by Skylar Finn
“We should hurry,” said Emily. “Before he realizes we’re not in the house.”
As they ran along the inside of the wall, Emily was unable to stop herself from picturing the man in the house inside the walls with them. She didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
They came to the door that led to the basement and opened it, stepping onto the cold cement. Jesse held the lantern up. It cast a small circle of yellow light on their immediate surroundings.
A sharp creak of the floorboards resounded directly overhead.
“He’s still here,” said Jesse.
Emily looked around frantically. Where was there a hiding place big enough for two people?
The light in the basement flickered on and off with a buzz.
“The power’s coming back on!” said Jesse.
Emily stared at the light. “I don’t think it is, Jess.”
The light flickered on once, twice, three times. The third time, Emily saw it: a warped old chest in the far corner of the basement, next to Jesse’s carpentry tools.
“Look!” Emily pointed to the chest just as the light flickered out again. They made their way across the basement, trying not to walk into anything or kick anything over and alert the intruder to their presence. Emily felt her way blindly in the darkness, groping along the carpentry table and hoping she wouldn’t inadvertently grab the circular saw. Finally, her toes hit something hard and hollow, and she grasped for the handles, pulling the chest open.
Jesse helped Emily into the chest, then moved to close the lid over her.
“Jesse, what are you doing?” she protested, holding her hand against the lid.
“There isn’t room for both of us,” he said. “You’re going to hide in here and I’m going to get my sledgehammer and hide in the secret passage. If the guy comes downstairs before the cops come…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but then, he didn’t need to.
He smiled at Emily reassuringly as he closed the lid over her head. Emily heard his footsteps retreat to the other side of the basement and the creak of the passage door opening. She heard it close with a click.
Emily listened for any sounds above them that would indicate the intruder’s location. She curled into a ball in the darkness and tried not to hyperventilate. Was this how Matilda had died? And Cynthia? And the children? Hidden in a small, confined space, trapped like rats, while the murderer lurked somewhere in the house?
Sheriff Oglethorpe sat at his desk as the snow swirled past the windows. He sipped his coffee and cracked the spine of his favorite novel, Stephen King’s The Shining. There was no place he’d rather be on a snowy evening like tonight. Inevitably, something would come up: a fender-bender or an accident from some fool trying to drive in this weather, and he’d have to slog his way through the cold night and the snow. But for now, he could sit back and enjoy the storm.
“We’ve got a call,” said Stacy, the dispatch operator.
Oglethorpe was unsurprised. He’d just reached an especially gripping passage, his favorite—the part where Danny discovers room 237—so naturally, it was now that something had to interrupt his reading.
Oglethorpe sighed. “What seems to be the trouble?” he said.
“Something happening at that old Meade place on the hill. Says there’s a break-in and the intruder’s still in the house? I didn’t know anybody was up there.”
Sheriff Oglethorpe swung his feet off his desk onto the floor. “Young couple just moved there with their dog. God only knows what’s happening there now. Let’s hope we can avoid a scandal this time, shall we? I’m up for re-election.”
The sheriff pulled his fleece-lined hat on, settling the flaps securely over his ears and finishing his coffee.
“Don’t forget your scarf,” said Stacy brightly.
“Thank you, Stacy,” said Oglethorpe, wrapping it around his neck several times and knotting it firmly around his throat. He pulled on his fleece-lined gloves and trudged towards the door of the station.
“Gosh, I sure hope those people are okay,” said Stacy. “That house just seems like it’s nothing but trouble, doesn’t it?”
The sheriff shrugged. “They’re out-of-towners. Probably just got frightened by the storm. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Emily had never felt so helpless in her life. What was taking the police so long?
It was so dark inside the chest within the dark basement that Emily could scarcely tell the difference between when her eyes were closed or open. She tried not to picture Matilda’s last moments of life, or Andrea’s. Still, the images crept in, unbidden. Like memories, but something more than memories, all at once.
She was concealed in a dark place where no light penetrated. She waited in stark terror while a set of footsteps approached the stairs.
Emily was disoriented in time and space. She could have been in the basement or the attic. She could have been herself or someone else.
Still more sensations crowded in against her will: she was confined in a tight space just like this one. A second body pressed against her. She felt small, and felt the smallness of the second body beside her. A cry escaped her and the person beside her shushed her, begging her to be quiet in his tiny voice.
Somewhere above her head, footsteps made their way across the living room, down the hall, and paused directly overhead. There was a loud scraping sound at the basement door—the chair being dragged across the floor.
The basement door creaked open. The footsteps descended the stairs, one at a time. He was taking his time—he clearly knew they were trapped with no escape, and was therefore in no hurry to dispose of them. He moved as if he had all the time in the world.
The footsteps paused at the foot of the stairs, then shuffled across the cement floor. There was a resounding crash as the shelves tipped over. The footsteps changed direction. This time, they headed in the direction of the chest.
Emily was aware of the sound, but she heard the footsteps as if they were ascending the steps of the attic. She was simultaneously torn between the present and the past. She felt her fear, compounded by the fear the children had felt when they had hidden, trapped like rats, in a dark place just like she was.
