by Cory Clubb
I retied the twine around the stack and placed it back in the drawer. Moving on to the next drawer, I shielded my face the moment I opened it and reeled back, falling to my butt. I had figured out where the smell was coming from. Inside this drawer were what looked like small dead animals. They were rotted black and almost covered completely in tiny white maggots. I used my foot to kick that drawer closed. I never ventured into the fourth drawer; who knew what would be in there.
I stood and the TV caught my attention again. On it now was an episode of some sitcom from the ’80s or something. Beneath the actors’ faces, Trent’s current string of thought ran across the screen in black-and-white block letters.
SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH. SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH. SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.
I wasn’t getting anywhere. Rubbing the back of my neck, I turned around and was now faced with the sailboat painting again. It looked nice, too nice.
Chapter Forty
I JUMPED UP ON the bed and it groaned at my weight upon it, but I didn’t care. My fingers edged the sides of the painting and I lifted it from its spot on the wall. There had to be something behind it, but I found nothing more than torn wallpaper.
At my feet I noticed another photo. It was a black-and-white picture of Dean. It looked like it had been taken without Dean’s knowledge with some kind of hidden camera.
I replaced the painting back on the wall and picked up the photo. The edges were black and crispy as though they had been burnt. Where had it come from? I tilted my head to the ceiling, somewhere I hadn’t thought to look when I entered the room, but it was clean. I plopped myself down on the bed and rested my head against the headboard. The rotting smell was still as strong as ever, and too many things in this room were beyond my power to decipher. I just sat there, thinking I’d never come up with the truth about Trent’s intent, when something fell on my head and landed on my chest.
Flipping it over, I found that it was another photo of Dean. This one looked like an action shot of him playing baseball, but where in the heck had it come from? Photos of Dean just falling out of thin air? I’d seen crazier things, I supposed. But then I again noticed the sailboat painting above my head and saw something sticking out from behind it. I rose to my feet and this time I took the painting off the wall and flipped it over to the backside, setting it on the bed facedown.
On the other side of the painting were more photos of Dean. One had the word “liar” written across his face. Another had the word “faker,” and two others had black X’s crossing out Dean’s eyes. A third photo looked like it was a mash-up of multiple photos of Dean put together to create some ugly-looking creature with Dean’s features on it.
What did these all mean? Was this just what Trent thought of Dean in his own mind, or was there some weird twist to all of this?
The photos were pulling on me. Dean was my brother, and Trent didn’t have an ounce of respect for him. My eyes welled up and I felt my hands grip the painting. I was ready to chuck it at the window like a giant Frisbee, but I didn’t. I was being irrational and wasn’t looking hard enough. If I wanted the truth, I had to keep searching, and what better place to look than in something every motel room has that speaks the truth? A Bible.
I’d never thought to look for it before. I turned to the bedside table and jerked open the drawer a little too hard. The whole thing pulled out, flinging an object across the room.
As I retrieved it from the opposite side of the room, the lamp on the nightstand blew out with a zap, pitching me further into darkness. I looked around the room and noticed the light shrinking from the window. I had to figure out what was going on, and fast. I was afraid I’d soon be in complete darkness, and who knew what would happen then?
Now with most of my light coming from the TV screen, I moved to it and turned to a random page in Trent’s Bible. I held the pages up to the glow. But it was no Bible; it was a small leather-bound journal. The handwriting was barely identifiable in the closing light. What was I looking for? I didn’t have time to read the entire thing. I flipped a few more pages, leafing back and forth through the volume. Finally, I took the spine of the book and shook it like a madman.
“Tell me!” I shouted.
A small piece of paper fell from between the pages and drifted gently to the carpeted floor. The window lost all its light now. All I had left was the TV. I felt like a blind man who just dropped his cane. My eyes squinted as the TV’s channels above me began to flip faster and faster, one after another. I was starting to freak out. My own thoughts started to draw up an escape plan, betraying me as I searched the floor.
Maybe we’d been wrong about Trent, I thought. Maybe he didn’t have anything to hide. He was just being a creep, something he excelled at. Effectively, he’d won. Whether he knew it or not, he had manipulated all of us. I felt everything building up inside me. I should have been able to find something in there!
Crap, come on. Where is that paper? The TV flickered back and forth faster still, and I gave it a look as if to warn it not to turn off.
Then I felt that familiar chill come over me. My hands began to work double time as the lingering dead-animal smell grew, making me feel as if I were going to lose my dinner. Some sort of presence was building inside this room, and I wasn’t going to find myself face-to-face with it as it used the school bully’s body.
Finally my hand brushed something. The piece of paper!
The channels moved rapidly as if someone were flicking a light on and off. From one, to the next, to the next, and so on. I held the small folded piece of paper against the screen. I needed just a little light to be able to read what it said. My eyes recognized that it was a newspaper article of some kind.
My breath quickened and I noticed it fogging up the screen.
Just get out. My own mind pleaded with me.
I have to know, I fought.
There—I could finally read the title of the article. The light illuminated the dark letters of the headline. I read aloud, “Kate Huddy named new editor for Weekly Beak.”
