House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  “Wait! I didn’t mean it like that, Marianna! I’m just trying to be reasonable here…”

  “And what? I’m being unreasonable? The next time your mom goes missing and you find out your stepdad’s related to a heinous family who kills people, let me know how you feel!” I retorted. I stepped out of the Cobalt. The house was dark, a lone light on in the living room. I took a deep breath and made my way toward the house, forcing myself not to look back at Sam. I had a gun in my bag, thanks to Wendi. It offered me a sliver of comfort.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Two

  Soft music was playing as I slipped inside the House of Horrors. A familiar melody—maybe Jim Morrison? I wasn’t sure. I went to the kitchen, flipped the light on, and tossed my keys on the table. I opened up the refrigerator, and that’s when I sensed him behind me.

  “You shouldn’t have gone there,” George said flatly. I froze, terrified. Did he know I’d gone to New Orleans?

  “I know you miss your friends, but I was worried. I’d have taken you to see them. All you had to do was ask.” I let out a whoosh of breath, turning around to face him. He looked tired and stressed, not like the monster I suspected he truly was.

  For a split second, I considered Sam’s words. Be reasonable, I told myself. But then I thought about my mom and Christa, anger rising again.

  “I’m sorry, George. I know you would’ve. I just needed to get away by myself for a while,” I explained. I turned back to the fridge, pulled out a half gallon of milk, and started filling my favorite cup to the brim.

  “Have you talked to Mom? When’s she coming home?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “She said next week sometime, last I spoke with her. She’s been so busy that I haven’t talked to her much. I miss her,” he said. He seemed so genuine.

  He’s turning out to be quite the actor, I thought, clenching my teeth. I made nice for another hour or so, then finally disappeared to my room. I locked the door behind me, leaning against it. I closed my eyes. What was I going to do? The thought of staying one night with him in this house was unbearable. I needed him to leave the house, so I’d have an opportunity to snoop around. I needed some sort of evidence, according to Wendi. I pulled out my phone. Sam had called nearly ten times, but my volume had been turned down. “Shit,” I muttered, stuffing the phone back in my bag.

  I thought I could trust him, but as it turned out…even he didn’t take me seriously. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I tried to fight the urge to call him back. But as usual, the urge won. I took the phone back out and pressed Sam’s number on speed dial. He picked up within half a ring. “Damn it, Marianna! I was about to burst through your front door!” Sam yelled.

  “Wait. What? You’re outside?” I asked, confused.

  “I’m standing in the alley, throwing rocks at your window. Couldn’t you hear me?” I ran to the window, pushing the curtains aside. Sure enough, he was standing in the pouring rain, a golf-ball-sized rock in each hand.

  “You’re supposed to use small rocks,” I teased. Then said, “I’m so sorry. I was downstairs with George, trying to play it cool and act normal. I didn’t mean to get so angry in the car, it’s just…I’m scared, Sam.”

  “I’m sorry too. I just wanted to make sure you were…alive,” he joked.

  “Not funny,” I said, smirking.

  “There’s a carnival tomorrow…a back to school thing they have in Flocksdale every year. Want to go?” he asked.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he really expect me to just forget about my missing mother? The last thing I wanted to do was go to some stupid carnival!

  “Ugh! Why can’t anyone take me seriously?” I shouted at the window, my pissed off words floating in the wind.

  Before he could answer, I slammed the window shut. I ran downstairs, my blood boiling with rage. George was sitting in the living room reading a book. I could feel him staring at me as I grabbed a chair from the kitchen.

  I started lugging the heavy oak chair up the steps, my anger serving me well. “What are you doing?” George demanded, now standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands on his hips.

  “I want to sit up and read in a chair,” I said simply. I pulled the chair around the corner, and up the last few twisted steps. As soon as I had it in my room, I locked the door behind me. I shoved the chair up under the doorknob, using it as a blockade.

