Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  For a moment, Sam thought he heard a noise. The whisper of voices. The sound of charred hands, twisted by fire into claws, fumbling with the knob of the front door.

  Go away, his mind pleaded. Leave me alone!

  And then that inevitable thought returned to him: Your mind is the problem. It’s all finally caught up to you. You’re cracking up, and you can’t be fixed.

  “Sam?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m just anxious to finish the book.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I told you this last fall, Eli. I don’t have an outline. It’s just sort of . . . pouring out of me.”

  “Then tell me about what you have so far.”

  His mouth opened, his lips preparing to curve around the words, but the explanation abandoned him. The past six months were a blur; he remembered only the parade of words across the computer screen, pushing blindly forward, forging ahead into uncharted waters. He had never stopped to sum up the plot into anything resembling a pitch.

  “It’s about a house,” he said finally. “A house with a strange and mysterious past. A family moves in, thinking it will be the start of a new life. Only the house begins to feed off of them, manipulating them, forcing them to do drastic and terrible things. Except for one. The youngest daughter. She senses the evil and delves into the house’s past, trying to find a way to stop it. Eventually, her search leads her to the bedroom on the third floor. There’s just one problem—”

  Eli leaned forward in his chair, picking up the thread without a pause. “She can’t get in. Because the door has been sealed by a wall. A brick wall. And the more she tries to tear down that wall, the more those around her become affected by the evil.”

  Sam stared at Eli, mouth agape, head cocked curiously to the side. “That’s right.” He almost whispered the words. “How . . . how could you know that?”

  Eli stood and walked the length of the front porch, his thumb tracing the lip of the beer bottle as he tried to find the perfect words. It was obvious this was the reason for his unexpected visit. “About a week ago, I spoke to Dale Sommers at Kanyon?”

  “You called my publisher?”

  “No, he called me. Kanyon just acquired Brute Force Press, which you’d probably know if you didn’t have your head buried in a Word doc. Brute Force has published the last three books by T.C. Moore. Sommers was worried about Moore. He hadn’t heard from her in weeks. She wasn’t returning his calls. She wasn’t returning anyone’s calls. So he wondered if I could ask you to try to contact her. I told him I was having the same problem with you. I asked Sommers what Moore was working on, and, after some prodding, he read me a short outline she’d given him back in November. It’s very similiar to yours, Sam.”

  “How similar?” Sam asked.

  “I mean, the characters are different—you deal with a small-town family, whereas Moore’s main characters are young and brutal twentysomethings—but for all intents and purposes, the two of you are basically writing the same book.”

  This can’t be happening! his mind screamed.

  “How is that even possible?” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Eli set the beer down on the porch railing and shrugged. “Look, it makes sense. Obviously, Kill Creek inspired both books. The house. The supernatural legacy. The bricked-off doorway. I mean, it’s odd that they’re as similar as they are, but it’s not impossible that, creatively, you would find yourselves going down the same path. What worries me is how this process is affecting you personally. And if Moore has gone off the grid too, I can only assume she’s become consumed with her book, just like you.”

  Sam thought of all the voicemails on his phone, the missed calls. He thought of his lost job at the university, and of the disastrous meeting with Erin.

  The gravity of the situation perched on Sam’s shoulders, a fat, gluttonous bird digging its black talons into him, all the way to the bone. In his mind, he pictured the small city of paper that awaited him inside the house, towers of eight-by-eleven pages stacked clumsily around every room.

  If Moore truly was writing the same book, then all of his work was for nothing.

  Sam gave a sharp, humorless laugh. There was nothing to say.

  “You might want to try getting in touch with Moore yourself,” Eli suggested. “See if she’ll talk to you. You have her number?”

  Sam nodded and looked down at his beer. Wainwright had given them each other’s contact information a few days after they’d returned from Kill Creek. It was given under the pretense of keeping in touch, although Wainwright suggested they might want to let Daniel know they were thinking of him. Sam hadn’t bothered to call or email Daniel. He just didn’t know what to say. Nothing could make things better for Slaughter.

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but I have to fly back this evening,” Eli said. He crouched down so that he was at eye level with Sam. “Do me a favor: take a break from the book, shower, shave, clean up the place. And call Moore. Find out if there’s any way to salvage what you’re working on. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Sam replied. “Okay.”

  Eli gave him a pat on the knee. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

  Sam nodded.

  He watched as Eli walked down his porch steps and onto the front walk. Halfway to where his rental car was parked at the curb, the agent turned around and called back: “And answer your goddamn phone from now on.”

  Eli did not wait for Sam to respond. He climbed into the rental car, fired up the engine, and drove away.

  Sam closed his eyes and held his head in his hands. He listened to the afternoon breeze blowing through the budding limbs of trees. Somewhere down the block, a child shrieked happily. Sam focused on the sound of his own breathing, the slow draw of breath in and out of his lungs.

  Beside him, the doorknob jiggled. There was a pause, and then something dragged slowly down the back of the door, like fingernails scraping against the wood.

  Sam sucked in a sharp breath. He could taste smoke. It bit harshly into the back of his throat. Cautiously, he got up from this chair and inched toward the door. He took hold of the knob, wincing when he heard the latch withdraw. With a sharp shove, he threw the door open, fully expecting it to collide with a misshapen form on the other side.

