The Gingerbread Boy

by Lori Lapekes

“He’s probably visiting his mom. He sometimes does that when he’s on a quest,” Mitch tried to reassure, but he didn’t sound as though he believed it himself.

  “A quest?” Catherine asked. “When did you last see him?”

  “Last week.” Burr-Head frowned. “Who knows what he was thinking about? That’s just Daniel, deep as a river… twice as murky.”

  Catherine was filled with an even more uncomfortable terror.

  Mitch stepped forward to twist a key into the garage door. “He’ll turn up, he has to. We can’t keep practicing without the lead singer, we have some big gigs coming up.”

  Catherine snapped her fingers. “What about You-Hoo! Is he inside? Are you guys feeding him?”

  “He’s gone.” Said Mitch, stepping into the garage, “That’s why I think this has to be planned.”

  “It’s still weird,” Burr-Head added, stepping past Catherine to follow Mitch into the house. He turned back to look at her. “Don’t let Mitch fool you. This isn’t normal for Daniel. We found his cell inside, don’t know if he forgot it or left it on purpose. Why don’t you come on in, the other guys will be here soon. Maybe Daniel will show up, and we’ll all take great pleasure in pulverizing him.”

  Catherine nodded, her hands twisting together in front of her.

  Maybe he would show up. Maybe. If something didn’t happen soon, she was afraid the only thing besides Daniel that she’d lose would be her mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  The thundering voice was louder than ever this evening, but Hazel was determined to ignore it.

  Maybe Eugene could use his phone to call thugs to stop her from leaving town, but he couldn’t get them to force her to keep scrambling after his every obnoxious whim.

  “Get up here, woman!” he wailed, “You still owe me! You’ll owe me ‘til the day you die!”

  Hazel winced. Did she still owe him? She wasn’t at all sure anymore. At one time guilt had tormented her. He was a paraplegic because he’d tripped over one of her cats and tumbled down a long flight of stairs – that much was true. She’d told herself a thousand times that that didn’t give him the right to turn her life into a prison. She should enforce some of the common sense she had always tried to drive into Catherine.

  Catherine.

  Sadness filled Hazel at the thought that she may have driven her young friend away with her own rantings and ravings. Catherine had met some supposedly wonderful young man, and all Hazel could do was warn her that he could still be vermin, then ignore that part of Catherine’s life. Hazel didn’t blame her for not writing as often.

  Some friend Hazel was.

  She needed to write Catherine and apologize. Before it was too late. She’d written a short note to tell Catherine that she was all right, and had just called from the bus station because she was excited that an old friend was visiting. That was a lie. Hazel had no friends. Eugene would not allow it, and Eugene’s spies were everywhere.

  Hazel gazed down at the blank paper in front of her and lifted the pen. How should she start this letter? Would Eugene’s thugs try and confiscate this, too?

  As she began her first sentence, Eugene bellowed something so horrifying Hazel dropped her pen and froze in horror.

  “Get up here, woman! I’ve finally gotten a hold of one of your cats again! Better get up here, fast!”

  Hazel cringed. What could Eugene do to it this time?

  She rose, trembling, and walked stiffly out of the den. Two cats trotted behind her, tails straight up in curiosity. She turned around and sternly reprimanded them. “No! Don’t follow.”

  At the reprimand the cats backed in confusion, then split in separate directions and disappeared. Hazel breathed a little easier. At least those two were safe for now.

  “Hurry, woman!” Eugene continued to shout in his gravelly voice. Hazel scurried through the house, scattering every cat she saw.

  “You don’t have much time! Twenty seconds… nineteen… eighteen…”

  By ten seconds, Hazel was at the foot of the enormous curved stairway and clutching the banister. Why was Eugene’s voice so clear behind his door? She clicked up several steps as the countdown continued.

  “Five seconds… four seconds…”

  He seemed not to be in his room, but in the hallway.

  When Hazel reached a bend in the stairway she gasped and flattened back against the banister in terror.

