Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  “They’re just outside the light,” Sebastian whispered. He held out a hand, palm up, to Moore. “Give me your hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Just give it to me.”

  Moore frowned. She could feel her heart beating in her chest. She hoped he didn’t notice the sweat on her palm. “Don’t get any ideas, old man. Just because I’m down here in the dark with you doesn’t mean you’re getting any action.”

  “Oh, honey, on that count you have nothing to worry about,” he whispered, making sure Wainwright could not hear.

  The camera tilted slightly in Moore’s hand, momentarily forgotten, as she realized what Sebastian was implying. “I . . . I didn’t know—”

  “You’ve said it yourself, Moore. I’m from another era. And in that era, it was better to keep such personal matters secret. It helped that I was a bit of a prude.”

  “That’s . . .” Moore stopped herself. She had let the word slip out before she knew what she was going to say, an occurrence she rarely allowed.

  Sebastian looked to her. “It’s what, dear?”

  Just say it, she thought. No need to be clever.

  “Sad,” she told him.

  Sebastian nodded, considering it. “Yes, in a way, I suppose it is. But I wasn’t completely alone. I had one great love.”

  Moore’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Are you two still . . .”

  Sebastian shook his head. “He died, almost four years ago. Cancer. He was my editor, in fact. His name was Richard.”

  Moore heard the sound of a cap being unscrewed. The sharp odor of gasoline stung her nostrils. She looked down.

  Wainwright was on all fours, his upper half obscured by the side of the generator. “Good news,” he announced. “She’s just low on fuel.”

  He rose to his feet, dusting off his knees as he scanned the area around the machine. The beam of his flashlight fell upon a red five-gallon gas can. He snatched it up and gave it a shake. Liquid sloshed around inside. He quickly removed the cap on the gas can, which, when reversed, became a spout. He tipped the spout into the generator’s fuel tank. The gas gurgled loudly as the machine drank it up.

  “Are they still there?” Moore asked Sebastian, picking up the game right where they had left off.

  Sebastian once again held out his hand. This time, Moore took it without hesitation.

  “Yes,” Sebastian said. With their hands clasped, Sebastian reached toward the blackness.

  Beyond their bubble of illumination, the entire world ended.

  “Rachel is reaching for us now.” Sebastian’s voice was so faint, it was barely audible.

  “I can see them now,” Moore said. “Rebecca is smiling.”

  “It’s an awful smile. Sinister. She’s looking up at her sister and grinning. Her flesh is stretched so tightly, I can see the bone. And those eyes . . .”

  Their fingertips reached the edge of the light, and Sebastian paused.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  Moore listened. She could hear something, like the sound of running water.

  “It’s the gasoline going into the tank,” she suggested. She listened again. The sound was coming from somewhere in that impenetrable abyss. “Is it the creek? Is that possible?”

  Sebastian did not respond.

  Moore glanced over at him. His face was suddenly slack, his eyes wide and staring.

  “Sebastian?” she whispered.

  She noticed that his jaw had dropped so that his mouth opened slightly. A glistening star of saliva appeared in the corner of his lips.

  “Sebastian.”

  His eyes were vacant. His hand was heavy and limp in hers.

  This isn’t part of the game. There’s something wrong with him.

  “Sebastian,” she whispered louder.

  The tips of their fingers hovered at the light’s end.

  “Is that you?” Sebastian asked suddenly.

  Moore followed his gaze into the darkness. She saw nothing beyond the light.

  Who is he talking to? Moore looked to him again. His eyes were quivering in their sockets.

  Because he sees something. He sees something out there!

  Suddenly he let go of Moore’s hand. His arm dropped to his side. He lurched forward one step, then two. He was walking out of the light, into the darkness.

  “Sebastian!”

  His face crossed over. He looked like he was dissolving into the shadows.

  She grabbed his arm to stop him.

  Without warning, the old man gasped loudly and his entire body flinched. He reared back, away from something.

