Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  “It’s sturdier,” he said. “The porch. It seems almost brand new.”

  Sam turned back to the front door.

  Here we go.

  He twisted the knob.

  The door opened easily.

  Did we lock it when we left last year? Sam tried to remember. Maybe someone entered after us and forgot to lock it.

  Or maybe the house wants you to enter, his mind suggested. Sam pushed this away. Such thoughts would only lead to fear.

  Sam steeled himself and stepped inside.

  At first glance, it appeared the rooms were as they had left them. But soon they realized the interior was also in better condition. The house was impossibly clean. Not a speck of dust told of the passage of time. The wood of the walls and floor seemed richer than before. Even the furniture, still in place as instructed by Rachel Finch’s will, looked freshly cleaned.

  Healthy. The house seems healthy, thought Sam.

  They tested the light switches as they hesitantly crept through the rooms. No power. This was not a surprise; the electricity had vanished with the removal of their generator on the first of November. In the kitchen, Wainwright twisted the knobs on the sink. No brown gunk. No freshwater. Nothing.

  They moved down the narrow hallway, toward the main room. A wave of panic seemed to wash over Wainwright. “What is it?” Sam asked.

  Wainwright shook his head and forced himself to follow the others.

  They moved through the next room and into the foyer. They found themselves once again standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What do you think it has planned?” Sebastian asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sam responded honestly. “It knows we’re here. If it wants to do anything to us, it will.”

  The house creaked softly in the light wind, boards popping faintly in distant corners. No one spoke. They stood perfectly still, listening, straining to hear anything unusual—a footstep, a laugh, the echo of voices. They heard only the wind, whistling as it picked up briefly, pressing invisible hands against the windowpanes. Then the whistling faded. The wind died down. The weight of the intense stillness settled over them.

  The summer heat receded the moment they stepped through the front doorway, an occurrence they should have welcomed but which instead unnerved them. There they stood, in the cold, quiet house, waiting for it to make the first move.

  It’s doing the same thing, Sam thought. Watching us. Waiting.

  Moore adjusted her grip on the sledgehammer’s handle, turned to Sam, and raised a thin, arched eyebrow.

  “So?” she asked.

  How did I become the leader? Sam wondered. He took a deep breath, letting the role he never asked for settle in.

  “We break through,” Sam said.

  Moore nodded her approval. “We break through.”

  The stairs creaked beneath their feet as they crept upstairs. Moore weighed the wicked sledge loosely in her hands as she climbed toward the second floor.

  Be ready, she warned herself. This bitch can get to us in our own homes. No telling what it will do here.

  Wainwright stayed close behind Moore. Sebastian was third, his hand on the rail, making sure both feet were planted firmly on each step before moving farther. Sam followed, his hands ready to catch Sebastian if he were to tumble. As always, Daniel trailed them, wrapped in a troubling silence.

  There were no ghosts waiting for them on the second floor. The stained-glass window at the far end of the hall offered a cheery alternative to the shadows that cloaked the top of the stairs. They passed the closed doors to their right and left, each taking furtive glances at their old bedrooms, memories of their first visit to Kill Creek rushing back to them.

  When Moore turned the sharp corner into the alcove at the end of the hall, she stopped, her feet butting up against the first step of the next set of stairs. The others gathered around her, all taking a moment to peer through the gloom at the brick wall above them. Behind it, they had been told, was the third-floor bedroom, the place where the last gasp of air had left Rebecca Finch’s lungs, the room Rachel Finch had sealed shut after her sister’s death.

  “Fuck it,” Moore said, and she trudged up the stairs, reared back the sledge, and let out a fierce cry. The hammer’s head collided with the red bricks, chipping a chunk away. It skittered down to the bottom of the stairs.

  Sam stared at the chunk of brick, afraid. It was as if they had just sucker punched a bully, the red shard of brick like a drop of blood against the wood floor.

  If the house wasn’t awake before, it is now.

