by Rick Hautala
She did this on purpose! That lousy, fucking bitch has left us here to die!
That thought screamed inside Brian’s mind as he strained so hard against the ropes binding his arms and legs that he thought his head was going to explode. The rope had long since rubbed his wrists raw. He wasn’t sure if it was sweat or blood that was running down his wrists and over his fingers, but he no longer cared.
What was the point?
He pretty much figured out what was going on out there. Someone—it sounded like Michael, but Dianne, no doubt, had been the brains behind it all—had set the mill on fire. She obviously intended to burn down the mill with all of them in it. Above the crackling roar of the flames, he could hear Uncle Mike’s voice, shouting wildly in the night, wavering crazily up and down the scale.
“I didn’t want them to die! It was your idea! … We’re all going to die! And you have to come with me, now! … Rachel! … Please! … Wait for me!”
It certainly sounded as though he was an innocent dupe in Dianne’s plan. She had probably set the whole thing up and was using Michael to help her get rid of Edward and the rest of the family for the insurance money or whatever. From the sounds of things, she had even convinced Michael to die in the fire. Smart move! That way there’d be no one left to accuse her of anything. She could say the escaped psychiatric patient had been hiding out in the mill, had captured them, and had planned to kill them all, but she got away—just barely—before everyone else died in the fire. She probably had staged the whole bit about escaping from the room just to make it all look good.
“You sneaky, fucking bitch!”
Brian could feel the temperature in the small room rising steadily, smothering him like a heavy blanket. Thick ropes of smoke were boiling down between cracks in the floor and dispersing into the room to create a dense, foggy haze. The white circle of lantern light looked like a distant sun obscured by storm clouds. Sweat was streaming down his face, stinging his eyes. His throat felt blocked off, and his breathing came in fast, fitful gulps of hot air. He desperately wanted to deny everything that was happening, but he knew that he had to accept the inevitable—that he and his father were going to die.
By fire!
But as much as that thought sapped his mental energy, he never stopped struggling with his bonds. He worked even harder when he glanced over and saw the unconscious form of his father, a motionless, gray blur over in the corner. Brian tried not to think about all the years, all the things they had never shared … and now would never get a chance to share. The years they’d spent apart since his parents had gotten divorced—even this past summer, as lousy as it had been—everything was lost down inside a yawning black chasm. The time he had always assumed they would spend together—eventually—was slipping away fast. There were minutes, possibly only seconds left before they would be suffocated by the heat and smoke. Like the old mill, the promises and hopes he’d had for an open-ended future were being consumed by flames. Tears started from his eyes, and a cold, dull ache blossomed in his chest as he flashed on the pure horror of his life ending like this. His mind felt blank, absolutely empty when he tried to imagine what the world would be like without him in it.
“Dad,” he called out, his voice faint and faltering. “Hey, Dad!”
Brian tensed, waiting for a reply. When it didn’t come, he wondered if his father might already be dead. Maybe that was best. At least his dad wouldn’t have to face the final, searing agony as the flames consumed them both.
“Jesus Christ, Dad!” Brian wailed, his chest hitching with deep, wrenching sobs. Tears carved hot tracks down the sides of his face. “I—I’m sorry, Dad … honest I am. I—”
He jumped when a deafening crash sounded from somewhere upstairs. The whole ceiling shook as a shower of blazing embers sprinkled down onto the ground just outside the opened door. Brian cringed and looked up, expecting at any moment to see everything cave in on top of him. He jerked spasmodically when a scream ripped through the night.
“Christ,” he muttered, trying to sit up as he stared wide-eyed at the door. He honestly couldn’t tell if that had been Dianne or Michael screaming, but a voice inside his head told him that it didn’t matter. He struggled for a few more seconds, then—finally—gave up and leaned back against the cold stone wall.
This is it! he thought. A choking, bitter taste flooded the back of his throat. I give up! This is the end!
