The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  They emerged from the cellar, and he halted. “Wait!”

  She pointed the flashlight back at him. His desperate look scared her. Maybe he wasn’t okay after all. He raised the ax. For a moment she thought he would swing it at her, but he just held it out.

  “Here. Take it. I might fall on it. I’m dizzy.”

  “Grip.”

  “Take it!” He could only see the light of the flashlight. “I feel . . . confused.”

  She took the ax. “Put your hand on my shoulder. You must have a concussion or something.”

  He squinted at the light. It amplified the pain in his head. “Turn it off.”

  “What?”

  “I said turn it off!”

  She did as she was told. Without the light from the flashlight causing their pupils to contract, they could now see the whole east corridor. The full moon shone in the sky between a gap in the clouds, just as full as it had been in the book.

  “The moon's out,” he said.

  Howard has that same book, Grip thought, watching the moon. He knows so much about the Cross of the Lamb. Maybe it was Howard who had brought them here. Maybe he doesn't love us. Grip put his hand on Isabel's shoulder, and she led the way.

  Love. What was love?

  “When did he tell you?” Grip said as they made their way around the house. “The second time, I mean.”

  “What?”

  “That he loved you. You said that Howard said he loved you when you first met. When was the other time?”

  She knew the moment, but they needed to focus on getting back to Howard, who was still waiting upstairs in the dark. She made sure no one stood under the street lamp outside the gate and then looked up at the house's dark mass.

  “Tell me,” Grip pleaded.

  “After we lost Taylor.” Isabel’s grief bit at her heart. “Okay? Satisfied?”

  Grip imagined Howard holding his hand over Taylor's tiny nose and mouth in the middle of the night, like that picture of the woman in the book. Maybe it wasn't SIDS. Maybe Howard had lured them to Jacobi House to kill them. Grip's own thoughts repulsed him. Why was he thinking such horrible things about someone he loved?

  Early had been a monster, even though when they were together in their cell at night he had been tender and caring.

  Isabel turned the flashlight back on as they climbed the steps onto the veranda.

  “Come on,” she said, mustering her own courage to go back inside the dark house. In the entry room, she scanned the darkness and then started up the stairs.

  Grip depended on the banister as he followed and watched her charge up the steps, particularly focusing on her powerful legs. Out of breath, he said, “Why . . . so many . . . steps?”

  They reached the top, and he put his hand on her shoulder again as they made their way down the hall.

  She wanted to hurry, but Grip was too dazed, so she paced herself.

  A prison hall, Grip thought. Behind each door, a prison cell. Prison rape, such a cliché made fresh and real and horrible by Early and his gang. Grip and Isabel stepped around the still life on the floor and went around the first corner. Grip halted, still holding onto her shoulder.

  She pointed the flashlight at him. “What now?” He pointed at the floor; he had found her flats. She slipped them on, the cut between her toes stinging again.

  As she was distracted, he charged forward, running his hand along the wall, until he reached the door Howard had suggested the kid had gone into. Howard had wanted them to go into this room for some reason. Grip turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked—Grip had hoped it would be locked.

  It squeaked open to more darkness. He felt close to tears, close to an emotional collapse. He wanted to see inside but also wanted someone to put him out of his misery. He wanted to wake from this nightmare.

  She whispered once she reached him, “Howard’s waiting.”

  Waiting to murder us, Grip thought. “Just point the damn flashlight!”

  “No.”

  He slid down against the doorframe until he sat on the carpet. “Fine, leave me then.” He hugged his knees.

  “What's wrong with you?”

  Someone was responsible for all this. Someone was always responsible. He sobbed; he couldn’t stop himself. It's Howard, he thought. Howard is the Cross. He brought us here to show us his horrors!

  “Grip!” she hissed.

  “You didn't see her, Iz. Down there, she was ripped apart. And maggots. Maggots were—”

  “Calm down. There's nothing in there. Look, I'll show you.”

