The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  Everyone was far from calm. Any one of these people on the street could die tonight. Potentially, seventy-five percent of Highlands could be gone before dawn broke. Rachel didn’t think about it. She followed the child in the jack-o’-lantern mask farther through the chaos. The farther he got from her, the faster Rachel jogged. She weaved through the small groups of people and avoided the large crowd by banking into the street. A police cruiser slammed on its brakes. Its tires locked, and its front bumper hit Rachel’s thighs as it stopped. Rachel held her breath and kept running forward.

  She ran by a strip of outfitters then by a slew of restaurants with rubbernecking patrons within. The local news van was parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. The anchor and crew bustled onto the street.

  “Hurry, get a camera set up!” one of them barked.

  The boy Rachel followed turned onto Third Street. Rachel’s personal phone vibrated in her pocket. Rachel answered as she moved.

  “Where are you?” Peak asked desperately. “I called your other phone five times.”

  Rachel remembered tossing her work phone aside to assist Mark.

  “Rachel, are you there?” There was commotion on Peak’s end of the line.

  “I’m chasing the boy,” Rachel said as she rounded a corner.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The one in the mask. The one I saw at Martha’s house.”

  “The Orphan?”

  “Yes,” Rachel replied, running out of breath. Cramps throbbed in her side. “He’s leading me somewhere.”

  The sign for Third Street blurred by. The commercial area of Highlands had shifted into residential housing. Rachel jogged on the sidewalk. The boy was so far ahead it seemed as if she could squeeze him between two fingers.

  “Is that smart?” Peak asked.

  “I don’t know, Peak. But I’m losing him. I need to go.”

  The sirens and panic were muffled by distance, and Rachel got to a point where she could barely hear them at all. The clacking of her shoes filled her lonely pursuit. Passing the expensive homes built throughout various eras, Rachel slowed herself down. She doubled over and gulped air. Pain throbbed in her knees and calves. She felt that she was hitting her limit.

  The boy in the jack-o’-lantern mask watched her with a slightly tilted head. His expression was hidden behind black triangular eyes. He had two square teeth on the upper jaw and one on the bottom. He waited for Rachel to approach.

  Keeping her hand on her holstered pistol, Rachel shambled toward him. The emotional beating she had endured this evening had left her feeling vulnerable, not fully alive. She stopped a few meters from the boy. He pulled his hand from his jeans overall pockets and slowly raised his arm. His finger pointed to the home adjacent to him.

  A rusty chain-link fence surrounded a 1930s two-story house with a symmetrical appearance and strong Victorian-era influences. Its unpainted walls were the color of wet wood. Warped plywood sealed its busted windows. Beyond its weathered, truncated roof, the full moon hung heavily. Crooked wooden steps ascended toward the wooden jaws of its front door.

  Everyone in Highlands knew it as the House on Spring Street.

  8

  The House on Spring Street

  Rachel hadn’t felt it when she passed by the house days ago, but there was something sinister about the building. The lingering air tasted dried and dead. Squawking crows perched in a line across the rim of its roof. Turning their little heads to and fro, they watched Rachel with their beady black eyes.

  A tilted sign hung on the four-foot-high fence gate. In bold letters, it read No Trespassing. A lock and chain held the gate in place. A strong gust battered the fence, causing it to sway. The boy approached the gate and shimmied over. His little farming boots landed on the lifeless dirt on the other side. With his arms stretched out like a plane, he zigzagged toward the ominous house while making a buzzing sound with his mouth.

  Rachel gave the house another look. It dwarfed her. The windows jutting from the truncated roof stared at her like hollow eyes. She had never paid much mind to the local legends surrounding the house. She added that lack of knowledge to her list of regrets. Cautiously, she crossed over the closed gate.

  The yellow, dead grass crunched beneath her feet. A single tree occupied the left side of the front yard. Its scattered branches bore no leaves. Resting at its base were a number of dead wasps lingering beneath a paper-like nest. Their wings twitched. Rachel felt chill bumps run up her spine like an insect.

