Evangeline Read online

  evangeline

  e.a. gottschalk

  Seven Crows Press

  Lincoln, NE

  Seven Crows Press

  A Division of Building 3

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  Copyright 2013 by E.A. Gottschalk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at: [email protected].

  The Building 3 Speakers Bureau can occasionally make author E.A. Gottschalk available for interviews and live events. For more information contact: [email protected].

  Cover art by Ian Field-Richards

  Author image by Francesca Soriano

  Third Seven Crows ebook edition November 2014

  A note from the publisher:

  Based on the author’s institutional memoirs found in, Seven Crows: My Life as a Serial Killer, this is E.A. Gottschalk’s extraordinary account of growing up a teenaged serial killer in rural Nebraska. The book is, by its very nature, a raw and violent work. Those offended by graphic language, sexual situations and violence are forewarned.

  To my better half.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dear friends…

  I’m going to share with you my earliest memory-- and I only tell you this because, however grotesque, it’s important you understand where I’m coming from. So here it is…

  I’m eleven years old. I’m kneeling in dirt. And there’s a cock up my ass.

  You heard right. That was my welcome to the world.

  Imagine baby’s surprise.

  Uncle Ted--the proud owner of said cock--was a newly sworn deputy sheriff back then, a pudgy little shit with a weak chin, receding hairline and a hard-on for pre-pubescent girls. Deputy Gottschalk lived in a trailer down near Chambers Township but began visiting the family farm whenever he happened to be patrolling in the vicinity of Hainesville which, given the nonexistent crime rate in that corner of Nebraska, was suspiciously more often than necessary.

  Less than a year after father went missing, Mother got hitched to this kid-diddling sonofabitch. It was the classic marriage of convenience. She got herself a breadwinner; he scored a ticket out of the trailer park and a free ride aboard my sister whenever he got the urge.

  And, believe me, Uncle got the urge plenty.

  Now it wasn’t as if Angeline was some ravishing young Lolita. In truth she was miles from seductive; just a wisp of a thing, with thin, mousy hair and arbitrary features that looked like some drunken toddler had pinned them to her face. Her eyes were too close, the nose too far, her brows were too thick and the lips too thin.

  But I knew Angeline, better than Angeline knew herself. She may have looked like Mrs. Potato Head, but within her dwelt a poet’s heart and a truly gifted mind. Sister could have gone class valedictorian, Ivy League, Summa Cum Laude-- just about anywhere her smarts might have taken her. Instead, desperate to fly beneath the radar, she took the back seat in every classroom and dumbed down every test.

  That girl could have been special, but chose mediocrity instead.

  Only her upstairs bedroom at the family farm belied this deception. Within that private sanctuary Angeline was surrounded by the kind of beauty she could never find in herself. A vicarious reader, her bookshelves were crowded with romantic poetry by Keats, Shelly and Byron; classic works from Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and the great Bard himself, William Shakespeare. In literature Angeline lost herself in the lives of others, and dreamt of adventures far beyond the Victorian farmhouse where we were raised-- a home as forlorn as the girl who lived beneath its weathered gables.

  Of course all too often Stepfather violated my sister’s lovely refuge with his ugly intent. A soft tap-tap-tapping on the bedroom door would summon her to the storm cellar and then, well, we know what happened down there. I couldn’t tell you how many times that poor girl got her knees dirty before I came along. I only know I endured that prick five hellish years before I finally snapped one night and bit the fucking thing off.

  That, dear friends, was my awakening-- the sublime moment that changed our lives. And I owe it all to Elvira.

  Elvira, Mistress of the Dark was the hostess of a syndicated television show that ran campy horror flicks back in the 1980’s. For those unfamiliar with the vampire sex goddess, her signature look was an enormous raven-colored beehive hairdo and a black dress with a plunging neckline that showcased an impressive pair of titties.