  Above, the pounding continued, the clanking of the hammer growing louder as Moore put more muscle into it. But unlike the first swing, the subsequent ones had little effect on the wall. No matter how hard she attacked the bricks, their edges remained intact, the mortar secure. Before long, despite the coolness of the house, beads of sweat were rolling down her face.

  “Anyone who thought this wall was gonna come tumbling down can kiss my ass,” she called to the others.

  Sam set the canvas bag down, and Wainwright quickly unzipped it. He rifled through the various items in the bag, pushing aside the Bible that Moore had purchased and snatching up a chisel and the smaller framing hammer. He took the stairs two at a time, all the way to the top, and set the edge of the chisel into the mortar between the bricks. Soon there was the clank of two hammers working, their heads pounding in a steady rhythm. Gray dust floated through the air as tiny bits of mortar sprang free, but still the wall held fast.

  With a slight groan, Sebastian pressed his hands against either side of the narrow stairwell and lowered himself down onto the first step.

  “You all right?” Sam asked.

  Sebastian smiled wearily. “Yes, yes of course.”

  He’s lying, Sam thought.

  Sam watched Moore and Wainwright at work, arms whipping around in half circles, Moore’s sledge brutally attacking the wall, Wainwright’s hammer connecting with the butt of the chisel. A dense cloud of mortar dust was building around them.

  Wainwright pulled the neck of his shirt up over his nose and mouth, shielding his lungs from the abrasive air.

  “I’m sorry you had to come back here,” Sebastian said suddenly. He had turned his attention to Daniel, who was standing a few feet behind them. “It must be especially hard for you, considering . . .”

  Sam watched Daniel, unable to predict his reaction. Daniel’s slack cheeks reddened, a rim of tears rising to his eyes. He clenched his jaw, fighting the sorrow, swallowing it, pushing it down, down, down into the pit of his stomach, where he had held it for nearly six months. Anger flashed across his face, wild and untamable, and then it was gone, his moist eyes drying, his face returning to the disturbingly blank expression he had worn since they’d found him in Chicago.

  Ignoring Sebastian, Daniel swiveled around to Sam. “The elevator. Can’t we take that up?”

  Before Sam could respond, Wainwright called down from the top of the stairs, “There’s a wall on that side too. Brick, just like this one. Besides, there’s no electricity. The elevator wouldn’t work anyway.”

  Muttering something under his breath, Daniel lowered his head and stepped farther back into the hallway.

  “Daniel?” Sam asked, not bothering to mask the concern in his voice.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Daniel nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. The tears were back, threatening to spill over. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just going to go downstairs for a second. Maybe step outside, get some air.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Sam said.

  Daniel threw a hand up in the air. “No!” he barked. Then, with more restraint: “I just need a minute.” He hurried off down the hallway.

  “Should we go after him?” Sebastian asked once Daniel had disappeared down the far stairs.

  “No, he’ll be fine,” Sam replied. There was doubt in his voice.

  TWENTY-NINE

  1:50 p.m.
r />   DANIEL COULD STILL hear the hammering echoing through the upper half of the house, a mean, destructive clatter that seemed to chip away at his very skull, an invisible spike attempting to break through to his brain.

  When he reached the first floor, Daniel paused, one hand on the knob at the end of the stair rail. He closed his eyes, trying to push an image from his mind.

  Claire. Her twisted and bloody body wrapped in metal. The engine puffing steam around her. One eye closed. One eye open, the pupil dilated, burst blood vessels mixing with the beautiful blue iris, staining it purple. That glazed eye, staring out through the wreckage at nothing, seeing nothing, sensing nothing. Gone. Gone, forever.

  Daniel choked back a sob, instantly furious with himself. Every time he cried it was as if the last bit of Claire he held inside him were draining out, spilling to the ground, lost. He wanted to hold the tears in—to hold her in—close to his heart. Instead, they slipped free, his daughter with them, the vacuum of space within him growing larger, consuming him, his heart, his soul. What had once been a paradise was now a black abyss, the vastness of space without a single star to light the way.