  He sniffed back snot and leaned forward onto all fours. She shined the flashlight over his back into the room.

  13

  Chopped

  On an unremarkable desk was an open book, maybe a ledger. Curiosity got the best of her, and she stepped into the room. There was an odor, but she wasn’t sure where it was coming from. It wasn’t from the desk.

  “What is it?” Grip said from the floor.

  A map showed a layout of the second story rooms. Each room had a number. “It’s some kind of schedule. ‘Ovulation.’ ” On the schedule, each number had a date for when the chances were best for impregnation.

  To one side of the room was a curtain like in a hospital. It was gray and discolored from age. The smell was coming from that side of the room, from behind the curtain. Despite her better judgment, she used the axe to pull the curtain aside and revealed a naked body tied to a bed. A woman, her neck opened up. Unlike the woman before, Isabel saw this victim unobscured. Her face . . . Isabel saw herself in that blank stare. She saw what it would be like to be tied up in this house, unable to escape. This average, everyday woman once had hope, and then she didn’t, and then she was dead. After the unthinkable.

  “This was a whorehouse,” Grip said, horrified but not able to look away from the gruesome scene. His pulse pounded in his ears. This is a prison and . . . “These women were raped. They were violated and left for dead.”

  “This is fresh. This was today.” Someone had cut this woman’s throat just hours ago. Whoever it was could still be in the house. Isabel closed the curtain. “Get up!”

  He got off the floor, and she pushed him out into the hall and pulled the door closed, her chest tight with panic and grief. The thought that every one of these rooms had a dead woman—a violated, abducted, dead woman—was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Howie! Howard!” She raced around the corner to the north hall. Howard should have been there. This was the hall that ended in the 2x4s (she had gone around two corners; this had to be the north hall), but he was gone. Daniel was missing too.

  Grip caught up and braced himself on the handle of another door.

  “Don't touch that.” Her shrill voice sounded alien.

  As if bitten, he jerked from the handle; he didn't want to see inside another room any more than she did.

  “Howard?” she whispered, searching the same place over and over with her light.

  Grip grabbed her shoulder. “Where is he? Where is he, Isabel? We have to find him.”

  They continued forward down the hall, but very cautiously.

  “Howard, answer me,” she called out, on the verge of tears.

  They came to the end of the hall. She pointed the light the way they'd come. There was no one except the dead woman in the chair barely visible in the distance. The hall had at least a half-dozen closed doors.

  “Where is he?” Grip said, frantic. “Tell me where he is!”

  “Stop it!” She propped the ax against the 2x4s and grabbed his upper arm to calm him. “This is all horrible, I know that, but—” She noticed that, off to the side, a line of light shined underneath a door.

  “What?”

  “Shush. There’s a light coming from that room,” she whispered.

  Grip stepped aside. “But the power's still off.”

  “I know.”

  The door opened, and something in silhouette lunged toward her. She screamed, Maglite swinging, and hit a
hulking man in the skull. The huge man dropped, thudding against the carpet. She jumped back so he couldn't grab her legs.

  She saw her mistake. The man hadn’t lunged; he'd only fallen forward because of his injured leg. He had only looked so huge because he had blocked the light from the room. She got down at his side.

  “Howard!”

  Howard didn't respond. She had knocked him unconscious, or worse. She patted his face. She slapped him.

  He stirred and cringed. “Ow, ow, my leg. My leg!”

  Isabel sprung up. “Sorry! I'm so sorry!”

  He lay there in pain, helpless on the floor.

  Grip stood back in darkness and wanted to hold him and kiss him, so relieved Howard was okay, but just watched as Isabel helped him sit up. How could I have doubted him? Grip thought, horrified. He picked up the ax without realizing, just to hold onto something.

  “It's okay. I'm okay.” Howard scooted back up against the wall.

  Grip stepped into the light with the ax in both hands. Blood had discolored his forehead. His eyes looked wide and deranged.

