Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

“But our game is fair. Oh yes, you have a choice.” The voice sounded like it was right in front of Moore, but all she saw was darkness. “You can stay where you are, and he will find you. Or you can come to me and I will take all of your pain away.”

  That first step squeaked again as Daniel reached the bottom of the stairs.

  The voice said, “Do you want that? Do you want me to take away the pain?”

  I do, Moore admitted to herself. She wanted the pain to end. She had lived with it for almost her entire life and all she had ever wanted, more than fame and money and sex and power, all she wanted was for the pain to end.

  “Come to me.”

  Daniel was a large, heaving shadow at the foot of the stairs. The hatchet was gripped in his hand. Blood fell in thick drops from its blade.

  My blood, Moore thought. That’s my blood!

  “Come to me, and you’ll never feel the pain again.”

  There was an eye in the darkness, a single pale orb floating like a frozen, distant planet. A woman’s eye. Cold and powerful.

  “Come.”

  Daniel’s head snapped to the right and he glared at Moore through the shadows. Without a word, he stormed toward her, raising the hatchet into the air.

  Pain is pain, Moore thought. She scrambled quickly toward the darkness and into the arms of the thing waiting there.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  4:35 p.m.

  THE RAINDROPS HIT the dry, thirsty earth but it refused them, their liquid bodies, like tears from the sky, rolling aimlessly across the brittle surface of the creek bed. It was not long before the individual droplets found each other and merged, first creating snakelike rivulets of rain that coursed from bank to bank, then joining into a single sheet of water, its level rising with every inch that fell.

  The furry green vines that draped the countryside like exposed muscle began to awaken at the soothing touch of the cool rain. Their movement was subtle, the constrictions slow like the stirrings of an animal roused from hibernation. As the creek bed filled with rainwater, the vines wriggled beneath the surface, leafy worms digging in the dirt.

  Still the ground did not drink. Kill Creek, with the exception of a few stagnant puddles, began to flow once more.

  There was a moment of all-consuming strangeness, and then there was a click and Sebastian’s mind was clear again. It reminded him of the television he had bought with the paycheck from his first published novel, a heavy wooden monster with a protruding black-and-white eye, antennae sprouting haphazardly from its head. Back in those days, there were only a handful of channels to receive, which meant that you had to wade through several patches of static as you turned the dial in search of a healthy signal.

  For six months, Sebastian had been free of these spells. He felt reborn, relishing every moment of this new age of lucidity. But now things had changed. He was tempted to leave the group and return home. Panic had invaded him and it was growing stronger the longer he stayed in the house. He did not want to lose his mind. He did not want to be plunged forever into the nothingness.

  The house giveth, and the house taketh away.

  It wasn’t quite the same sensation as before, though. Instead, it was as if the dial had become stuck between channels, two separate images dog-piling each other.

  One minute he was on the stairs, watching Sam pound away at that profoundly stubborn brick wall. And then the sides of the house began to ripple.

  The digestion of memories, he thought, not sure exactly what it meant.

  He could still see the house as it was, the hallway stretching out before him, empty and barren, ending in the top of the far staircase that led down to the first floor. But superimposed upon this was a duplicate image, similar but not exact, a glimpse out of time. Sometimes this was all that occurred before the dial would finish its turn to the next channel, the present returning to him, clear and genuine. Other times, transparent forms would pass before him, people he did not know, their clothing reminiscent of times only vaguely familiar, a woman and a man, black and white, like that old television he had owned so long ago.

  From the top step, Sebastian could hear the clank of Sam’s hammer chipping at the brick. The sound reverberated through him, from the center of his chest out, like a stone tossed into a mirror-still pond.

  But every time he became accustomed to these ghostly images . . . click! The hallway would once again be empty, the washed-out colors regaining their full vibrancy, the apparitions gone in the blink of an eye, and all memory of the occurrence gone with it.

  Once more, they were alone.

