by Amy Cross
“You've heard Harry's side of the story, I assume. Let me tell you mine.”
“You killed my father!” I scream. “You and Lenny Johnson and the others murdered him!”
“No, Alex,” he replies calmly, “I didn't murder anyone. Lenny Johnson and two of his goons might have come to this house late that night to deal with your father, but I refused to have any part in their actions. Lenny asked me to come, but I wouldn't. I was never one of his strongmen.”
“That doesn't make you any less guilty,” I reply, as I feel him trying once again to open the door. “You could have stopped them!”
“Yes, I could have. And in truth, maybe I had opportunities to save poor little Mo Garvey. Believe me, Alex, not a day goes by that I don't wonder whether I could have acted differently, but that's just the cross I have to bear.” He pauses for a moment, as I continue to look around the room for something I can use to defend myself. “You don't remember much about that time, do you?” he continues finally. “I can help you with that, Alex. Just open the door and let me in, and I'll help you remember as much as you want.”
“Go to hell!” I shout.
I hear him let out a long, annoyed sigh.
“She'll come for you,” I continue, trying to think of anything that might make him run. “Mo Garvey's ghost is here, and she'll come for you and make you pay for what you did!”
“Are you serious?” he replies. “Alex, please, try to remain rational. There's no such -”
“She's real!” I scream, as tears run down my face. “She's real and she's here in this house! I saw her!”
“When you were a child, you -”
“I saw her tonight! I saw her right here!”
“Alex, I'm trying to help you,” he continues wearily, and now he sounds as if he's talking to a petulant child, “but I can only do that if you open this door. Your husband requires medical attention. If he isn't checked soon, he could suffer permanent damage.”
“Help!” I shout, turning and looking toward the window. “Somebody -”
Suddenly there's a loud thud and the dresser jerks away from the door. I scream and turn, trying to push back, but the pain in my shoulder is too strong and I'm powerless to fight back as Tom Milford pushes the door open and steps into the room. There's blood on his hands, and more all over the front of his shirt, and he looks down at me with a hint of fear in his eyes. A moment later, I see that he's holding the knife in his right hand, having evidently removed it from Harry's body.
“Don't come any closer!” I yell. “I swear to God, I'll hurt you!”
“You don't understand!”
“I understand what you did to Mo Garvey!”
“I didn't do a goddamn thing to Mo Garvey.”
“But you knew about it!” I stammer, still trying to think of some way to defend myself, and trying desperately to hide the fact that I can barely even move my right arm. “You knew what happened and you didn't do anything! You're as bad as -”
“As your father?”
“My father was nothing like you!” I spit. “My father was a good man!”
Those words instantly send a shudder through my chest.
“He wasn't like you,” I continue, as memories start flooding back into my mind. “He might have made mistakes, but he was nothing like you! He wasn't evil!”
Before I can get any more words out, I spot a figure moving in the doorway behind Tom. For a fraction of a second, I half-expect to see that somehow Harry has survived his injuries, but then I see a bloodied hand reaching out to touch the doorway and I realize that the ghost of Mo Garvey is finally here. She has her hands out, as if she's trying to fumble her way through the room.
As if, despite being unable to see, she's trying to find her next victim.
“She's behind you,” I whisper.
“What was that?” Tom asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“She's right behind you,” I gasp, pulling back as the air starts to get so much colder.
“Are you serious?” he continues. “What are you planning to do, kick me in the shin when I turn to look?” He steps closer and reaches a hand toward me. “You've got this all wrong. Let me help you and -”
“Don't touch me!” I scream, pulling back even further as I watch Mo feel her way further into the room.
Unable to see, she's struggling to find Tom, but she's slowly stumbling closer and after a moment she turns her head and looks in his direction. It's only a matter of time before she stumbles straight into him.
“You're damaged,” Tom mutters as he stares down at me. “Your mind was broken twenty years ago, Alex, and you're barely able to hold yourself together now. You need serious, long-term psychiatric help, and I might be able to arrange something for you. But first, I need you to come with me. We can get help for your husband too, but the first step is for you to try trusting me just a little so that -”
Suddenly Mo Garvey lets out a rasping, snarled groan as she reaches out and places a hand on Tom's arm.
And he feels her.
I can immediately see from the look in his eyes that he can feel her icy little hand, and a moment later she places her other hand on his shoulder, as if she's getting ready to pull him down to the floor. At the same time, she lets out another rasping, triumphant groan, as if she's waited so long for this moment.
“Now do you believe me?” I ask, starting to shiver as the room gets colder and colder, and seeing the fear in Tom's eyes. “She's waited all these years to get the last person who was involved in her death. And now she knows that there's someone else who can reveal the truth, she's ready for you.”
“No,” Tom whispers, seemingly frozen to the spot as Mo starts pulling him closer. “Please, this is all wrong, I'm not...”
Grabbing Brad's arm, I start once again dragging him toward the open doorway. My shoulder is throbbing and my right hand is starting to feel numb, but I know I have to get out of here. Behind me, I can already hear Tom Milford begging for mercy, but I can also hear Mo snarling at him and a moment later there's a bump. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Tom is on his knees now and that Mo is wrapping her hands around his neck.