  Ted’s obsession with Elvira began when he was a mullet-headed teenaged geek and never waned, not even after he moved to the farm. His upstairs bedroom, where he slept apart from Mother, was a creepy shrine to all things Mistress of the Dark, including a framed photo the cult queen had signed “To Ted, Yours Cruelly” at a horror convention in Omaha and a life-sized display of Elvira hawking Coors Light beer.

  I figure Ted must have whacked off a thousand times to that cardboard Elvira before stumbling on a much better solution one afternoon down at the Woolworth’s in O’Neill. The man was walking the aisles, searching for a last-minute birthday gift for Angeline’s sweet sixteenth, when he found his Holy Grail. There it was, hanging in aisle five; a Mistress of the Dark Halloween costume with all the accoutrements, including Elvira’s beehive wig, her full-length black dress, and makeup instructions on how to create that vampish, come-hither look that made Uncle so crazy to beat the meat.

  You can be sure that sleazy bastard couldn’t wait to play dress-up with Sister. Unfortunately for him, he had to deal with Mother first. Entering the kitchen for supper, dressed in his deputy’s uniform ahead of the twelve-hour night shift, he found her hunched over the stove in pump heels and a threadbare pleated dress-- looking like some woebegone television housewife time-warped from the 1950’s.

  Something you need to understand about our dear Mother. The woman was seriously fucked up in the head. There’s a more clinical term for her condition, of course, but it’s long and impossible to spell. Mother simply called her affliction, “the sickness”. To hear her tell it, the sickness arrived at an early age when a legion of nasty imps and demons laid siege to an already fragile mind. By age forty-seven, the year Angeline turned sixteen, the woman’s ramparts were crumbling under the constant barrage of their tiny catapults.

  This war against madness had exacted a heavy toll. The poor thing looked battle fatigued, with dark, sunken eyes and a gaunt frame-- like some mental patient that had fled the ward and wandered into our home. And once inside, there was no getting her out again. Mother took sanctuary in her bedroom at the top of the stairs and bolted herself in. There, insulated from all temptation, she passed the hours obsessively playing the love song La Vie En Rose on Grandma’s old Victrola, reading passages from the Bible and pounding Kentucky bourbon as she prayed for merciful Jesus to end the war in her head.

  God’s right-hand man was the cornerstone of Mother’s strange and narrow world. Raised Orthodox Lutheran, she believed all human beings are born sinners who deserve eternal damnation in the fires of Hell. Of course if the God-damned of this world accept Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior then their spot in Heaven is guaranteed-- which is exactly how a handful of wayward kin on the maternal side punched their tickets to paradise.

  First to find salvation was Grandma Ritter who, after poisoning four husbands, hung herself from a barn beam in Walnut Grove as the law closed in. Down in Huntsville, Texas, Uncle Cliff decided to get tight with the Lord as he was strapped to the electric chair and given a two thousand volt enema
for murder in the first. Meanwhile, over at the Nebraska State Penitentiary, Cousin Cobb still bunks on death row awaiting his lethal dose. But before that good ol’ boy takes the stainless steel ride, you can bet he’ll see the light and be absolved for shot-gunning two cashiers and a bag boy at the Piggly Wiggly… praise Jesus!

  Yea, only the righteous shall be saved sayeth the Good Book, which is why Mother could usually be heard praying for life everlasting behind that locked bedroom door. There was a time when Pastor Hale drove up from Page on Sunday afternoons to offer communion, but one day the man stopped coming and Mother was left to pray alone with the Right Reverend Jim Beam.

  Other than an occasional bathroom break, she left her second floor confessional just twice each day-- making the pilgrimage down to the country kitchen to prepare breakfast and supper. What drove this compulsive behavior is difficult to say… but I had my own theory. I believe that ritual kept the woman’s mind above water-- a tether, if you will, to the receding shores of sanity. Whatever the reason, one thing was absolutely certain; other than cooking those two meals each day, our crazy momma was a completely dysfunctional human being-- a condition that left poor Angeline all alone to tend house, run the errands, and fend for herself against Stepfather’s every salacious need.