  When Sam was in the third grade, he and his father decided to plant a row of rosebushes as a surprise for his mother. She was gone for the day, visiting her father at a rest home called Holiday Resort (the “holiday” consisting of Grandpa King sucking on an oxygen tank and battling a mean case of emphysema, the result of many happy years of smoking).

  Sam’s mom wouldn’t be back until late evening, and his father was confident that they could get the plants in the ground in time. Even at three months shy of nine years old, Sam knew his mother would not truly appreciate the gesture. She would force a smile and say how beautiful they looked, and then she would go into the house to pour herself a vodka and tonic with a twist of lime. What she truly thought of Sam and his father’s hard work would come out later—

  You think a few puny roses can make up for this rathole of a house?

  —but there in the warm afternoon sunshine, both Sam and his dad, a thin, meek fellow with a weak chin and even weaker backbone, convinced themselves this gift would actually make her happy.

  The rosebushes were lined up in a row along the back side of the house, eight in all, their thorny branches waiting patiently to prick soft flesh. The thorns reminded Sam of a shark’s teeth, jutting off in all directions, like the rotating blades of a garbage disposal, made to tear, to shred, to destroy.

  His father returned from the garage with two shovels, handing the shorter one to Sam. The plan was to plant the bushes in the long stretch of soil between the back patio and the house. His father insisted that once they got into the groove, the job should only take them a couple hours, three at the most.

  Then, while digging the first hole, they hit something hard. Cement. The edge of the shovel scraped angrily against the buried slab. No problem, his father insisted, just move a little to the right and dig again. Sam did as he was told, but his new hole was only a few inches deep before his shovel let out another painful screech. Concrete, same as the last.

  After the fourth hole led to the same results, Sam’s father began to realize the frustrating situation they were facing. The house’s foundation had been sloppily poured, and the excess concrete had been allowed to run off and dry, leaving a layer, hard as stone, surrounding their home.

  Not one to easily lose his cool, Sam’s father disappeared back into the garage and returned, moments later, with a pickax in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other. First he used the pickax, its pointed edge chipping at the cement like the horn of some strange metal beast. Shards of concrete flew, pecking at their faces, but the slab refused to split. The sledgehammer also had little effect, denting the rock-hard surface but otherwise leaving it intact.

  After an hour, Sam’s father was covered in a mixture of sweat and powdered stone and filled with something close to rage. He threw the sledgehammer to the ground, muttered a few choice curse words under his breath, then surveyed the yard and pointed out a patch of soil along the picket fence at the far end. The rosebushes were set easily into this new location. Sam’s mother came home to a pleasant surprise and a forced smile, and for a few fleeting moments, all was right with the world. But with Sam and his dad, there lingered a sense of defeat, the knowledge that they had gone to battle with the concrete slab and lost.

  That same sensation now came to Sam, rising from the back of his throat like the bitter taste of bile. He had managed to free four more bricks from the wall, but the others were holding tight with otherw
orldly conviction. With the absence of five bricks, the hole was almost large enough for Sam to poke his head and shoulder through. He could have reached a hand in had he wished, but the fear of something grabbing hold kept him from doing so. Instead, he peered into the gloomy third-floor bedroom, searching for anything. A clue. A tiny detail that would make all of the other unbelievable occurrences fall into place, making sense of this inexplicable adventure they were on.

  Except for that ancient, abandoned wheelchair, there was nothing.

  The whispering voices emanating from the house had stopped a few minutes before, leaving Sam and Sebastian in a stillness that was, for some reason, even more disconcerting.

  Sebastian was at the foot of the steps, facing the small window that looked out into the backyard. The rain pelted the windowpane, tapping it like a child asking to come in. “Quiet,” he said.

  “I know,” Sam said. “Whatever the house was saying, it’s stopped.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “That’s not it. I mean it’s quiet. No sounds at all. Not even from the others.”

  Sam cocked an ear, listening. There was only the rain—on the window, on the roof—accompanied by the occasional rumble of thunder. Otherwise, the house was completely silent. No footsteps. No muffled voices. No doors clicking shut. “You’re right. It’s like they’re gone.”