  Part of her didn’t know why she approached the front door when her instincts told her to turn tail and run. Following the Orphan was a fool’s errand; Rachel could be out on Main Street, helping the other cops usher people to safety instead of wasting time chasing ghosts. The reality was obvious, though. At the moment, Rachel Harroway was of little use to those in the land of the living. Her calling was to the dead. Apart from her mother, Rachel could possibly be the only person in the world with the Gift.

  One by one, Rachel conquered the steps to the house. The crooked wood groaned and creaked like the final breaths of a dying old man.

  Standing behind the boy with the jack-o’-lantern mask, Rachel faced the door. Grooves were etched in it a few inches from the frame to give the scratched and cracked face some sense of style. The door had no windows, peephole, or any other means of seeing inside or out. The plywood over the house’s busted windows kept its secrets hidden from the outside world’s lights.

  Rachel stretched her hand over the boy’s plastic pumpkin head and grabbed the wooden doorknob. It wobbled in Rachel’s fingers as if it were at the brink of falling away. She jiggled it, and oddly enough, the door opened into the mouth of the house. Similar to Rachel’s Hadley House, it opened into a long entrance hall that acted as a hub that linked to various rooms on the adjacent walls. Dust swirled in the stale air. The atmosphere was oppressive, almost like prison. Rachel had felt the same feeling in other places before: the complete and utter lack of hope.

  To the right, an ajar door revealed a sliver of the study, distinguishable by its bookshelves and inactive fireplace. On that same wall, a set of stairs hiked directly into the second floor. A sideboard with a number of old vases holding long-wilted flowers pressed against the side of the wall of stairs. Beyond that was another closed door. A restroom perhaps? On the opposite side, the room seemed to branch into the kitchen. Rachel could assume that the dining room and living room were connected, leaving the bedrooms for the upstairs.

  Rachel’s little guide walked inside and turned back to her. He said nothing. The jack-o’-lantern mask hid his intentions.

  “What is this place?” Rachel whispered, letting the wind quietly suck the door closed behind her.

  “Home,” the boy replied.

  Goose bumps rose on Rachel’s arms.

  Taking silent steps, the little boy grabbed ahold of the stair railing and began his ascent. Halfway up, the shadow of the dark house consumed him, and Rachel felt alone. She fished out the small flashlight on her key fob, removed it, and used her spare hair tie to fasten it below the barrel of her Glock 22.

  She looked around the interior. All decorations had been stripped from the walls apart from an empty picture frame. Dozens of footprints stamped the dust-coated floor, hinting at foot traffic in recent days, possibly even tonight. The footprints branched out to each and every room, going forth and returning multiple times. Rachel’s curious nature filled her with dread. As much as she wanted to follow the boy upstairs, she needed to secure the area. That meant searching one room at a time until she was one hundred percent positive she was alone in the house. You know that’s not true, a little voice told her. He’s here. You can feel him.

  Rachel slowly pushed open the study door. Keeping her gun high, she scanned the gloomy room as she carefully stepped inside. The bookshelves held dust and dead roaches but no novels. A taxidermy fox, raccoon, and hawk rested on the tops. Thick dust clung to their fur and feathers. Their teeth and beak were yellow and chip
ped. For a moment, it seemed as though their fake predatory eyes followed Rachel as she entered.

  An oval rug with a simplistic design covered the center of the floor. An oaken desk sat at an angle in the far corner of the room, giving the sitter full view of the outside window, part of the fireplace, and the study door. An eggshell-white 1970s typewriter sat on the desk. On the wall behind the desk’s cracked leather chair was a dark stain, so old it permanently sank into the wood and peeling wallpaper. Rachel approached, flashing her light over the ominous dark stain and the small metal fragments that peppered it. Buckshot, Rachel thought as she recognized it. Someone had been shot here. By the trajectory of the undated blood spatter, the bullet had been fired at an upward angle. Self-inflicted, Rachel concluded. A few dark droplets stained the typewriter’s keys.

  Crash!