The rest of the article’s print was too small for me to see. What did this mean? Why did Trent have this article in his mind?
Then the TV’s closed captioning suddenly made perfect sense.
SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH. SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH. SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.
Trent wasn’t after me, and he wasn’t after Dean. Trent had been after Kate this entire time!
My head spun with the possibilities. It all started to make sense. He wasn’t chasing after me or Dean at the mall; it had been Kate. And at school he’d been after Kate just before she and I escaped into the maintenance room.
The question now was, what did Kate know?
With that last thought, the TV blinked off, and the room fell into total darkness. Something whispered my name into my ear.
Chapter Forty-one
I FELT LIKE I had just jumped from a moving car that was ready to explode. Back inside my own head the dance hadn’t skipped a beat—only seconds had passed.
Then I felt a force push my chest, and I stumbled back. It was Trent. His eyes glared, ready to take me down. I’d forgotten I had challenged the school bully to a fight.
“You have no idea what you just started, man,” he said, his cronies laughing from the sidelines and blocking a teacher’s view.
It didn’t take long for a small crowd to circle us, just waiting and watching for me to get my butt kicked. With everyone being so packed in like that, Trent would probably get at least a few punches off before a supervising faculty member would see what was going on. I prayed it would be sooner.
There was nothing I could do. I was dead. I had to fight him. I raised my fists, ready for the beat-down of my life. That was when Trent blinked his eyes once, twice, and then dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
I stayed in defense mode as the people around us took a collective breath. All eyes were on me, and for a second I felt like I’d just told the entire school my mind-reading secret.
The mood changed instantly, and whoops and howls erupted from those watching. Trent’s two henchmen knelt by their leader, lightly slapping the sides of his face.
I had the feeling that what had just happened to Trent was what had happened to Laura in speech class. I wasn’t about to tell anybody that, and I also wasn’t going to celebrate the moment. I had to find Kate. A few teachers appeared, and the crowd dispersed rather quickly.
The club music faded out and a spotlight punched through the gym like a lighthouse from the far corner. Up on the stage, Mr. Muller stood in a jacket and tie, holding a microphone.
“Is this on?” His voice boomed out of the speakers, and a garble of squealing feedback whistled.
“And now the event you’ve all been waiting for! The crowning of the River West Fall Ball’s Best Guy and Gal!” A few girls screamed in excitement, and a couple of guys booed the announcement. I wasn’t interested in what the principal had to say; my goal was to find Kate.
Muller went on, describing the characteristics of each role and how they were selected. I started looking for Kate’s stunning dress that I’d been ogling all night. Everyone’s faces were starting to blur together, and then I felt it on my upper lip and knew instantly what it was.
Using the end of my tie, I wiped the blood away from my nose and kept looking for Kate in the crowd. I would almost rather have been searching for a newspaper clipping in a haunted motel room … almost.
Somebody put a hand on my shoulder and I whirled around, expecting Trent ready for round two.
“Hey, whoa, it’s just me. Nice moves back there.” It was Kate. “What’d you do, rewire something upstairs?”
I was done goofing around with all this and got to the point.
“What do you know about Trent?”
Kate gave me an insane look. “He’s a crazy psycho who torments just about everybody at school.”
I shook my head. “No, no, I mean—what does Muddy Huddy know about Trent?”
Kate knew where I was going with it. She focused on the floor. I’d never seen her hold back before. “Nolan …”
I could hear Mr. Muller’s voice again, droning on and introducing the candidates for the coveted prize.
“Be a gentleman and don’t go running around up here.” She placed a palm on her head.
I hadn’t thought of it, but it might have been easier to get to the truth.
“I won’t. Just tell me.”
The three candidates for each spot were gathering onstage. Laura was one for the girls’ side, and you guessed it, Dean was up on the guys’ end.
Kate took a breath, but before she could answer, a tall, skinny guy with a camera around his neck slid into our conversation. He talked slowly, as if he’d been off killing a few brain cells in the guys’ locker room.
“Hey, Kate, you want me to get pictures of everybody or just the winners?”
She fumbled her words at first then said, “No … Yes! Bronson, just get pictures of everybody, everything … whatever.”
Using her hands, she waved him away as if he were a six-foot gnat.
Muller’s voice boomed again. “And this year’s title goes to …”
He paused for dramatic effect, and I saw Bronson take wide steps toward the stage to get a better shot for the newspaper.
“… Laura Hartman and Dean Mitchell!”
The crowd went crazy nuts, and music instantly blared again over the speakers. Kate and I both flinched. We kept our eyes on the stage as Laura donned her red sash and was handed a bouquet of flowers.
A matching sash was draped over Dean’s chest and he was given a heartfelt handshake by Mr. Muller. Laura smiled, but she didn’t look happy that she’d just won one of the most coveted titles in school. Dean, on the other hand, was accepting everything with a grin and humility.
Then his expression changed. He dug his hand into his front pocket and produced Kate’s cell phone. He looked at it and then put it to his ear. Plugging his other ear with his finger, Dean walked offstage and down into the crowd.
I looked over at Kate.
“Who is it?” I shouted to her.