  With the hammer still clutched in his hand, Sam moved down the narrow staircase and peeked around the corner. He called out each of their names: “Wainwright! Daniel! Moore!” Each one bounced its way down the hall, retreating into the depths of the house until even the echo was consumed. There was no answer.

  “Maybe they stepped out for a smoke,” Sam offered.

  Sebastian shook his head but continued staring out at the back lot. The reflection of raindrops cast shadows rippling down his cheeks. “They’re not exactly old chums. They would rather be here helping you than palling around on the front porch.” He took in a deep breath and glanced at his wristwatch. “Besides, they’ve been gone for far too long.”

  He was right. It had been half an hour since Moore had left to look for the others and over two hours since they had last seen Daniel. Could it have been that long? The afternoon had escaped them, the task of breaking through the brick wall consuming their day.

  “What do you say I go have a look?” Sebastian suggested.

  “No,” Sam said, a bit shocked by the sternness in his own voice.

  That was our mistake, he thought. The house split us up without us even realizing it.

  Sebastian started down the hall. Sam opened his mouth to call out, but the sound of heavy footsteps stopped him. Sebastian came to a halt, just past the first set of bedroom doors.

  “There they are now,” Sebastian said.

  A hulking black form appeared at the top of the stairs. The dark, faintly human figure stood motionless for a beat, like the shadow of a mountain, shoulders heaving with each deep breath. And then he moved slowly into the light.

  Upon seeing Daniel, Sam’s first thought was that he’d cut himself. But there was too much blood. Splattered beads of it dotted his face, already drying to a brownish red. His polo was soaked through, its wetness shimmering in what little light there was. His hair was slicked back, with what Sam first assumed must be water or sweat, but now realized was thick globs of blood. This was not the Daniel they had come to know, the man who had tugged self-consciously at the edge of his shirt in an attempt to pull it over his bulging belly.

  This Daniel seemed to have no idea that he was caked in gore, that his arms were streaked with it, that it dripped from his fingers like scarlet tears. Sam’s eyes followed the jagged lines of red down his arms to his right hand and the carpenter’s hatchet clutched there. On one end was the flat head of a hammer; the other narrowed into a hatchet. Its blade was shiny-slick with a thick coat of crimson and dotted with pale flecks that Sam assumed must be flesh.

  Sebastian took a step toward Daniel and held out his hands. He made a sweeping motion from head to toe, as if bringing everyone’s attention to the bloody mess of Daniel Slaughter.

  “What’s happened, Daniel?” he asked, his voice beginning to shake. “Are you hurt?”

  Daniel’s fingers tightened on the hatchet’s handle, and an icy sliver of terror ripped through Sam’s body. “Sebastian, stay back!”

  “But, Sam, look at him. Something’s wrong.” Then, to Daniel, “Where are Moore and Wainwright? Have they been injured? Was it the house?” Sebastian moved one step closer to Daniel, and then, just as Sam had done, his gaze moved down to the bloodstained hatchet. “What is that?” he asked, the truth dawning on him. “Daniel, what have you done?”

  “Sebastian, get away from him!” Sam cried out.

  As he took in a deep breath, Daniel’s eyes began to glisten with tears. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slowly. He began to mutter something under his breath, a blubbering mess of words that were at first unrecognizable.

  Sam watched Daniel’s lips as he recited the words over and over like a prayer. What is he saying?

  Daniel’s voice began to rise, the words floating like a swarm of black gnats down the hall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His eyes darted between the frail form of Sebastian and the dust-streaked face of Sam. “I have to.”

  A horrible realization dawned on Sam. He’s going to kill us! He’s killed the others, and now he’s come for us.

  Sebastian must have come to the same conclusion. He took a step backward.

  Daniel’s entire body flinched. He tightened his grip on the hatchet.

  “I hid the book,” Sebastian called back over his shoulder. “Before I went to see Adudel. I hid it so no one could find it. You don’t have to worry. No one will ever read it.”

