21 Dares: A Florida Suspense Mystery

by JC Gatlin

  Her phone rang, startling her. She answered it.

  “Why?” she screamed. “Why did you kill them? You slit their throats? McKenzie and Rocky, they were my friends. They did nothing to you.”

  “Did that bring back some bad memories?” The voice was calm, methodical.

  “Why?” she screamed again, unable to stop the tears. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Did their bodies remind you of something? Of someone? Of your sister?”

  “You’re a monster! You’re evil. Sadistic”

  “Pretty One…”

  She didn’t let him speak. “Where’s Clinton Reed? Where is he? If you hurt him—”

  “I can’t talk to you when you get all emotional on me.”

  “Where is he?” She held the phone in front of her face and screamed into it.

  “Take a deep breath and relax.” He paused, as if giving her a second to catch her breath. “Now then, are you ready for the next dare?”

  “You’re sick,” she said. “You are sick and you won’t get away with any of this.”

  “Pretty One, I asked you a question. Are you ready for the next dare?”

  Abbie could barely breathe. “What?”

  “The next dare,” he said. “I dare you to look in the attic.”

  “No.” Abbie shook her head. She trembled. “No. I’m not going up there.”

  “I dare you,” he said. “I double-dog dare you. Isn’t that what the kids say these days? I triple-dog, stick-a- thousand-needles-in-your-eye dare you to look in the attic.”

  Abbie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She struggled to comprehend. He was still talking, but she barely heard him.

  “Just draw down the ladder, and climb up. Peek into the attic, won’t you? For old time’s sake? Just give it a quick peek.”

  “I won’t.” Abbie got to her feet. “I won’t do it.”

  “You want to see Clinton Reed, don’t you?” He laughed at that. “Then I dare you to look in the attic.”

  Chapter 31

  Abbie walked through the hallway and stopped under the attic scuttle. She looked up at the trap door. Gripping the pistol in her right hand, she raised her left arm and grasped the cord. Abbie took a deep breath. She counted in her head. One. Two. Three. She pulled the cord hanging from the attic door.

  The ladder dropped. A box of clothes fell with it. The corner of the box hit Abbie in the forehead and she fell back. She accidentally fired the pistol, blasting a round into the opposite wall. The shot rang in her ears.

  Lying on her back with the box of clothes on her chest, Abbie closed her mouth. She pushed the box away and stood. She raised her head, looked into the dark attic scuttle.

  “Clinton Reed?” she said, her voice rising. “Are you up there?”

  Silence.

  Panic like she’d never known before welled in her throat. She closed her eyes and fought against it. She stood there, perfectly still, head tilted toward the attic. She opened her eyes.

  “Clinton Reed?”

  “Abigail?” It was Clinton Reed’s deep, familiar voice.

  “I’m here,” she yelled. “I’m coming to get you.”

  She started up the ladder when her father called down to her. “Don’t come up here.” Stress rose in his voice. “You hear me, Abigail?”

  Abbie paused on the ladder. “Are you okay?”

  “Abigail, I want you to turn around and get out of this house right now.”

  “I’m not leaving you.” She clenched her jaw and forced her legs still. “Are you alone?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. My eyes are covered. I can’t see anything.”

  “The police are on their way.” Hesitating on the ladder, her legs trembled. “Just hold on, okay? We’re going to get out of here.”

  There was a shuffle along the ceiling and her father yelled.

  “Abigail, I hear something. I think there’s someone else in here.”

  Abbie heard it too. The ceiling creaked as if someone walked across the floorboards. Clinton Reed screamed again. “Get out of here, Abbie. Get out of this house!”

  Startled, Abbie jumped off the ladder, then hesitated. Her hand automatically went up to the unicorn necklace. She gripped it and looked down at the gun in her other hand. Clinton Reed needed her. He needed her. She couldn’t turn her back on him. Thinking, she swallowed her fear and climbed the ladder, stepped into the attic.

