Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  It was so quiet out there. Strangely quiet, like being in a sensory-deprivation chamber.

  Sam opened his eyes. Overhead, the night sky sparkled with countless stars. The tallgrass stood waist-high and perfectly still on either side of the driveway.

  Walking farther away from the house, Sam heard a faint sound ahead in the darkness.

  A chirping sound.

  There was a steady rhythm to it.

  He could see the shape of the wooden bridge emerging from the gloom, taking shape before him like a materializing apparition.

  Sam reached out and touched the end post of the bridge’s railing. The wood was splintered and rough.

  The sound was coming from the other side of the bridge. Actually, it was coming from everywhere on the opposite side—from the edge of the bridge, from the road, from the grassy shoulder, from the shadowy trees that ran parallel to the creek.

  The chirping grew more intense.

  Insects. The quick pulse of crickets, the slower undulation of cicadas.

  In a few weeks, they would burrow under rocks and logs to wait out the winter, but for now, they were out, still singing their song to the stars.

  But not where he stood. It was an absolutely absurd thought, but Sam could not help thinking it anyway:

  The insects won’t cross the creek. They won’t come over to this side.

  Ahead of him was the light, rapid beat of night sounds. Behind him, there was a perfect, oppressive silence.

  Slowly, Sam backed away from the bridge. He turned and picked up his pace, heading back toward the house. The sound of the insects faded away in the distance.

  He was passing the beech tree when he sensed a sudden illumination above. He glanced up at the house.

  A light was on in the third-floor window. It burned like a lantern in a black tower. And then it blinked out as quickly as it had appeared.

  Still staring at that window, Sam moved beneath the branches of the tree.

  A shiny black shoe struck him in the face.

  He cried out as he leapt backward, tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his back. He stared up into the tree.

  The feet of a woman swung slowly over him. She wore a dark dress and long white stockings. Blood had settled into her pale fingers so that they swelled like sausages about to burst. Over the curve of her breasts, Sam could see a sliver of her bone-white face, her bulging eyes glaring down at him.

  It was Rachel Finch.

  Sam scooted backward until he was safely away from the tree, and then he hopped up, his heart pounding, his chest heaving.

  He was wrong.

  That’s not Rachel Finch. Not anymore.

  The body had changed. It was a heavyset woman in her late thirties. Or it had been. She was charred black, her skin peeling away like bark from a rotting tree. What little hair was left looked as if it had melted into a scalp like the cratered surface of a moon. Heat had caused her eyes to explode in their sockets, and a shiny, jellylike substance streaked down her cheeks like grotesque tears. The weight of her body caused her neck to stretch against the rope to the point that he was sure her head would rip clean off.

  “Oh God, no,” he moaned.

  Mommy.

  There was movement beyond the sway of her body.

  Her fingers were twitching.

  He watched as her hand rose slowly into the air. The incinerated stump that was once a finger extended, pointing at him. Her jaw dropped open, and what was left of her lips slid up still-white teeth as she tried to form a word that her tongueless mouth could not speak. A cloud of gray smoke drifted out into the air.

  Sam pressed his palms against his eyes.

  No. No! It’s not her! It’s not her!

  He pressed so hard that he began to see golden embers floating through blackness.

  She’s not here. It’s not real. None of it is real. It is all in your mind.

  Because you’ve finally lost it. You’ve gone crazy.

  This thought was most frightening of all.

  Finally he lowered his hands. He opened his eyes.

  There was no body in the tree.

  The branches swayed lazily in the breeze.

  Kate was in the foyer, sitting at the foot of the staircase, when Sam returned. She quickly rose, pulling an olive-green Army Surplus jacket tightly around her as the cool air swept in from outside.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  It’s your face, he realized. You look like you’ve seen a . . .

  He couldn’t even finish the thought. It was too ridiculous.

  “Everything’s fine,” he told her. He didn’t expect her to believe him. He wasn’t even sure he did.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were alone.

  “I wanted to talk to ya about what happened. About the interview.” She kept her voice low, which flattened her usually rich accent.

  “It wasn’t an interview, Kate; it was an ambush. He used us to put on a show for his followers.” The anger remained, but there was no threat of it boiling over as before. His nerves were still frayed by what he had seen outside.

  What you thought you saw, he corrected himself.

  Kate pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and glanced away. “I know he can get carried away sometimes. He’s ambitious. But he’s also scared of, ya know, everything falling apart. Of losing what he’s built. He feels like he has something to prove.”

  “Yeah, well, he can join the club.”

  “Please. He’s a good person.” She stared up at Sam with pleading eyes. “He’s been there for me when I’ve needed him. And he really does respect you.”

  He has a funny way of showing it, Sam thought, but saying this to Kate would solve nothing. Instead, he nodded.

  “I’ve already talked to the others,” she said.

  “And?”

  “Sebastian and Daniel seem willing to overlook the, ya know, aggressive moments of the interview.”

  “And Moore?”

  “She asked me if Wainwright ever fucked me as hard as he fucked you guys tonight.”

  Of course. Classic Moore.

  “What did you say to that?” Sam asked.

