Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  Sam glanced over at Sebastian, who was standing off to the side of the group, his arms crossed.

  Has he seen this? he wondered. He felt the pang of guilt. This was his idol, the man whose writing had salvaged what was left of Sam’s childhood. And now Sam looked at him suspiciously.

  But he was here. He’s been visiting Adudel. What does Sebastian know that we don’t?

  Opening the memo book to the first page, Wainwright found a series of notes printed in cramped block letters, Adudel’s preferred writing style.

  There was a header: May 13, 1983. Along the right margin were a series of times. Wainwright began with the first entry:

  9:15 a.m. – Arrived at Kill Creek. Greeted at door by Rachel. Waited for me to step into house before addressing me. Strange. Not very friendly. Woman of few words. “We are pleased to have you here.” Her words. We.

  10:43 a.m. – Just concluded a tour of the house. Much renovation done by the sisters. Not quite sure why, place is in the middle of nowhere. No strange activity. No C.S. felt. No O.A.

  Wainwright paused. “C.S.?” he asked.

  “Cold Spots,” explained Adudel. “And O.A. is shorthand for Optical Anomalies. My own term. Anything supernatural that you can see. Orbs, shadows, ghostly lights.”

  “Right,” Wainwright said. He continued:

  11:32 a.m. – Conversation in the study. I asked about Rebecca. Rachel reluctant to speak of her. Get the feeling she’s hiding something. Maybe just being protective? A sister’s love? Shown scrapbook, pictures of the construction done to the house, a few childhood photos of R&R. Only one picture of them together in house. Rachel gave it to me. Odd. She has no other copy. Why let me have it? Noticed that Rachel now wears her hair like Rebecca’s, tied back. Asked about this. She says it is her way of honoring her sister.

  1:14 p.m. – Lunch. Rachel made sandwiches. Ate in sunroom. Rachel pointed out well in back, trail leading to Kill Creek. Have to go check that out.

  Still no unusual activity. House a bit cool, but day is overcast.

  3:05 p.m. – Something has happened. Asked Rachel about third-floor bedroom blocked off by brick wall. She told me it was “none of your concern.” While she was in bathroom, snuck upstairs to third-floor bedroom. Inspected brick wall. Not done by professional. Not same level of craftsmanship seen in rest of house. Did Rachel build this wall herself?

  5:28 p.m. – Spent rest of afternoon asking Rachel about their experiences in house. She spoke freely re: renovation but clammed up when I pressed on supernatural matters. Why won’t she talk? Maybe house isn’t haunted? Maybe one big hoax?

  7:30 p.m. – Witnessed first O.A. After dinner, decided to explore the basement.

  Nothing at first. Dark. Dirty. A single bulb to light the room, plus my flashlight.

  Was heading back upstairs when shadow in corner seemed to move. Seemed to step forward, away from the wall, then back into darkness. No C.S. during encounter.

  9:00 p.m. – Rachel has proposed a curious thing. Over wine, she suggested we “elaborate” a bit. I was confused at first. If house really is one of country’s most haunted, why embellish? She would only offer another cryptic answer:

  “For strength.” What does this mean?

  9:45 p.m. – Have reluctantly discussed details of my supposed “encounters” in house. Feel like a fraud. But Rachel has made an attractive offer. Too much to pass up. What’s one book? Enough true backstory to create “non-fiction novel” as Capote would say. No one can know about this. Enough nonbelievers already. If this one aberration in career can help parapsychology as whole, then it’s worth it. Can use R’s $$ to fund future investigations. Real investigations. Is that so wrong?

  1:00 a.m. – Story complete. Feeling better about this. Not that much different from what really happened. Only . . . more vivid, more detailed.

  Maybe just talking myself into it. But it is a believable story. Rachel insists it is the right thing to do.

  2:30 a.m. – Heard footsteps in hall. Went to investigate. Saw Rachel turning the corner. Careful not to be seen, I followed her. Watched as she went upstairs to wall at third-floor bedroom. She sat by wall. I was able to listen. She spoke to wall: “I’m sorry. You understand. You understand.” Swear I could hear TWO voices—Rachel’s and another. Who is she talking to? Rebecca? Alive? Or her spirit? Could spirit of Rebecca still be in that room?