  Her eyes adjusted to the dark. Gradually the small attic space came into view. Dusty support beams. Scattered boxes. Cobwebs. The outline of man sitting in a chair along the back wall. Rope bound his arms and legs to the wood. A rag wrapped around the center of his face, covered his eyes. His left leg bled. Bad. Had he been shot? Stabbed? Cut?

  “Clinton Reed?” A cry of relief broke from her lips. “Are you okay?”

  His head turned toward the sound of her voice. “Abigail, get out of here.”

  “Not without you.”

  His arms had been cut too. Deep, angry slashes that dripped blood to the floorboards. She made her way toward him, then tripped. She looked down at an old box marked “Heather’s Awards.” She pushed away from it, in shock. Hesitating, she looked around.

  Smart phones littered the floor. There had to be four or five of them. She picked one up with a pink cover and saw it had belonged to McKenzie. She threw it down next to the others, then moved quickly to Clinton Reed’s side.

  His head turned toward her, and she touched his cheek. She removed the blindfold.

  “I told you to get out of here,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “I’m not leaving you.” She reached down toward the ropes around his hands, securing him to the chair. She struggled with the knot.

  “Abbie.” Clinton Reed froze, his head staring toward the far corner near the opening in the floor. Abbie stopped tugging on the ropes. She looked into his face, then turned her head. Feet shuffled, but she didn’t see anything.

  Her phone chirped, cutting the still air around her. McKenzie’s pink phone beeped next, followed by the other phones scattered on the floor. Abbie stared at them, then looked at her own phone. She’d received a new text from Clinton Reed’s phone number.

  Clicking the icon with her thumb, she opened the new message.

  Abbie looked up from her phone and peered into the far corner of the attic.

  He stepped out of the shadows.

  Wearing a grey rubber Gareth the Ghoul mask, he stood there, frozen, like a statue. He held a box cutter in a hand covered with a white latex glove.

  “Dr. Wachowski?” Abbie’s voice caught in her throat.

  He didn’t answer. He stepped toward her. Floorboards creaked. Tilting his masked head, he held up the box cutter then lunged. Swooshing past Abbie, he slashed the blade across Clinton Reed’s chest. Abbie screamed and fell backwards. Her father slumped forward, still tied to the chair.

  Abbie cried out and leaped toward her father. He was gasping for breath. A circle of blood expanded across his shirt. She screamed again then turned.

  Gareth the Ghoul had returned to the corner by the trap door. He stood in the shadows. She could see his eyes through the mask. Abbie raised the pistol. She gripped it with both hands, struggled to hold it steady.

  He stepped away from the wall. She fired. Missed. Wood splintered in the slanted ceiling. He kept walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Abbie’s head spun.

  He came up to her. Towered over her. Reached for her.

  She pressed the trigger. The gun clicked. Her fingers mashed the trigger again. Nothing.

  Gareth raised his arm, the razor in the bloody box cutter extended. Abbie backed-up. Her hand brushed McKenzie’s pink cell phone. Her fingers wrapped around it. She swung it, hard, hitting him in the knee. Gareth grunted. The cell phone cracked and fell from her hand. He fell back. His head cocked, and he raised a gloved hand as if to hold her back.

  Abbie collapsed to her knees. Her hand swiped the edge of a box. She felt one of Heather’s old trophies. She gr
asped a gold statue so the square marble base was on top, like a hammer.

  She sprang forward, exhaling, and hit him again square across the head, striking him with the edge of the marble base. It cut the mask. Blood gushed from a wound on his forehead. He dropped the box cutter. She screamed. Loud. Primal. Guttural.

  He stepped back as she struck again. She pushed forward, bashing him with the marble base of the trophy. He stumbled backwards. He raised an arm to protect the side of his head, then grabbed the gold statue. Abbie yanked hard, trying to pull it away from him. He tugged, then took another step back.

  Abbie let go of the trophy.

  Gareth fell. Flailed his arms. Tumbled through the trap door. Abbie toppled down with him. Together, they dropped from the attic, hitting the ladder and landing in the hallway.

  Gareth grunted, flat on his back. Abbie fell on top of him. He lay motionless, arms spread. Abbie shook off the pain. She got to her feet and looked down at him. She prayed the fall broke his neck.