This must be what happened to my father too.
Not wanting to see any more, I haul Brad out onto the landing and then I start dragging him toward the top of the stairs. I'm starting to feel weak, as if I might pass out at any moment, but I know I have to keep going. Just as I'm almost at the stairs, however, I hear a horrific scream coming from the master bedroom, followed by a series of panicked bumps, and I turn just in time to see that Tom has stumbled to his feet and is desperately trying to follow me, even as Mo tries to drag him back.
“You don't understand!” he screams, reaching toward me. “You've got this all wrong! I didn't do anything to her!”
“Tell that to Harry,” I reply, feeling a growing sense of anger in my chest. “Tell it to my father.”
“I didn't help Neil Bloom kill that goddamn girl!” he hisses, as Mo starts dragging him back down onto the floor. “It wasn't me! For God's sake, you have to make her stop! I want to put things right! That's all I ever wanted!”
Snarling, Mo pulls him further down. As she does so, she opens her black-tarred mouth and finally lets out a loud, tongueless scream.
“You're wrong!” Tom groans, as the girl tightens her hands around his neck. “Alex, you've got this all wrong, it wasn't -”
He gasps as Mo starts twisting his head, and I immediately hear the sound of bones crunching in his throat.
“It wasn't me!” he stammers, as blood starts running from his lips. “I didn't kill her!”
“No,” I reply, “but you didn't exactly help either, did you?”
He cries out, and I watch in horror as the flesh around his neck tightens and then strands of skin open like old sacking. More and more blood flows out, and Mo continues to turn his head until Tom's face is looking back over his own shoulder. He's still gasping and spluttering, but she shows no mercy and finally she
twists his head all the way around and I hear a sickening splitting sound as the top of his spine separates from the base of his skull.
Strands of bloodied meat hang down as Mo lifts Tom's head clean off his shoulders. Fresh blood dribbles down from the back of his neck, flowing over the girl's dead fingers, but after a moment Tom's eyes flicker slightly.
“It wasn't me,” he whispers, and then his head falls still for a couple of seconds before falling from Mo's hands and thudding against the carpet, rolling slightly until it bumps into the wall.
More blood is pouring from his severed neck, and I watch as Mo slowly gets to her feet and steps past him. She pauses for a moment, and then slowly she tilts her head slightly as if she's listening for something, as if without her eyes she's having to rely on her other senses. A few seconds later she reaches out, placing her bloodied hands on the wall, and then she turns her head just a fraction until her hollowed-out eye-sockets are staring almost directly at me.
It's almost as if she's waiting for something.
“You got them,” I say finally, still shivering in the cold air, not even knowing whether she can hear me. “You got all of them. He was the last, wasn't he?”
The sound of my voice seems to help her focus, and she tilts her head a little more.
Now her dead, empty eyes are looking this way.
“You wanted revenge,” I continue. “That's what it was, isn't it? You wanted revenge against the men who did this to you, and against the ones who helped cover it up. All of them, including...”
My voice trails off for a moment as I stare into her dead, bloodied eyes. Finally I take a step back, but my right leg buckles and I fall to the floor. When I try to get up again, the pain is too intense.
“Including my father,” I add finally. “Including -”
Suddenly she takes a stumbling, faltering step forward, letting out a faint gasp as she keeps her hands pressed against the walls. Her blood-soaked fingers leave smeared trails across the paint.
“I'm sorry!” I shout. “I'm sorry for what my father did! I'm sorry for what they all did, but they're gone now! Do you want me to tell people about them? Is that it? Do you want people to know the truth? I can do that, I can tell them everything, even the things Harry didn't believe. I can make sure that -”
She groans, and I watch as fresh blood runs from her lips, dribbling over the dried, blackened crust that's caked all around her mouth.
“I can do whatever you want,” I continue. “I know my father made mistakes, but maybe I can help make up for that. Just tell me what you want and I'll do it!”
She takes another step forward, and now she's towering over me.
“Please,” I whisper, “just tell me...”
She reaches toward me. The air gets colder as she gets closer, but I can no longer bring myself to struggle and pull away. Instead, I watch her hand for a moment and then I squeeze my eyes tight shut.
Please, let this not hurt.
A sudden clicking sound erupts from Mo's mouth. I open my eyes and see that her rotten jaw is shuddering as if she's trying to speak. I can just about make out the stub of her tongue flicking furiously at the back of her throat, and after a moment I realize that she really is trying to tell me something. The clicks sound increasingly desperate, and then suddenly she turns and starts smearing a fingertip against the wall.
I watch with a growing sense of shock as she draws a bloodied circle, and then she wipes a vertical line followed by a cross at the top.”
“O,” I whisper, “T...”
Next she draws the letter H, followed by E and finally R.
“Other,” I read out loud, as she steps back and turns to me again.
I wait, reading the word over and over again, but I still can't work out what she means.
“Other what?” I ask, trying not to panic. “I don't understand! You have to -”
Suddenly she steps back and lets out a gasp, and this time she seems scared rather than angry. She hesitates for a moment, before turning and stumbling back toward the master bedroom. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was whimpering slightly.