  Wainwright lowered the memo book and looked from Daniel to Moore to Sebastian to Sam, finally settling on Adudel, the man who had written the notes over two decades ago, the man who had transformed this humble experience into a farce of a book, a best-selling lie. He held out the notebook in disgust. “Take it,” he said.

  Adudel did, tossing it onto the desk. The sunshine streaming through a tiny square window above was beginning to fade, the study suddenly cloaked in gloom.

  “So now you know what I know, which is not much, yes?”

  “You must have theories,” Daniel said. It sounded like an accusation.

  Adudel’s only reply was a playful grin. He was enjoying the moment. He was not ready to lose them all just yet.

  Sam turned to Sebastian.

  “What has he told you?” Sam asked him.

  Sebastian reluctantly met Sam’s gaze. “Not much. Bits and pieces,” he said softly.

  “But now all of you are here,” Adudel explained.

  As if he expected it, Sam realized.

  Or, at the very least, it wasn’t a surprise. The eccentric little man had welcomed them in as a group, had looked at each of their faces like separate parts of a whole, a necessary union.

  Adudel pushed down on the top of the silver lion’s head, once more lifting to the toes of his feet. It was the action of a showman eager to continue with his act. “This is what I believe. The house became home to an entity because people believed it was haunted. I can’t be positive what it is exactly. A wayward spirit that took root in the house, although I highly doubt this. A concentration of psychic energy, perhaps. Whatever it is, it resides there now, and has for over a hundred years. But it grows weak from time to time. As people forget, as the name ‘Kill Creek’ leaves the public consciousness, the power within the house loses strength. That’s what I think Rachel meant when I asked her why we should make up a story. ‘For strength,’ she said.”

  He looked to Sebastian and repeated the words: “For strength.”

  Sam thought he saw the old writer give a nod of acknowledgment, an understanding that was lost on the rest of the group.

  “Only the locals remembered the house at that time,” Adudel continued. “Rachel needed some way of reminding people that the house was a thing to be feared. I served that purpose. My book gave it strength.”

  “But your book stopped selling,” Moore said. It was not meant to be an insult. It was merely a statement of fact.

  Adudel nodded, his jagged grin faltering. “Eventually. People lost interest, yes? It’s what we all fear as writers, I suppose, our readers no longer caring about the stories we are compelled to tell. Bookstores stopped stocking it. My publisher stopped printing it. Only used copies existed. And once again, Kill Creek became an obscure legend. It was a name whispered by curious college students but few others. The entity in the house, the thing that Rachel and Rebecca Finch had been so strangely protective of, became dormant once more. Hibernating. Waiting.”

  “Until we came along,” Sam said.

  The polished black stone of Adudel’s eyes shimmered beneath his thick lenses. “Well . . . that was not entirely by chance. I haven’t been completely honest with you. You see, Mr. Wainwright did not come upon my book on his own. I sent a copy to him.”

  All eyes flashed to the young internet mogul, in his slim-fitting suit, his shirt unbuttoned, his dress casual even as the stress of his situation squeezed him in a vice.

  Wainwright’s mouth opened slightly, just enough to allow one whispered word: “You?”

  The doctor nodded proudly. “The paperback, the one you own. Didn�
�t you ever wonder where it came from?”

  “People send me things all the time. Books. Movies. Music.” He was searching, attempting to justify the past.

  “That’s how you chose the house?” Moore spat. “Someone sent you a book and you didn’t wonder for one goddamn second why?”

  Wainwright shook his head in confusion. “It was just the book. No note. Nothing.”

  Sam turned to Adudel. A thin layer of cold sweat had broken out over Sam’s skin. “Why did you send it to him?”

  “The same reason you all would agree to such an absurd interview with WrightWire,” Adudel replied. There was an irrefutable calmness in his voice. “Because Mr. Wainwright is in the business of putting things back on top.”