Emily squeezed her eyes shut tight and thought desperately for anyone—or anything—to help them. She remembered all those weeks ago, when she typed those words on the old typewriter from the attic. Now she was the one who needed help.
The footsteps paused in front of the chest. Emily heard fingernails scrabbling at the handles
She screamed. “Help us! Please help us!”
As the lid was thrown open, Emily saw bright lights fly upward into the face of the intruder. He shouted and stumbled backward.
The basement light blazed on as brightly as the sun. Jesse threw open the door to the secret passage and leapt out, wielding his sledgehammer. He stopped in amazement at the sight of the lights swarming the intruder, whose face was concealed by a black ski mask. The intruder screamed as he clawed his way across the floor towards the open passage door.
The front door upstairs crashed inward and the voice of Sheriff Oglethorpe shouted, “This is the police!”
Emily and Jesse looked up simultaneously. The intruder pulled himself into the secret passage. Jesse looked back and raised the hammer to try and stop him, but he slithered into the wall like a rat into a hole and disappeared from sight. Jesse started to chase after him, but stopped at the sound of Emily’s voice.
“Jesse, look!”
The lights around them dissipated, revealing the basement wall for the first time since the lights went out. Painted on the gray cement in dripping red letters were the words,
WE WILL NEVER FORGET.
12
The snow came down in giant fat flakes, and a smile spread across my face. Snow meant poor visibility, slow emergency response time, and power outages.
Tonight was the night.
As I watched the house on the hill, the lights popped off an
d the building was plummeted into darkness. That’s the problem with old homes: one little incident with inclement weather, and it’s back to the Stone Age.
Smoke poured from the chimney, so I knew they weren’t in total darkness, which was unfortunate. Ideally one of them would go to check the breaker box (even though it was obviously the storm) and the two would be separated.
They were the only thing that stood in my way, the one thing between me and my fondest prize: the house. If I could only eliminate them, that prize would be mine.
I traipsed across the snowy lawn. I came prepared. I had snow shoes. Their truck was unlocked, naturally. I never met two more gullible, trusting people in my life. I popped the hood and removed their distributor cap.
I made my way to the toolshed. This shed was not like other sheds. It contained a small trapdoor in the floor that went below the earth to a long tunnel leading to the house—into its very walls.
The couple had only been there a few scant weeks, and I was certain they had yet to discover the hidden network of tunnels and passageways running throughout the walls of the house. They seemed flighty, younger than their age would imply—like most of their generation. Bumbling, broke, helpless. Reliant on the charity of others. How fortunate for them that they were related to the old lady of the house. She loved charity.
Until I killed her.
Now I had only to dispose of her hapless progeny and nothing would stand between me and my prize. And what a perfect night for it: cold, snowy, dark. They were from somewhere down south and had likely never seen snow in their lives. They probably didn’t even know if they could leave the house when it snowed. They probably thought they would freeze to death if they did.
I switched my headlamp on. I lowered myself through the door in the floor, leaving my lantern in the toolshed. I wanted to have both hands free.
I knew these tunnels like the back of my hand and probably could have navigated them in the dark. I heard something scrabbling in the walls ahead of me and paused. A rat? If it was, it was an awfully big rat. I checked my pocket and assured myself my gun was loaded. Whatever it was, it was no match for me.
I didn’t know what room they were in, though it seemed unlikely they’d be in the cold, dark basement during a storm while the power was out. Judging from the smoke that poured from the main chimney, they were most likely in the living room. If I came in through the basement, they’d never hear me coming.
I went through the first door that I came to, a small wooden one that emerged in a corner of the basement. I quickly made my way across the room, glancing from side to side so the light of my headlamp swept over any possible obstacles. I crept up the stairs and turned the doorknob. But when I pushed the door, it was stuck. I rattled the knob and pushed harder.
The door was jammed, as if something was wedged beneath the knob. I cursed under my breath. I could have kicked it open, but I didn’t want to alert them to my presence. I wanted the element of surprise on my side.
No matter. There were other ways in. If I couldn’t start from the bottom, creeping up to catch them unaware, I’d simply start from the top.
I went back to the passage in the walls and began my ascent. As I made my way to the attic, I congratulated myself on my brilliance. The floors were old and creaky and they might have heard me if I came in through one of the bedrooms upstairs, but who would hear an intruder entering through the attic? Who breaks in through the highest point of the house? I thought again of how valuable the house was to me: not just from a financial perspective, but the way it almost seemed built for me; how it worked for me and did my bidding.
It took me a few tries to get through the trapdoor. I always forgot it was covered with that stupid kid’s rug with the trains on it. The old lady bought it for the children. She bought everything for the children. It was as if no one had ever told her that it was okay to live for yourself and no one else.
I made my way downstairs, toward the light of their still-roaring fire. Their dog barked furiously at me, then hid behind the couch. I could have cared less. It wasn’t the dog I was interested in. Aside from their cowardly mutt, the living room was empty and I felt a surge of irritation. Who leaves their house during the first blizzard of the season? Idiot out-of-towners.
