7 Souls

by Barnabas Miller; Jordan Orlando

  It took all Mary’s courage to open the passenger door—letting in a blade of cold, wet wind that blew the dress away from her bare legs—and step outside. Her heels sank into the gravel and mud, and the dress was instantly drenched.

  “Come on.”

  “I don’t want to,” Amy whined from behind the wheel. “Don’t make me—I don’t want to.”

  “We have to.”

  The rain was falling delicately around them, drumming against the car’s steel roof. Mary could see steam rising from the rain-beaded hood. Amy opened her door and climbed out of the car, and Mary led them forward, toward the dark, deserted house.

  THE CLOSER THEY GOT to the house, the harder it became to take each step—and not just because of the rocks and gravel that interfered with their high heels. Amy and Mary both stumbled more than once, swaying against each other and barely managing to keep from toppling into the mud.

  Mary’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness; she could see the house’s flanks now. Sagging, cracked wide beams spanned its facade. A small, rudimentary porch had fallen away from the house and sunk into the weeds; protruding nails gleamed in the weak glow of the Mercedes’s headlights. Razor strokes of rain kept falling, spattering against Mary’s cheeks and bare shoulders. She was freezing and her hair was drenched, but she could barely feel any of that.

  The windows were cracked and missing panes. The front door was standing just slightly ajar.

  “We don’t have a flashlight,” Amy whispered.

  Too bad, Mary thought. Too bad, because we’ve got to walk up and go through that door. Because this is where Joon is.

  Mary led them through the wet grass and weeds, up to the front door. They had to step over the collapsed porch and directly up onto the landing. Mary had taken Amy’s hand, and she felt her pulling back, pulling away. She gave her hand a squeeze and, squinting in the wet gloom, pushed on the front door.

  The door slowly pivoted inward, its ancient hinges creaking and squealing. Inside was nothing but darkness.

  This is the part where the audience is screaming at me to run away, Mary thought miserably. It was totally true: how many times had she sat in a warm, comfortable room nursing a Stella Artois and watching a television screen where some idiot girl was doing exactly this—opening a door just like this one? And everyone laughed and threw popcorn at the screen and yelled at the stupid girl to turn around; what kind of idiot was she? How could anyone be so stupid, they would all scornfully yell, and the girls would cower under their boyfriends’ arms and hide their faces and squeal in anticipation of what was coming next. Why would that doomed girl in the bad movie keep walking forward? Why would anyone do that?

  And yet here I am, Mary thought, doing it.

  She made a mental note never to make fun of those horror-movie girls again.

  The door creaked all the way open and Mary stepped into the house. It was pitch black, and cool. The smell hit her immediately: a damp, musty, ripe aroma of earth and dead leaves and mold.

  Nobody’s been here in years, Mary thought dismally. This is some kind of trick; I don’t care what fucking “visions” I’ve been—

  Amy grabbed her bare arm from behind in a sudden, viselike grip that nearly made Mary leap a foot in the air. She could feel her heart racing like a stuttering lawn-mower engine: she had heard it too.

  A female voice—moaning in the distance.

  Oh my God, Mary thought weakly. She felt light-headed and bit her lower lip because it seemed like the only way to keep herself from fainting. Turning her head sideways, she couldn’t see anything of Amy but a murky shadow. Amy’s grip on her arm got painfully tight, and she could tell that Amy was within an eyelash of succumbing to pure animal terror and running from the house.

  She’ll panic and get in the car and drive away, Mary thought crazily. And I’ll be here all alone with the moaning girl.

  The whimpering penetrated the silence again, and Mary realized that the sound was coming from outside the house—from directly ahead, where she could now make out another door.

  “Come on,” she whispered to Amy, pulling her forward. They nearly collided with a huge black shape—an overturned wooden table. Mary got them around that by feel and then advanced toward the back door. Amy was leaning against her like an invalid, she was so frightened.

  Another moan in the distance—and Mary recognized the voice.

  Joon.