  Something in the darkness! Something right there in front of us!

  Moore turned the camera’s light slightly, and her hand, still gripping his arm, plunged into the dark.

  Her fingers touched smooth metal. A handle. She gave it a nudge and felt the object roll slightly.

  A wheelchair. You’re touching a wheelchair.

  A name exploded behind Moore’s frantically searching eyes: Rebecca Finch.

  Something brushed the back of Moore’s hand, caressing her. It was cold and spongy, like—

  Dead flesh.

  A hand clamped down over hers as a roar came out of the blackness.

  Moore yelped, the camera’s light flashing wildly around the basement’s filthy walls as she scrambled away from the sound.

  “It’s the generator!” Wainwright yelled. The roar had settled into a steady chug. “It’s okay. It’s just the generator.”

  A ball of orange light appeared in the abyss, then another, and another. They flickered once, twice, then with a surprisingly loud pop, they brightened to full strength.

  Three bare sixty-watt bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting cones of bright light down into the basement.

  There was nothing before them. No Rachel Finch reaching for them. No Rebecca Finch grinning madly in her wheelchair. Only an unfinished basement, a bare concrete cube that was much smaller than Moore had imagined.

  She turned to Sebastian. His eyes were no longer vacant, but he was staring at the empty room with a look of complete confusion.

  “I saw . . .” Then he looked to Moore, and the confusion vanished. He was back. “Moore? What is it? What’s the matter?”

  She did not know what to say.

  Wainwright clicked off his flashlight. It was no longer necessary.

  “Let’s get back upstairs,” he said.

  SIXTEEN

  10:08 p.m.

  THE FIRE HAD nearly died out in the living room. A blackened sliver of wood smoldered in the glowing embers, a trail of smoke snaking its way up the chimney like a dark spirit fleeing to the sky.

  Sam dropped another log onto the fire, the impact sending a plume of ash into the air. A single flame leapt up as the dry bark caught. The flame spread, hungrily consuming the fresh wood. Before long the entire log was engulfed. The fireplace roared as the air fed the blaze.

  He stepped back, putting distance between himself and the flames. The fire brightened the living room, but it also cast shadows that lurched and quivered in the periphery.

  Only shadows, he told himself. Nothing else.

  He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Kate was upstairs, her camera holstered for the night. Wainwright had gone with her to say good night. Daniel and Moore had also retired to their bedrooms. Daniel had borrowed Sam’s phone to try calling his wife and daughter again, while Moore was working on her new book. She let everyone know they would not see her until morning when “this manufactured shit-show is over.”

  That left Sebastian, now seated opposite Sam on the couch. The old man rested quietly, his eyes fixed on the leaping flames, his drink forgotten on the coffee table. Sam was well aware of how frail the septuagenarian was. But there in the living room, the shadows chiseling away at what little fat still clung to his bones, Sebastian was a living skeleton. He looked brittle, as if the slightest effort could snap him clean in two.

  “What are you thinking a
bout?” Sam finally asked.

  Sebastian tried to muster up a carefree smile. It was not convincing. “I can’t really say. Just off on a journey, I suppose.”

  Sam stared at the old man, who was watching the flames lap at the shadows.

  For a long moment, they sat in silence. Above them, the house creaked. Sam cocked his ear, listening. Waiting. He heard shuffling. Footsteps.

  It’s one of the others, in their room. That’s all.

  The footsteps stopped, almost as if they knew they had been heard.

  But there was another sound. He had to strain to hear it.

  What is that? He tried to place it.

  The drawing in of air. A soft exhale. There was a slow, patient rhythm to it. Sam turned and stared into the dark archway that led into the foyer. He could almost feel the air pulling past him, through the foyer, up the stairs, deeper into the house. Then it was pushed back, only for the cycle to repeat again.

  Breathing. It’s like the house is breathing. But softly. Like it’s relaxed. Content.

  Content to what? he asked himself.

  To be here with us. To listen.

  Sam clenched his jaw and shook the thoughts away.

