by Rae, Nikita
I wait behind the door, the handle of bat growing slick from sweat in my hands, trying hard not to breathe too loud. Eventually I hear the sound I’ve been waiting for over the grunting and groaning of the garbage disposal: a creak in the stairs. Whoever’s in the house is coming. Shit, shit, shit. I peer through the slim gap where the open door to the room meets the frame, squinting into the dim lighting to see if I can make out who is it.
A black head emerges like a specter, followed by black shoulders and a black torso—a person dressed entirely from head to toe in black, a ski mask covering their face. I bite down on my bottom lip, desperately trying to keep from breaking down into tears. The figure reaches the top of the stairs and pauses, head swiveling up and down the hallway, clearly trying to pick which room to enter. I see a flash of silver in the tall person’s hand, and I have to rail against the urge to make a dash for it when I realize it’s a knife. A five-inch long, curved, wicked blade made for hunting, skinning, gutting. I hold my hand over my mouth, counting to five. Count to five and calm down, that’s all I can think.
The figure moves stealthily to Dad’s study, where light still pools out into the hallway. He disappears inside. I panic then; should I run down the stairs? Try and make it for the door? My legs are trembling, half ready to bolt of their own accord, when the cordless phone I’m still gripping hold of starts to ring.
“Shit!”
I drop the phone like it’s stung me and recoil into the corner of the room, fear taking hold, locking every single one of my joints frozen. The phone keeps ringing, echoing around the house from the other handsets dotted throughout the different rooms. But there’s only one handset up here on the first floor. And it’s in here with me. I clench hold of the baseball bat with both hands, holding it out in front of me.
Just breathe, Iris. Just breathe. It’s going to be okay so long as you stay calm. My dad’s voice is strong and confident inside my head. It’s precisely what he would say, and it’s enough to help me edge forward so that I’m back behind the door again. The ringing is cut off by a loud beep downstairs. The answer machine.
“Ade? You there?” Morgan’s voice fills the deadly silent house. “Ade? I’m assuming this is you given the Wyoming number and all. Anyway, I hope everything’s okay with your uncle. I’m seriously hoping you’re gonna be back by Thursday. I don’t think I can handle the funeral without you. Sorry, I know that’s really selfish, but still… Let me know how you’re getting on. Love you.”
The answer machine clicks off. And a gloved black hand grasps hold of the door.
******
I’m lashing out before I can even think properly. The baseball bat connects with wood and then with something softer. A loud ‘uffff” comes out of the figure as he staggers sideways, holding his arm, knife still gripped firmly in his hand, which gives me enough time to raise the bat over my shoulder and swing with all my might.
The white ash contacts with the side of the figure’s head and he drops to his knees, one hand on the floor supporting himself. I run then. Run past the person who smashed their way into my house, heading for the stairs. A hand reaches out and grabs hold of my ankle, though, firm fingers digging into my skin, and I shriek.
I kick out, my shoe landing a solid hit against his shoulder, and he spins and falls onto his back, letting me go. Bat still in hand, I charge down the stairs, racing for the kitchen. There’s a carpet of broken glass everywhere, and the back door hangs off one hinge. The thunder of footsteps behind me has me running again, and I don’t think. I react, barreling out of the doorway into the night.
My breath blows in and out, in, out, short, sharp blasts of air over my teeth as I run faster than I’ve ever run before. Past the beater and the black SUV; past Mrs. Harlow’s abandoned house. My arms pump furiously, bat still in my right hand. I know it’s stupid to look over my shoulder, but I can’t help it. I have to know. I throw a glance behind me and my attacker is charging out of the house, barely twenty feet away. And he can run.
The snow that has been falling heavily all day coats everything—the driveway, the trees that surround the house, the road beyond, everything. The world is white and grey and black as I run blindly, veering left and then right, hoping to gain some cover in the trees. They’re spindly and bare, however, and do nothing but get in the way. I have to get back onto the road. I have to make my way down on the highway that leads back into Breakwater proper. I’ll be safe if I can do that. I dodge more trees and lift my knees up as the snow gets deeper, setting like concrete around my lower body every time I try to push forward.