  Kate gave a devilish grin. “I told her if he fucked y’all that hard, your egos wouldn’t be walking straight for a week.”

  Sam offered her a hint of a smile, but he said nothing.

  Her grin faded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For the rest of the night, no tricks. No bullshit. I promise.”

  When Sam and Kate entered the kitchen, the others were talking about the wall.

  Everyone paused, waiting to see if Sam had cooled off. Wainwright was back to his usual stance, hands in pockets, legs slightly bent. But for the first time since meeting him, Wainwright looked downright sheepish, almost embarrassed by what he had put them through in the interview.

  Sam let everyone stand in silence for what felt like an hour.

  Just put it behind you, he told himself. It was in your head. Don’t hold Wainwright responsible for how screwed up you are.

  Finally he spoke. “What wall?” he asked, as if the prior events had never occurred.

  The whole group was present. Everyone but Daniel had refilled their glasses with much-needed (and thankfully abundant) alcohol. Sam quickly noted two cameras mounted in opposite corners of the room, their red lights blazing. Intermission was over. The show was back on.

  Kate leaned in close to whisper, “They’re not live. I’ll edit the footage later.”

  “Make me look good,” Sam whispered back.

  Wainwright lit a cigarette, waiting to inhale deeply before explaining, “The wall upstairs, on the third floor.”

  “There’s a staircase leading to a brick wall,” Kate added.

  Sam frowned. “A brick wall?”

  “Yeah, I thought . . .” Kate’s voice trailed off.

  Wainwright shot her a stern look as he blew out a cloud of smoke. “She thought she saw something at the top of the stairs.” />
  Daniel leaned in, suddenly interested. “What did you see?”

  “It was a trick of the light,” Kate explained, more than a little embarrassed by the attention. “Just a . . . a shape or something.”

  “Where does the staircase go?” Sam asked.

  “To a bedroom,” Wainwright said. “When the Finch sisters moved in, it became Rebecca’s room. The number three button in the elevator? That goes straight there. Or it used to. If you take the elevator to the third floor now, it’ll open to a brick wall, just like the staircase.”

  Daniel had turned his attention to the plate of cold cuts. He stood over them like a buzzard eyeing the remains of a picked-over carcass. “Why would someone brick up a bedroom?”

  Wainwright took another drag and contemplated the question. “No idea,” was all he could muster. “Rachel Finch did it after her sister’s death.”

  “Bitch must have been out of her mind,” Moore said, running her fingers through the black hair cascading over her shoulder.

  “There’s a light on up there,” Sam told them.

  Wainwright shook his head. “No. That’s impossible.”

  “I just saw it. Outside. It was on.”

  Overhead, the lights suddenly dimmed by half. Then, just as unexpectedly, they shot back to full power, only to dim once more. This time, they did not return to their previous strength.

  A thin slice of roast beef slipped from Daniel’s fingers. “What’s happening?”

  “Perhaps the house is waking up,” Sebastian teased.

  Daniel chimed in, “That’s how it happens in these houses. It’s always at night. During the day, everything’s fine. But at night? That’s when everything goes down.”

  “The only thing going down is a pound of salami down your throat,” Moore said.

  The lights buzzed as they dimmed further.

  Sam shot a look at Wainwright. No bullshit, he thought. Then what’s this?

  Wainwright didn’t bat an eye. “It’s the generator. In the basement,” he explained to the group. He marched out of the room, returning a moment later with a large black flashlight. He clicked it on. It emitted a striking beam in the orange glow of the half-light.

  “I’ll go with you,” Sebastian said, already reaching for the basement door.

  Sam touched him on the shoulder. “Wait.”

  “I’m old, Sam, but I’m not that old. I’ll be fine.” The hinges gave an angry squeak as Sebastian opened the door.

  “Kate, would you mind?” Wainwright motioned to her camera.

  She nodded. A flick of her thumb and a light mounted atop the camera blasted a pure white beam.

  “The rest of you, sit tight,” Wainwright said. “This should only take a second.”

  Without warning, the camera was snatched out of Kate’s hand.

  “Don’t tell me to sit tight,” Moore said to Wainwright, looking through the camera lens.

  “Moore,” he scolded, but Kate silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Let her go if she wants to.” Then, to Moore: “Just be careful with the camera.”

  Sam watched as Moore marched through the open basement door. Wainwright and Sebastian followed, descending into the darkness.

  The basement was freezing.

  Moore followed Wainwright’s flashlight, adding to it the light of the camera in her hands, creating an orb of luminance with a radius of about ten feet. Wainwright swept his hand slowly back and forth like a searchlight as they reached the bottom step and made their way across the cold floor. The concrete ceiling was uncomfortably low, the height from floor to ceiling no more than seven feet. Like they were being slowly crushed by the house above.

  They could see nothing beyond the light. As they moved, objects emerged from the dark. Several bent rusty nails. Broken pieces of stone. The skull of a long-dead rat.

  The walls reverberated with the subdued hum of the sickly generator. They tried to follow the sound as they worked their way through the darkness. It was impossible to ascertain the layout of the room. For all they knew, they could have been walking in the wrong direction, away from the generator, toward . . .