  Sitting at the top of the stairs like an obscene, bloated toad spilling over the sides of the wheelchair, sat Eugene. His eyes were black and without pupils. His white hair and beard draped filthily across his shoulders.

  But that wasn’t the horrible part.

  Hazel began to wheeze and threw her hand over her heart, gulping in tiny pockets of air. In Eugene’s lap was Cinder, with one end of Eugene’s bathrobe belt tied around her neck. Eugene’s mottled, sausage sized fingers were clasped around the struggling animal’s face, preventing it from crying out.

  “See what you make me do?” Eugene said in a calm voice, a voice so calm it was eerie coming from him. “See what you made me do? This cat is going to hang.”

  Hazel continued to choke for air. Eugene’s form wavered before her eyes, blurring into a gel of color. Then a sound like the rushing of water filled her ears and all strength left her legs. She crumpled onto the stairway and lay still.

  All went silent.

  Eugene loosened the grip on the traumatized cat just enough to peer through the railings at his wife. At once Cinder squeezed out of his grip, and a flurry of needle sharp claws and teeth slashed at her captor’s face before she jumped free. Eugene screamed and lurched forward to grab the animal, and all four hundred pounds of the bloated madman came off the chair. There was a splintering of wood, a wail of terror – and Eugene crashed through the shattered banister, baggy arms raised in horror.

  He struck the marble floor in a terrific crash followed by an avalanche of broken railings, then all was breathlessly still in the VanHoofstryver household.

  Still, that is, except for the nervous twitching of a cat’s tail high above the carnage, and the twitch of a smile from an old woman lying on the stairway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Catherine came awake in a sudden sharpening of senses. She tensed.

  What was that sound? Was it Beth?

  No, the sound hadn’t been deliberate. It sounded like someone padding softly down the hallway outside her room. It could never be Beth. She wasn’t that conscientious. But she and Beth were the only two in the house.

  Catherine’s muscles turned to stone. They were supposed to be the only two in the house.

  Breathing thinly, Catherine willed her sleepy muscles to move. She turned silently toward the wall and wiggled out of the covers enough to drop to the floor where she lay wedged against the cool wall and the side of her bed. In horror she realized that she was trapped and if the intruder didn’t fall for her trick and believe she wasn’t in the room she was defenseless. Her only weapon, a can of pepper spray that she kept on her nightstand, was sitting on the other side of the double bed.

  Catherine pressed her eyes shut and twisted as soundlessly as she could toward the opening under the bed, then opened them once more to stare into the gloom. Idiotically, she wondered if the opening of one’s eyes could make a revealing noise.

  No don’t be crazy. Stay calm. Think, girl, think! Maybe no one was actually in the house, anyway. No one coming to get her. The noise had just been the sounds of an old house settling, was all.

  Catherine sucked in her breath, forced herself to peer beyond shapeless forms of junk stashed under her bed and looked toward her opened door. A silvery light cast from a night-light plugged into a hallway socket filtered into her room. There was nothing else in sight, just the dingy tan carpet, the dusty molding at the bottom of the walls, the wadded up form of a nylon sock she couldn’t find that morning. Nothing to be afraid of.

  Well, she smirked, the dust bunnies coating the sock were a little frightening.

/>   She took a deep breath, her heart finally slowing.

  Had she imagined the sound?

  She began to feel ridiculous pressed against the wall, her shoulder aching from being wedged against the thinning carpet. She looked at the dark shapes hulking below the springs under her bed… smelled dust webs. How could she have stashed so much junk under her bed, anyway? She didn’t even know what it all was. Books, boxes, old clothes. She’d always kept an outward appearance of being so neat. Maybe it took checking beneath a person’s bed to find out their true nature. Catherine allowed herself to smile at the thought. She found her mind wandering to what it might look like under Daniel’s bed. What discoveries could be there?

  Daniel. Where could he be? Her heart ached at the thought.

  Then, impossibly, a pair of sneakered feet moved into the doorway entrance.

  Sneakers. Huge ones that seemed to glow. A man’s shoes. Instantly Catherine knew they could not belong to Daniel, Daniel always wore boots. Sneakers seemed difficult for him to lace for some reason. Then came the outline of a stranger’s legs silhouetted against the pale light.

