The door slowly swung shut, snowflakes swirling inside until it clicked shut.
Waves of sadistic fury throbbed against the hotel room walls as Rakel’s body began to convulse, violently bucking atop the mattress. The bed itself began to bounce as her body quaked and shook with inhuman ferocity, like a rat caught in a terrier’s jaws.
A demonic scream erupted from Rakel’s throat as a dark shadow cleaved itself from her body, the scream instantly becoming more human as the thing slid away from her, slithering across the floor and disappearing through the door.
The evil thing, whatever it was, was going after Zach, but Peyton still couldn’t move. She was meant to stay here and bear witness to what was still to come.
Rakel’s body collapsed against the mattress, motionless. Peyton could see the rise and fall of her chest as the minutes on the bedside clock ticked by, faster, and faster. One hour passed.
Peyton knew the girl was alone now. Even though Rakel was unconscious, Peyton could sense fear, confusion. She was drugged, unable to move.
Peyton watched the clock continue to march forward, approaching two hours. The numbers slowed, then stopped moving.
Peyton felt its presence again, lurking in the corner of the room, in the shadows, moving within the walls. It was angry, furious.
Rakel began to toss her head from side to side. Small, pitiful whimpers of fright escaped her trembling lips. Even though drugged, Rakel somehow knew her tormentor had returned.
Peyton watched as the shadow on the wall began to stretch and bend, as if something was behind the flat, two-dimensional shape, pressing against it, pressing, until from it emerged a horned, cloven-hoofed beast, repulsive beyond all belief. It stepped into the room, the stench of death preceding it. And then, pausing for a moment, it seemed to sniff the air, like an animal sensing danger . . .
. . . then abruptly fixed its gaze on Peyton, as if somehow aware of her presence.
As Peyton looked into its fiery eyes, she saw her father staring back at her, a belt in his fist and whiskey on his breath. She saw a face behind a ski mask, the gunman from her vision at school. Peyton knew she was gazing at evil incarnate, because at other times, and in other places, she’d already met him.
The thing laughed at her, a horrible, gurgling sound gushing from its throat, and then turned toward Rakel. Her body convulsed as it slid back inside.
Rakel opened her eyes, and grabbed her bra from the foot of the bed. She wrapped it around her neck, and pulled, tighter and tighter. She gagged, and her eyes bulged, but all the while she smiled. The body convulsed again, and again, as the life that was Rakel Anders passed away, leaving only an empty shell.
Even though the body was dead, it moved.
It reached for the box knife, and began to cut, carving a hideous word into the flesh.
W H O R E
Peyton had been shown the truth.
And she began to scream.
35
Justine sat in bed, watching the 10 p.m. news and wondering how she would tell Rick about what she and Peyton had discovered, without sounding like she belonged in a loony bin. No, she and Peyton, with adjoining padded rooms.
The TV was just background noise, as her thoughts were somewhere else at the moment. She took a sip of her Earl Grey as the anchor droned on.
“The situation in the Middle East continued to worsen today, as Israeli troops fired on a demonstration of Palestinian youths, killing thirty-five and injuring approximately fifty-two.”
The background switched from a map of the Middle East to a graphic of the international biological hazard symbol. The news anchor continued.
“Also today, speaking from Atlanta, Georgia, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Dr. Colin McIntyre, stated the situation in South Africa had reached ‘critical’ status, with tens of thousands of people now dead or dying from the new strain of the Ebola virus sweeping north across the continent of Africa. So far, there is no treatment for the killer strain.”
The background switched again, this time to a picture of Red Square in Moscow.
“The Russian Defense Ministry confirmed today that Chinese troops had advanced roughly three hundred miles into far-eastern Russia, and Defense Minister Vladimirov strongly cautioned Beijing that their reckless adventurism will only result in the deaths of millions of Chinese soldiers and citizens. Russian president Chekhov denied his defense minister was threatening the use of nuclear weapons, but when asked directly he did not rule out their use to stop the Chinese invasion.”