  The door swung open, fast and free, bouncing roughly off the adjoining wall. There was nothing there. Only his empty house and the mountains of poorly stacked paper that had come to represent an isolated life.

  Sam minimized his Microsoft Word document and opened his internet browser. A wall of favorite sites appeared. He clicked on Facebook and searched for T.C. Moore. If she had a personal account, a simple search of her name did not reveal it. There was, however, an official author page. Sam clicked on it and scrolled down. The images displayed were classic Moore, a mix of sex and violence, meant to disturb. The last post was from November. She had shared the link to the WrightWire video. Sam noted the number of views listed under the video: over six hundred thousand people had watched the video on Moore’s Facebook alone.

  “Christ,” Sam said under his breath. He hadn’t even bothered to watch it.

  There were a few more posts from Moore after the WrightWire link, random plugs for past novels. The last post was an ambiguous message to her fans: “Working on something new.” After this, there was nothing.

  Sam opened a new tab and directed the browser to Instagram. A quick search brought up TheRealTCMoore. The experience was similar: dark, morbid photos mixed with artistic shots of her books and selfies that sold her power and sexuality. Just like on Facebook, the posts became less and less frequent through the first two weeks of November. Then . . . nothing.

  Twitter showed the same results. Even online fights with haters, which apparently had been a favorite pastime of Moore’s leading up to October, ceased once her feed hit the middle of November.

  Sam sat at the desk for a long time, pondering his next move. He could email her, but something told him he would get the same radio silence as her
agent.

  His finger moved to the laptop’s power button and paused, hovering.

  Sam stared at the computer screen. At the bottom, his novel—his thousand-plus page magnum opus—was represented by a small minimized document icon. He could expand it and keep working. He could try to press forward.

  Or he could do as Eli had suggested. He could take a break.

  It won’t like that, his mind warned him. It won’t let you rest until you’re back at that keyboard.

  “There is no it,” he said to the empty room. “It is all in your head because you’ve gone goddamn insane!”

  Unless . . .

  Unless Eli was right and the same thing was happening to Moore.

  Then I wouldn’t be crazy. I couldn’t be, right? That would be proof. Proof of . . .

  Of what? his mind asked. Sam didn’t know. Part of him was afraid to know.

  The computer gave a final disapproving beep as he pressed and held the power button. The procedure was far easier than he had expected. The hum of the laptop ceased, the glow of the monitor went dark, and that was that.

  He took a long, indulgent shower, letting the scalding hot water pour over his weary body.

  Once he was in bed, the lamp on the nightstand clicked off, the darkness settling upon him like a dense black blanket, the confusion of the day’s events came rushing back to him. His book, the one thing—the only thing—that gave him a sense of purpose was in danger of fizzling out before he could even light the fuse.

  He had to be sure, which was why, in the morning, he would book a flight to Los Angeles. He would go to see Moore in person. The only way for Sam to put this beast to bed would be to see the pages of Moore’s manuscript with his own eyes.

  And if they’re the same?

  He wasn’t sure what he would do. He was too invested in his book. He couldn’t just scrap it. Maybe there was a way to salvage what he had.

  In the meantime, Sam would put the book on hold. He would stop writing. Cold turkey. Just like that.

  No sooner had this thought flitted through his mind than the scent of burning flesh filled his bedroom.

  Sam’s flesh prickled. He held his breath, refusing to acknowledge the smell. For a moment, only the steady tick of the clock on the wall filled the room.

  Then came the sound, a wheezing sound. Someone having trouble breathing. Someone in pain.

  It’s coming for you! his mind screamed. Because you stopped. Because you’ve given up on the story.

  Sam trained his eyes on the open doorway, peering into the blackness.

  A shape slipped through, dark and hunched. Every now and again it caught the moonlight, and in those horrible, brief moments, Sam imagined he could see a face, its mouth pulled tight in a jagged sneer, its eyes wild and mad. And then the black of night would wash over the image like a midnight wave, lost to darkness.

  Something snapped, like a fingernail bent quickly backward. The shape began to drag its bulk toward his bed.

  The odor of burning flesh was overpowering.

  It’s her, his mind told him. It’s her. She knows what you did.

  “It’s not real,” Sam said under his breath.

  He rolled over to the edge of the mattress, propping himself up with one hand while reaching for the lamp with the other. His entire being cried out for him to stop, to not look at what was waiting for him in the dark, to not shed light on a thing he could never forget.

  It’s all in your head. It’s all in your head.

  It’s NOT REAL.

  The wave of night receded once more and the face was staring up at him, body hunched down on the floor, head cocked, sunken cheek pressed against the side of the mattress, teeth clenched in a lipless grin.

  He clicked on the lamp. In an instant, the sixty-watt bulb pushed back the darkness, an orb of luminance warming the room.

  The creature did not vanish in the light. The face peered up, burned beyond recognition. The back of its skull was caved in. It reached up with a charred black finger.

  “You did this! You did this to me! YOU DID THIS!”

  Sam pressed his eyes shut.

  “No! Stop!”