Knowing that before too long the temperature in the room would rise high enough to bake both him and his father, he laid his head down, closed his eyes, and started praying as hard as he could that—when it came—the pain wouldn’t be too bad. Sobbing hard, he tried like hell not to think anything as he lay there and waited … waited for the end to come.
Halfway to the open doorway at the back of the mill, Dianne let out a scream and stumbled to an abrupt halt. Not more than three feet in front of her was a gaping, black opening. In the wildly flickering light of the fire, she could see down into the cellar. Something—a whole lot of dark “somethings”—were scurrying back and forth over a rounded hump of dirt and sawdust. It took her a moment to realize that it was rats, driven out of their burrows by the smoke and heat. Their horrible squealing filled her ears.
“Rachel, … please! … Please wait for me!”
She turned and saw Michael, coming toward her through the billowing smoke. Facing the heat took her breath away and made her skin feel all prickly. The sickly smell of burned hair filled her nostrils. Behind Michael, another section of burning wall was slowly pulling away. It collapsed in a spinning shower of sparks, fanning the flames even higher, but Michael kept moving toward her with a slow, measured step as though he was impervious to the heat, not even the slightest bit aware of the danger.
Is he a demon—? Something from hell? she wondered, fighting back crashing waves of panic.
“This was all your idea, Rachel!” Michael shouted in a high, warbling voice. “You have to see it through … to the end … with me!”
She cast a furtive glance behind her, wanting desperately to run, but she was rooted to the spot. Behind her, she could feel the cool rush of night air being sucked into the fire, feeding it, stoking it higher. She knew the open doorway was her last chance for survival, but she remained frozen where she was, watching in utter horror as Michael slowly approached her. His face was a mask of agony and insanity with firelight rippling across his skin like a grotesque, living tattoo.
“Please—” he said. His voice was nothing more than a low moan as he held his arms out to her as though wanting to embrace her. “Come with me … Now!”
“No! Never!” Dianne shouted.
She took a step backward, forgetting for a moment that the trapdoor opening was behind her.
“It’s not just me they want, you know,” Michael said. “At first, that’s what I thought, and I tried to convince them that if I died, it would be enough. Oh, God—” He clapped his hands to the sides of his head. “I tried like hell to convince them, but they want all of us! All of us, Rachel! You must realize that! You said so yourself. You said that we all had to burn in the Lord’s ‘cleansing fire.’ Remember? You said it would make us whole again … that it would bring the family all together again! Don’t you remember that?”
He kept moving forward until he was less than ten feet away from her. Then he stopped. Again, Dianne caught the strong smell of gasoline.
Jesus! she thought, has he soaked himself with gasoline so he’ll burn better?
Aware that the opening was right behind her, she took a quick step backward and clenched her fists, knowing that he was going to make a grab for her. For several seconds they squared off, just staring at each other as the fire raged up the inside of the building. The air was as hot as an oven, searing her hair and skin.
Suddenly, a loud, creaking sound from above drew Dianne’s attention. She watched as a loose board slowly peeled away from the ceiling like a burning drape. It dangled for a moment, caught on a nail or something, and
then fell, arrowing down at them like a burning spear. It landed behind Michael, but it hit a glancing blow on his shoulder just as he was coiling back to make a leap at her. With a sudden whoosh, his clothes burst into flame. He let out a warbling scream as he launched himself at her, his arms outstretched, his hands hooked like claws.
Everything seemed to happen simultaneously and in slow motion.
Michael came at her like a human fireball, his face split by a wild, insane grin. With a shrill cry, Dianne darted away from the trapdoor opening an instant before he caught her, but her foot snagged on something and she fell. She hit the floor hard enough to send a bright bolt of pain lancing through her body. Whimpering like a hurt animal, she rolled away from the opening and got onto her hands and knees just in time to see Michael streak past where she had just been standing and then fall through the trapdoor opening. His face slammed hard against the outside edge of the opening, and then he was gone. His long, agonized shriek ended with a dull thud from down below.
