by Alex MacLean
“The devil,” he whispered.
44
Halifax, June 14
11:17 a.m.
The nightmare came, vivid and terrifying. One the medication could no longer keep at bay.
A thump had wrenched Seth from a deep sleep. For a moment, he had lain there in bed, his eyes half-closed, his mind still caught in the fog between sleep and consciousness, dream and thought.
Moonlight spilled through the windows, and shadows of tree branches from outside trembled on the far wall, shifting under the burden of a wind. As his gaze moved around the bedroom, he saw the door ajar. The hallway was dimly lit.
Someone was in the house. He could hear this—muffled voices and sounds of rummaging downstairs.
Fear growing inside him, he moved his hand across the dimpled surface of the mattress to nudge Camille, but he found the space beside him empty. Warm and empty.
Seth turned his head on the pillow. “Honey?”
It was then he became aware of a wet gurgling sound in the room. He rose to his elbows and saw a dark form on the floor by the dresser. Curled on its side, the form was long and slender. Fear crawled across his skin, prickling the hairs at the back of his neck.
“H-honey?”
A floorboard suddenly creaked beside him. He spun, eyes widening with panic. He caught a blur of movement right before a gloved hand clamped over his mouth and nose, cutting off his breath and driving him back into the bed.
In utter horror, Seth watched the hideous face of a scarecrow appear over his. It had a ragged, burlap sack for a head with tiny eyeholes cut out, and a zigzag pattern of twine stitched its mouth shut in a drooping frown. A rope cinched its neck.
Heart thrashing, Seth looked up and into the liquid-black eyes leering down at him. No whites. No pupils. Just a fathomless blackness.
At the edge of his terror and disorientation, Seth became aware of cries and screams from elsewhere in the house. All at once, terrible images burned themselves into his brain, and panic ripped through his body.
No, he thought. Please, God. No.
He had to get away. He had to save—
The scarecrow pounced on top of him with a swift and powerful movement. When Seth tried to fight back, he realized the body of the scarecrow and two layers of blankets had trapped his arms.
Shit.
Muscles straining, he wriggled to get free but couldn’t.
The scarecrow pushed Seth’s head deep into the pillow, crushing his lips painfully around the sharp edges of his teeth.
Seth groaned in agony. He needed to exhale. Feverish heat built up in his face. Pressure bugged out his eyes and made his eardrums feel ready to explode.
Through his blurring vision, he saw the scarecrow raise its other hand and the knife it held. Something dripped from the blade.
The scarecrow drove the knife down. The sharp tip pierced the blankets and plunged its way into Seth’s abdomen.
“You bastard,” Seth yelled. “You fucking bastard.”
His mind screamed for survival, though at this point it wasn’t his own he cared about. He continued to fight, bucking, twisting, trying to free his arms from those goddamned blankets.
The scarecrow raised the knife again.
Then came laughter. Even though the scarecrow’s mouth was stitched shut, Seth could hear it.
Loud, shrilling, maniacal laughter.
He must’ve passed out after that, because when he came to, the scarecrow was no longer on top of him. The bedroom spun around him. Spots floated before his eyes.
Seth freed his arms from the blankets and rolled off the bed. Terrible pain ripped through his left side as he fell to the carpet with a muffled thud. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. It felt like he was drowning, his lungs filled with liquid.
With great effort, he rose to his knees and began shuffling forward in a doubled-over position, his left arm pressed to his ribs, his right arm on the floor to brace himself.
He reached the foot of the bed and stopped. Camille lay by the dresser, not moving, no longer making a sound. Seth saw the dark stain on the beige carpet beneath her head, the glisten of her open eyes catching the moonlight filtering through the window.
A cry formed in his throat. “Cam?”
Ravaged with panic, he crawled to his wife and saw the gaping wound across her throat. He reached for her cheek. There was still warmth in her skin, but he knew she was gone.