The bat is just getting in the way now, so I let it go, praying to God that I’ll be okay without it. That I won’t need it again. That I can get away from this crazy person and make it back to civilization before I’m stabbed to death. I reach the small roadway leading away from the house. My lungs are on fire. Luke. I have to get to Luke. I run faster, an agonizing burn surging through my legs each time I force them forward.
And then suddenly my legs are no longer beneath me. Fire sings through my nerve endings, a high-pitched chatter of pain that blinds me. The next thing I know I’m falling, crumpling in a heap into the snow. I can’t stop shaking. My back contorts, my body balking against the alien, frightening, painful sensation coursing through it. A low and fast tick, tick, tick, tick, tick sound fills my ears. After that I hear the creaking and crunching of boots slowly approaching through the snow. And then blackness.
******
Humming.
The sound of lapping water.
A familiar whirring.
My head is killing me. I struggle to open my eyes, instinct telling me that I need more than my sense of hearing right now. Burning pain sears through my head as I manage to crack my eyelids, the light flaring into blinding brightness and then dulling a little. Not enough for the pain throbbing behind my eyes to dissipate, but enough to allow me to see.
I’m strapped to a chair. And I’m in the basement. The pool cover has been removed and the water throws marbling reflections of light up onto the ceiling and the walls. My father’s projector sits on top of a wooden chair—one of the breakfast bar stools from the kitchen. It’s switched on, but there’s no film loaded and so a solid plain white square is the only thing displayed on the wall at the opposite end of the room.
I spin around, but I’m alone.
Terror rips through me then. Whoever tied me to the chair has left me down here, with God knows what in mind, and I have no means of getting away. The bindings tying me to the chair are strong and tight. I tug against them but the effort is wasted.
“I’d save my energy if I were you,” a low voice echoes off the walls. It’s twisted at first, strange in my ears, until I work out that it’s being distorted somehow. Leather boots complain as someone, my attacker, makes their way down the stairs into the basement. My body seizes as they walk slowly towards me, face and body still entirely covered.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, paralyzed by panic.
The figure holds a small black box to his mouth and presses a button. “Is this where we cue the stupid questions?”
I don’t answer. The figure doesn’t say anything else. He paces carefully to the projector where he opens up an old film canister, not one of my dad’s, and threads the film into the feeder. He works in silence, cueing everything up until the job is complete.
“I have a video of your father that you probably haven’t seen yet,” he tells me, speaking into the voice distorter. “I thought we could watch together.”
I yank on the restraints pinning my hands behind my back and locking them to the chair. It feels like a zip tie, the plastic cutting into my skin. The figure stalks towards me and strikes me across the face with his gloved hand.
My cheek stings with the force of the slap, and tears spring to my eyes. I’ve always thought I would be more defiant in a situation like this, but the reality of being held captive, fearing for your life, is terrifying and I can do nothing but whimper. The man in black m
oves back to the projector and pick up his voice distorter again. “I told you not to bother, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t say anything else. He sets the film rolling, and suddenly my father’s face is on the back wall of the basement. His eyes are filled with tears, and his lower lip is bleeding. A sinking stone of dread pulls at my insides. “What…what is this?”
The man in black strides towards me quickly and grabs a handful of my hair, forcing me to look up at my dad. “Watch,” he growls into the voice distorter. And I have to. Dad’s eyes are bright, like someone’s shining a light into them. A male voice off screen begins to speak.
“You’re a very lucky man, Max. Do you consider yourself a lucky man?”
My father swallows. “Most of the time.” His voice shakes.
“Only most of the time? You have a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter. A good job. You’re respected in the community. You’re a goddamned saint, in fact. Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose so,” he says softly. He sounds uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he’s saying the wrong thing.
