I know y’all are probably sick of hearing me talk about my finances but our lot rent is due soon (it’s $425) and we only have about $100. If anyone is willing to donate anything, be it a penny, please please please consider doing so. If we don’t pay we’ll be evicted even though we own our home. Thank you so much in advance.
It has been, approximately, six years since the disappearance of the Dollanganger family. Six years to the day, to be exact, the house bought and sold and bought again, remodeled as well. Christopher Sr's grave hasn't been visited but for me and the local kids with the Ouija Board, whatever marks the family left on the town has been painted and pasted over, forgotten with the times. Children tell creepy tales of “Creepy Cathy,” urban legends, makes me wonder why her siblings didn't receive the gift of being immortalized. I've heard the tales, they differ with each retelling, one goes that you can see her, dancing in her bedroom window – others say something akin to the hitchhiker legends. You can find her walking down sixth and main, left of Cherry St, in her ballet costume. I've saw to both legends, nothing has ever come up.
Who am I? I am no one important to the Dollangangers. A simple officer, local man who remembers. I've asked friends, only friends. They had no family. For their recounts of the children, Corrine and if they had any ideas on what happened to them, what the truth is. I've been wanting to do this for years, upon the birth of my only daughter I finally found the courage to do so, here are my files.
Day one, February 14, 1969 – Friday: Cathy.
We sit in a smokey hot room. The “We” is me and one of Cathy's old schoolmates, Linda Lauren Strode. ( Lovingly called: LL, that is “double L” Lou. ) Red haired, mid 20s, Cathy would be around the same age. Linda had a scar above her lip, ( dog bite. ) She wore her skirt short, no hose, boots and a simple top, she smoked and I provided an ashtray. ( I'm trying to quit, honest. ) “Cathy Dollanganger? Christ.” She takes a drag from her cigarette. “I haven't heard that name in years.”
“You knew Cathy?”
“Yeah. We were friends, in a sort. I sat next to her in math and she'd let me use her lip-gloss.”
Their bond must have been unbreakable. “So not close?” I had my notepad in my lap, empty.
LL Lou took a sharp hit from her smoke, exhaled and rubbed her eyebrow. “I don't think Cathy was close to anyone, honestly.”
I jotted that down, “Why do you say that?” All other reports had been done unloving, simple and short as the town moved on, this hadn't been in any of them. Mostly, old folks had come to quote, Sweet girl, friendly. Nothing too deep.
“She just wasn't the type. She didn't have many friends,” She crunched her butt in the ashtray. “She wasn't particularly mean or nasty – all accounts a nice girl, just strange.”
“Can you elaborate on that please?”
She looked uncomfortable, “I..she cried sometimes. For no reason she would just..cry.” A pause, looked out the window. “Do you mind If I light another one?” She was skilled, probably started young. Bumped the bottom of the box with her finger, took the smoke out with her mouth, took a second to light.
“You said she cried sometimes?”
“Yeah. One day I found her tucked behind the lunchroom dumpster. I asked her what was wrong but she didn't tell me. I offered to get her brother, Chris, but that made her cry more.” She exhaled, “I think he was mean to her.”
“Who? Christopher?” All other accounts had pinned them down as close, sweet siblings. The kinds you want to see – want to have.
“Yeah, He was a nice kid..but weird too. Worse than Cathy.” She flicked her ashes, “I think he hurt her.”
“Hurt her? Hurt her how?”
LL looked away for a moment, swallowed hard and patted tears, lightly, away from her eye. “I don't know. I think he just hurt her, sometimes.”
“Mrs. Strode-”
“I don't want to talk about that anymore.” She said, harshly. “I came here to talk about Cathy, I shouldn't have brought Chris up. I never liked him anyway.”
“Of course.” I flipped the page in my notebook up, “Yes, tell me more about Cathy, as you knew her.”
“All the papers got her wrong. I bet they never saw a picture of her.” How could they? Most, if not all the photos had disappeared. Only the blurry schoolbook photos remained.
“Describe her to me, as you remember her.”
She thought for a moment, really thought. “She wasn't this small thing, she was tall. Her face was round, upturned nose, big top lip, bottom thin. Overbite she might have grown into, wide smile.” She let her smoke burn out, relighting it, she continued. “She was pretty, but not this angelic beauty everyone makes her out to be.”
“Angelic Beauty.” She was depicted as tiny, thin, long blond hair that curls, a faux angel who instead of fell from haven had skipped from cloud to cloud to the ground. The school photos had proven she had the hair.
“Chris is wrong too,” she tapped her long finger against the chair arm. “He wore glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“BIG round glasses. Only for reading, but he wore them often. I don't understand why everyone forgot that.”
“Did you know Cathy outside of school?” I would need to invest in a tape recorder.
“Yeah, I suppose. We hung around sometimes, skipping in the park, rollerblading.” She smiled, sadly. “She could be outgoing, determined – you know, little girl brave.”
I thought of my own daughter. “I have a little girl. I can't wait to see her grow up.”
LL smiled, shifted her legs up under her, “Whats her name? I have a little boy, three months. His name is Cody. He's with my momma now.”
“Her name is Katherine – with a K. About, three weeks old.” I slid a photo from my wallet over to her, she pulled a photo of her son from her purse.
“Do you know what happened to the photos in the house?”
LL looked up from her purse, “What-no. I have no idea.” She fumbled with her hands a moment. “Maybe the new owners tossed them out.”
“Mrs. Strode we're coming to a close today,” I began, “So I'll ask you what I've asked everyone else thus far, what do you think happened to the Dollangangers?”
Masterfully, she took out another smoke, shaking hands. “I think they're dead.” She blew a puff of smoke out the side of her mouth, “I think Corrine killed them and left. They found bones in the Peachside River, did you know that? Little baby bones.”
“They said that has no ties to this case.” I was itching to know more. This had been the most telling interview I've had. ( The only one that didn't end with a door slamming, phone call hanging up or a dial tone. )
Linda Lauren pointed at me, accusingly. “That's bullshit. They dragged the river and found bones. They said it was animal bones, kitten bones.” She shook her head, “It was them.”
“Why do you think it was Corrine?” All other accounts had said Corrine was loving, ideal housewife and mother, baked on Sundays. Like Cathy, she was depicted as a faux Virgin Mary, a glass Madonna.
Standing, she held her hand out to me, I shook. “Because,” she blew another drag into my face. “Corrine Dollanganger was a cunt.” Tossing her bag over her shoulder, she swayed out the door, leaving the smell of smoke in her wake.
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