  Toward what? Moore wondered.

  She didn’t know. Toward whatever was already in the basement, in the dark.

  The edge of the light crept across the floor.

  We’ve gone too far. The basement shouldn’t be this big. The voice in her mind was a younger voice. A girl’s voice.

  Moore felt the pinprick of fear against the back of her neck and scalp. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, her nostrils flaring.

  Keep your shit together, an older, stronger voice ordered.

  Their feet shuffled across the concrete. The line of light continued to move before them, revealing an old yellowed cigarette butt. Around the edge of the filter was a smudge of red lipstick.

  “Where is this thing?” Sebastian asked.

  The irregular chug of the generator was louder now, but still it was impossible to place it. Moore swept the camera’s light to the side. The blackness retreated, and her heart rate quickened as she realized she had no idea what she was about to see. But the light exposed only empty space. She whipped the camera to the left, and the darkness reclaimed its ground only to shrink back in the other direction. On the floor was a metal wheel. The spokes blooming from its center were bent and broken. The rubber around its edges was rotting away in uneven patches.

  From a wheelchair, Moore realized.

  Suddenly the shadows before them began to wash away. The boxy outline of a metal machine emerged from the black.

  “There it is,” Wainwright said.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Sebastian asked.

  “Don’t know. Best-case scenario, it’s just low on fuel. Worst case, it’s a mechanical problem.”

  “And if it’s the worst case?”

  “We’ll be in the bloody dark until morning.”

  Moore shivered, half at the cold, half at the thought of spending any amount of time in the house with no electricity. She steadied the camera’s light before the men noticed her unease. The last thing she needed was for them to think the house was getting to her.

  The orb of light illuminated the generator and a few feet on either side of it. Otherwise, the room was pitch black. At the top of the wall, Moore noticed an air vent to which the generator’s exhaust hose was affixed and a few exposed pipes protruding like steel roots. Jagged cracks split the dusty floor, giving it the impression of a breaking ice floe.

  A half-conscious thought stabbed sharply in Moore’s mind: There’s nothing beneath us. If the floor gave way and we fell in, we would sink forever. Forever and ever and ever . . .

  “Are you all right, dear?” Sebastian asked her.

  Normally Moore would have snapped someone’s head off for calling her “dear,” but from Sebastian, it was comforting. There was no condescension in his words. The old man was truly concerned.

  Moore ignored the question.

  “So,” Wainwright began as he knelt down to examine the generator. The shadows seemed to wrap around him, pulling him in. His deep voice boomed even louder off the hard surfaces of the basement. It seemed to come from all sides at once. “Here we are. Two generations of horror. In the basement of a haunted house.” He nodded toward the impenetrable dark. “What do you think is out there?”

  “What do you mean?” Sebastian asked.

  “I mean when the lights come on, what do you think we’ll see?”

  Moore squinted, trying to look past the sphere of light protecting them, but she could see nothing. The basement was an empty void.

  “Why don’t you tell us what we’ll see?” she asked Wainwright, unamused. “You’re the expert on this place.”

  “Come on. You’re writers. Hell, Moore, I even heard you were good at it.”

  I don’t like this, Moore told herself, but the hint of fear she felt only made her angry.

  “Please? For a fan?” Wai
nwright asked.

  Sebastian sighed. “Well . . . I suppose whatever it is, it’s there in the dark right now, isn’t it? It must have been here when we arrived. And now it’s watching us.”

  He pointed into the dense blackness. It seemed to stretch on infinitely.

  “It would have to have some connection to the house. Goodman, perhaps?” He turned to Moore.

  She resisted at first. Then she shook her head and whispered, “No. He’s too tragic. It needs to be something crueler, more twisted.”

  “Right,” Wainwright said. There was excitement in his voice.

  Moore and Sebastian peered into the abyss. She tried to imagine what shapes might be hiding behind this black curtain.

  “The Finch sisters,” Sebastian said in a hushed voice. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly who is down here. They watched us descend the stairs. They followed us as we made our way across the basement. They stayed just outside the light so that we couldn’t see them. But they’re watching us.” He cocked his head curiously. “Wait. Do you see that?”

  “See what?” Moore asked.

  “There.” Sebastian pointed into the darkness. “I can actually see them. One of them is in a wheelchair—”

  “Rebecca,” Wainwright chimed in.

  “And standing beside her is her sister—”

  “Rachel.”

  “That’s right. They’re staring back at us.” He leaned toward the edge of the light. His face was in danger of passing into the dark. “They know we can see them. Oh . . . oh, now they’re moving. They’re coming closer. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of the wheelchair. The left wheel, it makes a faint squeak as it turns, as it rolls closer and closer . . .”

  Moore listened. She heard only the sounds of the generator and her own slow breaths.

  Of course, because nothing else is there.

  She breathed in through her nose and winced. There was the scent of the basement, musty and damp, but beneath this was something else. A foul odor of something rotting.

  A dead animal. Poor bastard fell down into the basement and couldn’t get out.

  But the smell seemed to grow stronger, as if whatever it emanated from was moving closer.

  She thought she heard the sharp squeak of a wheel as it came to a sudden stop.