  A pained groan escaped Wainwright’s lips. “I made it famous again.”

  Notebooks and papers flew from the desk as Moore swept them away with a furious hand. She was immediately in Adudel’s face. He looked up into her eyes, staring into her broken pupil, and the confidence he had relished was stolen from him.

  “What’s after us?” she demanded. “What are we dealing with?”

  “I-I told you,” Adudel stammered.

  “But what is it? A residual haunting? A remnant?”

  “It can’t be,” Sam chimed in. “It’s calculated. It’s intelligent.”

  Intelligent. The thought made his entire body quiver.

  Moore spun around to Daniel. “Demonic, then? Is that possible?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re the goddamn Jesus freak in the group!” she roared.

  Adudel chimed in, “I don’t believe it’s demonic. At least not in the way we think of a demon, as an ancient thing, as a corruption of God’s love.”

  “A portal, then, some kind of doorway to another world,” Sam suggested. He suddenly became aware that they had all formed an ever-tightening half circle around Adudel. All but Sebastian. He was standing with his back to the wall, purposely removing himself from the group.

  He’s barely said a word, Sam realized. Why is he being so quiet?

  Adudel took a step back, nearly falling as his cane caught on a stack of old leather-bound books. He was trying to put distance between himself and the group.

  “Possibly . . . possibly a portal, but I don’t believe it was there when Goodman first built the house.”

  Moore lunged forward and grabbed Adudel by his shoulders. The doctor made a sound like a frightened child.

  “Then where did it come from?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure . . .”

  “Where did it come from?” she repeated.

  “It came from us! We created it, yes? All of us. Everyone. From the day Goodman and Alma were killed. Believing the house was bad actually made it bad.”

  The skin on Sam’s left arm screamed, and he realized he was gripping his scarred flesh tightly, wringing it.

  “So you wrote your book to give the house power? To make it stronger?” Moore asked incredulously.

  Adudel’s voice was barely a whisper. “It wanted me to. Rachel . . . she said I would get something in return. She said that’s how it worked. And I did! I got what I wanted. My book, my field, my entire life’s work was taken seriously. I was being taken seriously!”

  The parapsychologist’s cane trembled in his unsteady hand. “It was here in this house with me back then. I could sense it watching me as I wrote. And then the book was done and people were buying it, people were reading it. And for a few years, it was exactly as Rachel promised. You see, the house needed a storyteller.”

  A storyteller. Sam looked to Sebastian. The old man would not meet his gaze. Sam thought he saw a grimace tugging at the corners of Sebastian’s lips.

  Or is it a smile?

  “It needs someone to share its legacy with the world,” Adudel continued. “But I failed.”

  “People started to believe you were a fraud,” Sam said.

  Adudel drew in a shaky breath. Somehow his eyes appeared even smaller behind the large lenses. “The house used me. Just like it is using all of you now. And when you have served its purpose, it will cast you aside. It will forget you. It happened to Rachel Finch. It happened to me.”

  “It won’t happen to us,” Wainwright’s deep voice boomed in the cramped study.

  “It will,” Adudel assured him. That crooked smile crept across the old man’s face like a fault line opening in the earth. His cheeks struggled to hold the expression as decades of fear and regret fought their way to the surface.

  “And then you, too, will be forgotten.”

  The street was almost completely dark now, even as the sky above retained its cool blue glow, touched here and there with pink patches of sunset. The buildings on either side rose in great black walls, creating the sensation of being at the bottom of a narrow chasm, the reassurance of light so far away.

  Sam checked his watch: seven thirty p.m.

  How long were we in there? he wondered.

  Stepping down onto the sidewalk, Same felt as though they had lost days, a week, even. Their visit couldn’t have lasted more than two hours, yet here they were, shuffling back toward Washington Avenue like a pack of brain-fried junkies, unable to comprehend the information they had been given. Sebastian joined them, eager for the fresh air.

