House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  I just wanted to enjoy the water. I was grateful for the deafening sounds of the motor because it made talking practically obsolete.

  An hour into our boat ride, I was nearly half asleep in the back when Lou woke me up from my daze. “Look, that’s your house! Looks different from the back, don’t it?”

  I opened my eyes, looking to where he was pointing. I couldn’t miss it if I tried. It was huge, bigger than any other house on the river. In the daylight and from this angle, I got a clear glimpse of its Victorian trusses and Gothic windows in the back. Even with the sun glittering and the water shining, it looked gloomy, almost like it had its own ominous raincloud above it. It looked evil.

  “It’s such a cool freaking house!” Christa shouted, pointing at it. “Which room is yours?” she screamed over the engine’s noise. Ignoring her question, I looked for my tiny bedroom window, finally spotting it. There were a total of eight rooms, with four on each side of the house on the top floor. I knew mine was the second window of the four on the backside, but as I counted, I became confused. There were only three windows.

  That’s when I remembered the boarded up window in the first room I’d picked. Like the room with the bars on the first floor, I’d assumed the boards had been placed there for either security purposes, or because the window was cracked. But apparently, there was no window at all.

  Why were there only three windows?

  As we passed by the house, Lou slowed down. He asked, “So, has anyone told you the history?” I exhaled noisily. I didn’t feel like having this conversation.

  “I know that people were killed there,” I responded flatly.

  “Why would your family want to live there, knowing its bloody history?” Lexi asked bluntly.

  “Well, it’s a family heirloom,” I replied.

  All three of them looked at me, startled expressions on their faces.

  Seeing their expressions, something dawned on me at that exact moment—if George’s aunt owned the house, did that mean he was related to the family involved in the murders? Was it possible that I was not only living at the scene of a crime, but also with a relative of the murderers?

  Chapter Nine

  I was tired and sunburned by the time I got back. I parked my bike in the driveway and used my key to go in. They’d invited me to hang out at Lou and Lexi’s place, but I’d declined. I was sick of them, honestly. By the time we’d gotten off the boat, all three of them were acting drunk. And stupid.

  I was so exhausted, I nearly forgot about the crazy history of this place as I went inside. I’d noticed George’s SUV was missing from the driveway. He must have gone to the courthouse to set up his new office, I thought, happy not to have to see him. A note on the kitchen counter confirmed it.

  Good. I was alone. With my mom in New Orleans and George at work, the house was blissfully quiet. I tossed my book bag and key on the table, staring at the dozens of boxes in the kitchen and foyer area. He’s probably saving all the work for my mom when she gets back, I thought angrily.

  Mom’s tiny TV set was sitting on the kitchen counter. Seeing it there, along with her canisters, coffee pot, and spice rack, reminded me of home. I opened the fridge, peering at its contents. There were large foil containers with leftovers from Mom’s Fourth of July feast. I filled a plate with pork chops and beans, eating coleslaw straight from the container while I waited on the microwave to cook the rest. I was famished.

  I noticed a case of Big Red on the floor next to the garbage can. Thirsty, I pulled one out and stuck it in the freezer to get cold. I flipped the small TV on, digging into my food. “Yay, cable…” I said through a mouthful of baked beans. George must have had the cable company come out and hook it up today.

  I flipped through stations. Nothing good was on. Go figure.

  When I was done eating, I washed my plate and took my book bag upstairs. Surprisingly, George had carried up several boxes of my stuff, including most of my books. I tossed my bag from the bookstore on the bed and started opening boxes. I was happy to find my own blanket and sheets in one of the boxes. Another box was filled with clothes, belts, and shoes. Another was full of random stuff, like notebooks, school folders, hair accessories, and…photos.

  I stared at a picture of me, Meg, and Marcy. I’d scrawled on the back when we’d snapped the photo last year:

  The 3 M’s.

  I started flipping through the rest of the pictures.

