Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop

  —but she had nothing to back the words.

  A hand wrapped around her neck. There was no breath to cut off. She had nothing left in her body.

  Stop hurting me!

  The hand tightened. She heard the tendons in her neck begin to pop like overly tightened guitar strings.

  “What do you say to make me stop?” The words were not coming from him, even though his mouth was moving. He was like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Someone was speaking through him in a perfect imitation of his voice.

  “What do you say?”

  A black cloud began to creep into the edges of her vision. She was losing consciousness. She could feel her eyes bulging, desperate to be in this room, in this world.

  “Tell me!”

  His grip loosened just enough for Moore to suck in a painful breath.

  “What do you say to make him stop?”

  Him?

  “Bitch, do you want to die?” It was no longer his voice. It was something else, deep and bestial. “Say it!”

  “I’m nothing!” Moore managed to force the words from her lips.

  “Say it again!”

  “I’m nothing! I’m a piece of shit! You’re everything! I don’t deserve you! I’m nothing!”

  The hands let go of her neck.

  She opened her eyes.

  He was gone.

  She fell back onto the bed. Her hand shot to her eye. No fracture. No swelling.

  Leaping up from the bed, Moore rushed over to an ornate oval mirror mounted on the wall. She frantically searched her face for any sign of injury. There was nothing. She was fine. Everything was fine.

  She turned her head to the side, studying her reflection.

  A woman was standing beside her bed, head cocked, gray eyes staring through flowing black hair.

  Moore spun around.

  But no one was there.

  She scanned the room. It was empty. On the floor, the whiskey bottle lay on its side, still intact.

  Her legs began to tremble beneath her. She barely made it to the bed before they gave out.

  Moore reached up for a pillow and clutched it to her chest. She began to cry.

  She was alone. Completely alone.

  Slowly, her tears ceased. Her eyes closed. She drifted off to sleep as if nothing had ever happened.

  At the foot of his bed, something stirred.

  Sebastian was pulled from a chasm so deep and dark, he felt he would tumble down, down, down forever, his prayers for an end unanswered for all eternity.

  He opened his eyes. The shaft of moonlight streaming in through the window lit the room just enough for Sebastian to sense its dimensions, to know that he was no longer trapped in a boundless void.

  But someone was there, standing within the shadows beyond the moonlight, a few feet away from the foot of the bed. He could hear the person breathing. Shallow, raspy breaths.

  Sebastian sank back into his pillow, staring, waiting for the thing in the shadows to move.

  It’s not a person, he scolded himself. It’s just a shadow. You’re forcing yourself to see something that isn’t there.

  He blinked his tired eyes, wetting them in the dry fall air. The shadow person began to take on dimension. Details emerged from the darkness.

  A pale face. Smiling. Wide, staring eyes.

  A woman.

  Sebastian drew in a startled breath. His heart thundered in his chest.

  But when he blinked again, the image before him had changed.

  The dark shape was now tall, six feet at least. Its outline was of a broad-shouldered man.

  Sebastian pushed himself up in bed, the decorative carvings of the headboard digging into his back. He squinted, trying to penetrate the darkness to see who—Or what—stood before him.

  The dark shape shuffled forward, a lurching step that seemed to take great effort. The ashen glow of moonlight fell upon tan skin, highlighting a pillow of rich brown hair and warm dark eyes.

  It took a moment for Sebastian to accept what he was seeing. Something in the back of his brain insisted it could not be. That it was an illusion.

  Though there it was, standing before him. If he reached out, he could touch it.

  Him, he corrected himself. Touch him. Richard.

  “Sebastian,” the man said softly.

  It’s him. By God, it’s his voice.

  No, something was off. Sebastian couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

  The man smiled. “It’s me. I’m here.”

  It’s his lips. His mouth opened, but his lips barely moved. They didn’t form those words. That voice did not come from him.

  The man stepped closer. He seemed to radiate moonlight.

  “It’s me, honey. It’s really me.”

  Hot tears began to stream down Sebastian’s face. He didn’t care how or why this was happening. He didn’t care if things weren’t exactly right, if this were an illusion or a phantom or a trick of his deteriorating mind. He only wanted this moment, right here in this room, in this house. “Richard?” Sebastian’s lips began quiver.

  “I want to talk to you,” the man said, the words floating from his open mouth. “We can talk all night if you want. I won’t go anywhere.”

  Leaning forward, Sebastian reached out a trembling hand, desperate to span the distance between them.

  The man from the shadows reached back.

  Sam was dreaming.

  He was at a party. Thrown by whom, he couldn’t say. The room was packed, and the guests wore festive paper hats of various colors. Some blew into noisemakers as others laughed at the startling sound. Their dress was oddly dated, the men in black ditto suits and top hats, the women in cumbersome gowns draped over crinolines. It must be a holiday, New Year’s Eve perhaps, although he could not remember ever attending such a party.

