The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares

by The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares- The Haunted City (retail) (epub)

  He moved toward his car. At the same time, the girl with the different-colored eyes emerged from the outhouse, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her truck was at the opposite end of the lot, and they couldn’t avoid passing each other. For a moment, he thought she was going to say something more to him, but she just slinked past, those wondrous eyes cast downward, lips pursed tightly together. She was still unsettled by their encounter and would not easily forget it, which was enough to make him regret his impulsiveness. Yet he couldn’t resist imagining again how wonderful it would have been to have seen those eyes gaze back at him, wide and unblinking, in a more private setting, and, in that thought, he absolved himself of all blame. He watched her get into the truck and had to stifle an impulse to follow. For a long time, he had not thought it possible to tame such instincts, but now he had come to understand that almost everything in life came down to a simple choice: to act, or not.

  A few minutes later, the lights of the town were receding in his rearview mirror. He chose the local road that wound south into what the signs called the Blue Ridge Mountains—really they were just a chain of hills, but he supposed the name’s grandeur gave the region more dignity than it deserved, and perhaps impressed the tourists. There were no tourists now. It was damp and cold, with the sort of chill that gets into the bones of even the heartiest people. He turned up the heating, but it didn’t help.

  His eyes steadily scanned both sides of the road ahead, searching for a good place to do his business. He grinned. His father would say exactly those words whenever his bladder or bowels needed vacating. Well, Dad, I am indeed looking for a place to do my business. He was suddenly overcome by a fit of laughter. It was the first time he could remember feeling any fondness whatsoever toward the little tyrant.

  No one quite knew where the darkish man came from; his family’s bloodline was cryptic, and no one within it cared enough to trace it further than whichever wizened relatives were still alive at holidays and reunions. Swarthier than most of his kin, he came to imagine himself as a delicate quilt stitched together by artisans from the world’s most exotic corners—the cappuccino tint of his skin, born of the Caribbean; Sino-Altaic eyes with almond shape and caramel shade; the wiry musculature of the desert Semite. His striking looks had been remarked on since he was a child yet even then were elusive enough to belong to an ancient era, or one many centuries into the future. His father, a more prosaic-looking being altogether, should have been proud of his role in the creation of such rare splendor. Yet the son could recall only a lingering resentment; as he played in the narrow back garden, cooed over by various sisters and nieces, he would glimpse his father at the upstairs window, staring down with expressionless eyes, and, even as a child, detected in them a murderous intent. Sometimes he wondered if the man was not his father at all. That he remained in the role of patriarch until his untimely death confirmed nothing. A more normal man might have absconded with some justification, but it would have been just like his father to stick around simply to torment this striking bastard child.

  Suddenly, the darkish man noticed a speck of light appear in the hills above, like the flare of a match bursting through the dark. At first, he thought there must be a person up there, lost, stumbling through the night with just a flashlight for guidance. Then he realized it was not one light but two, and they were moving too fast to be on foot. It was a car, carefully navigating the road’s dangerous switchbacks as it rolled downhill, its headlamps disappearing behind the trees, reemerging, then vanishing again, like a child excitedly flicking a light switch on and off.

  It wasn’t until the car was three hundred feet away that he noted the familiarity of its shape—the wide body, snub nose, and matchstick-like siren perched above the windscreen—and was stung by a sharp, sudden feeling of dread. He forced himself to remain calm. He’d passed policemen plenty of times on his recent travels and had never been pulled over. Then again, he’d not yet been this far out into the hinterlands, slinking discreetly through suspicious hamlets where a face as dark as his was either a hoodlum or the help, never to be trusted. He again cursed his impulsiveness, more emphatically this time; he should have stuck to his original plan of charting a course through more familiar territory. He tried to calculate what three beers in half an hour might do to his blood alcohol level, but as he didn’t know the state of Tennessee’s legal limits—if that’s where he even still was—the exercise was futile. He hoped his luck would hold.

  He made sure not to turn his head as the patrol car passed by. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw that there was just a single officer inside, a broad-shouldered white man in his thirties. The cop slowed down, scrutinizing him. He didn’t look back. And, just like that, they were moving away from each other. He raised his eyes to the rearview mirror and watched the cop’s taillights recede from view. He exhaled, and it dawned on him that he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

  The road banked to the right and went into a steep incline, the darkness intensified by shrouds of towering hickories. He rounded the corner without his usual precision, and the vehicle drifted across the central divider and into the opposing lane before he righted it. He had to admit: he was rattled. It was the officer’s stare that infuriated him the most, his disdain and suspicion tangible enough to cut through the thick glass and five feet of frigid air between them. He wondered what he was doing all the way out here, miles from anywhere, and with abrupt, scornful clarity, the answer presented itself, as if anyone who has ever been the Other need even ask.

  He was here for you.

  But no, that was paranoid, which was the one thing he couldn’t afford to be right now. He tried to relax by again focusing on the road ahead, resuming his search for an appropriate turnoff. But he knew he wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, not until he’d put some real distance between himself and the cop. There was a dull ache now stabbing his groin, but his business would just have to wait a little longer.