  “I'm just glad you used the flashlight instead of the ax.”

  Seeing Howard's concern, Grip wanted to confess everything—his doubts, the prison rape, his guilt, his need to hear “I love you”—but all he said was, “I hurt my head.”

  Howard smiled up at him. “I know the feeling. You can put the ax down now.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Isabel repeated.

  Howard rolled his head back and forth against the wall. “It's okay. Just a little dazed. I found an oil lamp. And these.” He pulled out a small box of matches and rattled them.

  “I fell through the floor,” Grip offered.

  “Into the basement?”

  Grip nodded and knelt down. He wavered, feeling unsteady. His eyes couldn't really focus on anything.

  “Did it seem dangerous down there?”

  “What do you mean?” Isabel said. “Just a bunch of crosses and a creepy altar room. Why?”

  “The kid says there's a first aid kit down there. I thought it might be a trap or something.” Howard touched Grip’s shoulder and his fingertips came away wet with blood. “God, Grip. You're really bleeding. We need to bandage that and disinfect it.”

  A shadow fell over them.

  Daniel stood in the doorway, blocking the light. “Are you going to help Grandma?”

  “Yeah, kid,” Howard said. “Grip, could you help me out of the way?”

  “Here,” Isabel said and helped Grip get Howard up off the floor.

  The threesome went sideways through the open doorway into the room, which was similar to the other upper story rooms, only here was a table and chairs, an oil lamp, and a stale loaf of French bread. Grip sat, winced in pain, and moved so only one butt cheek sat on the seat. The fall had severely bruised him all over. Isabel helped Howard sit. He looked at his watch.

  “How much time do we have?” she asked.

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “Then it's almost over,” Grip said.

  “I'll tell you when I've made some progress.” She grabbed the ax and went back into the hall.

  She pointed the flashlight through the gap in the 2x4s. The ever-present darkness of the hall loomed behind her, unnerving her. In the room beyond the gap, Lillian sat on her bed with her arms hugging her legs in the same position Grip had adopted during his breakdown in the hallway. Isabel knew Grip’s trauma in prison was resurfacing. They needed to free this woman and escape this place as soon as possible, or his mental stability would continue to deteriorate.

  With the flashlight on the carpet, angled toward the base of the 2x4s, Isabel tested the heft of the ax; it was only slightly heavier than the flashlight. She took a swing and cut into a board. The chopping sound frightened her; it could bring unwanted attention. She took another swing and another until she finally chipped out a small wedge.

  This would take some time, but Lillian would be freed. Then they would find a way out before Ophelia returned. Both Grip and Howard were hurt more than they were letting on.

  “Please, God, help me save them.”

  She remembered the ax in her hand and continued to chop. God helped those who helped themselves.

  She could hear Grip and Howard conversing as she attacked the 2x4s but not what they were saying. She caught a word here and there, but she had to focus on freeing Lillian.

  Isabel had wasted so much time trying to be disinvested. Howard had been everything until Taylor came into the world. And then she had lost Taylor for no reason. It had almost broken her. The life she had pictured for herself had been shattered. And now, despite her best efforts, Howard and Grip were everything. Pretending that they weren’t hadn’t made her stronger or protected her; it had only made her lifeline more tenuous.

  She chopped through almost five boards before being alone in the hall got to her. She stuck her head into the room. “Could one of you hold the flashlight and make sure no one's behind me. I'm starting to get paranoid.”

  Grip and Howard looked at each other.

  “Hold that thought.” Grip said to Howard and stood up. He steadied himself on the table. “Okay. Got up too fast.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Howard said.

  “Yeah, fit as fuck. Let's go.”

  Isabel and Grip went out into the hall.

  Grip stuck his head back into the room and said something to Howard that Isabel didn’t catch, before picking up the flashlight and pointing it down the hallway. “All clear.”

  He was so close that she couldn’t swing the ax without the risk of hitting him. “A little farther. So I don't hit you.”