“So what makes you think you’re lucky only most of the time?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I were lucky all the time,” he breathes out, his voice hitching.
A person off screen huffs out a burst of laughter. “Your presence here today is very lucky, Max. You just don’t understand why yet.” The sound of boots grinding on concrete fills the basement, and my dad’s eyes move to the left. Someone is moving around him. “Do you want me to explain why I say that, Max?”
“Ye—yes.”
“Okay, then. I will. Here’s how it is. A hand appears on screen in front of my father’s face, and in it is a rectangular piece of paper. I can’t see what’s on it, but my father does. He lets out a pained cry, his face crumpling into tears.
“No! No, don’t. Please! Please!” he begs. The hand spins the piece of paper over and I see that it’s not a piece of paper but a photograph. Of me. Fourteen year old me, smiling out of the glossy image. My stomach rolls.
“You see, Max. One of our own wanted your little girl to be sitting where you’re sitting right now. But you’re a special case. Your holier than thou, virtuous personality has rubbed quite a few of us up the wrong way, see. We voted on it, and we decided that you should be given an opportunity here.”
“Adam, please,” my father whispers. “Please don’t do this.”
Adam? Adam Bright? I’m floored by this revelation. Mayor Bright’s brother, Breakwater High’s basketball coach, Maggie’s father is the person threatening my dad? The man in black pinches hold of the back of my neck, digging his fingers deeper into my skin. I wince, staring at the video unfolding before my eyes. Adam moves into the shot fully as he leans forward and punches my dad in the jaw, hard. His rocks back with such force that I cry out. Adam remains on screen now, a familiar face, Maggie’s dad, my father’s work colleague.
“So, this is your opportunity, Maxwell Breslin. You’re being given a choice. You can take your daughter’s place. You can remain a sanctimonious asshole and kill yourself with this,” he produces a gun from the back of his waistband, shoving it into Dad’s face so he can see every gleaming black inch of it, “or you can let your daughter be our sacrifice. What d’you say, Max? Are you willing to make the trade?”
Oh, God. The trade.
“NO!” I scream so loud it feels like my vocal chords are tearing in half. No. No, no, no! This is what my father had meant—this is the trade he made. My life for his. He died to save me. Bile burns the back of my throat, my eyes filled with tears. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could have been the one.
My father’s shoulders sag. He exhales heavily, and then leans forward and spits blood onto the floor. “I’ll do it. I’ll kill myself.”
Adam turns to the camera, a hundred watt smile grinning right out at me, a specter from the past. “You heard the man, Jeff. He’s making the trade.” Adam seems over the moon that my father has agreed to his sick ultimatum. Jefferson Kyle, one of the other men my father was accused of killing, speaks, his body out of sight.
“Wouldn’t gloat too much, Adam,” he snaps. “You know Chloe’s gonna be pissed about this. She has her heart set on the Breslin girl.”
Icy cold fingers of alarm grip hold of me. Chloe? Chloe! No. No, how can that be? But sure enough, when I jerk my head back to look at the person digging their fingertips into the back of my neck, the ski mask has been removed and Chloe Matherson is staring down at me.
CHLOE HOLDS a Taser in her hand, pressing the trigger so that an arc of electricity fires between the two conductors. The expression on her face is deadpan, completely flat.
“The boys had no right to make that deal,” she says evenly. “It was my turn. I was supposed to get to pick who and how, but no. They switched everything out, picked your dad up while I was working. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work.” I’m too stunned by the news that Chloe is involved in this, is a killer, to say anything. She seems content enough that her captive audience is listening, anyway. “I only got to plan two. Jeff planned three. Sam planned three. Adam got to do seven. Psychopath,” she spits. “He chased those girls around with a blunt machete. What was so smart about that? He thought he was fucking Picasso.” She drags her hands back through her cropped hair, inhaling a huge breath. She seems to calm down a little.
