving only Little Landry’s room for me to check.

I was shaking as I crept toward his doorway. I’d gone in and out of that room dozens of times each day for as long as I could remember, but in that moment I was so scared I almost froze in place.

After a long moment I got to the edge of the doorway, and I tilted my head past it, peeking into the room.

Little Landry was there. The same as always. And there wasn’t anyone else in the room with him.

I stayed frozen in the doorway, my eyes locked with that blank stare of his, imagining how he might have gotten up and walked to the kitchen, then stood there and just watched all creepy like as Lorie and me talked outside. But that made no sense. Little Landry never moved. He just laid there, staring blankly and smiling all day and all night.

Maybe the figure we saw had just been a trick of the light, I thought to myself. I didn’t quite believe that, but what else was I going to tell myself?

I went back to the kitchen and got back to opening the envelope from the government. After I read the letter, I had to sit down for a while, just trying to make sense of things.

You see, the government said that they wanted to send me to a boarding school where I’d be taken care of, and even said they’d cover the costs of it. That didn’t sound so bad in itself, but the problem was that they also said it was time to pull the plug, so to speak, on Little Landry. They said it would have to be my decision, since Poppa wasn’t around no more.

I was all shaken up, and honestly, that was mostly on account of me wanting to agree to it. Little Landry ran under that car way back when ’cause I was a bad big brother, and now I was considering calling it good on his behalf and taking away what life he had left, making me an even worse big brother.

And yet, I so wanted to just go along with it. I wanted to move on. Was that wrong?

I was mulling it over the next day, still undecided, when I saw it: another note, just like the first. This one really took me by surprise, ’cause I was on the shitter when I noticed it. I reached over to grab some toilet paper, and it was right goddamn there, next to my face.

The paper crackled, the air feeling strangely warm around it, as I peeled it off the wall. The writing was on the underside this time.

“DON’T!”

I swear, if I hadn’t just shit, I woulda shit myself. I cleaned up and got out of that bathroom as quick as I could. And I ran toward Little Landry’s room.

He was laying there, same as always, except for his smile. It was that extra wide smile again, I could have sworn. The sight of it made my hairs stand on end, and honestly, I lost it then.

I shouted at Little Landry. “Cut the shit,” I roared at him. “Why won’t you say anything or do anything,” I screamed. He just laid there, same as goddang always. I kept shouting, and unsurprisingly, he didn’t respond in any way.

Damn, I’m losing it, I thought to myself after that. I grabbed our phone and called up the number from the government letter that same day. I told them I was good to go along with their plans for me and Little Landry. I just had to get out of there.

It was three days before the hospital people came to take Little Landry. And in those three days, there were notes. So many notes, all around the house. I was really losing it, I told myself as I tore the crackling notes off the walls, not even bothering to read ’em anymore. By the time the hospital people arrived, the walls were downright littered with those glittery white patches.

And then Little Landry was gone. They placed him on a stretcher and took him away to be put down.

I thought I’d feel relieved. But I didn’t. Not at all. I sat on the front porch with my bags all packed for the entire rest of that day as I waited for my ride to pick me up and send me off to boarding school.

I expected I’d be nervous going into boarding school, but man, I was so rattled after everything that happened back home that I had no energy for that. When I got to the school, all I could think about was getting to my room and going to bed.

After having a tour of the school and meeting my teachers, I was allowed to go to my dorm room. I had the room to myself, which was a relief, ’cause it meant I could go right to bed without being bothered.

I didn’t sleep good that night, because I dreamt of Little Landry. That awful smile of his, that crackling breathing, and those blank eyes.

At one point I woke up, and there he was again, that fading image of him, as though he were slouched over top of me just a moment past. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, my room dimly lit by the lamp at my bedside.

And then I saw it. My bones just sort of melted as I stared across my room, at the wall opposite my bed.

A small, pale, yellow note.

I nearly choked on my fear as I inched off my bed. I tiptoed toward the note, feeling all woozy. I peeled the paper off the wall, leaving a patch that was less obvious than the ones back home, but still there.

I held the note up to my eyes real close since it was tough to see in the gloom.

“BAD BROTHER,” it said.

Frozen in a carnal sort of terror, I lowered the note as I struggled for air. And then I noticed something on account of the dormitory wall being a lot cleaner than the walls back home.

The white patch looked sort of odd.

I leaned in close, real close, bringing myself right level with the patch.

And I saw that the patch wasn’t really a patch. It was more of a hole in the wall. And the white that bulged from the opening had an outward curve to it, and glistened a little in the light . . . like the white of an eye.

And then I heard it, even though the paper was perfectly still in my hand.

Crackling . . .

Breathing.