  Sam watched as Sebastian’s posture stiffened. He stood up straight, tall, and proud. His hands clenched into fists.

  In that awful moment, he realized what the old man planned to do.

  “I won’t be its storyteller, Sam,” he said. “Is the hole big enough yet? Can you get through the wall?”

  “Don’t, Sebastian.”

  “Is the hole big enough? Look, goddammit!”

  Sam glanced over at the wall. He had hoped to make the hole bigger before crawling into the room, but maybe he could squeeze through.

  Maybe.

  “Is it?” Sebastian yelled.

  “Yeah. I think.”

  “Then go.”

  “No, Sebastian!”

  “Go, Sam!”

  A roar filled the hallway, a sound of such pristine ferocity that for a brief moment Sam thought an animal was preparing to charge them.

  It was—an animal that had once been Daniel Slaughter, a blood-soaked beast with murder in its eyes. The roar twisted back into Daniel’s open maw like a cyclone spinning into the sky. It became a terrible, high-pitched moan, shrill and helpless: “You understand! I have to! I have to do it!”

  “GO!” Sebastian cried. “NOW!”

  The heavy footfalls came quickly, rattling the floor with each step. Daniel bounded down the hallway toward Sebastian, one hand stretched out to grab the old man, the other slicing the air with that death-caked hatchet. Even beneath the smudges of blood, his face burned bright red. He huffed and puffed like a locomotive as he charged, his loose clothes rippling around his body. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, that high-pitched moan like a boiling teakettle.

  “Sebastian!” Sam screamed.

  The old man glanced back over his shoulder. And he smiled.

  Daniel’s bloody fingers grasped at his prey. His hand came down on Sebastian’s shoulder with such force that Sam was positive the old man would shatter beneath it, disintegrating into a cloud of dust and bone.

  The hatchet followed, swung at an angle. Its blade sank deeply into Sebastian’s side. Ribs split like twigs. The old man groaned in agony as he threw all of his weight forward, pushing Daniel and toppling them both to the ground.

  “I’m sorry!
” Daniel shrieked, swinging the hatchet wildly as he shoved Sebastian’s frail body off of him. Daniel scrambled to his feet. He raised the hatchet to bring it down on the old man’s skull.

  Sam did the only thing he could. He clapped his hands loudly and cried, “Hey! Over here!” It was ridiculous, he knew. It was the way one might get the attention of a disobedient dog. But it worked. Daniel’s head whipped toward Sam, his face wrinkled into a hideous sneer. For the first time since this standoff had begun—

  How long had it been? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

  —Sam got a good look at Daniel’s eyes. Something had gotten inside him, infected him, forcing him to complete his unthinkable deeds.

  Infected, Sam thought. The word was right. Daniel looked as if he were at the mercy of some unimaginably high fever, the rising temperature of his overworked body boiling away all coherent thought.

  He was mad.

  “I have to,” he said, his voice now low and guttural, like a death rattle.

  “That’s right,” Sam said. “So do it. I’m right here. Come and get me.”

  There was no time to be afraid. Daniel’s feet pounded into the wooden floor as he resumed his charge, and Sam spun quickly around, arms reaching for the sides of the narrow passage, the very tips of his toes grazing each step as he flew up the stairs.

  He could hear Daniel coming after him; each stair he mounted groaned in agony. He could hear the excited pant of Daniel’s breath as he scrambled up the staircase, so close that Sam could almost sense the heat on his back. But all the while, Sam kept his eyes on one thing—the hole in the brick wall, just wide enough for him to slip through, just small enough to keep Daniel out.

  The thick edge of Daniel’s middle finger slid down Sam’s back, and Sam dove, the voice of his father suddenly shouting in his ear, a command from his years playing Little League baseball back in Kansas:

  Slide! Slide!

  Sam slid, the sharp corners of the bricks cutting into his stomach as he passed through the black mouth he had cut into the wall.

  He was swallowed by the darkness.