by Amy Cross
"So is that it?" I ask. "She died of exposure?"
After checking once again that we're not being observed, Doug reaches into his bag and pulls out a file. He quickly opens it and scans the first page. "She died of hypothermia," he says after a moment. "Well, hypothermia and blood loss. There was a wound on her left shoulder, about five inches long."
"Hypothermia's not so unusual, is it?" I ask. "If she was sleeping rough."
"Her body was cold to the touch, even several hours after the point of death." He turns to the next page. "Like I said, she was found out on the road. She'd been in direct sunlight for several hours before a passing motorist happened to spot her. The coroner was called, she was taken to the office, and she was still cold. So cold, in fact, that there were ice crystals in her hair." He pauses. "If you have a dead body left out in the sun, you don't expect ice crystals in her hair. Her general condition was more consistent with being submerged in cold water, rather than simply being exposed to the elements."
"There are no lakes or ponds out there, are there?"
"Not for a few miles," he replies, "and certainly nothing that could have caused her to get so cold."
"What about the wound?" I ask.
"The edges were clean and neat, suggesting a sharp, man-made object such as a scalpel." He turns to the last page of the report. "The coroner, somewhat unbelievably, decided that a wild animal must have been responsible."
"Is that possible?"
"A wild animal with a scalpel, maybe. This was a clean, careful cut that was made after the body's temperature dropped. There were more ice crystals directly in the wound."
"So there's someone out there who's -"
"Not according to the coroner's report," he replies, closing the folder. "As far as anyone in a position of power is concerned, Brenda Baynes was a drifter who succumbed to the cold and just happened, by pure chance, to be close to the house on Willow Road. Then some kind of wild animal came along, made a neat cut on her shoulder, and left. It's certainly an interesting interpretation of events, but..." He pauses for a moment. "There's something else. Something that's not in the report. Something I heard second-hand."
"Go on."
"The wound in her shoulder was deep," he continues. "There's evidence that a piece of bone had been removed from Brenda's shoulder. Just a small piece, probably weighing no more than a few grams, but... Well, I think you know where I'm going with this. I guess it could have been removed at some earlier point, but I doubt it."
"You think it's a copycat?"
"It's possible. The story's all over the internet. You know what people are like. They get morbid and then they obsess over things. The Willow Road case happened before the internet really took off, but there's plenty of sites online now that post information and crazy theories. Plus, there's the three poor women themselves, who I understand have had to go to extraordinary lengths in order to avoid being hounded by weirdos. I swear, fame is the disease of the modern world. Sometimes it seems a person's only got to fart at the right time and they'll end up on the cover of all the magazines. The witches of Willow Road are no exception."
"Elizabeth Torbett and Natalie Bay have both given interviews over the years," I point out. "I'm not saying they're fame-hungry, but at least they've been willing to talk about what happened. Holly Carter's the one who withdrew completely."
"The point is," Doug continues, "one of the justifications being used by the coroner and the Mayor to keep this latest development quiet is that they don't want to cause unnecessary anguish for the women. We both know that's bullshit. The Mayor was happy to rake up the past for his re-election campaign. Either way, Brenda's body has already been rushed through the system and burned. Her family are filing a complaint, claiming they weren't given enough time to claim her for a proper funeral, but regardless of how it works out, the body's gone and the Mayor's hoping to just hush the whole thing up."
"What about Jolene Lucas?" I ask. Jolene was a student from my school who died six months ago. The official report claimed that she was hit by a car near the Willow Road house, but I've recently learned that all the relevant files seem to have been destroyed, while there seem to have been strong suggestions that Jolene had actually been inside the house shortly before her death.
"I can't help you there," Doug replies. "Someone's been through and erased the records."
"I don't get it," I continue. "Surely it's not in the Mayor's interests for people to be dying?"
"I don't know what's going through his mind," Doug says. "You'd have to ask him yourself. All I know is that someone's going around making sure that these deaths aren't officially linked to that house. Meanwhile, the place is still standing when it should have been torn down a long time ago. It's the Mayor's office that's really stalling things, of course. Someone there doesn't want that place to be dismantled."
"I keep coming back to the idea that it's some kind of copycat killing," I reply. "At least with Brenda. I mean, what's the alternative?"
Doug shrugs. "You know the stories as well as anyone."
"There are still parts of the original case that don't add up," I remind him. "For one thing, those women have never really explained how they managed to escape. I know they came up with various half-assed ideas, but nothing ever made sense. Even after all the investigations and interviews, going over the details again and again, the basic mechanics of exactly how they were able to get away have never been established. There's always been a sense that the three of them were keen to keep certain parts of the story secret."
"They were emotional wrecks," he says. "The things they went through, the stuff they saw... I wouldn't put too much stock in their testimony. As harsh as it might sound, I really don't think they're the best people to ask."
"What about the man's name?" I ask. "Was that really never discovered?"
"Seems that way," he replies. "As far as I know, they carried out extensive checks and never came up with anything. It's almost as if the guy just turned up out of nowhere and rented the place. The house was owned by the Willards originally, but they're long gone."