Her jewelry box lay upside down on the floor. The dresser drawers hung open. Clothes strewn about.
Seth made his way to the bedside phone. The handset felt slippery in his bloody hand. He checked for a dial tone. Still there.
He could feel himself growing faint. The numbers on the phone blurred and shifted. He tried to concentrate on pressing the right ones.
The ringing became a female voice on the other end. “Nine-one-one. What is the emergency?”
Seth found it hard to speak. “H-help.”
“Where’s your location?”
A sudden wave of dizziness struck him and he fell against the windowsill, dropping the phone. He feared he would soon lose consciousness or go into shock.
Lily. He had to make sure she was safe.
The tinny voice of the 9-1-1 dispatcher drifted from the phone. “Sir. Hello?”
Seth gripped the ledge of the windowsill, pulling himself to his knees. His forehead touched the cold pane of glass, and he looked out at the November night. There was a car in the driveway. It reminded him of one of those pimped-out Hondas. He couldn’t make out the color—too dark—but he could see big chrome rims and the shape of an oversized spoiler.
The scarecrow and whomever he’d come with were still in the house. Seth remembered his shotgun locked away in the hidden safe in the spare bedroom closet. Could he get to it in time? Blow the fuckers away.
The dispatcher spoke again. “Sir. Are you there?”
Seth knew she’d send someone. By now, his address would be on the computer screen in front of her. Lily was his main concern right now. He had to get to her before he collapsed.
As he struggled to his feet, the room wavered around him. His toes and fingers were getting numb. His legs felt leaden as he stumbled across the room to the hallway. He heard a noise downstairs, and he froze, listening.
Someone said, “I’m taking this.”
Seth couldn’t hear sirens yet. Was help coming?
Blood filled his throat, and he could taste the metal in it. Coldness spread through his hands and feet.
He crept along the wall, unsure of what would happen, what he would see. The front door was wide open. Wintry air billowed in. As his gaze dropped into the living room, Seth found the devil there, illuminated by the glow of a single table lamp. His arms were wrapped around the family’s plasma TV.
He stopped when he noticed Seth at the top of the stairs. For a tense moment, the two of them stared at each other.
The devil said, “What the fuck?”
At the corner of his vision, Seth caught something moving up slowly behind him. He spun around, hitting the light switch and finding himself face to face with a corpse wearing a black coat and gloves.
Seth lunged at him, and the two of them tumbled to the floor. The corpse ended up on top. Immediately, it began throwing punches. With the last of his dying strength, Seth reached up through the rain of blows and tore the face off the corpse. The punches stopped, and Seth saw a new face hovering over him, one with a stunned expression and pure-white eyes.
“C’mon,” someone yelled up the stairs. “Let’s go.”
A crescent of light swiped down. Seth felt a hot lick through the flesh of his cheek. Felt the corpse face being wrenched from his fingers. Footsteps hurried down the stairs, fading away.
Rolling over on the hardwood floor, he wanted to sleep now. A kind of lassitude was settling into his body. It took everything he had to lift his head and focus his eyes down the hallway to Lily’s bedroom. The door was open. He could barely make out the shap
e of a small body lying on the floor inside.
“No,” he choked.
Then his world went black.
“Oh, Jesus.” Seth awoke in a cold sweat.
His heart pounded. A cold panic gripped his nerves.
He realized he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He sat up and ran a trembling hand over his face. Then he looked around the living room for Lily. She wasn’t there.
“Lily,” he called out.
No answer.
“Honey, where are you?”
When Seth stood up, his legs felt weak, rubbery. The residue of the nightmare still clung to his brain. He could feel it there, a living thing, creeping its way across his thoughts.
“Lily,” he called again.
He went into the kitchen. Not there either.
Her bedroom.
He hurried up the stairs and down the hallway. When he opened the bedroom door, a flood of relief washed through him. Lily was sitting at her easel desk, coloring in a book.