  The back door was wide open; she could see it clearly now, a pale gray rectangle framed in splintered wood. Beyond it, more weeds and a ruined lawn stretched away into the blackness. Mary’s eyes had adjusted enough that the glow of the car’s headlights, shining past the house, let her see clearly—and now it was her turn to get weak in the knees, swaying sideways against the door’s warped, cracked frame.

  In the darkness, just past the edge of the tangled, wet, black forest beyond the lawn, a figure was suspended in the air—a human figure, just barely visible, hanging from some kind of rope or chain, twirling slightly in the wind.

  As Mary and Amy edged just beyond the doorway, the shadowy hanging figure moved. The moans intensified to high-pitched, frantic whimpering that so frightened Mary she couldn’t think at all for more than ten seconds.

  It was Joon—Joon had been tied up and gagged with silver gaffer’s tape and suspended from a rope, out there in the woods behind the house. She could see them—her hanging figure bucked and twisted spastically, the rope creaking, as she squealed and kicked and shook in panic. The rope led upward from her bound wrists, disappearing into the shadows of the thick branches overhead. Mary could clearly see Joon’s black hair tossing and swinging as she moaned and whimpered more and more frantically.

  “Oh my God,” Amy whispered. She was crying. “Oh my God—”

  “Come on,” Mary said, pulling Amy forward. “Come on, Amy—”

  “I can’t.” Amy grabbed Mary’s arm painfully. “I can’t, I can’t go out there.”

  “Amy—”

  “I can’t,” Amy nearly screamed. “Oh Jesus, don’t make me go out there—”

  “Okay,” Mary whispered. She hadn’t taken her eyes from Joon’s shadowy figure. “Okay. But I’m going.”

  “No—”

  A staccato blast of lightning, a row of flashbulbs igniting, shone through the trees like silent fire.

  “Amy, I’ve got to,” Mary hissed desperately. Her entire body was wet and shivering now—she could only imagine what Joon was going through or how long she’d been hanging there in the cold rain, all alone just within the wild edges of that black forest. “I’ve got to.”

  Thunder rumbled, giant boulders smashing in the sky.

  “Don’t leave me here,” Amy pleaded, crying. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

  Then come with me! Mary wanted to scream. But that was impossible. Mary could tell from Amy’s voice, there was just no way she was going to take another step forward. It was like asking her to walk off a cliff.

  “Listen to me,” Mary said, taking Amy’s head in her hands. “Listen—I’ll be right back. You just stay right here—don’t move—and I’ll be back. Okay?”

  Amy nodded. She wiped tears from her face.

  Mary gently disengaged her arm from Amy’s death grip, took a deep breath and then stepped down the porch stairs and out into the cold night air. Mary could see Joon’s face now, behind the tape that gagged her. Joon saw her coming and started whimpering and moaning again. The sound was horrible: it was obvious that Joon was completely beside herself with terror and was trying to scream at the top of her lungs, but the gag made that impossible.

  The rush of water was easier to hear now.

  “I’m coming!” Mary called out, stumbling forward through the mud. The weeds were waist high, thwacking against her bare thighs as she walked, and both of her heels snapped, the left and then the right. Mary left the shoes in the mud and continued barefoot, shivering as her feet plunged into the cold jelly of mud. “I’m coming, Joon!”

  She
didn’t see the worst part until she got halfway there—the light was just too feeble, and her view into the forest was murky, obscured by rain. But when she got close enough to see, she gasped and another wave of fear swept over her like a spray from a firehose.

  The ground beneath Joon fell away. Where she was hanging, the ground was gone—she was suspended in the air past the edge of what looked like some kind of embankment.

  And down below the cliff—far down below, judging by the sound—was the roar of a stream.

  Jesus, Mary thought weakly. How am I supposed to get to her? She kept moving forward, but it was slow going—each step meant pulling a foot from the mud’s suction.

  “I’m coming, Joon!” Mary yelled. “I’m coming! I’ll be right there!”

  Joon was bucking and shaking even more wildly, making the rope she hung from whicker and twang like a plucked guitar string. Her wet hair tossed wildly from side to side. She was frantically shaking her head.

  “Mary!”

  Amy’s voice behind her—screaming.

