Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  And then it was done. The cameras went back into Kate’s case. The computers were already loaded in the back of the VW bus.

  It’s over, Sam realized.

  In the foyer, the four writers stood quietly while Kate shot video from a few yards away. Sam glanced over at Moore, her eyes shielded behind sunglasses. His brow furrowed as his mind attempted to retrieve a fuzzy image.

  Moore, wrapped in a quilt.

  But then it was gone. All he could remember was the sensation of thin tendrils tightening around his neck.

  Wainwright was the last to join them after making sure nothing of value was left behind on the second floor.

  “Well,” he said as he descended the stairs, “it looks like we’re ready to go.”

  “Just like that?” Daniel asked. There was a hint of sadness in his voice, as if he were going to miss the place.

  “Just like that,” Wainwright replied.

  Sam snatched up his bag. Wainwright threw his own bag over his shoulder and lifted Kate’s two cases, one in each hand. He gave Kate a little nod to let her know that he had everything under control.

  “I would say that it was a pleasure,” Moore told Wainwright. “But, frankly, this was a complete waste of my goddamn time.”

  “Once the buzz on all of your upcoming projects quadruples, we’ll see if any of you still regret it.”

  Moore grumbled something under her breath but seemed content with this prediction.

  Sam took the doorknob in his hand and gave it a twist. The latch clicked. The door swung open. “One of the world’s most haunted places. Kind of underwhelming, don’t you think?” He held the door while the others filed out.

  “How many times do I have to say it?” Moore said. “It’s all a crock of shit.”

  Daniel exited in silence. The wooden planks squeaked softly as he crossed the porch and moved carefully down the front steps. Reaching the gravel drive, he glanced back over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “The windows,” Daniel replied.

  Sam looked up to the third floor. A memory flashed through his mind of a light burning brightly there. But that was impossible. The windowpanes were completely covered by wooden planks.

  Daniel frowned. “I swear there weren’t boards on them yesterday. But there must have been. They’re there, on the inside.”

  On the inside, Sam thought. To keep something from getting out.

  Sebastian stepped through the open front doorway of the house and onto the porch. “It’s really a shame that interest in this house is waning,” he said. He grasped the railing as he descended from the porch, carefully taking each step one by one.

  “Someone should buy it,” Daniel said. “Bring some happiness back to the place.”

  Then he turned away from the house and trudged farther down the drive.

  Sam stood in the front doorway and waited for Wainwright to follow. He did not. He was a few feet away, his back to Sam, his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs.

  “Wainwright?” Sam called out.

  “I thought . . .” Wainwright’s voice trailed off, replaced by the startling sound of the elevator descending. The chain clanked within the walls as if it were drawn over an ancient pulley. There was an audible jolt as the elevator arrived on the first floor.

  Outside, the others had stopped in the front yard and were staring back through the open doorway. “What is it now? One more scare before we go?” Moore called out, her sarcasm ringing loud and clear.

  Wainwright motioned to the elevator. “What in the hell caused that?”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to give an ignorant shrug.

  Setting the cases and duffel bag down on the floor, Wainwright started toward the elevator.

  “Wait,” Kate said suddenly. There was a quaver in her voice. “Don’t.”

  Wainwright ignored her. He stepped up to the elevator and, with a metallic clatter, folded the accordion door open. He stared into the car at whatever had ridden it down.

  “What is it?” Sam asked. He was shocked to find himself struggling for breath.

  Taking two steps forward, Wainwright disappeared into the elevator. Kate whimpered helplessly as he did.

  Sam thought, He’s not coming out. We’ll never see him again. He’s crossed over into another place, a dark place, a world that devours you whole.

  He was wrong, of course. Wainwright popped back out, a confused grin on his face. “There’s nothing here. Must have been some sort of malfunction.”

  “Sam, is everything all right?” It was Sebastian, his hand on the rail, one foot on the porch steps.