  He moved away, and she chopped at the 2x4s.

  “I'm sorry about before. I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

  “It's this place.” She took another swing.

  “You think it’s really haunted?”

  Haunted or not, did it change anything? “This place is messed up.”

  “This place reminds me of my time in prison.”

  “I know.”

  “There was this kid. He was barely eighteen. I didn’t know his name, but we all called him Porcelain Boy.” She looked at him, and he hesitated. “I guess it doesn’t matter. The past is the past, right? I mean unless there really are ghosts.” He chuckled and glanced back down the hall. “We'll be out of here soon, right?”

  “You do realize Ophelia knows about what’s happening here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She's a Jacobi.” This was her family's home. She had brought them there for a reason. She wanted them to see what happened here. Isabel wasn’t sure why, but the old woman had wanted this. Isabel swung.

  “You mean she's not coming back?”

  “I mean, I don’t want to be here when she does.” She put down the ax and kicked at the bottom board, breaking it off. “Shine the light.” The opening resembled a giant mouse hole. “Lillian! Think you can make it through that?”

  Lillian walked her gaunt hands into the light and then bowed her gray head of hair through the hole. She emerged, looking frail and traumatized. Isabel helped her to her feet. Body odor singed the air.

  Isabel tried to hide her repulsion. “There you go. Don’t worry. We're getting you out of here.” She breathed through her mouth so as not to gag. Lillian, all bones and trembling, seemed far from dangerous.

  Isabel went into the room where Daniel and Howard played together with tiny animals made of bread. Howard had crafted an impressive giraffe, utilizing the crust for spots and horns.

  “I'll help Howard,” Isabel said to Grip. “You take the lamp.”

  Grip took the lamp out into the hall while Howard put his arm around Isabel's shoulder.

  She asked as they stood together, “How's your leg?”

  “Numb. I’ll be fine.”

  “And your head?”

  “Isabel, really, I’m fine. I just wish I wasn’t such a burden. I feel so useless.”

  “Come
on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Howard and Isabel brought up the rear with the flashlight and the five people proceeded down the hall, working their way slowly around the second floor.

  “The Cross of the Lamb,” Howard said absently, and then with more force added so Grip could hear, “Whatever happens, we have to stop them.”

  “He's right,” Grip said back over his shoulder. “We have to stop this from happening to anyone else.”

  Isabel didn't want them talking so loudly.

  “They've taken these women, for generations, and violated them,” Howard whispered. “Do you understand that? Generations.”

  “When we’re out of here, we'll call the police,” she said.

  “The police?” Grip snorted. “It’s up to us, Izzi. It’s our responsibility.”

  Isabel shook her head, wondering where this vigilantism was coming from. “We’re saving Daniel and Lillian. That’s above and beyond.”

  “We could stop this,” Grip said. “You don’t want this stopped?”

  “Have you seen inside these rooms?” Howard asked.

  Isabel couldn’t fathom what had gotten into them. “Of course I want this stopped, but the authorities can handle it without our help. Now quiet. We might not be alone.”

  Howard sat in the chair near the stairs to catch his breath. Isabel waited beside him as Grip, Daniel, and Lillian descended into the entry room.

  Howard rose from the chair like an old man and looked to Isabel. “These women . . . If something like that happened to you—”

  “Come on,” she said.

  Howard looked at his watch. “You're right. We need to hurry.”

  Isabel helped Howard as much as she could. The top steps were the hardest because the doors obstructed the banisters.

  “Be careful!” Grip called from below.

  It only took a few moments to get past the red doors, and after that, Howard didn't have too much trouble. He braced himself on the banister and on Isabel and hopped on one foot down each step. His good leg grew tired, and his other leg shot pain into his hip, but soon he was on the ground floor.

  Isabel noticed that blood spotted the floorboards. She searched for the source. There was blood on the lantern glass too. Blood was dripping from Grip's elbow. His whole arm was red with blood. “Grip, your arm!” She took the ax from him.