  I waited anxiously for George to follow me up the steps and ask me what was wrong. But luckily, he never did. I was determined to stay up all night, keeping the bag with the gun in it nearby. Finally, around four a.m., I slumped over in the chair and drifted to sleep. I had nightmares about my mother being strangled with crime scene tape. In the dream, she was smiling as she died.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Three

  I slept until nearly two in the afternoon, my body recuperating from the trip and my late night stakeout session. I woke up feeling achy, like I had a hangover from sleeping too much. I stared at my phone. Rolled my eyes at all the missed calls and texts from Sam. I sifted through them, hoping and praying one was from my mother. No such luck.

  I crept downstairs, hoping George had gone to work so I could do some investigating of my own. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I found him standing silently in the library. He was staring at the books strangely, his arms folded behind his back.

  “You should love it here, with all these books and history…” George said. I gave him a shitty look. “Not that history, Marianna,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I mean the books themselves. There are so many good ones here. Classics, even.”

  I stared at him, unsure what to say. I wanted to tell him the truth—that I’d never love it here. Hell, I don’t think I’d even found one thing to like about Flocksdale. Well, there had been Sam…but I wasn’t so sure about him anymore.

  “Have you ever read this one?” George asked, holding up a musty hardback called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It was written by Agatha Christie.

  “I’ve always been more of a Nancy Drew kind of girl, myself,” I said complacently. “And why aren’t you at work?” I asked.

  “I’m off all day,” he said, a smug smile on his face. “Would you like to go do something today?” he offered. Ugh. No, George. I don’t even want to look at you—that’s what I wanted to say.

  “I’m going to work on filling out college apps today,” I said quickly, heading back to the stairs. So much for investigating today, I thought bitterly.

  Several hours later, I was sitting in my room—not looking at colleges—when I heard George’s feet on the stairs. He knocked on my door, the sounds of his fists loud and frightening.

  The chair was under the doorknob again. I stood up and edged closer to the door, keeping the gun in mind. It was only a few feet away…

  “I have to sign a mental health warrant. One of our good neighbors has a mentally ill son who’s threatening suicide. They need a judge to sign off on a 36-hour hospital hold,” George said through the door.

  I let out a whoosh of breath. Maybe I was just being paranoid, after all. I don’t know why I kept expecting him to bust in and kill me. If he’d wanted me dead, he could have done it long ago.

  “Okay. I’ll be fine,” I said, secretly thankful he was leaving. Maybe I would get to snoop around some while he was gone!

  I waited to hear him leave, and then I crept out to the living room, peering out through the blinds. I watched his SUV pull out of the driveway, and waited silently until his headlights had disappeared completely.

  I started in the kitchen, sifting through drawers and cupboards. I climbed on a chair and peered at the top of the refrigerator. There wasn’t much besides a thin layer of dust, but after all, we had just moved in. There hadn’t been enough time yet to accumulate junk drawers and random piles of papers and bills. I sifted through books in the library, checking behind them and between their pages. Something…I had to find something.

  Since I wasn’t sure how much time I had, I decided t
o head for the bedroom. The master bedroom was the most likely place where George would hide things, in my opinion. I opened his drawers, all six of them. The only things in them were clothes. Carefully refolding the shirts and boxers, I shut the drawers carefully, keeping my ears pricked for his return. I moved to the bed, checking between the mattress and box spring. I opened George’s closet. Found nothing of interest.

  Sighing, I pulled on the knobs to my mom’s closet. I’d looked in there the other day, but honestly, I wanted to see her clothes. Enjoy the smell of her. I flipped through pants, blouses, blue jean jackets, and scarves. It didn’t occur to me the other day, but it did now. Her closet was full. I went over to her drawers, pulling them open. I didn’t have a photogenic memory when it came to my mom’s wardrobe, but I couldn’t seem to find one thing missing, not a single piece of clothing or a shoe.