  From across the room, he watched Erin laughing uncontrollably as a group of men took turns entertaining her with outrageous stories. They fawned over her, each one more obvious than the last. But Erin’s eyes were on him, even as the men began to kiss her, first on the cheek, then on the lips. She did nothing to stop them as they caressed her, their hands aggressively squeezing her breasts, rubbing her erect nipples, fingers worming under her short dress. The men kissed her neck, her legs, her exposed breasts, and still she stared at Sam, laughing harder as the men took liberties without consent.

  He cried out, Erin!

  He wanted her. He needed her. The thought of anyone else having her was unbearable.

  He had been wrong to let her leave. It was a mistake. He should have stopped her.

  Why didn’t I just tell her the truth?

  He tried to call out to Erin again, but her name caught in his throat. It burned with a terrible heat. His entire throat was on fire. Dark gray smoke filled his lungs.

  He was choking. He was dying. He was burning alive.

  He looked down and saw he held an old cast-iron skillet. Dark blood covered the rough, seasoned metal. It dripped from the edge, splatting on the ground.

  He blinked and then he was in his house. Erin was crying. The place had been cleared out, not a single piece of furniture, not a single book on a shelf, nothing left to remind him of his old life.

  Old life, he thought. That’s what it is now. Gone forever.

  But he was wrong. Erin was telling him that it was okay, that she forgave him. Perhaps this whole, horrible mess was partly her fault. She had neglected him. She had allowed them to drift apart.

  Sam shook his head. It didn’t happen this way. It was all his doing. He was the one who drank too much, who picked fights, who retreated within himself until she had no choice but to leave. He was the one who refused to give her the family she had always wanted.

  She reached out and took his hand.

  But it was not her hand.

  It was the immolated hand of a woman, flesh burned free to reveal patches of white bone.

  It was the hand of his mother
.

  Sam closed his eyes and began to scream. No! No! No!

  Smoke filled his open mouth, choking him, consuming him.

  Sam woke with a start. The details of his dream were gone immediately.

  There had been a sound that woke him, he was sure of it. He lay in bed, perfectly still, trying to listen over the thump of his wild heart.

  There it is.

  It was faint, but he had not imagined it. He pushed up onto his elbows and turned his ear toward the sound. He strained to hear it.

  Scratching. Like something scraping against the back of the wall . . .

  A knock on his bedroom door made him jump.

  “Christ,” he said sharply to himself. He listened. The scratching sound was gone.

  Quietly, Sam climbed out of bed, the floor cool on his bare feet as he crossed to the door. He leaned close, his ear inches from the door, and he listened. Someone was on the other side. He could hear the soft pull of air as they breathed.

  “Sam?”

  The voice startled him.

  “Sam, are you awake?”

  He quickly yanked the door open. Moore stood in the hallway, wrapped in a heavy patchwork quilt.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you.”

  “Is everything okay?” Sam asked.

  The edges of the quilt, held tightly around her, were moving slightly.

  Her hands are trembling, Sam realized.

  “Can I come in?” There was a surprisingly vulnerable quality to her voice.

  Sam stepped aside, and Moore hurried into the room. He shut the door behind them and the latch clicked into place.

  “Moore, what the hell is going on?”

  “I thought someone was in my room,” she told him. She was facing away, toward the crumpled sheets of his bed.

  “Who?”

  She did not respond. “Sorry,” she said, moving back toward the door. “It was nothing. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Sam reached out and touched her shoulder. “Moore. What’s wrong?”

  Moore paused. She let out a slow breath. “I’m messed up, Sam.”

  “We’re all messed up, Moore.”

  “No.” She shook her head. She was still not facing him. Her long mane of black hair swung back and forth against the quilt. “I mean . . .” She stopped to collect her thoughts. “Has anything ever happened to you that just fucked everything up from that point on? Like your life just took a nosedive and you’ve never been able to pull up?”

  Sam tasted smoke on the back of his tongue.

  “Has anything like that ever happened to you?” she asked again.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What was it?” Without seeing her face, her voice had a strange quality to it, as if it were not coming from in front of Sam but somewhere around him.

  “Moore, what’s this all about? Did something happen?”

  She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to say the words: “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  Slowly, Sam moved around to face her. She would not meet his eyes. He had never seen her look this way. She looked—

  Scared, he realized. She looks scared.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing happened, okay? I’m sleepwalking, Sam. That’s it. I’m walking in my sleep right now so, you know, just forget this ever happened. Can you do that?”

  Sam’s eyes were playing tricks on him, making it seem like Moore’s words did not match her lips. He pressed his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the fog of sleep.

  “I shouldn’t have come here, but . . .” Her words trailed away.

  Sam reached out and touched the tips of her fingers that held the quilt in place.

  “You can talk to me.”

  She did not respond, but her eyes flashed to his. The fear was back. She curled her fingers around his.

  “I don’t want to go back to my room” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Why?”

  “I just . . . Can I stay here?” she asked.

  Sam let his hand slip deeper into hers.

  “Can I stay here with you?” She slipped up close to him, pulling his hand inside the darkness of the quilt.

  His fingers touched flesh. She pressed his hand against her warm body.

  “Moore . . .”

  He let her guide his hand to the curve of her breast. His fingers brushed her erect nipple, and he heard her give a sharp gasp.

