Realizing her little sister had been, she gasped, “Oh my God…”
The tiny group began whispering amongst each other, squeaky murmurings that Brooke couldn’t understand. She turned to her sister and saw the wild look on her face was changing to one of panic.
“No!” cried Maggie. “Not her. You said you’d take me. Don’t take her too!”
One might mistake Maggie was begging for Brooke’s mercy, but Brooke heard it for what it truly was—a jealous cry for attention. She was upset Brooke was stealing her spotlight.
“Maggie?” said Brooke.
Her sister’s head jerked toward her.
Tears wetted Brooke’s eyes. “What have you done?”
“Shut up!” She turned her enraged leer back to the monsters on her bed. “Stay away from her! You promised me!”
Ignoring Maggie’s desperate cries, the creatures leaped off the bed. They hit the floor with soft thumps and started charging at Brooke. Spears held high.
Brooke thrashed her head from side to side, as if doing so might somehow make this not real. She reeled back, feet slipping on the carpet as she backpedaled to the door. Bumping into it, the door banged shut behind her.
Brooke’s hands slapped at the knob behind her. They found purchase on the slippery brass camber. Yes! She yanked the door open, spun around and dashed out. She didn’t slow down when she reached the stairs. Descending them three at a time, her feet slapped the bottom floor in an instant. She stood there, her head jerking this way and that. It was as if she were a stranger in her own home. Nothing looked familiar, nothing felt right. Everything was bizarre now.
Tom!
Suddenly remembering her boyfriend was waiting in the living room, she bolted down the hall. Her shoulders ricocheted off the walls as she ran. Picture frames fell from the nails holding them up, shattering when they hit the floor.
“Tom!”
He could help. He was a wrestler on the high school team and would probably get into college on a scholarship the sport had made possible for him. These things wouldn’t stand a chance against Tom. Only seventeen, he had more muscles than most adult men. His body was a work of art, chiseled to perfection by God’s hands.
God…please don’t let them get me.
The living room appeared before her.
Tom was on the couch, just as she’d left him. Except now his hands were tied and stretched out on either side of him. Another leather strap was strung across his forehead, pulling his head back on the couch. From his gullet down to his abdomen, he’d been torn open. Innards were spilled from the gorge in his body. A thick, blubbery object that might have been his liver fell from his torso and made a juicy plop when it hit the floor.
She gripped her hair so hard her scalp stretched. What should I do? She looked around as if the answer might be visible.
Dad’s gun!
It was in her parents’ room. Spinning around, she peered down the darkened hallway. The faint patter of little feet on the hardwood floor resonated from the shadows.
Forget the gun. Run!
Brooke turned around. Her eyes glimpsed Tom’s fileted corpse. She blubbered apologies that couldn’t be made into words through her tears.
The curls of his intestines slightly expanded, slithering out like eels. The subtle movement stopped her snivels.
“Tom…?”
Tilting her head to the side, she watched the intestines shake like a bush with a bird fluttering around inside. A small body drenched in clumpy red and brown clambered out from the gore. Its haggard clothing was plastered to its spindly limbs as it struggled to drag an organ from inside the torso. The creature’s miniature ass wiggled as it fought to dislodge the body part.
It ripped free, sending the teensy creature rolling down Tom. Raspy screams followed it all the way to the floor.
The image hit her mind hard enough to make it explode. Her sanity launched out like a body soaring through a car windshield. Screaming, Brooke twirled two circles before her legs allowed her to run. She ran for the bay doors that led to the back deck. The blinds were drawn over the panes of glass. She didn’t need to see outside to know her car was there, just a short distance away.
Then she remembered her keys were in her purse. And it was in the kitchen, which might as well have been the other side of the county.
Forget it!
Just getting out of the house mattered now.
Brooke spotted the stretched leather wire at her shins a moment before she struck it. The filament went tight, yanking her legs together. She flapped her arms and thought she might catch her balance. Her momentum was still going forward and carried her with it. In her descent, she spotted creatures on either end of the twine, holding on. Her plunge jerked them off the floor with a squealing shout.
The door came to meet her.
Her fingers brushed the blinds before her body crashed through the glass. Glass spikes sliced fire along her exposed skin. She pounded the deck. The blinds came out with her, entangled in her arms. Her head and hands poked through the slats as if she’d been placed into a pillory of cheap plastic.
Jolted from the fall, Brooke lay on her side, rocking back and forth as the world slowly settled around her. Her inner voice broke through the fog that threatened to blanket her brain. It demanded that she get up, keep running. That was a wonderful idea.
As she tried to stand, she quickly realized her body wouldn’t allow it. Maybe she was hurt more than she thought.
She was unable to deflect the leather thongs binding her hands and feet together behind her. The pain shot sharp lashes through her body as her back was forced to arch.
“Please…no…stop it…”
Brooke’s hair hung like a curtain in front of her face. She could hear their indistinct chatter all around, tiny footfalls, more commotion. One of them appeared to be navigating the others, telling them what to do.