“Oh, there you are, honey.”
Lily glanced over at him and smiled.
“I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” Seth told her.
“You and Mommy keep me safe, Daddy.”
Seth tensed. “What? Mommy?”
“Yes, Daddy. You and Mommy.”
The hairs stood up on the back of Seth’s neck. His eyes swept the room, searching, finding no one else there.
“Do you see Mommy?”
Lily giggled. “You’re silly, Daddy. Mommy lives here too.”
Seth stared at his daughter, feeling his blood chill to ice.
45
Halifax, June 14
3:16 p.m.
Audra sat in her car, watching the kids leave Gorsebrook Junior High. She was parked on South Street, just up from the intersection of Robie, so she could have a clear view of the school’s front and side exits.
She put down the side window and propped her elbow up on the door. A cool breeze drifted in, touching her face. She breathed it in and leaned her head back against the seat, watching, waiting for Margi Tanner to appear.
Audra doubted the school had disciplined her. Principal Scinto had probably talked to her, maybe even threatened her with a suspension, and called her parents to inform them of the issue. Audra couldn’t imagine Scinto doing much else. What else could she do with the information she had?
That’s why Audra had decided to come here, to take matters into her own hands. At least that had been the plan. But the longer she sat there, the more she questioned the gain, the end result. Confronting or going ballistic on Margi Tanner could lead to more problems.
Daphne wouldn’t benefit from it. The damage had already been done to her. She lay in a hospital bed with her future teetering on the brink of disaster.
But Audra would benefit. She would satisfy that ravenous desire to do something, anything, for her daughter.
When Audra saw Tabitha Landes appear on the sidewalk in front of the school, she pulled her head off the seat.
Tabitha walked beside another girl who had frizzy blonde hair and stood a head taller. She said something to the blonde, smiling as she did. The blonde grinned, shaking her head. They hooked a left at the corner and headed south down Robie Street.
Audra watched them until they disappeared. She wondered if Tabitha would stop by the hospital to see Daphne. Would she be too afraid, too embarrassed to show her face there? For Daphne’s sake, Audra hoped she was giving it some serious thought.
At three forty, after most of the kids were gone, Margi Tanner showed herself. Audra sat up in the seat, narrowing her eyes, staring at the girl with a flat contempt.
Margi crossed Robie Street at the walk light, her head down, her hands gripping the backpack straps around her shoulders. For a moment, she looked to be coming straight up the sidewalk toward Audra. Then she cut across South at the corner and began heading north up Robie.
Audra reached for the ignition, turned over the engine. She drove to the corner then stopped for a red light. Margi was about twenty yards away, walking in and out of the shadows cast by maple trees lining the sidewalk.
The green light flashed. Audra turned left, taking the inside lane. A grassy median and two lanes of opposing traffic separated her from Margi. Audra hit another red light at the intersection of Robie Street and University Avenue. As she watched Margi in the side mirror, her hands strangled the wheel.
The girl turned into a brick apartment building that had a dramatic white door surround.
When the light changed to green, Audra flashed the emergency lights in the car, squawked the siren twice, and made a U-turn on Robie Street. She cut into the outside lane, abruptly stopping at the curb in front of the building.
Shutting off the car, she looked over at the glass entrance door. Then she stepped out and went inside. A bank of eighteen mailboxes was mounted to the wall on the right. Audra scanned the nameplates. Apartment 15 belonged to Tanner.
She took the stairs, climbing to the third floor. There were three doors on each side of the hallway. Number 15 was on the left, in the middle.
Audra paused a moment, rehearsing what she’d say when the door opened. She’d introduce herself to whatever parent was home, if any, and try to have a civil conversation. If Margi was there alone, she’d get the names of her parents and their phone number and get out of there. She wouldn’t confront the girl. She wouldn’t lose her temper.