“There’s nothing clever or beautiful about drowning someone or setting them on fire, either. That just makes a mess. Everything should be neat and tidy. Yes, that’s right, neat and tidy. You can appreciate that, I know you do.” She paces up and down along the edge of the pool, scratching at the same spot on her head over and over. Suddenly she turns and pins me under a fierce gaze. “You have to treat them kindly. Make them look pretty. Brush their hair.” She stands directly in front of me and reaches out, her hand trembling. She brushes a lock of my hair out of my face. The reverence behind the action betrays a disturbing darkness. “You have such pretty hair,” she whispers.
I immediately start strategizing, trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this situation. Because this situation is grade A fucked. Chloe crouches down, staring straight at me. I get the feeling it’s not me she’s seeing, though. “You looked just like her back then. Now, well, your coloring’s a bit darker, yes, but I think that’s okay. It’ll still count. She would have looked like you now, just like you looked like her then. Does that make sense?”
Horror is my new best friend. I shiver, kicking myself when I remember Chloe plucking the hair from my jacket back at the station when she invited us for dinner yesterday. Such an innocent gesture then is creepy as hell now. Chloe stands up, rocking back on her heels, looking me over.
“I’ll let you watch the rest of the video, and then we can get on with it.”
“No! I don’t want to see!” I scream. I lash out with my feet, trying to kick her, but she’s out of reach. My shouting flicks a switch in Chloe’s demeanor. She lunges towards me, brandishing the Taser, and presses it into my neck. I see stars for the second time, realizing that this is how she brought me down outside. I’m retching when she removes the conductors from my skin.
“Shut your mouth, you silly little bitch,” she hisses, leaning so that her face is inches from mine. “You’re ruining everything. This is all your fault, you know. Your dad would still be alive and I wouldn’t have gotten angry and killed the others, either, if it wasn’t for you. Everything got so messy.” She shifts, coming even closer. “All your fault,” she spits. Her furious expression vanishes, a sudden void taking over. She straightens up. “But maybe you’re right, though. We don’t want to see all that mess again. And we’ve waited long enough.”
Chloe goes into her pocket and draws out a slim, black box, and my heart starts hammering again. She mentioned Adam’s machete, and then drowning and fire, so that means… that means her method of killing was poisoning. Is poisoning. Strychnine. It’s a convulsant. Both girls asphyxiat
ed. These were the two last killings before they stopped altogether, and they were also the only ones with the fourth symbol on their palms. Luke’s words come back to me, unwelcome. Chloe opens up the box in her hands and a syringe lies within, alongside a small vial of clear liquid. She removes both items from the foam protector and pops the cap off the syringe.
“If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you look pretty afterwards, okay?” She sinks the needle into the small vial, Avept and practiced, and I let rip. No sense in holding back now.
“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
Chloe looks unimpressed. My shouting wouldn’t bother her at all if it weren’t for the sudden rumbling overhead. I know that sound well, used to listen for it nearly every weeknight when I was waiting for dad to come home from work. A car has just pulled up outside the house. There’s someone here, someone who might actually hear me hollering.
“HELP!”
“What the hell?” Chloe mumbles. She sets the syringe down and rushes to the stairs, staring up them into the kitchen above. The kitchen door must still be off its hinges, and there are lights blaring out into the darkness. Whoever is up there will definitely know something’s up if they take the time to walk around the back of the house. A car door slams above us, and Chloe runs back to the stool that the projector sits on, snatching up the sharp hunting knife she was carrying earlier.
“Be quiet,” she snaps, pointing the knife at me. “If you make a sound, I’ll kill whoever’s up there. Don’t think I won’t.” I don’t doubt that she’s mad enough to follow through with her threat. It takes every scrap of will power I own to keep my mouth closed. I sit, listening intensely and praying. I’ve never prayed so hard or so much in entire life.
I’m holding my breath again, when I hear a voice upstairs. “Iris? Iris, you here?” It’s Luke. I let my head fall forward, my chin pressing into my chest, and I start crying.