  Silently, the feet moved. Took one step toward the bed… then another.

  Can’t he see that I’m not here? Catherine’s mind screamed.

  The feet took two more steps, and then were lost from view behind a box under the bed. Catherine’s nerves went taut against this malevolent presence, the monstrous silence. It took Herculean effort to remain still. Her mouth went dry.

  What now?

  Then the feet were backing away. She exhaled silently as the constriction in her chest lessened.

  Get out! Get out, now! Catherine thought frantically, her hands, crunched beneath her hips, balling into fists. Then the feet stopped. Catherine froze once more. Wouldn’t he just leave? Just turn around and leave!

  Suddenly there was a clicking sound, and a bright light illuminated the room, stinging Catherine’s eyes. She shut them tightly, wincing. She blinked once or twice, adjusting to the light, certain the intruder could feel the force of her heartbeat vibrating through the floor. Then the feet were scurrying rapidly back and forth by her dresser, turning one way, then the other, no longer cautious. Then they stopped, and Catherine heard the scraping of her old dresser drawers being opened.

  How dare he! Thief, rapist, no matter. Catherine had personal letters and poems from Daniel stashed in those drawers!

  In rage, Catherine twisted silently into a position allowing her to get to her hands and knees. Slowly, her eyes burning with anger, she rose above the edge of the bed.

  The man’s back was to her as he rummaged through her things, pushing aside a pair of socks here, a slip there. He was a tall man, dressed in a blue-jean jacket. His hair was straight and sandy colored against the denim. Catherine knew that hair.

  Then she heard the distinct crumpling of paper being unfolded. Cave Pig found Daniel’s letters! Catherine sprung across the bed and snatched her can of pepper spray off her nightstand.

  “Put those letters down!” She bellowed.

  Calvin turned toward her in surprise. Then he saw her weapon, and a cocky smile came over his face. His eyes glimmered with sinister excitement.

  “I’d just hoped to find some money stashed away, not mushy letters from your rock-star lover,” he said. “But these look interesting.”

  “Put them down or I’ll shoot!” Catherine warned.

  Calvin’s eyes darkened into that hideous shark stare. From six feet away, Catherine could smell liquor cascading from the beast.

  “Relax. I’ve only come to take you back home, where you belong.” Calvin growled.

  “Just put the letters down!”

  Calvin chuckled. He reached toward the dresser, opened his fingers, and let the beloved papers slip back into the drawer.

  “What do you want with that wimpy singer,” he said quietly, turning back toward her, “when you could have someone like me? We were always meant to be. Why fight it?”

  Catherine sickened at the words. Did Calvin actually believe she’d succumb to such gibberish, especially after breaking into her house and admitting he’d hoped to find money in her dresser?

  “I’m not as gullible as I used to be” Catherine said. “I want you to leave my room, walk quietly down the stairs, get my cell phone, and call the police.”

  Calvin’s eyes widened. He threw back his head and laughed.

  “Call the police on myself?” he roared. “That’s a good one, Cathy”

  In that instant he reached out to snatch Catherine’s arm, and she pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  She pushed it again, horrified, as Calvin’s grip bit into her arm, yanking her clumsily off the bed.

  What had happened? Why wouldn’t the pepper spray work?

  And suddenly, as Calvin knocked the can out of her hand and she watched it spin out of sight, it dawned on her. She had forgotten to push in the safety button first.

  Too late.

  Calvin twisted her arm, wrenching her backward. He plastered his hand over her mouth to prevent screaming.

  “Where’s your lover boy now?” he snarled, liquor-drenched breath spewing foul, ugly words in her ear as she struggled in his grip.

  Suddenly, he was forcing her out the door. “You’re going home, with me! Even if I have to tie you up or knock you out to get you there. You’ll see that leaving me was a mistake. You’ll understand.”