  I want her back, he pleaded with the darkness. I want my daughter back. I know you have her. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just give her back. Give her back to me.

  It was pointless, he knew. She was dead. There was no coming back.

  But the house had, hadn’t it? This goddamn abomination of a house had become alive out of sheer will. It had twisted itself into their lives from miles away, like an invisible vine creeping across the country, into their houses, into their families, into their minds.

  It has Claire. It told me it has her. If it is holding her, it can release her.

  Daniel closed his eyes.

  “Please give her back,” he whispered.

  The void surrounded him. Silent. Infinite.

  Without warning, a jolt rocked his body, electricity coursing through him from head to toe. His thick fingers clutched the railing, nails digging into the wood as the sensation overtook him. His first thought—his only thought—was that this was the heart attack his doctor had always warned him about. Then came a flash of images—Claire as a baby, held in Sabrina’s arms; Claire’s baptism; riding her first bicycle; cheering with the junior high varsity squad; with her date for Winter Formal. They were snapshots he knew well, filed away in a photo album somewhere, back at his house in Chicago. But these were more real than those flat, lifeless photographs. These were three-dimensional, a strange sense of motion given to the images. Claire’s eyes blinked. Her smile widened. He could almost hear her laugh.

  At the back of his skull, his brain hot like an electrical socket, a voice crackled through curtains of ancient whispers: You could have saved her.

  And then it was over. His body released from whatever had taken hold, the electric shock dissipating from the very ends of his hair, the tips of his stubby fingers. A low sigh escaped him, from the deepest corners of his lungs.

  Around him, the house’s wooden joints began to creak, as if the building were being gently rocked on its foundation by the almost undetectable sway of a minor earthquake. It lasted only a few seconds, then the movement ceased, order restored.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs, the house quiet around him. The wind picked up outside, whistling through a crack in a wall.

  Daniel took a few short breaths, testing his body, making sure everything was working normally. He felt no pain, no shortness of breath, no tightening in his chest. Whatever that was, whatever had passed through him, was gone.

  From high above came a thud, and the entire house seemed to shudder. Daniel cocked his head, attempting to locate the sound. It was within the walls, hidden. A second thud followed the first. Then a faint, steady squeak. He recognized it now. Gears turning. Machinery at work.

  Watching the area just to the left of the staircase, Daniel imagined a system of gears and belts turning, sending something down to him. When the squeaking reached the first floor, a third thud echoed through the foyer as the machine came to a stop.

  It hit him in an instant, embarrassing in its obviousness.

  The elevator.

  He moved farther into the foyer, and the iron accordion door of the elevator came into view. Through the grate, Daniel could make out the rich wood walls of the elevator car. It must have been at the top floor when they arrived. Something triggered it just now, an electrical surge perhaps, and it descended.

  Except there is no electricity, Daniel realized. We tried the switches ourselves. The juice is off.

  Daniel tried to view the entire car. It seemed empty, but the patchwork of iron partially obstructed his view. There could be something in there. A shadow. An occupant.

  Daniel touched hesitant fingers to the accordion door. Took a breath. Cautiously collapsed it open. The elevator was empty. Just to be sure, he searched the entire car from floor to ceiling, finding nothing except . . .

  Daniel cocked his head, confused. The light at the center of the ceiling was on, its opaque glass cover glowing from within, silhouetting the corpses of dead bugs piled at the bottom.

  So there was power. They must have been mistaken. Maybe the breakers for the lights were off but the elevator had never been shut down. It was a long shot, but it was the only explanation that made sense.

  He was faintly aware of his feet moving, carrying him forward into the car. His hand reached out and grasped the accordion door, pulling it closed. There were buttons before him, three in all, stacked atop each other like the shimmering spine of a distant constellation. He pressed the top button: 3.

