Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  Sebastian listened as Daniel’s thundering footsteps moved quickly down the hall, away from him. His side was on fire. Even the slightest movement sent needles shooting through his entire body. But he had to move. He had to move quickly before Daniel returned.

  Gritting his teeth to hold in a scream, Sebastian dragged himself across the floor, toward the door of the closest bedroom. His bedroom.

  He reached for the doorknob, but his fingers only grazed it. His fingertips left streaks of blood on the brass knob. His entire hand was covered in the red stuff.

  He shivered as shock threatened to overtake him. He had to stay present, he had to be in this moment or it would surely be his last.

  Clenching his teeth, he forced his body to rise up. Something snapped in his chest. Another rib, fractured by the blow. Something pushed through his skin—the jagged edge of a bone—and he felt a gush of fresh blood course down his side.

  Daniel’s muffled voice snapped him to attention, echoing down from another world.

  “Get back here! Let me do this! I have to do this!”

  He was still after Sam, although the frustration in his voice made Sebastian think that perhaps Sam was temporarily out of reach. He hoped so.

  Sebastian’s fingers took hold of the doorknob. He fought against the slickness of the blood as he turned it.

  The door gave a merciful click, and Sebastian pushed it open. Digging an elbow into the wood floor, he dragged himself inside the bedroom. He scooted up against the wall and quietly pushed the door shut.

  The latch clicked back into place.

  For the moment, he was safe. For the moment, he was alive.

  But I shouldn’t be, he thought.

  I shouldn’t live through this.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  5:02 p.m.

  EVEN AS SAM hit the floor, he never stopped moving. He scooted with his feet, pushing himself farther into the room, his body cleaning a path through the thick layer of dust as Daniel swiped the hatchet through the hole in the wall.

  The first thing Sam noticed was the cold. The third-floor bedroom had to be at least forty degrees cooler than the rest of the house. When he exhaled, his breath misted into an icy cloud.

  The room was nothing more than a large, empty square. Thick dust covered the wooden floor. On the far side was a pile of toppled brick, and beyond this, the elevator car, its accordion door open.

  Once he was halfway across the bedroom, Sam allowed himself to stop. Daniel was still much too large to climb through the hole in the wall, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He pressed his body up against the bricks as if expecting his form to mold to the shape of the opening, like a child trying to force the wrong puzzle piece into place.

  “Get back here!” he yelled. “Just let me do it! Let me finish this!”

  Sam propped himself up with his arms, his chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. “Daniel, stop. Please. Think about what you’re doing.”

  Daniel let out a furious howl, a sound that made Sam think of an animal caught in a steel trap.

  “It’s not too late to stop,” Sam told him. “We can walk away from here. We can fix things.”

  “Shut up!” Daniel yelled. His voice bounced around the room like an echo chamber, ping-ponging from wall to wall. “You don’t understand!”

  “I want to understand, Daniel.”

  “You can’t!” Only half of his face was visible through the hole, but Sam could see fresh tears on his beet-red cheeks.

  He watched as Daniel glanced to the right, focusing on something just over Sam’s shoulder. There was nothing there, of course, only the empty wheelchair, the broken spokes of its bent wheels draped in an elaborate spiderweb.

  “I don’t know if I can,” Daniel said. Saliva bubbles popped between his lips as he cried.

  “Daniel? Who are you talking to?” Sam asked.

  Daniel stared at the wheelchair. He saw something sitting there. Something that offered him much-needed words of support. His face darkened. The tears stopped flowing. He began to nod, understanding. Then his insane glare was on Sam again, the tiny glimpse of old, reasonable Daniel gone in an instant, pulled under by the current of dark waters.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I can do it. For you.”

  Sam gave a startled yelp as Daniel began to ram the wall. Thud! Thud! The force with which Daniel slammed his shoulder into the bricks made Sam cringe. The barrier would hold, he was sure of it. He was safe for the time being, unless there was another way in. . . .