  His head turned. His eyes peered through the eye-holes of the grey mask. He blinked.

  She couldn’t take it anymore.

  Abbie turned, took a step. The staircase was just a few feet away. She headed for it. He grabbed her right foot. Tripped her. She fell, knocked her chin on the floor. Turned. Kicked Gareth the Ghoul in the face. Crunching his mask with her foot. Blood gushed from the rip in the mask. Red dots splattered her shoe. She twisted her body, struggled to her feet. He came up to her side.

  “Where are you going, Pretty One?” Gareth’s voice was muffled behind the mask. He blocked the staircase. She panicked, realizing that she wouldn’t be able to run downstairs.

  “You aren’t going nowhere.” He held his arms out, trapping her.

  She watched him a second, then bolted past him toward the end of the hallway. She ran into Clinton Reed’s old bedroom. Slammed the door. Turned the lock. She could hear Gareth jiggle the handle then beat on the door. The pounding echoed in the room.

  Abbie stared at the vibrating door. She raised a hand to her chest, reached for the unicorn necklace. It wasn’t there. She looked down. The necklace was gone. It must have fallen off her neck in the hallway. She couldn’t think about that now. She’d find it later.

  Behind her, the bodies lay face up on the mattress. She ran to them, looked at McKenzie and apologized. Then, just as quickly as she could muster, she picked up the mattress edge. She lifted one side so the two corpses rolled onto the floor.

  With the weight gone, Abbie dragged the mattress across the room and positioned it against the door. Gareth still pounded on the other side. Kicked it. The door rattled, coming apart. She knew the mattress wouldn’t keep him out, but it might buy her an extra second.

  She looked back into the room, then glanced at the window. It looked out over the roof. The back porch and swimming pool were just beyond it, she remembered. Abbie ran to the window, passing the bodies. Something grabbed her attention. Turning her head, she looked at the two bloody corpses.

  McKenzie’s face was twisted in horror, lying against the other body. He’d killed Rocky first. She remembered McKenzie saying that. But something wasn’t…

  The grey mask had slipped slightly upwards on the face, revealing a neck and chin covered with a reddish-brown beard. A Pali Hawaiian sandal lopped sideways on his bare left foot, exposing a hairy big toe.

  She knew immediately. She knew.

  The pounding on the door intensified. Boards smashed. The door frame rattled. She ignored it. She had to see the body’s face. She had to know for sure. She removed the mask.

  Dr. Wachowski’s dead eyes stared back at her. His throat had been slashed.

  Abbie stepped back. She looked at the door.

  Gareth was breaking through it.

  Gareth the Goodhearted Ghoul.

  Chapter 32

  A gloved hand broke through the door, knocking the tattered mattress to the floor. Stepping on top of it, he entered the bedroom. Abbie stared as he just stood there in the doorway, watching.

  “Rocky,” she whispered.

  Standing on top the mattress, he slipped the rubber Gareth the Ghoul mask up and over his head to reveal his sweaty face.

  “I just want you to understand something.” He removed a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on his face. Rocky Stern smiled at her. “This has nothing to do with your refusal to become a Vitamin Ritamin independent representative.”

  Abbie stepped backwards toward the window. “I thought you were Dr. Wachowski. I thought Dr. Wachowski was texting me the dares.”

  He shook his head. “He was, at first. Then I took over. I made the game a little more interesting.”

  “Why? What do you want?”

  “I want justice, Abbie. That’s all I ever wanted.” He took a step forward and held up the box cutter. With a click, the blade appeared. “So, I’ll make this quick. It won’t be painful. Not for long.”

  He stepped off the overturned mattress and came into the center of the room.

  Abbie turned to the window and fought to raise the pane. She hit the glass. Looked back. Rocky moved through the room. Came up behind her. Gripped her by the throat and spun her around. She looked up at him. He raised the box cutter. Pointed the blade toward her face. The razor’s tip poked into her skin. He reared his arm back, preparing to strike—then stopped.

  A hand gripped his wrist. Kept his arm from moving.