  Sam should have laughed the parapsychologist’s theory away as a ridiculous, overcooked ghost story.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  Sam was the one to tell Sebastian about Kate. The old man didn’t want to believe it; he refused to accept the hypothesis that the house had been responsible. The more Sam insisted, the more Sebastian pushed back.

  It’s only natural. We all tried to rationalize it at first, Sam told himself.

  But this is different. Sebastian isn’t refusing to believe; he just doesn’t like what he’s hearing. It’s like he’s . . . like he’s defending the house.

  Sam hated the thought. That damn house. The thing that had infiltrated their lives. The thing that would not stop until it had completed its mysterious plan or all of them were . . .

  Dead.

  Sam tried to swallow, and found that his throat had clenched like a fist.

  What do we do? What the hell are we supposed to do?

  The answer came to him without warning.

  “We have to go back to the house,” Sam told them there on the sidewalk in Brooklyn as dusk swept over the borough like a hungry purple shadow.

  The group exchanged confused glances.

  “To Kill Creek?” Moore asked.

  Sam nodded.

  “For what?” Sebastian asked incredulously.

  “Sebastian, whatever this is, it’s reaching into our lives over thousands of miles. We’ll never be free of it unless we find a way to stop it.”

  “How? What do you think we can possibly accomplish by returning to that house?”

  “We don’t know.” Sam turned to find Moore, her hands buried deep in the pockets of a fitted black trench coat, the wind blowing her long black hair back and forth like a pendulum. “But Sam’s right. We have to go. And you’re coming with us.”

  The old man scoffed. “And why on earth would I—”

  “And the first brick broke free,” Sam said.

  A breath caught in Sebastian’s throat. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s where you stopped writing, isn’t it?”

  Sebastian did not reply.

  “It’s the last line all of us wrote,” Sam continued. “All of our stories were stopped by that brick wall, a wall exactly like the one at Kill Creek. We have to get into that room, Sebastian.”

  “For what? What’s inside?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted, wishing he had some answer, any answer.

  “You heard what Adudel said,” Moore told Sebastian. “The house needs a storyteller. That’s what it’s been doing since last November. It’s been forcing us to tell its story.”

  A thought flashed
through Sam’s mind: It’s been testing us, to choose one of us. He stared at Sebastian, so alive, body and mind rejuvenated, and he couldn’t help wondering if the house had made its choice.

  Moore reached out and took the old man’s hand in hers. “We can’t ignore this any longer, Sebastian. This isn’t in our heads. Something is after us.”

  The great Sebastian Cole, legendary author of hundreds of books and short stories, influencer of countless other writers, looked down at the hand of T.C. Moore and gripped it tight. He ran his thumb over the tops of her smooth fingers.

  “Your nails are a mess,” he said.

  Moore smiled warmly. “A lot of things have gotten neglected lately. You should see my bush.”

  An unexpected laugh caught them by surprise, but they welcomed the brief reprieve. For that fleeting moment, they felt free.

  Only Daniel wasn’t laughing. His hands were balled into tight fists.

  “Okay. I’ll go,” Sebastian said, giving Sam an odd hint of a smile.

  A knowing smile.

  And then he let Moore lead him away.

  They reached Washington Avenue. Horns honked. Engines revved. Headlights flashed by on the busy street. They waited at the corner until the light turned green, then crossed in a jagged line, Wainwright leading the way.

  Daniel brushed past Sam, forcing Moore and Sebastian to the edge of the crosswalk as he passed. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, over and over. His face was redder than usual, a bulging vein running like a tributary of hate down the length of his neck.

  “Daniel,” Sam called after him.

  He did not respond.

  Wainwright was digging into his pocket, searching for his car keys. He had no idea that Daniel was storming up behind him.

  Sam opened his mouth to warn him, but he was too late. Daniel pounded Wainwright square in the back. The force sent Wainwright stumbling, arms waving widely as he tried in vain to regain his balance. He hit the sidewalk hard, his knees driven painfully into the buckled concrete. Twisting his head at an awkward angle, he peered up at the heaving form standing over him.