  A ripple of relieved laughter worked its way through Sam, Kate, and Wainwright. “Come on,” Sam said, pointing through the front doorway. “Let’s get out of here before we give ourselves heart attacks.”

  Kate did not hesitate. She hurried out the door, smiling apologetically at Sam as she passed.

  Wainwright was right behind her. “This place really screws with your head, yeah?”

  Sam stepped out onto the porch and began to pull the front door shut. He could not quite explain it, but he expected the door to give him some resistance, to pull back in an effort to keep the entryway open. Instead, the extra force he exerted caused the door to close with a slam.

  Wainwright jumped. “Jesus!” he shouted.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. Out of habit, he tested the knob. It was locked. He didn’t remember locking the door from the inside, but what did it matter? Better to have the house shut tight than to let any Halloween stragglers wander in to desecrate the place.

  The floorboards creaked as Sam marched across the porch and down the steps. The others were ahead of him, Moore and Daniel leading the way. Kate and Wainwright were quickly overtaking Sebastian, whose lackadaisical stroll was more an effect of old age than an unwillingness to rush. It did not take long for Sam to catch up with him.

  “Sebastian?”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He mentally fumbled for the right words. The question he had was a strange one, but he felt compelled to ask it. “Last night, I thought I heard you talking. In your room.”

  “At what time?”

  “Little after one, I think.”

  The corners of Sebastian’s mouth curved into a frown as he tried to recall the incident. “I don’t believe I was, Sam. I slept through the night.”

  “But I heard your voice. It sounded like you were speaking to someone. Asking questions.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Unless I was having a conversation in my sleep, I’m afraid your mind was playing tricks on you.”

  Sam fell silent. Maybe the old man was right.

  “Oh glorious, the cavalry is here,” Sebastian said as they neared the edge of the yard.

  A police cruiser was parked up ahead. Sam watched as two officers—a large bear of a man and a skinny guy whose uniform appeared to be in the process of swallowing him—spoke quietly to one another. Their faces were dour, the skinny officer looking like he wanted nothing more than to hop in the cruiser and speed off, leaving the house behind.

  Daniel and Moore were the first to reach them. Moore muttered something to the large officer, probably something unnecessarily sarcastic, but the officer completely ignored her, instead taking Daniel by the arm and leading him away from the group. Moore and the other officer, whose badge Sam could see read, “Deputy D. Ready,” began to get into it, with Moore asking pointed questions and Deputy Ready politely suggesting she “settle it down.”

  Sam and Sebastian came up behind Wainwright and Kate, who had also joined in badgering Deputy Ready.

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked.

  “That’s what I want to know,” Moore said.

  “Just everybody relax,” Ready ordered them with a Texas twang. “My partner needs to talk to Mr. Slaughter alone for a sec.”

  Instinctively, Kate raised her camera. “What are they talking about?” she asked from behind the len
s.

  Ready swallowed hard, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, ma’am. It’s a personal matter.”

  The large officer, a man in his late forties whose badge announced him as “Deputy B. Montgomery,” had a hand on Daniel’s arm. Not around it to keep him from fleeing. Under it to offer support should his legs give out.

  The questions from Moore and Wainwright were flying fast and furious, Wainwright taking a cue from Kate and refusing to let a new development in the story slip through his fingers.

  “Something is wrong,” Sebastian whispered to Sam.

  He was right. Deputy Montgomery’s demeanor had not changed, but Daniel’s face was scrunching up into an ugly puggish expression. His lower lip began to quiver. As Sam watched, Daniel crumpled to the ground. A flood of tears suddenly poured down his cheeks. Deputy Montgomery tried to keep him on his feet, but the overweight man was too much for him. He finally resorted to crouching down on one knee as Daniel’s bulk shook with uncontrollable sobs.

  Wainwright and Moore halted their interrogation and the group stood in stunned silence. They knew they were witnessing a sacred moment, the unhinged misery of another human being. Even Moore seemed uncomfortable in the presence of such soul-wrenching pain.