As Justine took another sip of her tea, she was startled by a motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a small boy standing in her doorway. “Oh shit,” she said, her teacup slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor.
The news anchor continued.
“In Omaha today, the search continues for the killer of seventeen-year-old Rakel Anders, who was found brutally murdered two weeks ago.”
Even though she was transfixed by the vision of the boy standing before her, Justine turned toward the television, having heard the name Rakel Anders.
“We’ve learned the prime suspect for the Anders murder was released from custody today for what his lawyer called ‘insufficient evidence.’ According to a police spokesman, Mr. Zach Regan remains a person of interest.”
Justine looked back toward the doorway. The boy was still there, staring at her. She closed her eyes, hoping she was hallucinating from being overtired, but when she opened her eyes again, the boy remained. And then, he spoke.
“I saw you today,” the boy said.
Justine clutched her sheets to her breast, scared out of her mind. It was Timothy Bannock, she was sure of it. The boy’s voice sounded so real, not at all like what she’d expect a ghost to sound like. “Is—is your name Timothy?” she asked, her voice trembling.
The boy smiled, as if amused by her question. “No, my name is Timmy.”
“Timmy. Yes, I saw you today.” Good God, I can’t believe I’m talking to a ghost. “Did you see who I was with?”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“Her name is Peyton, Timmy. Have you talked to her before?”
“Yeah, but that’s not her only name.”
Jenna paused, trying to figure out what he meant.
“She needs to find him,” Timmy said. “My dad needs her help. There’s not a whole lot of time left.”
Justine could sense the urgency in his voice. “Your dad. His name is Mitch, right?”
“Yes, Mitchell. Mitchell Bannock.”
“Is your mom’s name—” Oh shit! It started with a J.
“Her name is Jenna,” Timothy said, answering Justine’s unfinished question. “She was with you today.”
“She was?”
“Yeah, with the other girl.”
Justine suddenly remembered what Peyton had said after she’d first seen Timmy in the kitchen: I felt like I knew him, or at least part of me knew him.
Justine sat up a little straighter in bed. “Timmy, where is your mom right now?”
“She’s with the other girl.”
The other girl. Justine began to consider a possibility that only minutes before she would have never thought possible. It explained Peyton’s feelings for Timmy, and also what she’d experienced at the cemetery when the casket was brought up. “I saw a whole life flash before my eyes,” Peyton had said, “but it wasn’t mine.”
“Oh my God,” Justine whispered. Jenna Bannock and Peyton were connected somehow.
“Timmy, do you know where your dad is?”
She watched as he raised his arm, the edge of the doorway barely visible through it, and pointed at the TV. “You know where he is. You heard it.”
At first, Justine wasn’t sure what Timmy meant, then it dawned on her. According to a police spokesman, Mr. Zach Regan remains a person of interest. “He’s with the boy, isn’t he,” she said. “He’s with Zach.”
“There’s not a whole lot of time left,” T
immy said again, a hint of exasperation in his little voice. “You’ll need to hurry before the bad thing stops you.”
A second and third chill crawled up her back. “The bad thing?”
“You know, the boogeyman,” Timmy stated, as if it should be all too obvious.
The boogeyman. Visions of childhood terrors flashed through Justine’s mind, the things that lived under the bed, things that lived in the closet, emerging at night. “Why does he want to stop us? From doing what?”
“You need to be super careful ’cause he’s everywhere,” Timmy said. “He’s watchin’ you. There’s not a whole lot of time left. You’ll need to hurry.”
That’s the third time he’s said that. Justine understood now why Peyton had expressed such urgency in her desire to reach Zach, because right now, she was feeling it, too. “I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do, Timmy.”
“She knows.”
“Can you tell me? Please?”
“You need to hurry.” Timmy shifted his gaze toward the TV, his eyes full of despair. The news anchor was still droning on, one horrific story after another.