  Rachel twisted back toward the study door, her gun raised and her finger on the trigger. The small light illuminated a portion of the hall through the door.

  A man’s slurred voice rumbled through the hall. “I know you’re here!”

  Rachel clicked off the flashlight and instinctively held her breath.

  “Come out, or I will tear you out!” The voice echoed through the still house.

  Rachel felt her heartbeat thumping throughout her body. Sweat trickled down her cheek and hung at the curvature of her jaw. Slowly, steadily, she reached the study door and peered into the entrance hall. Controlling her breathing, she toggled her light on just in time to see a shadowy figure pass from one room to another at the far end of the hall.

  A door slammed loudly.

  Rachel strode to the side, keeping her eye on her corners. Instead of going directly to where the figure walked, Rachel tried the nearest door on her left. As she suspected when she entered, it linked into the living room. There was a wooden box TV from the 1970s, and a hideous orange-and-brown floral couch with three cushions faced it along with three dinner trays and a rocking chair that swayed back and forth as if someone had recently stood from it. Rodents had eaten chunks out of the shag carpet; age gave it a nasty tint. Rachel moved through the room, noticing the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. It had stopped at 4:26 a.m. and probably hadn’t moved for the last forty years.

  Beneath the carpet, the floor creaked. Rachel winced when she heard it, unsure if her position would be made. She stepped into the next room, the dining room. The table was old, square, and able to seat six, though it only had three chairs. The seat at the end was the only one that had a cushion and armrests. A broken vase sat in the middle of the table, spilling dry dirt across the hardwood top. Two rusty candlesticks stood nearby. The remaining wax was the size of Rachel’s thumb.

  The floor in the dining area was also wood, and far noisier than Rachel would’ve liked. She walked to the far side of the table. Keeping one hand on her raised weapon, she slowly pushed opened the kitchen door, revealing the room inches at a time. It had a gas stove and 1970s refrigerator. The interior decorator must’ve loved the color of urine, because the laminated floor, dishwasher, gas stove, and dented refrigerator all had a sickly yellow hue. The cupboards and drawers between the appliances were made from a dark wood and had little white knobs. Knuckle-size dents spotted the fridge’s door. Rachel saw that often in homes with escalating abuse. There was a slit-shaped hole on the freezer section where someone had punched a point of a knife into it.

  Rachel scanned the room, glancing over the woman with wiry gray hair and a crooked nose. Rachel swiftly doubled back, seeing that the woman had vanished.

  Heavy footsteps stomped through the entrance hall.

  With her weapon, Rachel traced their path through the kitchen wall. They ended at the hallway door to the kitchen.

  The doorknob twisted, and Rachel swiftly moved to the fridge door and opened it and took cover. A sharp smell wafted from within, but Rachel’s eyes were trained on the opening door.

  With a slow creaking noise, the door opened wide. The Sense focused Rachel’s vision as a tingling sensation danced across her sweaty skin. Wide-eyed, she waited for someone to step into her line of sight. The door stayed open. No one passed through.

  Sharp breathing. A small whimper.

  Hairs rising on the back of her neck, Rachel turned around toward the noise.

  No one.

  Rachel stood up. When she twisted back to face the hallway door, a middle-aged woman was standing just on the other side of the open refrigerator door. The woman’s skin was pale, and her eyes drooped with years of sorrow and anguish. Wrinkles creased her mole-spotted forehead. Her hair was a frenzy of wires held together in a loose bun. She was a woman that had aged long before her time. A beauty that had been snuffed out by the hand of her abuser. Trickling from her thin, makeup-free lips was a steady stream of blood and bile. Little droplets splashed on her pale-blue-and-white sleeveless scoop-neck dress with an unpressed pleated skirt.

  She leaned toward Rachel as if she was about to tell her a dreadful secret. Her little, shaky voice whispered right into Rachel’s ear. “You need to run.”