  Then finally I found one of me and Jaime. I sighed, pulling my phone from my pocket. I’d left it turned off since that first night, and now it was on—beeping and chiming, screaming out missed text messages, Facebook, and Twitter notifications. Nearly a dozen of the missed texts and comments were from Meg. There were a few from Marcy as well. None from Jaime. Not even one. And surprisingly, none from my mom.

  Without a second thought, I dialed my mom’s cell phone number. Waited. It rang and rang, but she never picked up. My mom hadn’t caught on with the whole texting thing yet—which is sad, I know—so I didn’t even bother sending one. I tried calling one more time, but still didn’t get an answer. I left a voice message, asking her to call me when she got a chance.

  I peered at the boxes, my eyes glazing over. I had one picture of me and my dad. It was stuck between notebook pages. Ever since he took off, my mom had tried to erase any memory of him from our lives, which might have worked if he’d left when I was five. But I was twelve when he ran off, and the fact that she tried not to talk about him and rid the world of his pictures hurt me even more.

  Staring at the other boxes, I suddenly lost interest in my old stuff. My old life, in general. I picked up the book on my bed, wrapped myself in my own blanket, and started reading.

  ***

  I was so engrossed by Wendi’s words that by the time I looked up from the book, it was dark outside. I stood up, stretching my legs. The hallway and other bedrooms were dark, so I did a full walkthrough, flipping every switch I could find. George still wasn’t back and my mom hadn’t returned my call. Somehow, the light from the upstairs bedroom was comforting.

  The house was filled with eerie silence as I made my way downstairs. Suddenly recalling my Big Red soda in the freezer, I went to the kitchen to retrieve it. I pulled it out, popped the top, and…it exploded. The frothy, red liquid splattered over the walls, fridge, and countertops. I stood there, a little shocked, holding the now empty can in my palm.

  The kitchen looked like a murder scene.

  Getting over my shock, I shuffled through the cabinets and drawers, looking for a towel of some sort to clean it up with. Finally, I found a short stack of new dish towels. It would take every single one of them to clean it up.

  I felt bad using my mom’s new towels, but I had no other choice. I started wiping the red streaks off the walls. Some of the colorful liquid had even hit the ceiling. Ugh…

  Cleaning up the blood-like mess, I couldn’t help recalling Wendi’s words in the book. A sick, macabre family and the twisted town that participated in their violence. The Garrett clan was made up of grandmothers, grandfathers, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, daughters, aunts, uncles—well, you get the idea. They trafficked young girls and peddled drugs around town. Some of the rapes and murders occurred right here in this house, I realized fretfully. Well, not this house, I reminded myself. This house had been torn down, along with most of the rest of the town of Flocksdale nearly twenty years ago. Later the houses would be rebuilt differently, some of the owners choosing the stilt design.

  After the family was caught, thanks to Wendi’s escape, it was revealed that many of the supposed god-fearing, hard-working townsfolk not only knew about the criminal activities of the Garretts, but some of them even participated in it. Mid-way through the book, Wendi even theorized that some of the people in Flocksdale were breeding children for the sole purpose of turning them over to the Garretts for profit.

  The very thought of it sickened me. What sort of evil, depraved people would do something like that? And to y
oung girls, no less?

  Wendi herself was raped, beaten, and held captive for nearly half a year. After the truth about Flocksdale was exposed, a pissed off councilman declared that most of the town—ironically, the parts where the Garrett family members resided—was unlivable. In her book, Wendi wrote that she was certain the council’s decision was an attempt to erase the town’s past, not because the houses really needed to be torn down. He ordered the buildings and houses to be destroyed. The guilty members were either convicted or killed, and eventually, the houses and businesses were rebuilt. Most of the townsfolk who weren’t involved were so disgusted that they didn’t want to build the same. Due to the town’s history of flooding, they decided to build on stilts. But apparently, the old “House of Horrors” was rebuilt exactly the same. Go figure.