  As heads bowed over the hog dinner that night, Mother’s reed-thin voice came as a bare whisper. The woman seldom spoke, but when she did it was nearly impossible to understand her without a great deal of straining. Of course I recognized the Lutheran common prayer. I’d heard it recited a thousand times.

  “Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest; and let thy gifts to us be blessed.”

  On “Amen” I sensed Ted’s eyes shift Angeline’s direction. Sister bounced a nervous glance off his ravenous look then quickly turned away. She knew it wasn’t the meal he hungered for, and the notion twisted her guts.

  Anxious to finish supper and get Mother to her room, Stepfather wolfed that pig down so fast he nearly choked on it, then rushed his wife to do the same. There was still food on her plate when he escorted her away from her chair and out of the kitchen. “I left a pint outside your door,” I heard him say as they crossed to the staircase. “You go pray now, woman.”

  No sooner had Mother started her slow shuffle up the staircase than Ted reappeared in the kitchen entry. The man leaned against the door jamb with arms folded, watching his stepdaughter clear the table.

  “Why don’t you let that go for now and come upstairs,” he said shortly. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  Every fiber in Angeline’s body tensed. She set the dinnerware into the sink and started the water running, hoping he’d change his mind and go away. But Ted came up from behind and reached around, his badge digging into her shoulder, as he turned off the faucet.

  “C’mon, baby doll. I got you a birthday present. Don’t you wanna see it?”

  “What aba-aba-about work?”

  Oh, did I forget to mention Angeline was a stutterer? That’s right. And it only got worse when she was stressed-- like now with Stepfather breathing down her neck. Sometimes the poor thing would get hung up for ten seconds or more; face all contorted, neck muscles constricted and mouth stuck in the open position as though gagging on a hunk of meat. I’m telling you it could be painful to watch, and there were times I wanted to grab a gun and put her down like a lame horse.

  “You just let me worry about that,” said Ted, prying her away from the sink. “The job can wait. Right now you and me, we’re gonna have ourselves a little party.”

  Taking Sister by the hand, he led her from the kitchen and upstairs to the landing, pressing a finger to his lips as they passed Mother’s room. Faint mutterings were audible from the other side of the door. I recognized a passage from Psalm Fifty-one, one of her favorites…

  “Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did

  my mother conceive me. Behold, thou desirest

  truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden

  part thou shalt make me to know wisdom…”

  Ted turned at the end of the landing and led Angeline into the shrine of the Mistress of the Dark. After closing the door behind, he presented her with the Elvira Halloween costume he’d bought at Woolworth’s. The cheap bastard hadn’t even bothered to wrap it.

  “Happy sixteenth birthday, baby doll,” he said with a dopey grin on his stupid face.

  Baby doll didn’t bother thanking him back. Not that the man cared. He just wanted to see Sister wearing that sexy black dress. When she slipped it on the fit was comical, hanging from her petite frame like a bedspread on a scarecrow. And there was no cleavage peeking from that plunging neckline either. Even at sixteen, Angeline’s chest was flat as Nebraska.

  Of course none of that mattered to Ted. He stood his little plaything before the mirror and insisted on applying the makeup he’d bought special for the occasion. First a powder base, followed by a maroon blush beneath the cheekbones. Next the eyes; blue shadow, black mascara, eyeliner and fake lashes. A coat of blood-red lipstick gave it that finishing touch.

  The most important piece of the illusion was saved for last; Elvira’s signature beehive hair. Ted handled that one, too, tugging the black wig down over Angeline’s scalp then adjusting it until the bangs fell just so above the eyes.

  “Well, aren’t you something,” he smiled into the mirror. “Pretty as a picture, I’d say.”

  Not to my eyes she wasn’t. Beneath all that hair and makeup my sister had virtually disappeared, replaced by some Goth-chick whore. Which was just fine with Ted. The man was practically creaming his jeans, giddy with excitement. He couldn’t get his fantasy date down the stairs and out the front door fast enough.