Audra squared her shoulders, took a deep breath. She approached the door and raised her fist to knock, then stopped short when she heard yelling inside. A man, hoarse-voiced and slurring his words, called someone a no-good bitch. Useless. Lazy. Just like her mother. He hated people calling there about her.
In response, the female said something Audra couldn’t hear, then the sounds of a scuffle followed and ended with the sharp smack of a palm against bare skin. The female cried out in pain.
“Bitch,” the man growled. “Don’t talk back to me.”
Audra touched the inside pocket of her blazer. Her badge case was still there. In all the commotion of the past couple of days, she’d forgotten to take it out.
She took it out now and banged her knuckles on the door. A hush fell on the other side.
“Who is it?” the man called out.
“Police,” Audra said. “Open up.”
The man who answered the door had a heavy-browed scowl and graying hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He had a wiry build and stood eye level with Audra. He wore blue jeans and a grimy tank top.
Audra twitched her nose at the odor of booze pumping out with each heavy breath he took.
“I heard arguing,” she said. “Everything all right in here?”
With the hazy, unfocused gaze of a drunk, the man’s eyes wiggled from the badge case she held open for him to her face.
“Fine,” he said.
“Who’s here?”
“What?”
“Who’s here?” Audra repeated.
“My wife.”
“Who else?”
The man’s head lolled. “No one else.”
“Yeah?” Audra stared at the mess of spider veins over his nose and face. She knew this guy from somewhere.
She asked, “How about Margi? She here?”
“Yeah, she’s here.”
“Can I see her?”
The question sparked a reaction in him. He curled his lips and gave a shiver that made Audra wonder if it came from disgust or the effects of the alcohol.
“Margi. The poisoned brood from my ex-wife’s loins.”
“Awful thing to say.”
“What?”
“Is Margi your daughter?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s mine. But you’d never know it.”
Audra watched him. “Why, because she’s nothing like you, right?”
The man snorted, fixed his drunken eyes on hers. “I know you.”
Audra straightened her back. So they had crossed paths
before. Still, she couldn’t remember where. But he was there, hidden away in a memory file she had yet to find.
“Where from?” she asked. “What’s your name?”
The man ignored her. He moved back from the doorway, wavering. Audra stepped across the threshold and stopped.
The kitchen she stood in was messy, bordered on squalid. Dirty dishes filled the sink, even the drying rack on the counter. Empty beer bottles littered the table. There was an untied, overflowing garbage bag in the corner, and the smell of it mixed in the air with the stale smell of cigarettes.
The living room opened off the kitchen, and Audra saw a stout woman standing there. She wore an over-sized white T-shirt and red Bermuda shorts that exposed white legs dimpled with cellulite. Behind her, some talk show flickered on the TV.
“What’s your name?” Audra asked.
“Diane,” she said in a voice almost as hoarse as the man’s.
“Wife?”
“Yeah.”
The man said, “She wants to see Margi. Go get her.”
“She’s your stepdaughter, then?”
Diane nodded. “She’s from Greg’s first marriage.”
Audra became very still. That’s what it took to find and open the memory file. The name. Greg. Greg Tanner. The volatile, belligerent drunk who used to beat his wife.
With a slow roll of her head, Audra looked over at him.
“Greg Tanner,” she said.
Greg tipped his head back, and his lips wriggled across his face. “Remember me, huh?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Unfortunately.”
Nine years ago, she’d been the arresting officer. She and Allan Stanton, patrol partners at the time, were dispatched to one of the worst acts of domestic violence she’d seen. One night, in a fit of drunken rage, Greg had nearly killed his wife, Shirley. He’d beaten her unconscious and thrown all of her clothes out the back door.
When Audra and Allan arrived, Greg was sitting on the porch, drinking a bottle of beer, blood drying on his knuckles. They found Shirley on the bathroom floor, her face swollen so badly it was no longer recognizable. Pieces of her teeth lay all over the sink, broken out after Greg had slammed her head into the edge of the cabinet.