  George’s aunt owned this house before she died. Was she related to the original Garrett family? I couldn’t help wondering. I got on my hands and knees, wiping up the red pools of soda on the floor. I thought about the blood of all those children. Thick, congealed blood pooling on the floors as those evil assholes dismembered the innocent bodies of their victims. Most of the bodies were stuffed in a crawl space, or buried in the family’s backyards. Yuck.

  Surely, George knew the history of this place. Why would anyone want to live in such a place? Sure, there was something creepily cool about visiting haunted sites or historical buildings. But no way did I want to live in one. Not now and not ever.

  Again, I came back to that question…was George related to the Garretts? And if so, was that sort of evil…genetic?

  “What are you doing, Marianna?” said a deep voice from behind me. I jumped to my feet, my heart nearly bursting through my chest from fear. I hadn’t even heard him come in. George leaned in the doorway, taking in the gruesome-looking soda massacre.

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want my voice to sound shaky as I spoke, but it did anyway. “I…uh…a Big Red can popped. I left it in the freezer too long. I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “Let me help you,” he said, picking up the last clean towel. He swiped the red away, a sense of pleasure in his smile.

  “It almost looks like someone was killed in this kitchen,” George remarked, staring at me intensely. You know those charts at the doctor’s office, the ones with the smiley faces where they asked you to rate your pain level on a scale from one to ten? Well, if I could rate my fear level, it would far exceed ten. I also thought about those high strikers at the carnival—you know, the strongman game with the bell at the top of a tower? I imagined one of those towers, my fear level so forceful that it banged against the bell at the top with superhuman strength.

  “Thanks for helping me. I’m going upstairs to do some reading,” I squeaked. Please don’t ask me what I’m reading, I thought fearfully, as I exited the kitchen. Thankfully, he didn’t. I darted up the stairs, locking myself in my room. The book was still sitting on my bed. I stuffed it between my mattress and box spring, trying to forget it was there.

  Chapter Ten

  Footsteps. That’s what it sounded like, as I stirred awake in bed. Once again, it was the early morning hours. I sat up, remembered everything I’d read earlier, and my chest tightened in fear. The look on George’s face as he washed the blood away. The soda, I mean…his possible relationship with a murderous, demented family…

  I held my breath, listening for the steps again. There was a slight creak outside my door, as though the walker was at a standstill, waiting in the landing. You’re just being paranoid, I chastised myself. But then there was another creak, like someone shifting their weight on a warped, wooden floor. Like the warped floor outside my bedroom.

  My room was dark, the only light trickling in from the moon. I stood up soundlessly, standing on the tips of my toes. I crept forward—a sinister ballerina tip-toeing through the moonlight—my face twisted in terror. I reached the door, slowly lowering myself to my knees, trying not to make a sound…or breathe.

  I lay flat on my belly and peeked through the small black gap beneath the door frame. My door was locked, so there was a tiny part of me that felt safe. But mostly, I was terrified.

  As my eyes adjusted, I had a muted view of the floorboards in my hallway. I could see the bottom edge of the door across the hall from me. It was closed, just the way I left the doors to all the other bedrooms. For the first time, I considered—really considered—the layout of this house. Eight small bedrooms upstairs. No bathrooms or sitting areas. What sort of house had that many identical bedrooms lined up, one right after the other?

  The kind of house where they kidnap young girls and hold them captive for months at a time.

  Something dark passed through my field of vision. There was someone walking past my room! I fought the urge to jump up, screaming. Then suddenly, the darkness enveloped the narrow gap. Someone was standing in front of my door!

  I could make out the shapes of their feet, even reach out with my fingers and touch them if I wanted. My eyes wide with fear, I lay there, terrified and unmoving. The figure stood perfectly still, the feet frozen in my doorway. And then he walked away, heavy footsteps moving down the hallway and descending the twisted staircase. It had to be George.

  I felt more convinced than ever that something was going on here…and that George was exactly what he appeared to be—a creepy, evil, little man.

  As it turns out, this place was becoming more and more like a modern-day House of Horrors. I sat in the darkness of my room, my teeth chattering from fear.