Justine understood. She and Rick had started to avoid watching any news at all, as the broadcasts were becoming more difficult to watch with all the unfathomable death and destruction reported every minute of every day, treated more as entertainment than tragedy. It was easier to just turn off the tube, go sit on the front porch swing, and imagine all the bad things were far away from Twin Creek, far away from their lives. Tonight, she’d had the TV on as background noise, something she needed when Rick was away, and as usual hadn’t been paying attention. But now, as she listened, it seemed as if the world was rapidly starting to tear itself apart. And maybe, Justine feared, it really was. She suddenly felt as if she could hear the ticking of a timer counting down, without having any worldly idea of how many seconds were left before it all fell apart. We have to hurry.
She recalled a poem she’d read in high school, by Yeats, one that had stuck with her ever since. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold . . . And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
“The boogeyman is getting stronger,” Timmy said. “He’s mad because my dad tricked him.” He paused, his voice taking on a more somber tone as he continued. “He knows who you are, too, so you have to be careful.” With that, Timmy abruptly turned around.
“No! Please, Timmy, wait!” Justine threw her covers aside and jumped out of bed. “Don’t go! I have more questions!”
The boy stopped, and glanced over his shoulder.
Justine stood beside her bed, afraid to inch any closer. “Timmy, what is this all about? Why does the boogeyman want to stop us?”
Timmy face brightened, all the sadness melting away. “Because something wonderful is going to happen.”
Just like that, then, he was gone.
36
Peyton opened her eyes and found herself alone in the kitchen once again, standing in the exact same spot as when she’d first seen Timmy. She fell to the floor, her entire body trembling with weakness and her stomach churning with nausea from the bloody vision she’d just experienced. She quickly clasped her hand over her mouth to keep herself from vomiting, and to suppress the scream of horror rapidly rising from her chest.
Sprawled on the cold linoleum, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she waited for the crushing wave of nausea to subside, Peyton realized she alone knew the truth of what’d happened that night at the hotel, the horrible night when Rakel had been brutally murdered. From the moment Dezi had told her of Zach’s arrest, Peyton had known in her heart that he couldn’t have committed such a violent, senseless crime. And she’d been right. Zach hadn’t killed Rakel.
As her strength gradually returned, Peyton sat up and brushed her hair from her face. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, the chill of what she’d seen still clinging to her skin.
Peyton had seen the Devil himself, the Deceiver, the Father of Lies. For some, he was a mythical creature created by the mind of man, real only to the uneducated or unenlightened. For others, he was a convenient excuse, real only when his existence fit a purpose. For Peyton, though, there was no doubt. There was a Beast from Hell. She’d gazed into its eyes, and it, somehow sensing her presence while she watched the terrible murder unfold, had gazed into hers.
Peyton remembered what Timmy had said, that it—the boogeyman—wanted to keep them apart, them being both Zach and her . . . and Mitch and Jenna Bannock. Peyton felt very small and alone, knowing she was caught up in something she couldn’t possibly begin to fully comprehend.
She knew Zach must be feeling the same way, compounded by the fact he’d been accused of killing someone he loved, and from what she’d witnessed, probably had no memories of that night to contradict the charges against him. Zach, Peyton knew, had been so completely under the spell of the thing inside of Rakel, so completely lost, that he’d closed his conscious mind to the awful act he was nearly forced to commit. He’d slammed his door, and withdrawn far inside himself, confused and scared. Only by the strength of Mitch Bannock’s will to resist had Zach not slit Rakel’s throat. Mitch had saved Zach from committing murder, and Peyton was the only person who knew the truth. But would she be able to convince anyone?
The sharp sound of glass breaking startled her. Something had crashed to the floor upstairs.
“Justine?” Peyton called, quickly rising from the floor and gathering her robe around her as she ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Aunt Justine, are you okay?”
As she bolted up the stairs, Peyton could hear faint voices drifting down the stairwell. Justine was talking to someone. A child’s voice. A voice she recognized. She flicked on the hallway light and ran to Justine’s room.