“Wait!” I call out, getting to my feet. “Come back! I don't know what you want! There's nothing to be scared of! Are you saying that someone else killed you? Are you saying there's someone else who -”
Before I can finish, I hear a very faint creaking sound over my shoulder, and I realize with a sudden rush of horror that somebody just came up the stairs. I pause for a moment, before slowly starting to turn.
Suddenly something slams into the side of my head, sending me thudding to the ground and knocking me out cold.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Alex Roberts
When my eyes finally flicker open again, the first thing I realize is that I'm sitting upright on a chair, and that there are thick, tight ropes wrapped around my chest. My hands are tied firmly to my sides, and the pain in my shoulder has become a dull, pounding ache.
Nearby, there's a faint scratching sound.
Raising my head slightly, I look out into a void of darkness. I can't see anything at all, although a moment later I turn my head and find that I can just about make out a window, with a night sky outside and the silhouettes of treetops against the starry sky. I don't know where I am, but I'm definitely not in the house.
And the scratching sound is continuing.
Turning, I realize that the sound seems to be outside this room, although it's coming closer. A moment later I realize I can hear footsteps, and then there's a clinking sound, almost as if somebody is unlocking a door. Sure enough, this is followed by a heavy creak, and I watch as a door swings open several feet ahead of me, allowing me to make out a tall human figure silhouetted against the dark forest.
“Who are you?” I stammer, although I quickly find that my throat feels very dry. There's a strange taste in my mouth, too; something sweet and metallic seems to be smeared across my tongue. “Where am I?”
The figure hesitates for a moment before taking a step forward, and then the door swings shut again. As the door rattles in its wooden frame, I realize that I can't hear anything else. No traffic in the distance, no voices anywhere. And when the door was open, there seemed to be no lights outside.
“Who are you?” I ask again, trying not to panic. “What do -”
Before I can finish, I realize I can hear a faint, hurried sniffing sound. A kind of laughter.
“Who are you?” I ask for a third time, trying to sound stronger now. “Where am I? What do you want from me?”
As I say those words, I'm already trying to get my wrists free from the ropes. I can just about wriggle my left hand, although the damage to my shoulder has left my entire right arm numb.
“She was scared of me,” a voice says suddenly, ringing out from the darkness. A familiar voice, scratched and damaged, and old. “Can you believe that? Even after all these years, the dumb little bitch was still scared of me.”
“Who are you?” I whisper, as I hear footsteps passing close by. “What -”
Suddenly there's a click and a light switches on, and I'm shocked to see Diane Milford smiling at me.
“What are you doing here?” I stammer. “Your husband -”
“Oh, he's very dead,” she replies, interrupting me. “That poor, wretched old do-gooder finally showed a flash of conscience. It's amazing how the guilt can eat away at a man over the years, isn't it? I watched him crumple under the weight of knowing what he'd done, but really he had no reason to feel bad at all. He simply stood by and said nothing as other people had all the fun. The guilt was all in his head. None of us did anything wrong.”
I watch as she steps past me, and then I try to turn as she makes her way to the far end of the cabin.
“He wanted to help you in the end,” she continues. I can't see her, but I know she's somewhere behind me and a moment later I hear her setting something heavy on a table. “He received a call earlier tonight from Impingham. He'd asked an old colleague to let him kn
ow if you ever showed up to speak to your mother. I suppose he realized that if that happened, it would mean he had to take action. Of course, I overheard the conversation, and I watched out the window as he went over to speak to your husband. All things considered, it's probably for the best that little Mo ripped his head off. She saved me the bother of killing him, and I can understand why she was angry. After all, he did turn a blind eye to what really happened to her.”
“I won't tell anyone,” I reply. “Please, just let me go and I won't tell anyone that your husband was -”
“I don't care what people know about my husband,” she says, stepping back into view. She has a knife in her hands. “He was a very boring man. Maybe it'd be good to let people realize he was hiding a few secrets. He tried to protect me, though. He even put a brick through your window, hoping to run you out of town before you could cause trouble for me. Really, he was mostly useful for the supply of sedatives he kept in his home office. Back in the day, Neil and I found those so very useful. Our fun and games would have been much more difficult without all those little bottles of liquid.”
“Neil and...”
My voice trails off as I realize that there's a glint in her eye. She's enjoying this, and at the same time I'm starting to feel as if I've been in this situation before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, more memories are starting to stir.
“You have to get me out of here,” I stammer, still hoping that maybe I've misunderstood. “You -”
Suddenly she starts laughing.
“Please!” I continue, pulling once more against the restraints. “I don't know who brought me here!”
“Neil and I had so much fun with little Mo before she died,” Diane replies, fixing me with a determined stare, as if she's watching to see my reaction. “She really should have stopped screaming and just tried to enjoy herself. She should have tried to take some pleasure in what Neil did to her. In what I did to her. Really, if she'd just stopped sobbing and calling out for Mommy and Daddy, she would have enjoyed my tender caress. She would have felt a kind of awakening.” Her smile grows. “Neil was a brute. He didn't know his way around a woman's body. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what I was doing. And I've never really liked fully-grown men and women. I've always preferred little boys and cute, ripe little girls.”