A gumball-like fist shoved a piece of cloth inside her mouth that tasted as if it had been used to wipe up kerosene. The greasy taste gagged her, made her want to puke. Brooke managed to hold it down because she knew if she vomited the bile would only strangle her to death.
Minutes later, Brooke was rolled onto a tarp. She shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes. From the light spilling onto the deck from inside, she watched several creatures grab a separate section of tarp.
And lift.
Then they started to move, pulling the tarp with them. It rustled like a flag as Brooke glided above the ground as if on a magic carpet. The stars seemed to be traveling in reverse, but it was actually her floating forward.
The house was several feet away now, the distance rapidly growing.
Just before she vanished into the woods, she saw a small pack leaving the house. The taller, smudgy shape among them had to be Maggie.
Heather
Heather Reese zipped her carry bag. Inside, she’d packed her toiletries, makeup and feminine products. She lifted it off her bed, groaning when she added it to the rest already on the floor.
Looks like I’m moving in!
If Randy had his way, she would be.
Do I have everything?
Looking at her pillow, she realized she had forgotten something.
She walked to her bed, flinging the pillow out of the way. Her Glock 19 was underneath. Its silver body gleamed in the dim light. She’d recently disassembled and reconstructed it to make sure everything was in tiptop shape. Then she’d spent a long time polishing the body. It felt cool and slippery in her hand as she lifted it off the bed.
Mom didn’t care for the handgun at all. Knowing a gun was in her house seemed to keep her constantly nervous, as if it might suddenly come to life and shoot everyone inside. She also worried Heather might accidentally blow her face off in the middle of the night since the gun had no integrated safety mechanism.
&nbs
p; If there were rounds in the clip, the Glock was ready to fire.
Heather liked that feature. Her mother despised it.
Where I go, it goes.
From what happened last year, the doctors recommended that Heather not be alone for a while. Heather disagreed, thinking it was exactly what she needed. But Mom’s constant pestering finally got her to come back to the house she was raised in.
Five months later, she was still there.
There was a soft knock at the door. Heather recognized the timid tap as her mother’s. She’d flip out if she knew Heather was taking the gun with her.
“Hang on, I’m not decent!”
“I’m not coming in. Just checking if you wanted me to put some coffee in a thermos for you.”
Coffee sounded great on such a cold morning. It was early November, and in typical Wisconsin fashion, snow would be here as soon as two days from now.
“Sure,” said Heather. “That would be great.”
Heather listened to the soft pads of her mother’s footsteps heading away. She sighed. The majority of their conversations went like this one. She raised the gun and stared down its smooth sidewall. She saw the dark smudges of her reflection in the storm-cloud color of the metal. Her hair seemed all wrong, wild and frizzy, and her eyes looked painted in purple. She doubted the gun’s depiction of how she looked this morning was far off. That was what three hours of sleep a night got you.
Crouching next to her luggage, she pressed the mag release, catching the clip as it fell out. She unzipped a suitcase, slipped the narrow casing in first, then pulled back the chamber to confirm a bullet wasn’t in the barrel. All looked fine. She added the gun to the bag.
Should I bring extra ammunition?
Deciding against it, she zipped the case.
Heather stood up. She started gathering her luggage. Crisscrossing the straps of her carry bag across her chest like a parachute pouch, she had both hands free to carry the suitcases. The straps pulled her shirt taut against her full breasts, making them look like two missiles about to launch.
Getting the bedroom door open was a chore, but she managed.
As she entered the kitchen, she was greeted by the sweet aromas of freshly brewed coffee. Mom was emptying the pot into a thermos. A reel of hair had fallen across her face, covering her eyes. She flung the hair away and looked up at Heather. She smiled. “All packed up?”
“And then some,” said Heather, dropping the suitcases.
“You are coming back, right?”
Heather chuckled. “As far as I know.”
Mom’s smile dropped a bit. It seemed Heather’s poor attempt at humor had stung. “Did you pack plenty of warm clothes? Weather’s calling for it to be very cold over the next few days. Probably even some snow.”
Heather knew this already. Nodding, she said, “Affirmative.”
“Good.”
Mom screwed the cap onto the thermos. With it on, the thermos looked like an oversized bullet. Heather thought the container was as old as she was. She remembered her mom taking it to school every day when she was still a teacher.
Mom set the thermos on the counter. “Still a little left in the pot,” she said. “Want a fresh cup?”
“I’d love one.” Heather joined her at the counter. “I’ll make it.”
“No, I’ll do it. You’ll be fending for yourself for the next two weeks. Let me grant you one last taste of luxury.”
Heather smiled. “Fine.”
Mom opened the cabinet above them and brought down a clean mug. Standing beside her mother, Heather studied her as she prepared the beverage. She noticed a stress line coming down from the bottom of her nose. There was a small blotch of wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. The skin of her neck looked creased in places and seemed to cave in at the front.
Mom was getting old. Heather’s chest tightened, knowing the process would continue. The steaks of gray hair would spread. The wrinkles would get deeper, scattering like cracks in glass. Eventually she wouldn’t be able to do all the things she used to…
All right, enough of that shit.