Kate shook her head. Now Dean was searching the crowd. His expression told me something wasn’t right.
“Come on.” I took Kate’s hand as we cut a path toward him.
“Dean!” I shouted, but the music drowned out my feeble attempt.
Kate and I squeezed through dancing couples and I stepped on somebody’s foot. We made it to the other side of the dance floor where Dean had been, but I’d lost him in the crowd. Now we were both lost. Why did this place have to be so dark?
Then I heard my name. I turned in what I thought was the direction of the voice, but I couldn’t tell with all the music.
“Did you hear that?” I yelled to Kate.
“What?” she strained back.
I shook my head, trying to look over people’s heads on the dance floor.
The music began to fade, and I heard my name again.
It was Dean moving toward us. He was out of breath when he finally made it over. Resting a hand on my shoulder, he tried to regain his composure and talk at the same time. The music had risen again, and the track playing was some techno beat that jumbled all Dean’s words.
“Yo tad ehcaped.”
“What?” I screamed back at him.
Dean swallowed and took the back of my neck with his hand to draw me in close. This time it wasn’t the heavy bass that shook my bones; it was Dean’s unsettling words.
“Your dad escaped.”
Chapter Forty-two
TO SOME, MEMORIES ARE like a dream you wake from and it feels like it was the real thing. For me, this memory was a nightmare I’d never forget. I was lying in my bed in the second-story bedroom of our old house, feeling pretty good. I had begun to relax, believing the night had grown too late and Dad had drunk himself to sleep in front of the TV again. The band Muse was playing in my ear buds. With my attention lost elsewhere, I didn’t hear him coming. I only noticed his presence when a dark shadow pierced the light from the hallway into my room like a knife. Dad wasn’t a big guy, nor was he muscular. But then again, size doesn’t matter when someone’s beating on you. Suddenly my hope for an easy night fled.
But this night was different.
Dad threw back the remains of the bottle in his fist, and like all the other times, I didn’t react. My body went numb. I was frozen like a cheerleader in a horror film. Then, before I knew it, his hand was around my neck instead of the bottle’s. His sandpaper fingers dug into my flesh. The breath choked out of me as he jerked me up from my bed, into the hallway, and then shoved me down the stairs.
There’s no graceful way to fall down stairs, let me tell you. You’ve just got to keep on rolling and rolling, and I did. When I finally hit the bottom, I felt something crack inside me. A burst of pain erupted, urging me to throw up, but I held myself together. Usually the barfing didn’t come till later.
Dad met me at the bottom of the stairs. His finger pointed over me as if he were commanding an army.
“Nolan, you little punk, I’ve told you time and time again to clean up your messes.”
The words were like spits of gunfire. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Then, from my vantage point on the floor, I saw dirty dishes, spilled beer, and garbage spread throughout the entire length of the living room and into the kitchen. He’d gone ballistic this time.
“Get off your butt and clean this crap up!”
It was no use to argue with him; it would only make things worse. So I attempted to move. Bad idea. A sharp pain in my gut seared my insides as salty sweat broke out down my temples and across my upper lip. My ribs were on fire.
Dad wiped the back of his hand across his face, clearing his own sweat, and used his boot to nudge me forward down the hall. I fell forward on my face.
“Get moving, worthless!”
On the second attempt to get up, my arms shook and I barely made it to my knees. On the thir
d try, I knew it was no use when the pain in my side knocked me back down flat. I flopped around, just trying to get mobile in any way that I could.
Dad reached into the adjoining den. My focus blurred with sweat and tears.
I couldn’t make the object out.
A wicked smashing sound exploded in the wall next to me, and I immediately knew what it was.
Dad worked a little over fifty hours a week doing concrete. In the concrete business, the crew had to break up old driveways using jackhammers or other machines, but sometimes there would be a tricky spot, and for that they used a sledgehammer. It was twelve pounds of pure, solid steel. Like I said, Dad wasn’t a huge guy, but it didn’t take much to swing a sledge—just a little bit of gravity.
That first swing had crashed into the wall beside me and I scooted back the best I could, changing from fish to crab. Plaster dust and bits of wall guts rained down on me as I scrambled. I’d been scared before, but nothing like this. The intent and passion in Dad’s eyes alone were enough to terrify me. My mouth ran dry as I tried to scream.
Then came the next big swing. It slammed through the hardwood floor, missing my left shin by inches. Dad’s knuckles blared white as his fingers tightened around for a better grip. Shock took hold of my body, the pounding pain in my ribcage intensifying with every breath. Dad was poised to splatter me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to escape, disappear, go anywhere.
He raised the sledgehammer over his head. All I could do was stare into his wide, bloodshot eyes as they bugged out in an uncontrollable rage I would never understand.
That’s when it happened—the Event. Within those few seconds before Dad swung, I did escape, but I was transported to the last place I ever could have imagined: Dad’s mind.
Chapter Forty-three
ON THAT NIGHT OF all nights, something changed.
I wasn’t ready to die, but I didn’t have a choice. By pure instinct I shut my eyes, awaiting the blistering pain that was to come. When nothing happened, I opened them and found myself in a simple room. No Dad. No pain, only silence, but I was there.