  “Tell us what happened,” Sam told Deputy Ready.

  Ready opened his mouth to give them the same old official “no can do,” then thought better of it. He shed the cop façade with little effort, becoming, in an instant, a polite country boy, eager to please.

  “His daughter was killed this morning,” Ready said, his words cracking like ancient yellowed paper.

  The revelation hit them like a punch to the chest, the impact stopping their hearts for a full beat.

  “How?” Kate asked with a terrible, squeaky voice.

  “Car accident. Girl was on her way home from an overnight Halloween party when another car lost control and swerved into her lane. Slammed right into the side of her car. Least that’s what we think happened. Impact killed her instantly.”

  And there it was, sickeningly definitive. There was nothing more to say.

  Daniel was wailing, the horrible noise emanating from deep within his throat. It was the sound of a tortured animal, one that knew there was no escaping the terror that awaited it.

  It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard, Sam thought. He fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears.

  Moore took a step toward Daniel, her arms opening wide, and then she froze, suddenly unsure of what she was preparing to offer him. She lowered her arms and glanced to the ground in something that looked awfully close to shame.

  Sebastian caught Sam’s eye. The old man’s face flinched with a collision of emotions. His stare was helpless, regretting that he had to exist in this moment.

  Sam felt the sting of tears in his eyes, and he had to look away. He turned to face the house, biting his lower lip in an effort to keep the emotion at bay. There it was, the house on Kill Creek, the Finch House, the old, grizzled monster that stalked the dreams of children, that danced on the tongues of morbid storytellers. It disgusted him, the sight of this tall tale, this fraud, this fake. They had spent the night in the belly of that bitch and nothing they encountered could compare to the horror they were witnessing at that moment.

  His heartbeat began to pulse in his ears as his temper flared. He wanted to destroy the house, burn it down. He wanted it to experience the anguish that Daniel was feeling. Because the death of Daniel’s daughter was no ghost story. It was no campfire tale. It was real. And they could not just flick on the lights and be safe again.

  The first tear spilled over and the rest could not be contained. In the shadow of the Finch House, Sam covered his face and wept, not sure why he was so consumed with a sense of sheer helplessness.

  He would know soon enough. For in the months to come, Sam would realize that he had been wrong about two things.

  It was a ghost story. All of it.

  And he should have torn the bitch apart board by board when he had the chance.

  PART THREE

  A THINLY CAST SHADOW

  Spring

  Even now, as I sit hundreds of miles from that lonely patch of forgotten America, I can sense the house calling out to me. It is in my darkest dreams, its emptiness swallowing me, its secrets enticing me with a knowledge no mortal man was meant to comprehend. I cannot forget the house. Because the house has not forgotten me.

  —Dr. Malcolm Adudel

  Phantoms of the Prairie

  NINETEEN

  TUESDAY, APRIL 18

  THE PRINTER GAVE an irritated beep. Out of paper. Again.

  Without looking, Sam reached over and snatched a new ream from a teetering stack. He ripped open the paper wrapping like a lion tearing into its prey. He took out an inch and shoved it into the printer’s paper tray. The action was more than second nature now. It was programmed in him, an occurrence so common, he was barely aware of doing it.

  There was a moment of hesitation as the printer calibrated. And then the pages began to roll out once more, one upon the other until the inch of blank white space became a thick wedge of words.

  Only briefly did Sam’s fingers leave the computer keys. He was enveloped by a fever, his skin flushed, his face hot to the touch. He could sense the dank odor of sweat wafting up from inside his shirt. He had not showered in days. Hadn’t even changed his clothes. Not that he cared. All that mattered was the book, finishing the book, pounding out the last, perfect words and relishing in the moment when the final page could join the others. So many others. Piles and piles. They dotted the room like tiny paper buildings, carelessly constructed, easily toppled.