  The scream went through her like a javelin. It was so loud, so piercing, that it made her ears hurt.

  “Mary, help! Help! Hel—”

  And then, suddenly, silence.

  Mary pivoted, peering backward through the gloom.

  She couldn’t see anything. All she heard was the whisper of the rain and the moan of the wind in the trees.

  Running back toward the house, she took a bad step and fell flat on her face in the mud, tearing the Nina Ricci dress. A tree root slammed against her shoulder hard enough to make her eyes water. Panting, she rolled sideways and got her numb, cold hands beneath herself to get her body upright.

  “Amy!” Mary screamed, sobbing as she stumbled up the stairs and rushed through the splintered, empty doorframe. “Amy!”

  Nothing.

  This isn’t happening, some part of Mary’s mind was repeating over and over. No, no, no, no—

  “Amy!” Mary screamed at the top of her lungs. “Amy, where are you?”

  Nothing. No answer. Nothing but the rain.

  Amy had vanished.

  Where did she go? Oh, sweet Lord Jesus, what happened to her?

  Mary retraced her steps out the back door. She followed me outside, Mary thought desperately. I’ve got to go after her—

  But she knew better. Amy had been inside the house when she’d screamed and then the scream had been cut off with the terrifying finality of a plug being pulled.

  Mary waded through the mud and weeds toward Joon’s dangling body.

  “I can’t find Amy!” Mary sobbed, her hoarse throat burning with the strain of screaming. “Joon, hang on—”

  Joon was violently shaking her head as Mary moved toward her. Ten feet, fifteen feet—and now she was finally close enough to see the whites of Joon’s wide, panicked eyes. Joon’s squeals and moans had become so frantic that she sounded like an animal caught in a trap. The sound was unbearable.

  Amy, Mary thought desperately. What happened to you, Amy?

  Mary took one more step and heard a thunderous wet crack and then suddenly the world was spinning … She had half a second to realize that the ground had given out beneath her and that she was falling painfully through sharp twigs and brambles and dead leaves, the edge of the earth slamming painfully into her forearms as she dropped.

  “Aaah!” Mary yelled, winded. She’d plunged through a jagged, gaping hole and was caught in the ground up to her chest. Her upper arms were on fire; the pain was overwhelming. Her feet had collided with something deep underground—rocks or tree roots—and her left ankle sang with agony.

  She couldn’t move. She was completely, utterly trapped.

  Above her, just ahead, she could see Joon wriggling again, moaning through her gag as she stared at her.

  “Joon!” Mary screamed. “I’m trapped—I can’t move!”

  She whimpered as she strained her body, trying to free herself. It was impossible. She was cemented in the ground as firmly as if a gardener had planted her there.

  Joon kept wriggling—and as she did, Mary heard something new—the most horrifying sound she’d heard yet.

  The rope was breaking.

  Joon’s panicked movements were straining its fibers, and, before Mary saw it start to unravel, she heard the low, wet tearing sound of its filaments splitting and coming apart.

  Joon heard it too. She arched her back, straining against her bonds, twisting her head to look upward. Then she started wriggling even more frantically.

  “Don’t move, Joon!” Mary screamed. “Jesus, don’t—”

  The rope cracked and snapped and tore apart all at once and Mary screamed No, practically breaking her spine trying to wrest herself free from the hole she’d fallen into, and then the rope came apart and Joon fell and there was a fleeting instant—frozen like a photograph—of Joon’s horrified, wide-eyed face blurred beneath her hair, which stood on end as she dropped out of view.

  Mary was still screaming, but like in the movies, it was a silent scream—drowned out by the sound of the rain.

  And then, after a long, long delay, the most horrifying sound of all—a distant, thunderous splash.

  That’s where the stream is, Mary remembered. Way, way down there.

  “Joon!” she called out desperately. “Joon, can you hear me?”

  Nothing. No answer at all. She was alone, trapped in the wet earth like an animal, freezing, shivering, moaning. Amy was gone, and now Joon was, too.