  Less than a minute later, headlights appeared again, this time in the rearview mirror. He sighed: the night was becoming tiresome. He wouldn’t worry just yet—it might just be another civilian, someone who had a good reason to traverse a desolate mountain road late at night, even if he couldn’t think of what that reason might be—but he stuck closely to the speed limit, eyes moving vigilantly between the road ahead and the mirror above. The car behind him was moving quickly. It wouldn’t be long before it caught up.

  It was the cop. He had made a U-turn somewhere farther down the hill and was now tearing back in pursuit. So either the girl with the different-colored eyes had phoned in their encounter, or this was just a bored good ol’ boy, empowered by his starched polyester uniform, looking to unsettle the only nonwhite face he’d seen all day. He glanced at the glove compartment. The gun lay inside, loaded. It was licensed, and he’d never had cause to use it, but that wouldn’t make a difference out here: its mere existence would be enough to damn him.

  The cop caught up and eased off the gas. For a few minutes, they ascended the hill in leisurely procession, like neighboring families on a weekend fishing trip. Then, with grim inevitability, just as they crested the first in a chain of rolling peaks, the siren came to life. The darkish man pulled over and killed his engine; his adversary followed suit. A malignant silence descended upon them. The cop stayed in his vehicle, face shielded by the darkness, body just a silhouette of thick, square shoulders and neck, as featureless as a comic book sketch, while the flashing lights threw hellish red and blue streaks across the promontory.

  Finally, the door opened. The cop stepped out onto the road and approached at a deliberate pace, footsteps crunching against the gravel. The darkish man followed what he knew to be protocol: rolling down his window, turning on the interior light, and placing his hands upon the steering wheel, fingers clearly visible. He was glad to note that his breath was even, his pulse steady: he was prepared for anything. A flashlight clicked on, and a harsh ray of light struck the side of his face. The cop appeared at t
he window, a solid shape emerging Cimmerian-like from the gloom; with his hairless pate, smooth, round chin, and face bathed from below in spectral orange light, he resembled an especially muscular potato. The darkish man knew it would be difficult to overpower him physically. Then again, he did have the element of surprise in his favor, and a gun.

  “License and registration.”

  The voice was deep and even, with nary a hint of the anticipated country twang; it might have been a promising sign were it not for the grim determination in the cop’s eyes, suggesting that anyone with the temerity to be stopped by him should be resigned to the murkiest of fates. The darkish man took his hands off the wheel, slowly, gingerly, as if facing a wild animal, and unlatched the glove compartment. As he fished around for the registration card, his fingers brushed the concealed barrel of the gun. For a split second he let them rest there, the very touch of the cold metal giving him reassurance. Then he handed over the documents for the cop to scrutinize.

  “Is this your current address?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Arizona? Long way from home.”

  His intonation was flat and neutral. The words, though, could mean everything. Or nothing.

  “Never seen the south before. Figured it was time.”

  The cop held the license up to the flashlight’s glare and squinted closely. The foreign-sounding surname had likely caught his attention.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “No, sir.”

  “One of your taillights is out.”

  Outwardly, the darkish man appeared not to react. Inside, though, he was fuming at himself. Of all the stupid things to have overlooked! But then it struck him that the cop might be lying. After all, he had given the car a thorough inspection before he left Nashville, just a few days earlier.

  “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  “Dangerous to be driving out here in these mountains with only one taillight.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see that it’s fixed first thing in the morning.”

  For a moment, the cop was silent. The darkish man felt a flicker of hope. Maybe the man had had his fun and now had a fetching cousin to screw somewhere in the valley.

  “You were driving pretty fast too. And erratically.”

  Another lie. This time he didn’t reply. He’d learned at a young age that silence often became your sole ally against a man with a badge.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  He met the cop’s eyes with an even gaze.

  “No, sir.”

  “Would you be willing to submit to a Breathalyzer test?”

  The gaze held.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The cop stared at him, considering.

  “Do you have a good reason that made you need to hurry?”

  He had to stay cool. There had been close calls before, and he always found a way out. He grasped for inspiration.

  “If you must know, I desperately needed to urinate. Still do.”

  “Why didn’t you just go on the side of the road?”

  He never blushed but now forced himself to.

  “Okay…I’ll—it’s…”

  Nor had he ever stumbled over his words. He glanced down, as if greatly embarrassed.

  “Truth is, it’s not just a pee I need. It’s…the other thing. I didn’t stop on the side of the road because I didn’t want anyone driving by and catching me with my pants down. I was looking for a place to turn off into the woods. Probably why I was driving—as you said—erratically.”

  The cop stared at him, considering. Seconds passed, each drawn out longer than the last. By the time half a minute had gone by, it felt like time itself had been suspended, and the void of silent darkness around him was all he would ever know. Yet when the officer finally spoke again, the edginess had been drained out of his voice, like blood from a mortician’s needle.

  “Wait here.”