“Here you go,” said Mom, holding the mug out to her.
“Thanks.”
Heather took the mug. The porcelain felt warm in her hand. Bringing the rim to her mouth, she delicately blew the hot vapors drifting out. As she started to sip, she noticed Mom was watching her with a goofy expression on her face. “What?”
Mom shook her head. “Nothing. I was just remembering the first time I ever gave you coffee. You did then exactly what you’re doing now.”
Heather took a sip. The coffee tasted wonderful. “What? Drank it?”
Mom clucked her tongue. “Okay, smarty-pants. You know what I mean.”
Lowering the coffee, Heather said, “Are you going to be all right alone?”
A corner of Mom’s mouth arced with sincerity. “I’ll be fine. My concern is, will you be?”
Truth was, Heather couldn’t wait to get away. She loved her mother, but being cooped up here all the time made her feel like she was being smothered. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ve worked so hard to make this happen. I’ll be in Heaven.”
Smiling, Mom stepped over to Heather and put her arms around her. Caught by surprise, it took Heather a moment to hug her back. “I’m proud of you,” Mom said.
Hearing the words made Heather’s throat tighten. Her eyes started to fill with tears. It was all she’d ever wanted her mother to say. Since she’d taken the job as a victims’ counselor, she hadn’t said anything good or bad about it.
“Are you sure this Randy Bishop guy knows what he’s doing?” Mom had asked her after Heather told her she was going to Doverton to help open an abuse center.
“He just wants to help people,” Heather had responded. “And I want to help him.”
Heather met Randy Bishop in May. After the encouragement of her friends, Heather had posted her picture on a dating website, with zero expectations of it working. Within a day, she’d been contacted by a few interested men. Randy’s brother Chad was one of them. The date with Chad had sparked a spree of one-night love affairs that seemed to be building to something more serious, before Heather broke it off for the final time. But it was during their on-and-off-again correlations she was introduced to Randy.
Though Chad had never shared the story himself, Heather learned from Randy their mother had been raped and nearly killed by a neighbor. Since their dad had walked out on them when Randy was five and Chad three, it left Mrs. Bishop to raise the two boys alone. Because she had to work a lot of odd hours, sometimes she would be home sleeping while the kids were at school. One such day, Frank Walker snuck in through the back door and crept into her bedroom. There, he’d forced himself on her while clutching a knife to her throat. After he was finished and sitting at the foot of the bed, naked and sweaty, he’d chastised Mrs. Bishop’s beauty for provoking him to assault her. He was ballistic with worry of his wife finding out.
So, he’d slit Mrs. Bishop’s throat.
But she survived.
Just like me…
Although it was after Randy and Chad had both graduated college when a heart attack finally took Mrs. Bishop, she’d lived what life she had in fear of leaving the house. Groceries were delivered to the home. A slot was installed in the door for the mailman so she wouldn’t have to walk to the mailbox, and she always kept a large-breed dog inside the house with her.
Randy volunteered at a halfway house and had gotten Heather involved. During their shifts at the halfway house they began talking about opening up their own center for battered victims.
And we’re actually doing it!
Mom squeezed Heather gently. “So proud,” she repeated.
“Thank you.”
She felt Mom’s hand rub circles on her back.
The honking of a car horn
outside caused both of them to jump.
Laughing, Heather pulled away. “That would be Shaun.”
“And he is?”
“Remember? Debbie’s boyfriend. He’s helping us get things going.”
“Oh right. I still don’t like the idea of all these strange men going with you out there.”
“Mom,” said Heather, “they’re not strange.”
The frown showed her disapproval. “I’ll help you with your things.”
“I should be able to manage…”
“Not without breaking your neck, falling down the steps outside.” She walked over and took a suitcase. The one with Heather’s gun hidden inside. She raised it a couple of times as if checking the weight. “Hm.”
It’s like she can sense the Glock’s in there.
Heather expected her mother to gaze at her with that familiar face she’d seen often as a child whenever she was in trouble. It didn’t happen, though. Mom crossed the kitchen, grabbing the thermos before heading out the back door.
Heather grabbed her coat from the coatrack and threw it on. She then took the remaining luggage and followed her mother outside. From the cozy temperature of the kitchen, being outdoors was like a cold slap against her face. She tensed up, bunching her shoulders together. She had on a heavy coat, and since she’d forgotten to zip it, cold air flowed around her hips and up her back. It made her clothes feel wet against her skin.
“Let us help you with all that!” called Debbie’s voice.
Heather saw an SUV parked behind her worn-out Honda Civic. The gas guzzler’s passenger door was already open and Debbie was jogging around the front to greet Mom.
Heather smiled. She liked Debbie. She was sweet and very open-minded. Her laid-back personality made her easy to talk to, which was probably why they’d hung out so much recently. Like the others, Randy had brought her on board. She would be a counselor like Heather, drawing from her experience in working at rape centers across the state. Debbie was also a recovering victim, though her trauma had come at an early age from an uncle with hands he couldn’t keep to himself.
The Lurking Season Page 2