  The elevator, Sam thought suddenly, a jolt of panic ripping through his body. He hopped up and raced across the room, leaping over the pile of bricks and into the elevator car. He jammed a finger into the button for the first floor. Nothing happened. The elevator did not move. Sam gave a frustrated cry. He hopped up and down in the car, but it stayed put.

  I’m going to die in here.

  No sooner had Sam thought these words than he became aware of the faint sound of something scattering on the wooden floor. Daniel was still smashing into the wall like a wrecking ball, his teeth bared, a long string of spit dripping from the corner of his mouth. Yet where before the wall showed no signs giving, it now buckled inward a bit, the mortar between each brick crumbling to the ground. Daniel must have sensed it, for his attack increased in both frequency and power. He began to hum excitedly under his breath.

  It was difficult to accept. Sam had hammered away at that wall for hours and only managed to loosen a handful of bricks. And it was about to cave against Daniel’s immense weight.

  There was only one other way out: the small window that graced the north wall.

  Unfortunately it had been boarded up years ago. Several thick planks were secured to the wall on either side of the frame. An obscene number of nails held them in place. Many of the heads were bent at odd angles, as if whoever had hammered them in had done so in a rush.

  It’s a prison, he realized. Those boards were there to keep someone in.

  To keep Rebecca in.

  Sam’s hand gripped something. A handle. He looked down.

  He was still holding the small hammer. He had forgotten it was even in his hand.

  Sam rushed to the window and began bashing at the boards. They did not budge. Like the brick wall, they refused to give, even though they were already covered in countless dents from a previous attack.

  She tried to get out of this room. The thought sent a chill through his body.

  “Come on!” he cried. He hammered at the flat ends of the boards. The head of the hammer savaged them, splitting off slivers of wood, but the boards held tight.

  Behind him came the thunk of a brick dropping to the floor. Seconds later, it was followed by another.

  He’s coming! Sam’s mind screamed. He’s going to get you! He’s going to kill you! Just like Moore! Just like Wainwright! Just like—

  Sebastian. Poor Sebastian.

  He saw the old man smiling back at him as Daniel raised the hatchet high into the air.

  With a mighty cry, Sam swung the hammer into the end of the middle board.

  It moved.

  One of the rusty nails gave an angry howl as it was wrenched from the wall.

  It was enough for him to slip his fingers in between the board and the wall. He gripped the end, put one foot on the wall and pulled back with all of his strength.

  Like the first brick in the wall, the board seemed to pull back, to fight against him, but Sam would not yield. Veins bulged in his arms, raising the damaged flesh beneath his tattoos as he forced the board free. The nails shrieked, and then Sam was falling backward, the board in his hand. He threw it aside.

  Dim light passed through the sliver of grimy window.

  Sam was immediately back to work, bashing the next board free. One by one, they fell until the tiny window was completely exposed. He clawed desperately at its latch with sweat-drenched hands.

  The mad humming from Daniel was rising in volume as he pounded faster and fast
er at the wall. It was disturbingly sexual, as if the excitement of bursting through the obstruction was bringing him to climax.

  Sam’s fingers slipped from the latch. He swung the hammer down on it, but the latch would not move.

  “Come on! Come on! Open, you son of a bitch!”

  The head of the hammer slipped and his hand grazed the latch, tearing the tender flesh of his palm. Streaks of fresh blood glistened on the tarnished metal. It was no use. The latch stuck tight.

  He let out a whimper, a noise that both infuriated and frightened him in its helplessness.

  A third brick fell, and Sam knew there was no time left. In only a few seconds, the wall would topple and Daniel would rush him, hatchet slicing the air.

  Sam swung the hammer again, but this time he aimed for the windowpane. It broke through with an ease that thrilled him. Shards of glass showered the floor like hail. He ran the head of the hammer around the edge of the frame, chipping away the remaining shards.