  If I wasn’t certain before, I was sure now. My mother had never gone anywhere. Even her favorite suitcase and shawl she liked to wear at night were still in there. A sick, raw feeling filled my gut. I opened each and every suitcase looking for some sort of clue. Nothing. I felt a mixture of emotions: frustration, fear, anger, sadness, guilt…a huge ball of pain lodged somewhere between my throat and stomach. I struggled to swallow, suddenly aware of every breath I took and gulp of saliva. Everything seemed difficult, even these basic human functions.

  Feeling lightheaded, I made my way to the master bathroom. I opened the cabinets and drawers, pushed the shower curtains aside. I was sweating and panting, a tingling sensation creeping up my spine. I turned on the water in the sink, splashing heaping handfuls of cold wetness on my forehead and cheeks. It was good, icy relief on my raging hot skin.

  I looked down at the sink. It was nearly filled to the brim with water. Shit. I stuck my hand in, the water so cold it felt hot. I felt around for the stopper at the bottom, but there was none. Just the hole where the water should have drained through.

  Something was clogging the drain. “Shit, shit, shit…” I muttered, jamming my finger in the drain, hoping to unclog it. The last thing I needed was George coming home to his bathroom sink filled with water. Then he’d definitely know I’d been snooping.

  I took charge, reaching down as far as my fingers would allow. “Something’s in there,” I muttered absently. I got down on the floor, opening the cabinets beneath the sink, exposing the U-shaped pipe below.

  “Please don’t come home any time soon, George,” I whispered, suddenly terrified that he was about to walk through the door. Scooting soap and shampoo bottles aside, I turned off the valves and unscrewed the tailpiece. Holding it upside down, I peered inside incredulously. “Never seen that before,” I said slowly.

  Strangely enough, there was a large, wadded up piece of black fabric stuffed in the pipe. It took several nerve-racking minutes for me to get it out.

  I took the stiff, crusty piece of cloth in my hands. I began unraveling the wadded mass in my hands. Holy shit. It looked like…

  “A t-shirt,” I said aloud, my breath catching in my throat. It was tightly compacted—for a moment I wasn’t sure if I could pull its fibers apart. Finally, I spread it out flat on the bathroom sink, looking at the words on the shirt. The words were: ‘Kill Your TV’.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Four

  “Oh my god.” I repeated that so many times I lost count. It was Christa’s. Every time I’d seen her, she’d been wearing that stupid shirt. I was horrified, but I instantly realized that this was exactly what I needed. This was the kind of evidence Wendi had suggested I find!

  I quickly reattached the pipe. I took off for the steps, charging up them as fast as I could. As soon as I reached my room, I grabbed my cell phone and called Sam. No answer.

  “After blowing me up all day, now you’re not going to answer?” I shouted. I wanted to throw the phone up against the wall and watch it shatter to pieces.

  I tried a few more times, and then sent him a text.

  Me: I found the evidence we need. I need to see you now.

  I tried to imagine George as a killer. Even though I hated him most days and he could be a total dick at times, it was still hard for me to wrap my brain around it. Speaking of George, I needed to get out of here before he came home.

  I was still holding the t-shirt. I smoothed it out on my bed.

  There was no blood on it, but I noticed several long blonde hairs clinging to the front side. It crossed my mind that I could be looking at the very instrument used to kill Christa. I remembered Sam’s parents saying she was strangled. What if she was strangled with her own shirt?

  I couldn’t help picturing her face, with its natural bronze glow and soft, girlish features. I imagined it bloated and purple.

  I stuffed the shirt in my messenger bag and left to go find Sam. We needed to take the evidence to Wendi, so she could contact those “police friends” of hers.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Five

  Sam hadn’t specified the carnival’s location, but there was no need. In a town this small, all I had to do was walk out the front door and follow the kaleidoscope of colors, the noisy chatter of the crowds, and the smell of fried food. The sights and sounds were emanating from a lot behind the old skating rink, two streets over from where Sam lived. It only took me about fifteen minutes to get there.