"Something doesn't add up," I say. "The whole thing just seems hard to believe. I still don't quite understand, exactly, how the women got out."
He pauses for a moment. "You don't believe some of the stuff that people say about them, do you?"
"I'm keeping an open mind," I reply.
"An open mind's a good thing, Ben," he says, "but make sure it's not too open, or you might not be able to close it again. There's no way those women were -" He suddenly stops as he sees a car pulling up outside the diner. "That's Maury," he says, clearly concerned. "Sorry, Ben, but I don't want to be seen discussing this with you."
"It's fine," I say, somewhat taken aback as Doug quickly grabs his coffee and moves to another booth. Moments later, Maury Potts comes wandering across the parking lot. As the Mayor's personal assistant, Maury's the kind of guy who's puffed himself up on a power trip, and he sure likes wandering around town and acting like he's a big deal.
"Morning, Ben," he says as soon as he's through the door. "Morning, Doug." There's something about his tone of voice that hints he might suspect that we've been talking.
"Morning," I reply, keen to avoid eye contact.
"Nice day for a cup of coffee," Maury continues. "Like to grab one on your way to work, do you?"
"Yeah," I say, trying to act like there's nothing unusual happening.
"I guess all those kids can be pretty stressful."
I nod politely, and Maury finally turns away from me and heads to the counter. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the worried look on Doug's face. He's probably just being overly paranoid, but I understand his concern. Someone definitely seems to be covering up the events at the house, and I definitely don't want to draw attention to myself. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but people connected to that house have a nasty habit of disappearing without a trace.
Holly Carter
15 years ago
/> "What's he doing to her up there?" I ask, sitting in the corner and staring at the ceiling. It's been almost an hour since Natalie went through the door. We heard her footsteps as she made her way across the room above, and since then there's been nothing. Elizabeth has spent her time cleaning some plates, acting as if there's nothing to be worried about. "Seriously," I continue, "what the fuck is he doing to her?"
"I told you," she replies without looking at me. "It's nothing to be concerned about."
"You keep saying that," I tell her, trying to hide my frustration, "but why won't you actually tell me?"
Without replying, Elizabeth places a plate on the drying rack and continues with her work.
"You've been up there, right?" I continue. "I mean, he's called you up there before, hasn't he?"
"Yes," she says. "Not for a while, though. Lately, Natalie has been his favorite."
"And he's going to call me up sometime, isn't he?" I ask, feeling a knot of fear getting tighter and tighter in my chest.
"I imagine so," Elizabeth says, conspicuously avoiding making eye contact as she continues with her cleaning work.
"So what..." I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "What's he doing to her up there?" I pause, as I imagine the man forcing Natalie down onto a bed. "I mean, it's got to be sex, right?" I continue. "He's some kind of pervert, isn't he?"
"Please," Elizabeth replies. "Let's not go into the details. It's certainly not sex. At least, I doubt it. But -"
"Then what is it?" I ask, standing up and walking over to her. She wants to ignore me, but I'm damn well not going to make it easy for her. "Right now, up there, what's he doing to her?" I wait for a reply. "Isn't she your friend? Aren't you worried about what he's doing to her? Can you even be sure she's going to come back?"
"Of course I'm worried," she says, "but worrying never solved anything, did it?" Finally, she glances at me, and I can see the fear in her eyes. She knows a lot more than she's letting on, but it's clear that she doesn't want to acknowledge the truth.
"What happens up there?" I ask, trying not to panic. "You have to tell me. It's probably going to be me who he calls up there next, and I need to know what to expect."
Putting down the plate she was cleaning, Elizabeth stares down at the dirty water for a moment. "I don't remember," she says eventually.
"You don't remember?"
She shakes her head. "Neither does Natalie. Every time, after it's over, neither of us remember."
"So, what, does he drug you?" I ask.
"No," she says. "I don't think so. He only drugs us to get us here. Once we're here, he keeps us clean. I don't think he wants to contaminate our blood any more than necessary."
"Then why don't you remember?" I continue, trying to work out what could be so horrific that neither of them ever remember what happened. I look up at the ceiling and try to imagine what Natalie's going through right now. There's no sound coming from up there, so I guess they're in a different part of the house. I don't know how big this place is, or whether I'd even hear Natalie's screams. "What does he do to you that makes you forget?" I ask.
"It's best not to dwell on these things," Elizabeth says, starting to clean the plate again. "My mother always used to tell me not to focus on the negativity, and I thought she was quite mad at the time, but now I realize that she had it right. Thinking about that sort of thing is only going to lead to..." She pauses for a moment. "Well, I imagine we'd all lost our minds if we only thought about the negative things."
I stare at her, and for a moment I start to think that maybe I'm starting to understand her a little better. "How long have you been down here?" I ask.
"Ten years," she says. "Natalie arrived after the first five, and now you."
"So you're, what, in your thirties now?"
She nods.
"And don't you ever think about what it'd be like to get out of here?"
"Of course."
"But you don't make any kind of effort to leave?"