  Don’t.

  But—

  Don’t! Stop looking for things that aren’t there. Stop trying to make every situation worse for yourself!

  In the fire, a log popped loudly. Sam flinched. The flames were higher now.

  I shouldn’t have put on that last log. I should have let the fire die.

  The flesh of his left arm felt tighter, like a constrictor around the muscle and bone.

  “I like you, Sam,” Sebastian said suddenly.

  Sam was pulled from his thoughts. He turned to Sebastian, confused by this proclamation.

  “I find Daniel pleasant enough,” Sebastian continued. “I didn’t much care for Moore when I met her, but believe it or not, she’s growing on me. Kate is a sweetheart, and Wainwright, well, I don’t think he’s on any of our top ten lists right now. But you, Sam, I can say that I genuinely like you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Sam assured him.

  “I’ve always had a very good memory.”

  Sebastian was still lost in the fire. He spoke directly into the inferno.

  “I can remember things from when I was a small child as clearly as if they happened five minutes ago. I can remember what I wore to my first day of kindergarten. I can remember my father’s proud face when I learned to ride a bicycle. I can remember my mother crying when she learned that her father—my grandfather—had died of a heart attack. I can remember Richard’s face the day before he learned he was sick, the last perfect day of our lives.”

  Following Sebastian’s gaze, Sam looked into the flames, searching for what the old man saw there. The fire flickered excitedly. The tips of the flames were nearly to the top of the fire box.

  Sam smelled the smoke, and his stomach turned.

  “Tell me, Sam, what’s the most vivid memory you have from life?”

  The question was completely unexpected.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  An image appeared in Sam’s mind, silent yet vivid. He tried to push it away.

  “Um . . . I don’t know, Sebastian—”

  Sebastian shook his head. “No. You thought of something the moment I asked the question. What was it?”

  A house on fire. His brother holding him back. Breaking free from Jack’s grip. Plunging a hand into the burning rubble. The flames eating his flesh.

  A cast-iron skillet, caked with blood. His trembling hand clutching its handle.

  He forced these images away and fought for something better.

  “Sam?”

  “My wedding day,” Sam lied. He grasped desperately at this new memory and took hold of it. “I thought of my wedding day. My wife smiling as she came down the aisle. It’s cliché, I know. But I can see her perfectly. I can smell the flowers. White roses. Hundreds of them.” He was unaware that the memory had made him smile.

  “And why do you think that image of your wife on your wedding day remains so fresh in your mind?”

  “It was an important day in my life—”

  “Beyond that.”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said with complete honesty. Then something occurred to him. “Because it was perfect, I guess. A perfect moment. A perfect life.”

  “And what happened to that perfect life?”

  Sam stared deeper into the fire, offering his words to the flames. “I screwed it up. I pushed her away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t deserve her.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s too good,” he said sharply. He had thought this countless times but never said it aloud. Now here, with Sebastian, he felt safe saying it. “She’s a good person, and I’m . . .”

  Bad. Because of what I did.

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter why. She’s gone.”

  “And do you remember the moment you realized you had lost her forever?”

  There was Erin, her face streaked with tears, standing in the doorway of their home. She was begging him to ask her to stay. And there he was, sitting on the stairs, completely numb, refusing to give her the thing she wanted most, to give her a family, a child. She had put up with his moodiness, had loved him even as he pulled further and further away from her. But this was the final straw. He refused to give her happiness, because he was afraid.

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “Two very different yet equally vivid memories,” Sebastian said. “One of happiness. One of pain. Yet they are both important. They are who you are.”

  “Sebastian, what is this all about?”

  Sebastian sighed, crossing his legs and placing his clasped hands on his lap. “I used to worry about many things. I worried that my writing wouldn’t be taken seriously. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to make a career of it. I worried that my wife would discover that I was a homosexual and, after she did, I worried that the public would discover the same thing.”

