Kill Creek

by Scott Thomas

  “Daddy,” Claire said once more. She pressed her head against his shoulder. “Daddy . . .”

  Daniel tucked his daughter under his arm and glared furiously at the dark mouth of the crawl space.

  Don’t worry, baby, he thought. He hasn’t gotten away.

  There’s still time.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  6:11 p.m.

  DAMP AND COOL as the grave.

  Sam tried desperately to push the words from his mind, but it was no use. The crawl space was just that—damp and cool as the grave—and the thought of his life ending here, in the belly of the beast, was horrifying.

  Yet he pressed on, crawling like the beloved G.I. Joe action figures he’d had as a kid, elbows digging into the moist earth.

  Move it, soldier! he commanded in his best drill sergeant bellow. Move it or lose it, you maggot!

  “I’m moving,” he replied. “I’m moving.”

  Sam did move, but slowly. The light was almost nonexistent. Every time he inched forward, he reached out to feel if the path was clear. He must have crawled twenty feet. Maybe more. Even in the dark, he could sense other sections of the crawl space shooting off from the main tunnel.

  He saw something scramble past.

  He stopped. Listened.

  Only the sound of the rain pounding the ground outside.

  He began to crawl again.

  His hand grazed something smooth and spongy. Some kind of root. He traced it in the blackness, trying to determine its dimensions. It seemed to have five rounded points protruding from a thicker, flatter chunk that rose from the muddy soil. And on the back of each point was a slick, hard shell, like a fingernail.

  Because it was a fingernail. He was touching a hand.

  Sam had no time to process this thought. The hand grasped his, squeezing tightly until he imagined he could hear his bones cracking.

  He screamed, a sound that lacked any pretense, any self-consciousness. It was the sound of pure terror, expelled from his lungs like an unclean spirit.

  A jolt rocked Sam’s mind, an electrical surge that cleared all thought but one: Get away.

  Tugging madly at his arm, Sam tried to pry himself from the hand’s clutches. The confines of the crawl space made it difficult; the back of his head cracked painfully against the top, his elbows scraped raw against the walls. None of this mattered. He had to escape. The hand held tight, refusing to let him go.

  And then something unexpected happened: the hand released him. Sam tumbled backward, farther into the crawl space. He lay on his back, drawing in sharp, desperate breaths.

  The whispering voice of the house sank down around him, a thousand fragments of a thousand words:

  I’ve heard about that house . . .

  Dare you to go inside . . .

  . . . guy died in there . . .

  . . . saw something in the window once . . .

  My sister tells me her best friend went in . . .

  . . . couple witches live in it . . .

  They’re witches . . .

  Witches . . .

  . . . want you to stay away from there . . .

  Because . . .

  Witches.

  . . . because it’s haunted . . .

  Haunted . . .

  . . . it’s haunted . . .

  That place is haunted, don’t you know?

  Sam knew. All too well.

  A black shape scrambled up to his feet. His first thought was that it was an animal. A raccoon, perhaps, or a skunk.

  But it was not an animal. It reared back, its shoulders against the ceiling of the crawl space, its charred skin peeling away from its skull, eyes nothing but gooey clumps in the sockets where heat had caused them to burst.

  “Hello, Sammy.”

  It was his mother.

  She grinned, and a cloud of dark gray smoke floated out of her toothless maw.

  Sam screamed.

  A chuckle rose from deep in his mother’s chest. She tipped her head, and thick, congealed blood poured from the hole that little ten-year-old Sammy McGarver had bashed in her skull.

  She grasped his broken ankle and squeezed.

  The pain forced an even greater scream out of Sam.

  His mother’s chuckle grew louder.

  “I hope it hurts, Sammy,” she said, laughing. “I hope it hurts like hell!”

  Sam rolled frantically around, fighting to free his ankle, kicking with his good foot. He reached out his hands and grasped desperately into the dark.

  His mother’s laughter died down to a raspy purr. “Sammy. Why did you do this to me? Why did you hurt me?”

  He dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to pull himself away.

  “Because you’re a killer,” she said.

  “No!” Sam cried.

  “You’re a killer, remember, Sammy? Remember.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Remember what you did. What you are.”

  “STOP IT!”

  Bone scraped bone as his mother wrenched his broken ankle. Sam shrieked, the world going momentarily white, and he was—

  He was in the kitchen. Little Sammy McGarver, holding a bloody cast-iron skillet in his hand.

  “Remember.”

  And there was his mother, dead.

  No, not dead.

  “Remember.”

  She was writhing on the kitchen floor, her cheek smearing an arc of blood across the linoleum.

  She was still alive.

  “Stop, Sammy.” The voice was wet, spoken through a curtain of thick blood. He could see it bursting in red bubbles from her lips. “Please stop.”

  But Sammy didn’t want to stop. He wanted her gone from their lives forever.

  “Remember what you did.”

  He reared back the skillet and brought it down on his mother’s head. The impact sent her face smashing down into the floor.

  “Remember what you are.”

  “Stop!” Jack was screaming.

  But Sammy didn’t hear him. Sammy brought the skillet down again. And again. And again. Until he was sure. Until he knew she would not get up.