  The officer trudged back to the patrol car. The darkish man knew he would now run the vehicle’s plates and registration information, as well as his own license; he also knew that nothing amiss would be discovered. A sudden rush of exhilaration flooded through his body, as palpable as the shocks of electricity that had been administered to him as a child. He wanted to dash outside into the night, sink to his knees naked in the scrub, and howl to the pine beetles and rattlesnakes that he was immortal, untouchable. Instead, he sat quietly in the car and waited.

  Eventually, the cop returned and handed him back his license and registration card.

  “I’m issuing you a verbal warning. You can go now. But drive carefully. We’ve had tourists go off the road before. And get that taillight fixed.”

  “I will. Thanks, Officer.”

  The cop said nothing in return but neither did he make a move to leave. His stare persisted, lips coiling in the infancy of an amused grin. The darkish man was abruptly struck by a terrible notion—that he had grossly misjudged the situation, that the cop was not going to let him go merrily on his way but instead had called for backup, and that any moment now an army of those doom-laden flashing lights would materialize out of the darkness on all sides, while helicopters would descend from the sky, roaring, like a flock of prehistoric avian beasts—and he would be cornered, with nowhere left to go except over the edge, into oblivion.

  “About two miles on up…”

  The cop was pointing ahead, deeper into the mountains.

  “There’s a dirt road on the left. You could take a shit that lasts a year and no one would ever see you.”

  His grin grew into a crooked, affable smile.

  “Just watch out for spiders. They’re the kind that jump.”

  The darkish man laughed. Whether or not the cop sensed the relief in it, he neither knew nor cared. The officer gave him a final nod, turned, and walked back to the patrol car. It was over.

  He turned the key in the ignition with a hand as steady as ever and carefully pulled his vehicle back onto the road. He watched in the rearview mirror as the patrol car made a U-turn, dust rising from its tires, and drove away down the hill. Within seconds it had disappeared, this time, he believed, for good. He smiled to himself. What a friendly, helpful man the cop had shown himself to be. He almost felt guilty for having pegged him as a redneck.

  He followed the winding road for two miles as directed, engaging the high beams on particularly precarious curves. His bladder now burned with diabolical intensity, but he felt serene. He should not have been able to believe his luck, but in fact he did; his narrow escape was a sign of approval, if not encouragement, from the gods themselves. He turned on the radio. A pop song he recognized was playing, and although its saccharine quality would usually have made him sick, he whistled along with the melody.

  He spotted the dirt road just before the turnoff. It was barely wider than a walking trail and mostly concealed by dense, low-hanging trees, but he swung his wheel across just in time and squeezed onto it. He drove slowly. The road was littered with all manner of forest detritus—pinecones, eroded rocks, thin gullies forged in the ground by decades of spring rains—and the car trembled upon it, struts squealing in indignant protest. It was an old jalopy and wouldn’t run much longer without some serious work, but it had served its purpose and, besides, he intended to abandon it at the next opportune moment.

  Ten minutes later, the road petered out. He stopped the car and killed the lights. At long last, it was time to do his business. He got out and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but all he saw was black: the ends of the earth could not have been more perfectly isolated. He turned on his mobile phone’s flashlight, revealing the silhouette of the treetops against the starless night and his breath emitting in frosty bursts. He chose a spot between two oaks where the earth still felt loose, unzipped, and took the longest, most sublime piss of his life, watching with fascination as the steam rose off his waste. It reminded him to hurry—the temperature was approaching freezing.

  The shovel was nestled between the
front and back seats. As he took it out, he again blessed his good fortune—how simple it would have been for the cop to catch a glimpse of this vital tool, both weapon and means of disposal, had the aim of his torch been less focused on the darkish man himself. As he balanced it in his hands, he was surprised anew by its heft, for he knew that when the time came he always employed it gracefully and precisely, as if it weighed nothing at all. He carried it over to the area upon which he had urinated and began to dig. It was hard work, but by now he was something of an expert.

  Once the hole was deep enough, he went back to the car, put on his gloves, and opened the trunk. The interior light came alive, revealing the woman’s crumpled, lifeless body, splotches of blackish blood and blond hair congealed together against the plastic sheet in which he had wrapped her. He regarded his work with quiet satisfaction, similar to the way he imagined a carpenter must feel after building an especially solid table, but under his skin he could already sense a restlessness setting in. The memory of her felt hazy, as one might vaguely recall a play or film seen many years ago, even though their encounter had occurred just the night before. The only thing he could picture clearly was the source of his initial fascination, a brown blemish on the jowl of her left cheek that could be called—depending on the generosity of the caller—either a beauty spot or a mole, and from which short, coarse hairs sprouted untamed. Aside from that, he remembered nothing, not even her name, and that upset him, as he felt it somehow diminished both of them.

  Before he carried her to the hole, he peeled back the top of the plastic and shone the beam of light into her eyes. They were still wide open, a brilliant, almost translucent blue, and it wasn’t so much terror that he saw in them as belated, resigned realization, befitting the shy and slightly overweight woman who arrived with the eager expectation of orgasm, and left with death. Well, he thought, the two were not really that far apart.