  A tugging pulled at Rachel’s back. She twisted toward the hulking man in a sweat-stained muscle shirt, suspenders, and khakis. His black hair, in the process of going gray, was cropped short and gelled over. Grey flecks sprinkled his mustache and beard, which ran together and covered up the bottom third of his long face. His irises were nearly black, and his once-handsome face had a rough complexion. He reeked of alcohol. In his meaty hands, he held a hunting shotgun by his beer belly.

  “What do you want?” Rachel asked him.

  The man’s voice was gruff and angry. “I told you to come out ten minutes ago. You take me for a screw-up? That I’m not worthy of the respect a husband deserves? You will listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

  Rachel felt her stomach drop. He was a Delinquent.

  Rachel bolted to the side as the buckshot blasted across the room.

  After scrambling up from the floor, she darted into the entrance hall.

  Another shotgun blast boomed through the house.

  Rachel was running for the front door when the man with the shotgun stepped out from the living room. Rachel turned tail for the stairs as the Delinquent fired a blast down the hall. In a desperate sprint, Rachel raced upstairs, finding more of an open room than a hall that split into two bedrooms, a closet, and a bathroom. Rachel ran for the nearest open bedroom. The door slammed in her face as soon as she reached it.

  Heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs, like the knocks on death’s door.

  Rachel tried the knob. Nothing. She ran to the next door. It wouldn’t budge.

  Come on, come on, Rachel thought, knowing death neared with every footstep. She yanked open the bathroom door and felt a glimmer of hope just before the shotgun roared behind her and pellets peppered her back. She hit the floor immediately as the most excruciating pain exploded across her spine. She desperately reached out for her pistol, which he slung out of her hand and snatched.

  Blackness closed in.

  No. I…

  Eternity snuffed out her thought.

  It was a cold, quiet void.

  Something pulled at her ankle, lifted her entire leg, and dragged her across the floor.

  Her skull bounced on every step as the figure descended back downstairs.

  The carpeted living room floor scratched across her cheek.

  A fresh breath of life smashed against her, through her, like a sledgehammer ramming her ribs. She jolted awake and flung her head back, desperately gasping for air. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and the taste of copper filled her mouth. She blinked several times and scanned the dining room. She sat in one of the three chairs, not at the head. Her gun rested on the table. The small light Rachel had attached to it illuminated the harrowing face of the wiry-haired woman, seated across from her. The man was nowhere to be seen, but Rachel could sense him.

  She winced as she tried to straighten her slouched posture. The buckshot moved beneath her skin, tearing deeper into h
er muscles and organs. You’re not dead, she forcefully reminded herself. They can’t really hurt you. But the pain remained. Rachel blinked away double vision. Vomit climbed up the back of her throat. The putrid acid and blood overshadowed all taste.

  The woman with the wiry hair stared at the glass of red wine before her with a sense of dread. Something about the scene seemed very familiar.

  “He wants me to drink it,” the woman whispered. “He wants me to drink it all up.”

  Rachel reached out for her weapon. The metal pellets continued to rip her skin. She gasped in pain. Her fingers coiled around the gun’s grip.

  “For my little Ashton,” the woman said, justifying her actions. “And for the one I cannot name…”

  “What the hell are you going on about, woman?” the shotgun-wielding man asked as he entered.

  Rachel played dead. It was perhaps her only hope. With blinking eyes, she watched the man enter the room. He turned back to close the door behind him, revealing a massive bloody hole in the back of his head. He sat at the head of the table.

  He glared at the wiry-haired woman. “This family. This business. It’s all falling apart.”

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” the woman replied, seemingly the same why she had a million times before.

  “No more.” The man rested the shotgun across his lap. “I want my pretty wife back again.”

  “Yes, Henry.” The woman cast her eyes down.

  “Drink up. What’s your problem? You love wine. It’s a lover’s drink, you said. I know you’ve known quite a few lovers, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  “I can’t forgive you for bring that child into this world,” the man declared. “But at least you can set it right.”

  “Of course, Henry.” The woman lifted the wineglass to her lips. “I love you.”

  She started chugging down the wine. Her neck pulsed with every sip of poison.