  “STOP!”

  Under the house, in the crawl space, Sam buried his face in the dirt and screamed.

  “Now you remember,” his dead mother said. Her breathing was like the clicking of beetles. “You’re a killer. Say it.”

  Sam began to sob.

  “Say it, Sammy.”

  He yelled it into the earth beneath the house on Kill Creek.

  “I’m a killer!”

  A low chuckle rose up from his mother’s blackened chest. “That’s right. That’s right, my boy.”

  Get away from her, his mind commanded.

  Sam stretched out his hands, reaching into the shadows, and he felt his fingertips connect with metal.

  He craned his neck to see. There seemed to be some sort of metal grid at the end of the crawl space.

  A grate.

  Sam thrust his good foot out as hard as he could, landing a swift kick straight to his dead mother’s face. She released her grip, only for a second, but it was long enough for Sam to scramble away. Turning in the tight confines of the crawl space, he kicked frantically at the grate. It clanked loudly, denting inward an inch or so. He kicked again and again and again, each time forcing the grate a little farther from its frame.

  “Get back here, you little shit!” his mother screeched.

  Fingers tore at his clothes, digging their nails sharply into his skin, leaving long, raw gashes as his mother struggled for a grip.

  With a loud grunt, Sam delivered a mighty kick to the grate, and his heart leapt as he felt it give way, his foot passing beyond where the grate had been and into open space. He waited for the clatter of the grate hitting a hard floor but heard a faint splash instead.

  Hooking his uninjured foot through the opening, Sam pulled himself toward the end of the crawl space. His broken ankle scraped against the rough concrete. White lightning shot through his body. Sam stifled a cry, forcing th
e pain out of his mind. The thing that looked like his mother must have sensed his escape, for its grasping intensified, taking whole fistfuls of his flesh in its eager hands—pulling, tugging, fighting to keep hold.

  But Sam fought harder, managing to get halfway through the opening to grip the sides with both hands. He slid his body through, letting his own weight carry him, slipping out of the crawl space and into what he could only assume was the basement.

  Water engulfed him, black and absolute. His tailbone bumped the concrete floor and Sam realized the water was about four feet deep, just enough to cushion his fall. He could still hear the howl of his mother, barely audible over the pounding of the rain, but she came no closer.

  Letting his injured leg drift freely behind him, Sam half walked, half swam through the flooded basement. He was a wreck, his muscles groaning as he forced himself forward, his ankle a constant dull throb that seemed to have metastasized to his bones, making his entire body ache. His breathing was desperate, unsteady, a bit of stagnant water drawn in with each gasp. It was sour in his mouth, like spoiled milk. He hated to think what unspeakable things lurked just below its surface.

  The door at the top of the stairs was slightly ajar, a shaft of pale light offering just enough illumination for him to make his way. All around him, water trickled from the walls, bleeding through the cracks.

  He reached the bottom of the staircase and felt underwater for the first step, finding instead a handful of hair. A face hovered just above the surface.

  It was Moore. Her black mane floated around her pale face like spilled oil. Her glassy eyes stared into the nothingness above them.

  She’s dead.

  Sam stared at the corpse of his friend. The cold water around him drew the warmth and feeling from his flesh. He ran a hand down her side, stopping at her stomach. Deep red blood soaked the front of her shirt where Daniel’s hatchet had bit into her. It pooled out into the water around her. Sam thought of the taste of the sour water and his throat constricted in revulsion.

  He closed his eyes.

  The sound of breathing. Shallow. Faint. But there was no doubting it.

  His eyes flashed open as he pressed his hand flat against her chest, snaking his fingers under the straps of her cross-front shirt to feel her skin.

  She was cold. Too cold. Yet there it was, the slightest rise and fall as her lungs sucked in tiny, desperate gasps.

  He leaned down close to her mouth. A wisp of breath moved her lips.

  She’s alive. . . . She’s alive!

  “Moore,” Sam whispered. He was afraid Daniel might hear him. He was even more afraid that the house would hear him.

  Wrapping his arms around her body, he lifted her up onto the stairs, trying to get her out of the freezing water. He patted her cheeks.

  “Moore!” Screw Daniel. Screw the house. He needed her to wake up. He needed her to live. “Moore! Please!”

  Her eyes fluttered in their sockets, then slowly turned to him. She blinked. Once. Twice. Stared at him as her vision cleared. A single word escaped her lips, so faint that it was barely audible:

  “Sam.”

  “Yes. Moore, it’s me.”

  “Sam.”

  “You’re alive. You’re going to be okay.”

  She drew in a deeper, fuller breath. She swallowed. Her hands pushed weakly against the stairs beneath her. She wanted to move.

  “I’m going to get you out,” Sam assured her. “We’re both getting out.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Fuck . . . yes . . .” she managed to say.

  At the center of the staircase, several steps were missing where Moore had plunged through. It would be difficult to get her over that hole, but not impossible. He had to do it. They had to escape. And they were running out of time.

  With his arm around her waist, his hand gripping the side of her shirt, Sam struggled to get Moore to her feet. Together they mounted the stairs, pulling their battered bodies toward the light above.