  THERE WAS NO WAY to tell how much time had passed, but the rain had finally stopped. Mary hadn’t blacked out; she’d just stopped thinking. It was easier to stay half-buried in the cold ground and not think and just wait to die. Now she was slowly coming out of it, waking up from whatever shocked stupor she’d drifted into after the rope had broken and Joon had dropped out of sight like somebody tumbling down an elevator shaft.

  She could still be down there, Mary thought. Legs broken, bleeding, dying—

  But Mary didn’t believe it. No matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t hear anything—nothing after that horrifying cannonball splash that had sounded so distant, so far down below. Mary realized she was crying again, sobbing gently in a way that made her throat hitch painfully. In that moment, Mary wished she was dead.

  And then, suddenly, she heard something.

  A car was approaching. Somebody was coming.

  I’m going to get my wish, she thought. She was sure of it; the dull hum of an engine was getting louder, and, a moment later, she could just make out the dim sweep of headlights through the vast trees around her. There was no question about it: a car was approaching the house.

  They’re coming for me, Mary thought. Whoever did this—whoever brought Joon here; whoever took Amy away—they’re coming for me now.

  There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t move. Her face stung with dried tears. She was all screamed out; she had nothing left.

  The engine got even louder and the headlights swept over the far side of the house, casting crazy shadows against the trees. Then the engine cut and a car door slammed—a loud, metallic bang that made her flinch—and footsteps crunched in the wet gravel, coming toward her, around the house.

  Make it quick, Mary found herself praying. Please, God, make it fast—whatever’s about to happen, whatever’s about to happen to me, make it fast.

  Heavy footsteps were approaching through the long grass and the weeds. She could only see a tall, thin silhouette, haloed in the damp air.

  It’s him, Mary thought. She was numb with terror, remembering her vision—the dark shape that loomed over her, coming closer, like a falling statue. It’s him—the giant man.

  Mary heard herself whimpering in fear and was powerless to stop. The figure approached, getting closer and closer, growing taller and taller, looming over her like the sharp, jagged silhouette of a bare tree in the coldest depths of winter, and she found herself praying again: Don’t hurt me—kill me if you’re going to kill me, w
hoever you are, but don’t hurt me. Don’t make it hurt.

  The giant figure stopped right in front of her, a tall, featureless shape like an angel of death, or a giant in a fairy tale, the kind of giant who strides through the dark primeval forest and snatches small children, who are never seen again.

  “Please,” Mary whispered, gazing helplessly up at the black silhouette. “Please don’t hurt me—”

  The figure leaned forward, reaching out a hand and, suddenly, she saw who it was. It wasn’t a giant at all.

  “Come on,” Dylan Summer whispered urgently. “Grab my hand—we’ve got to get out of here right now.”

  6

  11:21 P.M.

  “DYLAN?” MARY TRIED TO blink the rain and tears and strands of wet hair from her eyes. “Dylan? Is that you?”

  “Grab my hand,” Dylan repeated. He was crouching, his arms outstretched. His own sodden hair flicked back and forth as he whipped his head around in near panic like a trapped animal. “Come on—do it!”

  Mary reached up and fumbled with Dylan’s hands, grabbing his wrists with her freezing fingers as he did the same to hers. The rain was picking up again; big drops spattered on her shoulders and face as Dylan leaned backward and heaved, pulling her upward. She nearly screamed as her bare ankle scraped against rough tree roots and stones. Dylan was grimacing, his eyes clenched tight, his face crimson with the effort.

  I can’t get out, Mary thought, biting her lip at the pain as the roots scraped against her rib cage, tearing the green fabric that Amy Twersky had paid so much for—the fabric you were warned not to dry-clean too often, since it was so delicate. He’s not going to be able to do it; he’s not strong enough.

  But he was. With a sudden, scraping sound like the screech of a nail being pulled from a piece of wood, Mary catapulted upward, muddy water flowing into the hole as she collapsed onto Dylan, knocking him into the tall weeds. Dylan grunted as her weight drove all the air from his lungs.

  But he was trying to get out from under her, wincing with the strain as he clamped his fingers around her shoulder and pushed her aside. She rolled sideways into the mud and he wheezed as he got his legs under himself and awkwardly rose to his feet.