  He screamed as Catherine worked a good-sized fold of the skin on his hand into her mouth and bit down, hard. His grip loosened. Catherine squirmed out of his arms, nearly toppling to the floor. Regaining her balance, she scrambled down the hallway toward the stairs. Calvin raced after her, grasping for a hold, cussing.

  Catherine dodged his attempts and flew down the stairway three steps at a time. She pushed against the door at the bottom, wrenching the doorknob at the same time. The door came open and she hurtled into the hallway by the living room.

  There, in the dim lighting, stood another wild-eyed figure.

  Beth.

  “Beth, run! Call the police!” Catherine screamed as Calvin burst out of the door behind her.

  But Beth merely took one glance at the snarling madman pursuing Catherine, and her eyes rolled up into her head. The golden haired girl in a silvery nightgown crumpled to the floor like a rag.

  With that hope of rescue gone, Catherine’s legs became rubbery as she dashed through the house, toppling lamps, end tables and anything else she could in her wake. The diversions stalled Calvin for seconds only; he leaped over the objects and was right behind her. She raced toward the front door, but had no time to stop and try to unlock it. With so few precious seconds to waste, and Calvin closing in behind, she scrambled into the kitchen, the only direction she could take.

  Moron! A trap. Nowhere to go!

  Catherine glanced around in desperation. No time to hide no time to open a drawer and snatch a knife. Then her eye caught on the narrow slit in the wall — the half-opened bathroom door. One of the few rooms she knew well. Catherine tore into it and slammed the door behind, turning the lock just as Calvin slammed into the wood. He began to pound and beat on the door the flimsy door she had gazed blankly at so many times from her bathtub retreats.

  “You can’t run forever, Cathy! You’re coming with me, you little wench! I’ll show you what I’m made of, I’ll show you so that you’ll never forget it!”

  Tears blistered Catherine’s eyes as she glanced helplessly around the tiny enclosure, then back toward the door. The banging became thunderous. She saw the door loosening on its hinges, saw it splintering. A panic like she’d never known rose within her.

  Was Cave Pig demented enough to try to kill her? Ironically, she thought of Hazel, and all her warnings about men. Vipers. Tricksters. Never around when you needed them. Could the old woman have been right, after all? She glanced around once more, then her heart jumped as she spotted something she’d noted but hadn’t foreseen as an escape.

&nb
sp; The basement door.

  But the basement was a trap! It was enormous, musty, and dark. Completely closed off from the outside.

  Completely closed off.

  An idea struck her. She lunged toward the basement door, unlocked it, and pushed it open. But she didn’t go down. Instead, she crept silently toward the sink, ignored the furious beating on the outside door, actually welcomed the noise and opened the door to the tiny cabinet beneath the faucet.

  For one of the few times in her life, Catherine thanked God she was tiny.

  She bent down and crouched into the cabinet, pushing towels and cleansers out of the way. She pressed breathlessly inside, her knees shoved against her chest, her head cocked painfully behind the pipes. Satisfied that she was squeezed tightly enough inside to close the door, she reached out to close it.

  It clicked shut just as Cave Pig burst through the door.

  Catherine reached to clench her hand around a bottle of glass cleaner, and faced it toward the door. If Calvin sensed this bluff and peered inside, he was going to get an eyeful.

  “You can’t hide from me!” he bellowed “I’ll find you. It’s only a matter of time!”

  Catherine froze. Any second she expected the door to pop open and Calvin’s repulsive face to peer inside. She clenched the bottle tightly, her finger cemented against the trigger, glad that this bottle had no such thing as a safety button.

  Silence. Her cramped muscles screamed in the agony. The wall jabbed into her back, the acrid smell of spilled cleanser invaded her nose, threatening to make her cough.

  Stillness.

  Where was he? Had he gone down into the basement yet? Why couldn’t she hear him?

  Then she heard his voice muffled from the basement.

  Excellent! Her plan worked! But relax… she warned herself, taking a few deep breaths before opening the door silently instead of barging out as she longed to do. Slowly, she unwound her cramped limbs enough to ease out onto the bathroom floor and lumber to her feet. She wobbled toward the basement door, and without glancing down silently pulled it shut and turned the lock.