Nearly blind with panic, Dianne scrambled over to the opening and looked down. She was horrified by what she saw. Michael was lying flat on his back, half-buried in clots of sawdust. His arms and legs flailed wildly about, clawing helplessly at the air. Rats were scurrying away from him, squealing in panic, but Michael’s screams all but drowned out the noises they made. His clothes were burning like an oil-soaked torch as he thrashed about, trying to extinguish them, but his movements seemed only to fan the flames all the higher.
“Get them out of here!” he shouted as he writhed in agony on the cellar floor. “There’s still time! I didn’t want to do it! They made me! You made me do it! But maybe it is just me they want! Maybe I’ll be enough!” He ended with a long, bubbling scream.
Dianne watched, frozen with horror as he stared up at her, his eyes wide open, piercing her as though he could see straight to her soul. Blood was flowing from a gash on his forehead, sheeting down over his eyes like a crooked, black mask.
“Please Rachel!” be rasped, his voice deep and trembling as though the flames had seared his vocal cords. “This is where it all started! … Right here! So this is where it has to end! Go to them! It wasn’t Edward’s fault! Tell him I forgive him! Go! Now! You promised me that you’d help them!”
He screamed again, his voice winding up higher and higher until it cracked and was finally lost in the roaring rush of other sounds. At first, Dianne thought it was merely the raging crackle and snap of the fire as it spread throughout the building; but then, all around her, she thought she heard voices.
Some were crying out in anger, uttering curses and pleas for help.
Others wailed as though in the midst of unbearable torment.
One was soft and low, cackling with laughter that didn’t evidence the faintest trace of humor.
And faintly, just at the edge of hearing, there came the high-pitched wailing cry of a baby that rose and fell as though fanned by the snapping rush of the flames.
But even with the heat of the fire hammering down on her, Dianne couldn’t force herself to move. Torn between pity and hatred for Michael, she stared down at him until—at last—he stopped moving. His eyes remained opened, unblinking and glazed, as his hands and feet tensed, shivering, and then slowly dropped down to his sides. With a single, deep groan, he settled back onto the burning sawdust pile as though curling up into a comfortable bed.
But even after she was positive Michael was dead, Dianne couldn’t find the strength—or will—to move. She guessed that Brian and Edward were already dead as well, so what was the point? Why struggle any more against the inevitable? Why not just give in and let the fire consume her?
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the doorway that opened out onto the clear night sky. A voice whispered in her mind that she had to get up and get moving if she was going to survive, but then, faintly, another voice—Michael’s—echoed in her memory:
“This is where it has to end! Go to them! It wasn’t Edward’s fault! Tell him I forgive him! Go! Now! You promised me that you’d help them!”
She turned around and screamed when she saw the wall of flames between her and the opening that led down to the pile of rubble. Knowing that it was probably suicidal, she poised herself for a moment on the edge of the trapdoor opening and then, before she could think about what she was doing, kicked off and jumped back down into the cellar.
“Hold on, Brian! … I’m coming!”
Although Brian could tell that the voice he heard was edged with panic, it drifted over him like a current of cool, fresh air, teasing and fluttering like light fingertip touches in the dark. He stirred and tried to peel open his eyes, but the blackness inside his head, like stretching strands of glue, kept his eyelids firmly shut.
How can there be someone calling to me? Is someone really there, or am I already dead and on my way to heaven?
But even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t ignore the pulsating heat that surrounded him, and he knew that heaven wasn’t where it got hot. Memories of the panic and pain he had experienced—when? Mere minutes ago or hours?—welled up like lava inside of him as the intensity of the heat rose even higher. He heard a strangled whimpering sound but wasn’t sure if he was making the noise or if it was someone else.
“I’m … in … here,” he said.