  He waited for those familiar sounds to return—the squeaking of gears, the thud as a chain was pulled taut—but there was only silence. And then the elevator was moving, the foyer vanishing from sight as Daniel passed between floors. The second-story hallway appeared, Sebastian’s scuffed black shoes visible at the far end, Sam’s back jutting out from around the corner. The elevator continued to rise without a sound. No heads poked out from the alcove, no startled eyes watched as Daniel ascended past them.

  Up, up, up he went, higher into the house. The last sliver of light from the second-story hall slipped across the floor of the elevator. Then it was extinguished, darkness enveloping Daniel, the crisscross pattern of the accordion door barely visible before him.

  He should have been frightened by this journey. Yet there was no fear, only the sense that he was being drawn toward something good, to a very special place the house had reserved only for him. A goofy grin spread across Daniel’s face, his cheeks still wet with the tears he had shed at the foot of the stairs.

  The stop came suddenly. Daniel placed a hand against the wall of the car to steady himself. On the control panel, the lit third button blinked off, announcing his arrival.

  “No,” Daniel whispered. He pushed the accordion door open.

  Just as Wainwright had said, there was a brick wall here too. Daniel felt his stomach drop. With a trembling hand, he reached up and touched the bricks.

  Instantly, they crumbled. The top row went first, then the next, and the next, the bricks falling away from him like a breaking wave. Just like the elevator, they made no sound as they crashed to the floor.

  The doorway was open.

  Daniel squinted in warm sunlight. His grin widened, the carefree smile of a drunken man.

  With an almost irrepressible sense of excitement, he stepped out of the elevator and into the third-floor bedroom.

  THIRTY

  2:07 p.m.

  AT THE TOP of the stairs, Wainwright and Moore continued pounding the brick wall. They had been at it for almost an hour, coming down only to dig through the canvas bag in hopes of finding a utensil that would finally do the job.

  It’s not working, Sam thought. He tried to swallow and found that his throat had constricted.

  The chisel and sledge had knocked a few chunks of mortar loose, but the bricks held tight. It was a miraculous thing, the barrier, hastily built
over two decades ago, impervious to harm.

  Sebastian was just outside the alcove, pacing nervously in a small circle.

  “Maybe we should just go,” he suggested.

  Sam shook his head. “You know we can’t do that.”

  “I know,” Sebastian admitted. There was a heavy sense of resignation in his voice.

  Moore trudged down the stairs, the sledgehammer held out in both hands.

  “The bitch isn’t budging.” Her face was caked with gray dust, streaks of sweat cutting dark rivers down her cheeks. “Your turn.”

  The offer pleased Sam. Standing around watching was making him feel more and more helpless. He took the hammer as Moore slipped down onto the bottom step. At the top of the stairs, he settled in next to Wainwright, who pounded the edge of the chisel with fading strength. Sam reared the sledgehammer back and slammed it into the bricks with all his might. The enthusiastic show of muscle seemed to encourage Wainwright, who began backing each blow with more power.

  Soon, their attack was perfectly timed, their individual strikes syncing into one sound, like the ticking of a monstrous clock.

  He could hear them, through the wall—clank, clank, clank!—like trapped miners desperately fighting for daylight.

  The irony was almost palpable as Daniel stepped freely from the elevator and into the room. He felt like an astronaut on some distant planet, the first man to walk on its alien terrain.

  Like the rest of the house, the third-floor bedroom was immaculately clean. He traced a finger over the surface of a heavy maple dresser. No dust.

  There was a single window to his left, the pane no more than two feet by three feet. Yet the sunlight streaming in was blinding, a warm yellow beam of otherworldly luminance.

  Hadn’t he seen boards over that window last year? Surely he had imagined it. There weren’t even nail holes in the perfectly smooth walls on either side of the frame.

  Beneath the window was a queen-size bed covered in a hand-stitched quilt. Beside the bed, a wheelchair was parked, abandoned, its occupant long gone.