  It had begun six months ago with a single moment of inspiration. Sam was back in the lecture hall, the seats filled with students anxious to hear about their professor’s night at Kill Creek. Most had viewed the original interview on WrightWire and the subsequent videos Wainwright had posted in the following days. The students had also read about the death of Daniel Slaughter’s teenage daughter, which now seemed like an ominous punch line, as if the spirits of Kill Creek were getting the last laugh.

  The students asked a few questions, but Sam shot them down. He did not want to talk about Kill Creek. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the unbearable pain twisting Daniel’s face into something unrecognizable. Sam made it very clear that the class would follow the syllabus, not discuss something they could easily watch online.

  He was in the middle of a lecture on the role of Satan in horror—from the Salem witch trials to the Satanic Panic of the 1980s—when, without warning, a simple, pristine sentence slammed into Sam’s head:

  “The house called to him, and he answered.”

  He tried to ignore it, but the line would not go away.

  Sam returned to his lectern and jotted down the words in a small spiral notebook before returning to his lecture. But then another sentence formed from the ether, and another, and another. Each time, Sam raced to his lectern to scribble down the words until, finally, they started to come to him so rapidly that he abandoned his lecture altogether. Sam dismissed the class with a wave of his hand; he did not want to interrupt the flow of thoughts and images flooding from the tip of his pen.

  He went straight home that day, tapped the space bar to wake his computer, and dove headlong into this new tale. When he looked up from the wall of words on the screen, it was past midnight; he had been writing for ten hours. He had not bothered to turn on a single light. Only the glow of the monitor illuminated his face.

  The next day, the words came twice as fast. Every now and then, without warning, Sam would leap up from his chair and pace the room just to release the energy building up in his body, the excitement that his fingers could not type quickly enough to expunge. His bout with writer’s block was officially over. He had broken through whatever had kept the words from flowing, and now they washed over him in a great deluge.

  The day after that, Sa
m canceled his afternoon class and continued pounding away on the keyboard. The house around him seemed to disappear, the walls and ceiling slowly evaporating until he sat at the center of infinite darkness.

  Days vanished, then weeks. When he happened to glance out of the front window of his home, he was shocked to find a heavy blanket of snow covering the front yard. By then it was December, and Sam had written over four hundred pages.

  Sometime in the middle of that month, his cell phone rang. He had begun ignoring it after one particularly awkward call in which the dean of the School of Liberal Arts and Sciences informed him that the school was handing his class over to an associate professor in the film department. Sam said he understood and hung up on the dean mid-sentence. This time, though, the name on the caller ID made him push away from the computer and snatch up his phone.

  It was Erin. She spoke softly and slowly, as one might speak to an animal they fear they may startle.

  “Sam? I’ve been calling for days. Are you okay?”

  They met at the Bourgeois Pig, a coffee shop on Ninth Street. A light snow had begun to fall when Sam arrived. Erin was sitting at a table by the front window. She had always been beautiful, yet something about her now seemed even more breathtaking. Her hair was longer, for one. The stylishly choppy pixie cut of the old Erin—his Erin—had grown out to an inch or two below her ears, the ends curling up to caress the curve of her jaw. She wore a fitted green turtleneck sweater that he’d never seen before. New hair. New clothes. New Erin.

  When she hugged him, though, everything fell back into place. His hand found the curve of her back, her chin slid perfectly onto the edge of his shoulder. They were one again, if only for a moment.

  They sat in silence, neither sure what to say to the other. It was Erin who finally spoke.

  She wanted to talk. She had been thinking about many things lately, about why she left, about how over the course of their marriage, Sam had pulled further and further away, about the love she knew she still had for him and her inability to shed it no matter how hard she tried. She wanted a family, she wanted kids, but for whatever reason, Sam did not feel the same. She said she felt betrayed that he hadn’t told her this earlier in their relationship. She’d been honest with him before they got married about what she expected from life.