  Rocky turned his head. Abbie glanced over his shoulder. She saw the olive green sweater vest as Professor Cunningham shook Rocky’s arm, forcing the box cutter from his hand.

  “What are you doing?” Rocky yelled. “You’re not the one. You’re not the one!”

  He brushed past the Professor and bent down to collect the box cutter lying on the floor.

  Professor Cunningham stepped back, giving Abbie some space. He held a framed picture of Gareth the Ghoul under his left arm, then held it up with both hands. It was the colorful cartoon cel from his office, with the gray ghoul flying in a blue sky with white clouds and a brilliant, yellow sun. His hands trembled as he gripped the picture.

  “I know who you are, Rocky Stern. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

  The Professor handed the framed picture toward Rocky. Rocky stared at it with a puzzled expression, then looked over at Abbie, then back at the Professor.

  “Why are you giving me this?” he asked.

  “It was hanging in your brother’s bar, sixteen years ago. Clinton Reed and I took it,” the Professor said. “We were just joking around. But we stole your brother’s picture.”

  “Your brother?” Abbie’s body stiffened with shock. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “May he rest in peace!” Rocky looked back at the Professor. “You stole this from his bar?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” The Professor nodded. “And he came looking for it. Broke into the Reed’s home. Murdered his oldest daughter trying to retrieve it.”

  “That was your brother?” Abbie asked again, still trying to fully understand what was happening.

  “He died in this home,” Rocky said. “Cut down. Shot. In cold blood. Murdered.”

  “He murdered my sister.” Abbie balled her fists. Her legs trembled. “And over what? This picture? This cartoon?”

  Rocky leaned his head back and roared with laughter. “You think my brother gave a rat’s ass about Gareth the Ghoul?”

  “It’s an original cel from the 1930’s cartoon series.” Professor Cunningham still held the picture in his hands, as if waiting for Rocky to take it. “It’s even autographed. I’m sure it’s worth a small fortune.”

  “I don’t remember it.” Rocky stared at the picture. “My brother had a tattoo on his right arm. But a picture in his bar? Maybe. He had a lot of crazy things on the walls.”

  “It was obviously important to him. I’m sorry we took it. Clinton and I had too much to drink that night.” The Professor turned to Abbie. “Your fa
ther drank a lot after your mother died, and we took it as a prank.” He turned his head back to Rocky. “We never expected your brother to come looking for it. And it’s been hanging in my office ever since. But, like I said—it’s probably worth a small fortune.”

  “It’s worthless.” Rocky grabbed the framed photograph from the Professor’s hands and tossed it on the floor. He stomped on it, shattering the glass. Bending down, he pulled the colorful cel from the shards, shook it and turned it over. A yellowing, folded paper was attached on the back. Rocky unfolded it, revealing what appeared to be blue prints.

  “This is what my brother was looking for that night.” Rocky held up the large prints. He looked at the Professor then over at Abbie. “Your father and the Professor here stole a map to Tampa First National’s electrical system.”

  “I don’t understand…” Professor Cunningham shook his head as he stared at the blue prints. “That was in the frame? That was there all this time?”

  “He had plans to use it. Something about cut’n the system, disarm’n some alarm or something.” There was a trace of laughter in Rocky’s voice. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it. I was just his kid brother and all.”

  “Interesting.” The Professor took a cautious step back. “I—I had no idea.”

  Rocky used the box cutter to shred the old map. “It’s kinda old now,” he said. “I’m sure the bank has upgraded its systems by now.”

  “Well, I returned it to you. I apologized.” Professor Cunningham walked backwards, closer to the bedroom door. “You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Professor. This has nothing to do with some old map.” Rocky opened his hand, letting shredded paper fall to the floor like confetti. He turned his head toward the Professor. “And you are not the one I want.”

  In one swift motion, he lunged forward across the room and slashed the Professor’s throat with the box cutter. The Professor gasped as blood shot from the wound. Abbie screamed. Professor Cunningham dropped to the floor making low gurgling sounds. His eyes opened wide as silver dollars and he brought his hands to his throat. His body twitched. Kicked. Convulsed.