  “YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

  “Stop stop stop stop STOP! YOU’RE NOT REAL!”

  Sam opened his eyes.

  There was nothing there.

  A shaky sigh worked its way from his mouth, and Sam fell back onto his pillow, trembling.

  Around two in the morning, he finally drifted off to sleep. When the sun rose shortly after six in the morning, the bedside lamp still burned brightly.

  TWENTY

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19

  MOORE STOPPED AT the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath.

  Get back on track, she told herself. Gotta push through.

  Her shoes clicked softly on the glazed concrete floor as she passed under a grand arch and into the kitchen. Like the rest of her house, the kitchen was cold and sleek, all stone and metal.

  She opened a cabinet, quickly scanned the labels of the numerous high-end liquor bottles and reached for a thirty-year-old Balvenie.

  One drink to clear the cobwebs, and then you have to kick this thing’s ass.

  Just as her hand grasped the bottle’s neck, a whisper came from the other room.

  “Theresa.”

  Moore spun around.

  The archway was empty. Beyond this, a single shaft of light cut through the darkened room.

  For a moment, she stood perfectly still, listening.

  There were no sounds, save for the occasional muffled whir of a police helicopter flying over the city below.

  Slowly, she edged toward the archway.

  Breathing. I can hear breathing.

  Someone’s there.

  You know who is there, her mind insisted.

  Fear prickled her skin like a gust of icy winter air, and the sensation enraged her. She grasped the wall of the arch for leverage and stormed into the room.

  The sunlight blinded her. She flinched, blinking, and held up a hand to shield her eyes. Quickly, she backed out of the shaft of light and into the shadows that clung to the edges of the room.

  He’s here. In the dark.

  She took another few rapid steps backward and collided with something behind her. Instantly her fists clenched as she whipped around, ready for a fight.

  The wall. You ran into the wall, you pathetic, scared little girl.

  She unclenched her fists and leaned in closer to the wall, peering into the shadows. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Reaching out, she ran a hand over the wall’s surface. It was not the smooth plaster of her house. This was brick, decades old, and haphazardly stacked, as if it had been constructed quickly.

  This was the wall in the Finch house.

  Moore jerked her hand away, not wanting to touch the brick for another second.

  You’re not really there. You’re in your house, in Los Angeles. You are not there!

  From behind the wall, something scratched frantically at the bricks. It began to scream, desperate to be let out. The sound was faint, echoing over distance, as if past this wall were not the Hollywood Hills but an immense empty room.

  Moore backed slowly away, her entire body clenched to keep from shaking.

  “Go away,” she ordered.

  The screaming grew louder. There was a rhythm to it, a strange, uneven flow of starts and stops. It was no longer behind the wall. It was all around her.

  “Go away!” she roared.

  She blinked, and the bricks were gone, replaced by the plaster wall that had always been there.

  Yet the sound remained. It was coming from somewhere above.

  Moore cocked her head, listening.

  It was the barking of a dog.

  The pit bull nearly ripped off Sam’s face.

  Sam quickly scrambled up one of the several brick lampposts dotting the yard. The dog snapped its powerful jaws at his heels. He wouldn
’t be able to hold on much longer.

  “Moore!” Sam called out. “It’s Sam McGarver! The writer! Remember, we met last fall at . . .” His voice trailed off. Somehow saying its name made it all too real, recognition that the house was what bound them.

  The dog was barking wildly, inches below his feet. Thick white spittle splattered his shoes.

  Sam’s fingers were slipping. In another minute, he would fall to the ground and have his flesh torn away in warm bloody mouthfuls.

  Just that morning, Sam had thought getting on a flight from Kansas City to Los Angeles would be the most difficult part of his spur-of-the-moment adventure. Finding Moore’s house wasn’t a problem; Eli was easily able to obtain her address. When no one answered the buzzer at the gate, scaling the fence that surrounded the gorgeously landscaped estate also turned out to be a surprisingly effortless feat. A low, thick hedge held Sam’s weight long enough for him to reach the fence’s top crossbar. There was a tense moment when Sam thought he might lose his balance and impale himself on the large black spikes that dotted the fence. An image flashed through his mind, of lying on the lush lawn, clutching a bloody handful of ripped scrotum while waiting for the screaming siren of the paramedics to reach him. And then he hopped to the other side, down onto the yard where he casually strolled up the steep drive toward the front door.

  That was when he saw the hulking pale creature round the corner, and Sam ran for cover.

  Sam peered over the lawn to the front porch. He took a breath and tried one more time. “Moore, just let me come in! I’ll explain everything!”

  “McGarver, what the hell do you want?” It was T.C. Moore all right, that unmistakable mixture of aggression and sarcasm.

  “I just need to talk to you,” Sam said again.

  “About what?”

  “Your book.” Sam knew this wouldn’t be enough to earn face time with Moore. He thought for a moment, then added, “Your book about the house.”

  There was a pause, an eternity it seemed, although it could not have been more than a minute or two. And then the silence was broken by the squeal of door hinges. Sam heard a whistle, and Moore called out:

  “Lilith!”

  The pit bull instantly obeyed, skulking off around to the back of the house.