I resumed my search through the house, determined to find them if I had to check every room, every closet, every nook and cranny. There were many places to hide, but I knew them all.
There was no hiding from me in this house.
But they were nowhere to be found. They were craftier than I originally gave them credit for. I looked out the window. Their truck was still in the driveway. Of course, I had made certain of that earlier. But where could they have gone?
They must have realized I was there. Doubled back behind me. No matter. I’d search again.
The only room I hadn’t checked was the basement. I found the chair that had foiled me earlier, wedged beneath the doorknob. There was no way they could be in there. Unless…they knew about the passages inside the walls? I hadn’t heard them once, and yet they clearly weren’t outside. There was nowhere else for them to be.
I dragged the chair aside and opened the basement door. I descended the stairs, imagining them trapped in the dark. I relished the thought.
Even with my headlamp, it was difficult to see. I stumbled into a set of metal shelves, overturning them with a resounding crash. As I kicked them aside, I thought to myself, if I were trapped like a rat in the basement, where would I hide?
There was a warped old wooden chest next to the carpentry bench. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the basement large enough to conceal a human being. I reached into my pocket for my gun, the cold metal reassuring in my hand.
Just as I went to throw open the chest, everything went wrong.
Massive, hideous, horrible lights engulfed me from out of nowhere: not the overhead light of the basement, which surged on at the same time, but an overwhelming trifecta of bright and inexplicable colors that swirled around me angrily. As the lights surrounded me, I heard their voices: We know what you did…we know who you are…we will come for you…we will have our revenge.
13
Blue and red flashing lights lit up the driveway of the old Meade House as uniformed officers circled the property with floodlights. Snow drifted down from the sky. Sheriff Oglethorpe watched from the porch as his officers combed the grounds for any sign of the home invader who’d triggered the homeowner’s 911 call. It seemed that the intruder had simply disappeared.
“Folks seem to have a funny habit of vanishing from this place,” he said.
“Did you say something, sir?” called one of the officers on the front lawn below him.
“Nothing worth repeating,” said the sheriff. He went inside to question the shaken couple about what transpired that night at Meade House.
The EMTs had just finished checking the couple for injuries and were currently bandaging the husband’s arm. Sheriff Oglethorpe approached the wife, holding her dog: one of those miniature collie-looking things Oglethorpe thought looked like Lassie, zapped with a shrink ray. She gazed into the fire. He said her name several times before she looked up, startled, to find him hovering over her.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Oglethorpe said. “No concussion or anything?”
Emily was surprised the sheriff seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. In her previous dealings with him, he’d come across as largely indifferent, almost to the point of cavalier. Perhaps she’d misjudged him.
“Almost thought I’d make it through the rest of my book before a call came in,” commented the sheriff. “Should have known there’d be trouble at the old Meade place, eh?” Perhaps not.
“Sheriff,” said Emily, “Did they catch the person who did this?”
“Not yet,” admitted Oglethorpe, removing his hat. He looked mildly chagrined. “We’re still searching the grounds, and we’ll let you know when we find ’em. In the meantime, maybe you can tell
me what happened here tonight? Give us a better idea of where to look.”
“We were by the basement when the power went out,” said Emily. “We built a fire in the living room when my husband saw what he thought was the groundskeeper walking towards the toolshed.”
“Does this groundskeeper normally come up after hours?”
“Yes, actually. He came up the previous evening to bring us some firewood. He also came up the last time you were here, after the property was vandalized. He was the one who reported it.”
“Oh, you mean Richard.” Oglethorpe was hard-pressed to keep from rolling his eyes. He forgot the man even had a formal title around this place. He seemed like one of those busybodies, always hovering around, waiting to self-importantly deliver some long-winded tale about what he’d witnessed like he was on an episode of Law and Order. Sheriff Oglethorpe had found, in recent years, that every potential witness to a crime had seen one too many episodes of Law and Order.
“Yes, Richard,” she said. “We thought it was him, but—”
“It’s not,” said Oglethorpe dismissively. “Just saw him wandering around out front, getting in the way. Asking a bunch of pointless questions.”
“Oh,” said Emily, taken aback by the sheriff’s tone. “Well, anyway, um…we thought that it was him, but we couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a ski mask, we assumed because of the cold, and he had on snow shoes. He was walking towards the toolshed and Jesse went to ask him if we could borrow the shoes in case we needed to leave the house.” Here Emily paused. Now she had no idea what to tell the sheriff and what to withhold. If she told the full story, she’d sound insane. If she didn’t, she’d leave out the most obvious hiding place for the intruder, who could still be in the house.
Then again, she wasn’t sure she trusted the sheriff. Should she share one of the secrets of the house with him? If he was the person she suspected he was, a person involved in her aunt’s disappearance, then the odds were he already knew. Maybe she could tell just how much he knew based on his reaction and how truthful it seemed.