  From across the room he heard the thunderous rumble of the wall coming down. A brick, propelled by Daniel’s powerful attack, came skidding across the floor, stopping a few inches from Sam’s foot.

  Sam dashed back across the room. The intricate network of spiderwebs ripped like silk tendons as he grabbed the wheelchair by the armrests and lifted it from the floor. He paused, noticing the savagely bent wheels. The chair had once been used as a weapon . . . or a tool. He remembered the dents in the wood planks hiding the window. He looked quickly around and saw similar dents in each wall. Even the ceiling looked as if someone had tried to claw their way through it.

  She was locked in here. Rebecca Finch was locked in this room.

  To die.

  He considered the wheelchair clutched in his hands, and a sudden thought occurred to him:

  Scratches on the ceiling. Smashing the chair into the window.

  Rebecca could not have done this.

  Who was locked in here?

  Daniel bounded into the room.

  Sam had no time to plan the action; in one fluid motion, he hoisted the heavy metal chair in an arc over his head, his eyes never leaving the intended target.

  It was a direct hit. The edge of one wheel collided with Daniel’s chest and sent the large man falling back through the now-open doorway. He thudded onto the steep staircase behind him.

  Racing to the window, Sam mashed his hands down onto the exposed frame. He could feel the shards he had missed biting into his flesh like glass teeth, but he ignored the pain, propping himself up through the hole where the window once was. Rain pelted his face as he maneuvered his body through the tight space, only vaguely aware that he was now dangling over three stories of open air. The roof of the front porch was directly below him, and the hideously twisted beech tree just past this.

  “I can’t let you go!” Daniel’s voice boomed as if his mouth were inches from Sam’s ear. “I have to do this, you understand? For her!”

  Move it, asshole! Sam’s mind ordered. Faster! Faster!

  Sam did as he was told, swiveling around onto his butt and taking hold of the edge of the rooftop. He kicked wildly with his feet as he pulled himself up and out of the window. Once, his shoes made contact with what felt like Daniel’s shoulder, and a wave of terror shook Sam’s entire body. But he did not stop. The muscles in his forearms burned white-hot as he lifted himself away from the windowless frame and up toward the roof. The heavy rain made getting a grip difficult, but somehow he managed. He had no choice. It was either keep hold or fall to his death.

  He flopped onto the roof’s sandpaper-rough shingles like a landed fish. His arms were trembling as he strained to drag himself farther onto the roof.

  Something grazed his leg and a gush of warmth ran down his ankle.

  He’s cut me! He’s cut me with that fucking hatchet!

  A fresh hit of adrenaline screamed through him and, growling through clenched teeth, Sam dug his fingernails into the shingles, dragging himself those last few feet onto the roof. He was instantly on his back, pushing himself farther and farther up the steep incline.

  He blinked in the rain, the water coursing down his neck and under his shirt like hundreds of clear, wet snakes. He lay there, letting the storm drench him, trying in vain to steady his breath. He glanced down. A bloody gash peeked out through the cut in his pant leg. He parted the material to inspect the wound. He could see the inside of his flesh, like a cross section of sedimentary rock.

  Sam closed his eyes and a few hot tears slipped free. They streaked down his trembling cheeks and were instantly washed away by the unrelenting storm.

  From the bedroom below, Daniel swiped the hatchet out into the air. Even with the weight he had lost in the past six months, he was still too large to fit through the window. He let out a furious roar. The entire house seemed to shudder beneath Sam. And then it answered its new caretaker, those hundreds of phantom voices whispering, the sound emanating from every board, every nail, every stone.

  Sam began to scale the sharp incline of the roof, his back hunched, his fingers gripping the abrasive surface of the shingles. When he neared the peak, he leaned on the brick chimney for support. Had the house been smaller and the roof steeper, the unrelenting rain may have sent him sliding right over the edge, a fall that would have left him with a broken back at best. But the immense size of the structure meant that the roof rose at no more than a forty-five-degree angle. He had to concentrate on keeping a foothold, but at last he made it to the top.