  THIRTY-NINE

  6:35 p.m.

  THEY REACHED THE top of the stairs.

  Sam feared Daniel would be there in the kitchen, waiting for them, hatchet raised above his head, psychotic grin playing at his quivering lips.

  But the kitchen was empty. The back door was closed.

  Sam clutched on to Moore tightly as he inched on his good foot across the kitchen, pausing to regain their balance at the island. They listened to the howl of the wind and the steady hum of the rain.

  “Can you keep going?” Sam asked.

  Moore winced, but nodded.

  As they slowly moved toward the back door, Sam became aware of another sound just below the racket of the storm. Cocking his head to one side, he tried to separate it from the rain and thunder and wind, attempting to zero in on its source.

  It was the voice of the house. Yet unlike the times before, its words were too faint to make out. It was as if the house were speaking to someone other than him, whispering a secret into someone else’s ear.

  Moore groaned weakly. Her hand was on that nasty gash in her stomach. Blood seeped through her fingers.

  “Sam . . .”

  “I know—we’re going.”

  Somewhere above, a door slammed.

  Footsteps ran quickly down the hallway above them. Sam tracked the movement from one end of the ceiling to the other, and then as quickly as they began, they fell silent.

  “Is that Daniel?” Moore asked weakly.

  Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then . . . who is it?”

  Sam did not reply.

  Trying desperately to keep his weight off his broken ankle, Sam hobbled them over to the back door. He twisted the handle and gave it a sharp tug. The door would not open. He flicked the lock and tried once more, but still the door wouldn’t budge.

  A floorboard creaked in the study.

  Sam paused, listening, waiting.

  The whispering of the house was still there, a constant, undulating wave of voices washing in and out.

  One of the voices screamed, inches from Sam’s ear.

  “Shit!” He let go of the doorknob and stumbled backward. A lightning bolt of pain ripped up his leg. His ankle was killing him.

  He glanced frantically around, but there was nothing beside him.

  Moore began to slip farther through his arm. He tried to adjust his grip. “I need you to walk, Moore,” he said.

  She gave a frightened whimper. It was an awful sound coming from her. “I don’t think I can.”

  “You have to. I can help you, but we’re not going to make it out if we don’t do this together. Okay?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Okay? Moore?”

  “Okay.” She planted her feet and forced her injured body to take as much weight as she could bear.

  “The hallway,” Sam whispered in her ear.

  With his arm still around her waist, Sam guided Moore across the kitchen and into the hall. The passage was dim. The only break in the gloom was the arched doorway up ahead that opened to the foyer. He had to hope that the sounds he heard were just the house toying with them. If they passed the arched doorway and found Daniel staring back at them, he would kill them. There was no way they would be able to move quickly enough to escape.

  Sam pressed a finger to his lips. Moore nodded, understanding. Sam slid up to the edge where the archway began until he could peer into the front entrance of the house.

  Someone was there, on the stairs. A face was peering through the banister. It grinned, and the corners of its lips stretched unnaturally wide, its mouth spreading like a wound opening.

  From the other end of the hall came the roar of an invisible wave. It thundered down the narrow hallway and crashed around Sam and Moore, the voices shrieking in their ears:

  That house!

  Go inside!

  Witches! Witches!

  Heard the stories!

  Go inside!


  The sounds swirled around them until they became the cackling of a cruel old woman, mocking their pain, savoring their fear.

  Sam tucked his chin to his chest and waited for the onslaught to pass. And then—

  It was gone.

  In an instant, the house was silent.

  He glanced through the archway, into the foyer. The thing on the stairs was no longer there.

  He looked to the front door. There was nothing in their path. They could make it.

  Moore was leaning against him, still clutching her bloody stomach. A thin layer of sweat covered her pallid skin. She took short, quick breaths.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” Sam told her. “But we have to move. Fast.”

  There was doubt in her eyes, but she nodded.

  Sam slipped his arm around her waist and stepped out into the foyer.

  The door. Make it to the door. You can do this. Don’t stop. Don’t—

  A loud thud from above rattled the entire house.

  Sam was thrown off balance. He was falling, and Moore with him. His shoulder slammed into a wall. His legs buckled and he allowed himself to go down to the floor, Moore coming to rest beside him.

  “Oh God, are you okay?” he asked.

  She was staring up, trying to place the source of the sound. “What was that?”

  There was another thud, and then the clicking of a chain being drawn over a pulley.

  The elevator was moving.

  Through the slats in the gate, they watched as the car slid slowly down. A final thud announced its arrival.

  Sam peered into the shadows beyond the accordion door.

  “It’s empty,” Moore whispered.

  She’s right, he thought. It’s just the empty elevator.

  But there was something. On the floor at the center of the car. A rectangular object.

  A book.

  Without warning, the accordion gate folded open, the metal screeching loudly as it collapsed. The book shot out of the elevator and slid across the hardwood floor. It came to a sharp stop a few feet away from them.

  It was the Bible Moore had bought at the bookstore that morning.

  From the shadows inside the elevator, something chuckled, low and guttural.

  “I can see it,” Moore said, her weak voice trembling. “It’s watching us. It’s smiling.”