  Sam looked over, but Sebastian did not meet his gaze. Sam had never known this detail about his idol’s life. Before Sam could comment, the old man continued:

  “And, a few years ago, when my lover, Richard, was diagnosed with cancer, I worried that he wouldn’t be able to beat it. He didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” It was all Sam could offer, and he felt ashamed at the feebleness of the words.

  Sebastian picked up the glass of whiskey from the coffee table, but he did not drink. He swirled the amber liquid around and around.

  “I feared these things, but in the end, they all made me who I am.”

  He sucked down a gulp of whiskey and winced at the burn. “Hold on to those memories, Sam. The good and the bad.” He regarded the liquor in his glass. “Because someday, much sooner than you think, you may lose them from your life. One by one, they will go. The worse, when it happens, will be the memory of love. Love is warmth. It’s like Greek fire; no matter how much others try to dampen it, it only grows more intense. I want to remember love, Sam. I want to remember it forever. Because the thought of losing that, well, there’s nothing more terrifying. Not even in this decrepit old house.”

  The flames flickered as a gust of air was drawn down the chimney.

  Sebastian glanced at his watch, then pushed himself up from his chair. “It’s almost ten thirty. I’m afraid that’s bedtime for this old bag of bones.” He carefully shuffled past the fire. As he did, he lightly touched Sam on the shoulder, then continued on his way.

  He was almost in the foyer when Sam said, “Good night, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian paused and smiled. “Good night, Sam.”

  Sam watched as the old man turned and vanished into the darkness.

  Wainwright stood in the kitchen, pouring himself a vodka on the rocks. He sipped as he checked the WrightWire app on his phone. The video was up on the home page for those who hadn’
t joined them live. He glanced at the viewer tally below the video window and choked on his drink.

  Four million. And counting.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. “Holy. Shit.”

  Four million views in under four hours. By tomorrow it would be near ten. This was big. His silly little Halloween event was paying off.

  He hadn’t really expected it to work. He was sure they would all flake. Or that the house would be uninhabitable. That was the best stroke of luck. For a country house that had been unoccupied for almost twenty years, it was in surprisingly good shape. The cleaning service could take some of the credit, and the Finch sisters had done their fair share of remodeling in the seventies and eighties, but it wasn’t all due to their hard work. No, the person who deserved the majority of the accolades was Joshua Goodman, the man who built the place. He obviously knew what he was doing. At first glance, the house was deceptively unassuming. The closer one examined the finer details, though—the hand-carved crown molding in each room, the flecks of color added to the glass of the sunroom windows, the satisfying weight of each door, as if sliced clean from the center of a monstrous tree—it all added up to a house that had stood the test of time.

  Wainwright had never built anything like this place.

  Sure, he had his career, which continued to climb steadily upward. Despite an increasingly cluttered landscape on the web, he had turned unconventional genre pieces into something of an art form. But it all started with the money his father had given him; Donald Wainwright, publisher of the tabloid trash rags that cluttered supermarket stands from coast to coast. Wainwright’s success was never truly his. At the end of the day, he was just a trust fund kid using Daddy’s money to meet his famous heroes.

  And exploit them.

  Yes. That, unfortunately, was part of the formula now. If he hoped to keep WrightWire going, he had to continue to make noise, even if it meant burning a few bridges.

  But at quarter to ten, it appeared his Kill Creek adventure had (for the night at least) come to an end. He had to admit, he was a bit let down. Despite his love of horror, he didn’t entirely believe in ghosts—although he was hesitant to rule out the supernatural altogether. Still, he had hoped that something big would happen. Levitating furniture, perhaps. Ectoplasm appearing from thin air. Demonic voices ordering them to get out. Whatever Kate saw, that could have been something, but it wasn’t enough. The Adudel book set the bar high, and yet here Wainwright stood, enjoying a civilized drink in the kitchen while the other guests brushed their teeth and crawled into bed. He came to the house thinking they were entering a gateway to hell, and instead he found himself running a bed-and-breakfast.