  I stepped onto the midway, taking it all in. After our recent trip to New Orleans, I wasn’t in the mood for bright lights and noisy crowds. And there was no way in hell I was going to find Sam in all this mess. I thought he said this was a small carnival! It certainly wasn’t—there were nearly three dozen game booths, souvenir stands, and concession kiosks scattered throughout the midway, and the space in between them was filled with the local townspeople. A few I recognized, but most were strangers. There were balloon and candy vendors peddling their merchandise, and an assortment of creepy clowns performing short comic bits and goofy tricks. It was hard to imagine the carny folk setting all this up in just a couple of days. If it wasn’t for the dead girl’s shirt in my bag, going to a carnival might have seemed like a fun idea.

  To my right was a monstrous, towering Ferris wheel with sparkling neon lights. Just the mere thought of its height was enough to make my skin crawl. There was a carousel, bumper cars, and one of those large spinning disks that used centrifugal force to throw its riders around inside it. Beyond the midway was a rickety old funhouse and a dozen canvas tents.

  My first and only goal was to find Sam. I had to tell him about Christa’s shirt, and ask him what I should do. Why didn’t I just wait until he answered so I could have him come pick me up? Trying to find him this way seemed impossible.

  I could feel the weight of my phone in my pocket, but there was no way I could hear in these crowds. I had to either find Sam soon, or I’d need to go off somewhere quieter to place the call.

  I walked toward the ride area because that seemed like the kind of spot Sam might flock to first. I spotted the waitress who’d taken our order at the diner the other day. She was holding a little boy’s hand and carrying an armful of stuffed animal prizes. “Have you seen Sam?” I tried to shout out over the noise. She glanced at me strangely, probably forgetting who I was, and kept on walking. I groaned with frustration.

  This is great. Nobody in this town knows me, and there’s no way I’ll find Sam, I thought dismally. Maybe I should go over to Wendi’s, I considered. A carnival didn’t seem like the kind of place she’d hang out at on a Saturday night. I’d bet anything she’s home right now, with her deadbolt fastened tightly and a Glock in her hand. In this weird town, who could blame her?

  Not seeing Sam near the rides, I walked back over to the game and concession booths, pausing to buy a soda. This wasn’t the time for having fun. However, I couldn’t help but feel thirsty. I chugged the sugary soda and kept walking.

  The entire town of Flocksdale was in attendance. Sam was right; this was an event no one missed around here. Kids my age swarmed the game booths, playing silly games that inv
olved standing up Coke bottles with a ring on a string and tossing a ping-pong ball into tiny buckets of goldfish. If it wasn’t for all this craziness going on, I’d probably be right there with them—enjoying my Saturday night. What I wouldn’t give to be home right now…not the House of Horrors, but my old house in Cincinnati.

  As though reading my mind, a short chubby kid with a goatee and glasses called out to me, “Step right up! All ya have to do is knock over one of these milk bottles! And if you do, you’ll win a prize, my friend!” I shook my head no and kept walking, but the kid called out again. “You look lost, sweetheart!” Suddenly hit with an idea, I walked over to the young boy, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

  “Have you seen this guy walking around?” I asked, holding up a pic Sam and I snapped together in the airport.

  Much to my surprise, the boy nodded. “Which way did he go?” I asked excitedly.

  “I’ll tell ya, but it’ll cost ya.”

  “How much?” I groaned.

  “Just one game,” he said with a wink. I pulled out a few crumpled dollars from my jeans pocket.

  “How much does it cost to play?” I asked irritably.

  “Three dollars gets ya three balls and three tries,” the boy answered, setting three baseball-sized squishy balls on the small pedestal in front of him. I was tempted to chuck the balls at this jerk’s face.

  After three balls and three turns, I’d knocked down a total of zero milk bottles. “Now where is he?” I demanded.

  “He looked like he was looking for somebody too. Probably you…” the annoying boy said. I made a “hurry up” motion with my hands. “He went that way. Into the Big Top.”

  Seeing the confused look on my face, he further explained, “The Big Top is the big main tent, the one right behind me.” He motioned with a jerk of his thumb to the enormous canvas-covered tent that lay behind the midway and was surrounded by a scattered cluster of smaller tents.