  The quilt slipped lower, revealing her bare shoulder. Moore let go with her other hand and let it fall to the floor.

  She stood naked before him. Her skin glowed in the moonlight.

  Time seemed to stop. Sam was frozen in place, unable to move even if he had wanted to.

  But he did not want to move. He wanted to be here, with her.

  Her lips brushed against his neck, his flesh alive with every exhaled breath. She was kissing him now, her eager tongue pressing into his mouth. She bit his bottom lip and gave a hard tug.

  Time began to move again, faster than before.

  She slid his hand over her taut, pale stomach and down between her legs.

  Sam blinked, and now they were on the bed, his T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms in a heap on the floor. Her breasts grazed his erect penis as she pulled off his boxers, and an electric current caused every muscle in his body to contract. He could feel his heartbeat thudding throughout his entire body. Moore straddled him and took him inside her.

  They were moving as one, hands grasping each other in a frantic effort to force their bodies even closer together.

  The sharp blades of her silver fingernails dug into his back, and Sam felt something warm begin to trickle down his skin. He did not care. She could flay the flesh from his bones and he would still fuck her. He would not stop fucking her for pain or fire or death. He wanted to be in that moment forever.

  Sam reached up into the black mane cascading down her back and twisted the hair around his left hand, clenching it in a tight fist. She moaned, burying her face into the crook of his arm, her mouth finding his scars, her tongue tracing the ridges of his hardened flesh.

  He thought of her sinking her teeth into his scars, of her ripping the tattooed skin from his muscles and spitting each bloody mouthful into the dark.

  He was deep inside her, deeper than he thought possible.

  Sam blinked.

  Moore was staring straight at him. The pupil of her right eye was a black starless universe before him. It was beautiful. He was falling into the void. There was nowhere else he wanted to be.

  Her lips did not move, but he heard her voice, or something close to her voice. It was alien and strange. Layers upon layers of words.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  Her hair fell over the side of her shaved scalp like a waterfall at night. The end of each strand was a tendril, grasping to take hold.

  “Tell me what happened to you.”

  The hair slipped around Sam’s neck and tightened. He could feel it constricting like a snake just below his Adam’s apple. It pulled him closer, his lips finding the dark chasm of her ear.

  “Tell me everything.”

  And Sam began to speak.

  When he opened his eyes, he was alone.

  Sam sat up in bed, confused. It was still the middle of the night, and he was dressed in his T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He slipped a hand beneath the back of his shirt. No marks. No blood.

  “Holy shit.” He exhaled the words in a shuddering breath.

  It had been a dream. It had to have been a dream.

  His body gave a sudden shake in the cold night air. Without thinking, Sam pulled the comforter from the bed and wrapped it around him like a cocoon. For what seemed like forever, he sat in bed and concentrated only on the whisper of his own breathing.

  As his senses became more focused, he began to hear the sound of a voice. It was muffled—in fact, at first he could only make out the reverb of its low bass tone—but it was unmistakably
the sound of someone speaking.

  Holding the comforter around his waist, Sam shuffled across the room, following the voice to the north wall, which separated his bedroom from Sebastian’s. He pressed his ear to it, the wallpaper rough against his cheek.

  It was Sebastian’s voice, soft and steady. Sam’s first thought was that Sebastian was talking in his sleep, but the rhythm of his speech was conversational, clusters of words broken up by irregular yet deliberate pauses. Many of his sentences ended on the upswing. Questions. He was asking questions. But to whom?

  Maybe he was talking on his cell phone. No, wrong again; none of them had gotten reception since midafternoon. A landline, then. Perhaps he had a phone in his room and was using the house’s hard line to call home. That wasn’t right either. The house had been vacant for years. The phones couldn’t still be in service.

  Sam cupped a hand over his exposed ear, pressing the other harder into the wall. It was no use. He could not make out what Sebastian was saying. He held that position for quite some time, oblivious to the passing minutes.

  Eventually he gave up, crawling back into bed with the intention of asking Sebastian about it in the morning.

  Sleep evaded him. He lay there, staring up at the chipped ceiling, tracing the cracks like an explorer riding a river, following each tributary to its inevitable end.

  He could still hear the murmur of Sebastian’s voice as he finally drifted off.

  This time, he did not dream.

  EIGHTEEN

  9:15 a.m.

  THEIR BAGS WERE packed and set in a neat row by the door. Sunshine streamed in through the windows flanking the front entrance. Dust motes swirled in the light.

  Sam had awoken at precisely eight o’clock. He didn’t have any concrete memories from his night in the bedroom and assumed he slept soundly for the most part. Yet he went about his morning ritual in a haze, brushing his teeth, combing his hair, slipping into clean clothes wrinkled from his duffel bag. He moved a bit slower than usual, his body weighed down by some unknown burden.

  Bad dreams, he told himself. Nothing more.

  Sam met the others in the living room.

  One by one, Wainwright pulled them aside for one last interview. This was their chance to plug their latest projects. This was their true reason for agreeing to spend the night at Kill Creek. Their business. But their hearts were no longer in it.