  Sam straddled the peak of the roof. He was higher than the treetops, with a clear view for half a mile in each direction. The bulk of the trees seemed to trace the winding creek, cloaking it in a dense green garment. He followed it around the side of the house to the front yard. Around the bridge they had crossed when they arrived, the trees shrank back, exposing the creek bed. Except it was no longer a bed. The afternoon storm had managed to dump enough water onto the dry earth to get a stream flowing. It seemed unlikely that the creek could be rejuvenated in just a few hours, but there it was, a growing deluge rippling through the countryside like blood down a wound whose scab had been peeled free. At this rate, the waters could spill over the banks in less than a day.

  The land was brilliantly green. As Sam glanced over the yard from high on his perch, he thought he could make out an uneven pattern woven into the grass, like the leafy tentacles of some long-buried sea creature.

  He rested, soaked to the skin, the rain pouring over him, and Sam became aware of the house vibrating beneath him. It pulsated in an odd arrhythmic way like a murmuring heart.

  It’s speaking to him, Sam realized, speaking with its collected voices.

  The house had heard every muttered warning, every campfire tale whispered throughout the years, growing more powerful as its infamous reputation spread. Adudel had been right; this place could not risk being forgotten. Whatever entity now resided within its walls, it found life through a legacy of tragedy and fear. It had been weak when they visited the previous year, banished to the shadows that cloaked each dusty room. At that time, it was little more than a local legend.

  But then the writers arrived, and their visit went viral, viewed millions of times. The renewed interest must have been like a shot of adrenaline, jolting the house awake after years of hibernation. Rachel Finch had done the very same thing in the eighties by luring Adudel to the house. That she had encouraged him to embellish his story only confirmed Sam’s hypothesis—that the house went through periods of dormancy, like a regressed cancer, waiting for its name to reenter the collective consciousness so its power could spread beyond its property line.

  Which is exactly what it had done, following each of them into their homes, into their very minds, forcing them to propagate its disease the only way they knew how—by writing.

  But their novels—which made connections to the house through surprisingly similar details—were not the endgame. The books that had devoured months of their lives were a way of breaking them down and, ul
timately, bringing them back together. No, the punch line to the house’s cruel joke was for them to return by their own free will.

  It had lured them back to kill them. Their brutal deaths would be the ultimate ghost story.

  No, Sam realized, we’re nothing more than a publicity stunt for a story already written.

  Sebastian’s book.

  Sebastian could be its storyteller. He could make the house famous once more. Except Sebastian’s spirit could not be fully broken. He was willing to refuse this Faustian bargain. For his friends. For what he knew was right.

  The house hasn’t won. Not yet.

  There was still Sam, hiding out on the rooftop, and Sebastian . . .

  Sam sat up straight, the action nearly knocking him over one side of the roof. Daniel had left Sebastian behind in the hallway to die. But maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  The third-floor window Sam had climbed through faced the front yard, which meant that the bedroom closest to where Sebastian had been attacked was on the back half of the house. Looking down the other side of the roof, Sam tried to imagine the bedrooms beneath him. He pointed a finger at the southwest corner, then moved it slowly to the left, past what would have been the tight alcove. Next came the bedroom at the very end of the hallway. And finally the second bedroom from the end, the one he had slept in on Halloween.

  Carefully, Sam climbed over the roof’s peak and began to move down the south side. Several times his feet slipped on the wet shingles, but eventually he made it to the edge. Now came the hard part. A metal rain gutter ran the length of the house, and by peering over the roof, he could see a short ledge just outside the bedroom window. But there was no telling how much weight the gutter could hold, and the ledge offered little room on which to stand; he was lucky if it was six inches wide.

  “Screw it,” Sam told himself.

  Stretching out along the end of the roof, he grasped the gutter so tightly, the color was pressed from his fingertips. He took a deep breath and let one foot slip over the edge, then the other, his body falling into open air.