He had no way of knowing if he had shouted or whispered. His nostrils flared, making a loud, bubbly sound as he sucked in a breath of air. It was thick with the smell of smoke.
I think I must still be alive!
He was convinced when a coughing fit violently raked his lungs. Pressure squeezed hard against him, sending sharp jolts of pain through his chest as he let his breath out slowly and again tried to ease open his eyes. Through a watery film, he saw the hard-packed dirt floor and the stone blocks that made up the small cellar room’s wall.
Oh, shit! I’m still here!
His neck crinkled like cellophane when he turned around and looked at the door. Through the rectangular opening, he could see a wavering dance of bright orange flames, lapping like wicked tongues in the surrounding darkness. A dense haze of black smoke hung above him like a funeral curtain. All sound in the room was curiously muffled.
So I must have imagined that voice.
He shook his head groggily, then suddenly tensed and looked over his shoulder at his father. The motionless form looked like a sad, discarded pile of old rags.
“Dad …?” he whispered in a deep, raspy voice.
There was no answer, but before he could call out again, he heard a heavy pounding sound—from outside the room. Turning, he saw a flurry of motion in the doorway.
“Brian!” a voice yelled, so close it sounded like it was inside his head. A dark figure shifted like a shadow into the room.
At first, Brian didn’t even recognize Dianne. Her hair hung over her face in stringy clumps, and her face and clothes were torn and streaked with dirt and soot as she staggered into the room. Her eyes were wide open and staring, as though she had no idea where she was as she looked around. Then her gaze latched onto him.
“Jesus! Brian … You’re still … where’s your …”
That was all she managed to say before she recognized Edward’s motionless body on the floor in the corner. She ran to him and knelt down beside him, leaning over him as she uttered a low cry and roughly rolled him over.
“Edward! Come on, get up! Jesus Christ, Edward!” she yelled, all the while slapping his face. “Get the fuck up! We have to get out of here!”
Brian could see that she was completely out of control as she gripped his father’s shoulders and started to shake him. He jostled limply back and forth, but his eyes remained closed.
“Come on! Jesus Christ, get up!” she wailed. “We can’t just stay there! Get up!”
“Come over here,” Brian said, forcing a calm level of command into his voice. Cold sweat and tears were streaming down his face. “Untie me first.”
Dianne looked at him with a crazed expression, alm
ost as if she didn’t recognize him. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying—if it was anything intelligible. The thought crossed his mind again that this had all been a setup, and that she had no intention of freeing him before the entire mill came crashing down on top of them.
“Please, Dianne,” he said, not caring if his voice revealed the depth of his desperation and fear. “Untie me first! I—I think I know a way out of here!”
As soon as he said that, a thundering boom sounded above them. All around him the stone walls trembled as ancient timbers and floorboards upstairs gave way. They both looked toward the door as a cascade of sparks, flames, and burning timbers collapsed into the cellar. A rolling wave of heat slammed into them. Brian turned his face to the wall, and Dianne screamed and collapsed onto the floor, covering her face with her hands.
“Please, Dianne!” Brian yelled.
When he took his next breath, hot air entered his lungs, searing them like grilled steaks. The wooden door and door frame began to burn, snapping and crackling like a string of exploding firecrackers. Thick scarves of black smoke filled the room and began to lower. Not daring to breathe in any smoke, Brian held his breath until tiny lights exploded in front of his eyes. Waves of dizziness crashed over him, and the darkness opened up below him again. He knew if he fell into it this time, his fall would never end.
He was so numb with terror that he didn’t realize what was happening at first when he felt himself being roughly tossed from side to side. For a moment, he thought it was all in his head, that he had fainted and was falling, spinning backward into the abyss, but the wrenching pain that shot up his arms to his shoulders brought him back, and then he heard a woman’s voice—It must be Dianne!—muttering … something to him. He didn’t understand anything she was saying, but then there came a sudden rush of relief as the pressure holding his hands behind his back let go.