  Chapter Eleven

  Daylight had a way of erasing my nighttime fears. When my eyes fluttered open this morning, I was ready to confront George. Mainly, I had four questions for him…why the fuck was he standing outside my room last night, all creepy style? Who was this aunt of his, and was she related to the murderous Garrett family who lived in the original version of this house? Why in the hell did he want to move here, considering the house’s past? And last but not least, where in the fuck was my mother, and why wasn’t she answering my damn calls?

  I recited the questions in my head while I danced around my room, trying to wiggle inside an extra-small pair of jeggings. Finally, after ripping a tear in the crotch region, I pulled them off and tossed them aside. I slipped on a simple sundress, then twisted my hair up in a bun.

  Still repeating the questions in my mind, I jogged down the stairs with an angry energy, my eyes immediately searching for George. But the house was empty and silent. I peeked out the window. His SUV was gone.

  Frowning sulkily, I made my way to the kitchen and poured a bowl of Cheerios. I carried the bowl outside, tottering down on the front porch steps while milk swished over the sides. No matter how sunny the weather appeared to be, it was always gloomy at the House of Horrors. I looked up at the sky, searching for some black cloud hovering over the house, but there was none.

  I crunched the cereal, thinking about my mom. I had something stuck in my head, an idea I’d rather forget about. I willed my thoughts to go blank. Blank thoughts, blank thoughts, blank thoughts…

  I crunched. Slurped some milk from the side of the bowl. Tilted it up to get it all.

  What if she never went to New Orleans? What if George killed her?

  There, I’d thought it. And…what if she’s fucking dead?

  I jerked to my feet, ran around the side of the house, and chucked the glass bowl in the river. I stood there, feeling stupid. Now, what good did that do? You could have at least broken it, I chastised myself.

  The early morning sun made the water glisten, shiny little diamonds mixed in with dirty river water. The water was so rough in parts, I could have been looking at the ocean.

  I thought about my first trip to the ocean. Mom, Dad, and I…they loaded up their station wagon, stuck me in a car seat, and drove straight through to Myrtle Beach. It’s not that long of a trip, but when you’re six years old and you need to pee every five seconds, four hours felt like four weeks.

  The water there was too rough for m
e to swim and it rained all week. I cried on the way home. My dad thought I was crying because I didn’t get to swim in the ocean, but I told him it was because I wanted to find one of those big conch shells you can stick your ear up to and hear the ocean. He jerked the car off the road, pulled out a yellow phone book, and ran his fingers up and down the pages looking for something. My mother stared at him incredulously. “Yep, there it is!” he finally said, with an expression of pure glee.

  We drove about thirty miles back, heading in the wrong direction, until we reached a cheesy souvenir shop. “Stay here,” he told me and my mom. We sat there in silence, waiting anxiously. Dad was in one of his “happy” moods, and we didn’t want to spoil it.

  My dad came outside, carrying the biggest conch shell I’d ever seen. He opened up the door to the backseat, pressed the big thing to my child-sized head. “Can you hear it?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear. I couldn’t hear a damn thing, but I smiled and clapped excitedly. “Yes, I can! I can hear the ocean, Daddy!”

  I didn’t have to pee the whole ride home. I held onto that gigantic seashell, the happiest girl in the world.

  Wiping tears from my eyes, I turned to go back in. But thinking of shells made me think about The Shell Shop. If my mom went to New Orleans to discuss franchising the store, then her partner, Shelley, would know about it. Unless she went too, I thought worriedly.

  It was worth a shot. I went inside the house and grabbed my cell phone. I speed-dialed the number for The Shell Shop. After three rings, Shelley picked up. “Shelley, this is Marianna Bertagnoli. Have you seen my mother?” No reason to beat around the bush.

  “Hi, sweetie! How ya doing? Well, your mom’s in New Orleans. Didn’t she tell ya?” I let out a sigh of relief. Hearing someone else confirm George’s story eased my mind.