  With a kerosene lantern in hand, he led his Elvira through the creeping twilight, the man’s shoes treading a well-worn path across the property to the storm cellar. Great-grandpa Gottschalk had built that shelter in the 1940’s as refuge from the tornadoes that occasionally rip through northeast Nebraska. But his grandson had found a more nefarious use for that hole in the ground.

  The cellar was hidden and private, the perfect playground for a pervie like Ted. Of course the man could have screwed his stepdaughter on the barn roof without fear of getting caught. There were never any visitors to the farm and Mother was usually self-medicated by that time of night. But I suppose you can never be too careful when raping the underage.

  He threw the heavy wooden door over on its rusted hinges and led Sister down a short flight of stairs into the musty darkness. The cellar was slightly larger than a corncrib, with dirt walls and a low ceiling shored up with barn boards. Here and there, a tangle of roots poked through the gaps where the shoring had rotted. The place smelled of damp earth and mildew.

  Ted slipped the lantern over a peg then pulled the door shut and got busy unbuckling his belt.

  “I don’t want you talkin’, understand?”

  Angeline looked at him blankly. In the dim, yellowish light Ted was chewing his bottom lip, studying her with a hungry look as he unzipped his pants.

  “You don’t talk,” he repeated. “Just do as I tell you.”

  The pants slipped to the dirt floor. Black briefs followed. He was already hard.

  “Alright, baby doll. Get on it.”

  That was my cue.

  Now friends, before I continue with the gruesome details of that romantic evening, I think it’s time I explained how things worked with Angeline and me.

  You’re familiar, I’m sure, with those Hollywood stunt doubles-- the ones who stand-in and take an ass-pounding so the stars don’t have to? Well, think of Angeline as the movie star, and your faithful servant as the poor schmuck who got her ass pounded. Before Sister’s knees even hit the dirt, she’d gone bye-bye from the world and yours truly had assumed the position.

  And that was how our little tag-team worked. From that first time at age eleven, I was the one who got her knees dirty, who lived the nightmares so Angeline didn’t have to. Yes, it was a shit job. Of course my
life sucked. But I never fought it. When Sister asked me out to play, I was there for her. I played... and I took one for the team.

  For services rendered no thanks were asked and none would ever be given. Because the truth is, while I knew Angeline--knew her every intimate thought and felt every emotion--Angeline did not know me. We were strangers, passing each other on a changing shift. Yours truly was nothing more than a slight headache upon awakening and a faded, unpleasant dream best forgot.

  As you might imagine, this was a terribly dark and ugly existence for your devoted servant, and it seemed I was fated to go through life that way, stepping from one horrific nightmare into the next, until a remarkable thing happened.

  After Stepfather was done pounding on the back door, he turned me around and had me take him into my mouth. This we had done countless times before. But that night, as I knelt in the dirt of the storm cellar, I had an epiphany. Don’t ask me to explain it. I can’t. The only thing I can equate it to is the experience a born-again trucker once described to me at the Cubby’s truck stop out on Highway 20.

  I was pumping gas to fry the Brower boys that night when the trucker rolled in driving an eighteen-wheeler. A large crucifix was welded to the rig’s front grill and trimmed with a strip of tiny blue lights like you sometimes see around license plates. The old man had come for diesel and to proselytize for Jesus.

  I tried to ignore him but he persisted in sharing his testimony; how he was hauling freight on an Oklahoma interstate, his life a shambles. The wife had left him, the kids despised him, and his only friend Max, a mongrel that rode in the cab beside him, had chased a jackrabbit onto the interstate and run headlong into a Winnebago. This was one sorry specimen, boys and girls-- a lost soul at the end of his rope, awash in alcohol, depression and sinful thoughts. But at his lowest of lows, as the man contemplated ending himself against a bridge abutment, he prayed for divine intervention and Christ Almighty came a-swinging.