Peyton expected to see Timmy Bannock but found only her aunt, standing beside her bed, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock. As Peyton’s eyes darted around the room, she saw a broken cup on the floor, and realized what the crashing noise had been.
“Justine? What happened?”
Justine gasped when she heard Peyton’s voice, as if abruptly awakened from a hypnotist’s trance by the snap of a finger. “Peyton! I saw him! He was right there!” Justine said, pointing right where Peyton was standing.
“You just saw Timmy, didn’t you,” Peyton asked.
“Yes! Holy crap, Peyton! He was standing right there in the doorway talking to me! And then he—” Justine paused, wondering how Peyton could possibly know what she’d seen. “Wait, how did you know?”
“I was in the kitchen,” Peyton said, not yet ready to explain the vision she’d experienced. Pointing at the shards of Justine’s cup on the floor, she said, “I heard the cup shatter, and when I was coming up the stairs I heard you talking to him. I heard Timmy’s voice.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God.” Justine hugged herself. “Good grief, I’m covered in goose pimples!”
“What did he say?” Peyton asked.
Justine motioned toward the TV. “I was sitting in bed wondering what I should tell Rick, and all of a sudden, Timmy was just standing there.” She looked down at the shattered remains of her teacup. “I dropped the cup. God, I’m lucky I didn’t pee the bed or something.”
“Did he tell you anything?”
Justine took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “He said that I saw him today, at the cemetery.” She stopped herself, not yet wanting to tell Peyton what she suspected about her and Jenna. “He said that his dad is in trouble, and we need to hurry because—” Justine’s breath caught in her throat.
“What is it?” Peyton asked.
“Zach Regan has been released from custody, Peyton. It was on the news. He’s still a person of interest, but they’re not holding him for the murder. I think Timmy wanted to make sure I knew. I wasn’t paying attention to the news, and he appeared right before that story came on.”
“They released him?” Peyton asked, mentally trying to mesh what she’d been shown with
what her aunt had just said. “Did they say anything else?”
“No, just that he was released because of insufficient evidence. Why?”
“They know he didn’t kill her,” Peyton said. “My God, it was all true.”
“What’s true?”
“I saw Timmy, too, Justine. In the kitchen, right before I came up here. He told me the same things he told you. And he showed me what happened to Rakel Anders.”
*
The two of them sat down on the edge of the bed. Peyton told her aunt everything she’d seen, starting from the moment she’d found Timmy in the kitchen to the point when she’d heard the cup shatter upstairs. Justine sat silently and listened. Not once did a sliver of doubt appear in her aunt’s eyes, and for that Peyton was grateful.
“Zach didn’t kill Rakel, Justine. That thing did.”
“The boogeyman,” Justine said.
“Yes. The boogeyman,” Peyton agreed, the word itself sending a dark chill up her back. She closed her eyes tightly, remembering the monster that had emerged from the shadow on the hotel room wall. She didn’t want to remember what happened next. “I saw it, Justine. I saw the boogeyman.”
Justine squeezed Peyton’s hand. “It’s all right, kiddo. You and I are in this together, okay?”
As she hugged her aunt, Peyton wished she’d been born to this woman instead of her own mother, imagining for just a second how different life might have been. But everything she’d experienced in life—the good, and even the bad—had prepared her, shaped her, for this moment. She felt as if she’d been chosen to fulfill a purpose—by whom, and for what, she didn’t know, but now that Justine was by her side, Peyton’s journey didn’t seem quite as formidable as it had just a few short minutes ago. They’d find the answers to all their questions. And it would start with Zach Regan.
“We need to find Zach, Justine,” Peyton said, pulling away from her aunt to stand.
Justine gently grasped Peyton’s arm and sat her back down on the bed. “Peyton, Timmy said the bad thing was getting stronger, and there wasn’t much time left. He said it knew who we were. He said it was going to try to stop us.”
The Widening Gyre Page 17