The Call Is Coming From Inside the House

Yes, it's a true story.

We spent most of my childhood evading my mother's family. I remember instances of brief interactions with my aunts and uncles, and my mother's worries about her sisters and brothers were absolutely justified.

My mom fought like hell to protect us from them. Even as a small child, I remember my mom's warnings to avoid them at all costs. She said they were bad people who were very sick.

I did not have a full understanding of why they were the way they were. I only knew the fear I felt whenever they popped up. I most feared my aunt Tammy. It seemed like any time my mother would cave on her own boundaries about having her family around, my aunt would terrorize me.

It started when I was five or six. My paternal grandparents had gifted me a beautiful porcelain doll for my birthday. I loved that doll. My aunt knew this, and decided to weaponize the gift against me in ways that I have carried in the recesses of my memory all of these years.

It began with the doll disappearing, and then reappearing in weird places, like the bathtub, or outside on the swingset slide. Notes from the doll began showing up. Then, one day, the phone rang, and a scary voice was on the other end. The voice told me to go to the window. When I parted the curtain, there was my doll, propped up on the outside windowsill, a knife taped to her hand. The caller said they were the doll, and she laughed maniacally and said they were going to kill me when I went to bed that night.

I did not understand why this was happening. I could not comprehend why my mother would allow this to happen. When it first started, before it got to the terrifying parts, I remember my mother laughing at what she considered a harmless prank.

My aunt's abuse of me was relentless. She had sworn me to secrecy. If I told my parents, they would be very angry with me. Tammy had repeatedly assured my parents that they could trust her to care for me. They were so wrapped up in caring for my very sickly youngest brother, they had no idea what I was being subjected to.

Even as young as I was, I recognized the need to stay on Tammy's good side. I sought her approval constantly. When she was "okay", she would roller skate with me, or take me along to run errands, that I now know were drug deals. She would also take me for "rides" in the car. Those rides felt like secret detective adventures, but were actually stalking missions. She had a penchant for courting police officers and firefighters. It did not matter if they were married or not.

One day, on one of her surveillance operations, we were driving around. She rounded a corner quickly, and suddenly, I was tumbling and rolling out of the car onto the pavement. Everything hurt. I was bleeding from road rash on my legs, arms, and even my face. Instead of taking me home to my parents, or to the hospital, she drove me to the fire station, where her current married boyfriend worked.

He patched me up, and then his co-workers gave me a tour of the station, even allowing me to slide down the fire pole. My aunt and her boyfriend, Bill, had disappeared to another part of the station for what I considered a long, long time. When we finally went home, my aunt played up the story that I simply fell out of the car. My parents questioned why I was in the front seat, not strapped into a seat belt. My aunt told them that the passenger door had not been staying closed for a bit.

As an adult, I recollect her leaning over and opening the door before PUSHING me out.

I wish this was the last of it, but it was not.

Time had passed, I had turned eight, and we had moved to a new apartment. My mom had been careful to not reveal our new address to anyone in her family. The time in between me "falling out of the car" and moving, we had experienced so much drama involving their family. Drugs, alcohol, and their own trauma from their upbringing reared it's ugly head, and we were exposed to SO much that a child should never have to witness.

I finally felt safe in our cozy little three bedroom apartment. My mom had a knack for decorating, and our home reflected her sense of style. We settled in, my parents turned our garage into a play room. I remember finally feeling safe.

Late one night, I awoke in my bedroom, which was at the front of the apartment. I went to the bathroom, and then heard voices in the living room and kitchen. I thought it was my parents, so I sluggishly walked into the kitchen to ask my mom for a glass of water.

Instead of my parents, I was greeted by four strange men I did not recognize, and one whom looked like my uncle, Chris. They were startled by my sudden appearance in the kitchen. Not understanding what was going on, I asked for a glass of water. One of the men got a glass out of the cupboard and poured water into it from the pitcher in the fridge. Then one of the men asked where my room was, and took my hand, leading me back to bed, where he tucked me in. I fell back to sleep.

I woke up in the morning to my mom and dad in the living room, talking to police officers. My mom told me to get dressed and go outside to play for a bit. I clearly remember going outside and seeing tins that my mom had displayed in the kitchen window, now placed neatly against the outside wall. A tech walked over and picked them all up, carefully putting them in a box and carrying them away to a car.

Then it all clicked in my eight year old brain. I walked back into the doorway and said, "Mommy, there were men here last night, and I got up for water, and they tucked me back in." The officers looked shocked. My mom began weeping as she stood up, and rushed to pull me into her arms.

I was interviewed by police, and after describing the men, my mother told police that she believed that her family was involved. Her brother, Chris was later arrested for burglary.

I wish this was the end of the torment, but it wasn't. We lived through utter hell because of these people. It took my parents buying a house counties away from them when I was fifteen. A year later, Tammy died. I was a a friend's house hanging out, when my mom called my friend's mom to inform me. I did not cry. I merely replied, "Good. She deserved it." My mom asked if my dad could come pick me up, and I told them that I would rather stay at my friend's. She asked to speak to my friend's mother, and the mother suggested that I should stay the night. The mother was clearly worried about me, and fawned all over me. She could not understand why I was so emotionless about the news. I told her I simply did not care. I asked if we could just continue our activity.

I did not feel sad. Not one little bit. I actually felt relief.

When I was twenty-four, and married and pregnant, I finally revealed all of the abuse I suffered at Tammy's hands to my parents. Knowing I was about to have a child of my own to protect, I vowed that that baby would never have to endure what I did.

Out of twelve of my mom's siblings, only two are alive. Their family legacy is one of murder, addiction, long prison sentences, and deaths due to ramifications of their actions.

I do not have any type of a relationship with any of my cousins, except the children of Tammy. She had four children, three of whom have little to no memories of their mother, as she died when they were all under four years old at the time of her death.

Even though they are all gone now, I have forgiven them. But forgiveness doesn't erase everything that I have had to heal from in intensive therapy.