"There's just no opportunity," she replies, turning to me and smiling sadly. "The window's impossible to break. The door's only open when he wants it to be open. Natalie tried to dig a tunnel once, but that was a total failure. There's no way out of here. He's got every exit covered. Perhaps one day there'll be a chance, but until then we just need to make the best of it."
"So that's your life down here?" I ask. "Long periods of 'making the best' of things, punctuated by occasional trips upstairs so he can do things to you that you don't remember?"
"You must understand," she replies after a moment, "that he's kept us alive. It's not like he drags us out here, does things to us, and then kills us. He keeps up alive down here. He gives us food and water. It's a tolerable life."
"Apart from the blackouts when you go upstairs."
She turns and heads over to the other side of the basement, where she grabs a broom and starts sweeping.
"Don't you think three of us have a chance to get out of here?" I ask. This whole situation feels so unreal. If I hadn't actually touched Elizabeth's arm, I'd start to think that maybe she was just a ghost. "I mean, come on, no-one's perfect. He has to slip up occasionally."
"No," she replies. "He never makes a mistake."
"What's he like, anyway?" I continue. "I mean, how old is he? What does he look like? I saw him when he grabbed me, but my memory's kind of hazy. Who the fuck is this guy? What's his name?"
"He's..." She pauses for a moment, still holding the broom. "He's not a killer. And he's not a monster."
"But you don't know his name?"
"Do I need to?"
I sigh, trying to get my mind around this insanity. Elizabeth seems so crushed, so hopeless, that she's apparently accepted her fate and is making no attempt to fight back. She's chosen the path of least resistance, and she seems to have reasoned that this is the best way to live a settled life.
"Are you ever going to get out of here?" I ask eventually.
"I'm sure I will," she replies.
"But you're not going to make it happen, are you? You're just going to wait for someone else to get you out of here."
"There's pain in every life," she says, sounding as if she's on the verge of telling me to shut up. Frankly, I want her to boil over and show some emotion, but she seems so buttoned-down and controlled. "Out there in the real world, no-one has true freedom. No-one is immune from pain. At least there's structure down here. And order."
"Seriously?" I ask. "That's how you've rationalized things down here?"
"I'm afraid we have little choice in the matter."
I want to argue with her, to pull her out of this frame of mind and make her angry. I can't help thinking that she's managed to normalize this whole situation, and to make it seem like it's not such a big deal. Just as I'm trying to work out what to say, however, I hear footsteps above. This time, there's something chaotic about the sound, as if someone is stumbling around.
"She's coming back!" Elizabeth says, dropping the broom and hurrying over to the sink. "I thought she'd be gone longer. Quick, get some blankets and bring them over to the steps."
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Just do it!" she shouts as she starts filling a bowl with water.
I head over to the far side of the basement and grab some blankets from the floor. At that moment, I hear the door being opened, and I look back just in time to see Natalie come tumbling down the steps, landing hard when she hits the ground. I race over to her, and as the door is slammed shut, I kneel and reach out to roll her over, but it's immediately clear that she's in a bad way. She's shivering, her clothes are torn, and her skin feels like ice. There are even ice crystals in her hair.
"Don't touch her!" Elizabeth shouts. "Whatever you do, don't touch her. Just look. Look for it."
"Look for what?" I ask, my hand hovering near Natalie's shoulder.
"Don't touch her!" Elizabeth shouts again, pushing my hand away. "You must listen to me, Holly. Do not touch her. Just look. Find it."
&nb
sp; "What?" I shout. "I don't know what you want me to find!"
"You'll know it when you see it," she replies, hurrying over with a bowl of steaming hot water. She kneels on the other side of Natalie. "Just find it, quickly."
"Find what?" I ask, desperately looking at Natalie's face and neck but seeing nothing. Her eyes are closed and she's still shivering, and her hair seems wet and matted.
"Natalie," Elizabeth says, leaning down. "Can you hear me?"
"What's wrong with her?" I ask.
"Natalie!" Elizabeth says again. "Where is it? Please, if you can hear me, just give me a clue. One word, that's all. tell me where to find it!"
"I thought you told me he doesn't hurt people?" I say.
"He doesn't," Elizabeth says, reaching out and gently lifting the collar of Natalie's shirt. "It's just that sometimes he has to... I mean, sometimes he does a few things while we're up there. It's nothing much. She'll be fine, I promise."
"What did he do to her?" I ask again, getting increasingly desperate. Glancing down at Natalie's legs, I suddenly realize that there's something small and silver glinting just below the hem of her skirt. "What's that?" I ask.
"You mustn't over-react," Elizabeth says, shuffling over and lifting the hem to reveal what looks like a three or four inch cut to the side of one of Natalie's legs, with the wound having been sealed shut by a series of thick metal staples. There's blood oozing from the injury, and the skin seems raised and red.
"What the hell is that?" I ask, feeling my blood start to run cold.
"It's nothing," Elizabeth says, dabbing the wound with some wet cotton wool. "It's just that sometimes, while we're up there, he likes to take little pieces of us away."
Ben Lawler