The Girl on the Stairs

by V. J. Chambers

  It wasn’t hard to see Todd as he hurried away.

  Sam raised the gun with both hands, closing one eye to aim, and squeezed the trigger again.

  Todd halted, stopping in midair. He crumpled to the ground.

  Sam’s heart sped up. Shit. He’d done it. He’d just shot Todd.

  Slowly, gun still out, he made his way over to the place where Todd had fallen.

  Todd was a dark bundle of rags in the white snow.

  Sam nudged the bundle with his foot.

  There was no reaction.

  Jesus? Had he killed him? With one shot?

  Wow. Sam had never shot a gun in his life, but he guessed that playing all those video games in college had really paid off. He tucked the gun into his pocket.

  He knelt down, feeling around for Todd’s wrist so that he could check for a pulse.

  Todd sprang up, laughing. He was brandishing the knife that Sam had lost in the snow earlier. He stabbed at Sam.

  Sam tried to sidestep.

  But the knife punched into his side, and agonizing pain splintered through him. He shrieked. Clutching his wound, he stumbled in the snow.

  Todd began to get to his feet.

  Gun, thought Sam. He scrabbled for it, pulling it out with one hand, grabbing onto his bleeding waist with the other. He cocked it and fired a shot in panic, barely aiming. The sound ricocheted off the snowy sky.

  Todd feinted left, but the shot had gone wildly off course.

  Sam staggered in the snow. It was now so deep it covered his knees, soaking through his already wet clothes. His hand shook, but he tried to aim at Todd.

  Todd crouched down, knife in one hand. He was grinning, baring his teeth in an unsettling, determined way.

  Sam pointed the gun directly at Todd’s head. Sam pulled back the hammer. His finger tensed on the trigger.

  Todd lunged at Sam.

  Sam—surprised—flailed backwards. His finger squeezed the trigger involuntarily. Another shot went off, but this one sailed up over Todd’s head.

  Todd brought down the knife.

  Sam rolled over, barely evading Todd’s stab.

  Todd grabbed Sam’s ankle.

  Sam shot at him again.

  Todd let go. He yelped.

  But Sam had only clipped him.

  Blood was trailing down Todd’s cheekbone. The bullet had skimmed his face.

  Todd roared.

  Sam cocked the gun again.

  Todd seized Sam’s wrist, the one with the gun. He slashed at Sam with the knife.

  Sam ripped his hand out of Todd’s grasp, but the gun went off again as he did it. He wasn’t sure if he’d pulled the trigger or if Todd had somehow brushed it. Sam inched backwards into the snow. It was like pushing against wet concrete.

  Todd crawled after him.

  Sam aimed a kick at Todd’s face. He connected, and there was a satisfying crunch as he drove his boot into Todd’s nose.

  Todd howled.

  Sam lifted the gun. He held the handle with both hands. He eased back the hammer. He was so close, there was no way he could miss this time. He pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Fuck. The stupid gun was out of bullets. Sam tried to think back, to count. Had he really shot the damned gun six times already?

  Sam flung the gun away.

  He got to his feet.

  Todd, his face a bloody mask, was getting up as well. He raised the knife.

  Sam turned and ran.

  He didn’t look back. He bounded through the snow as best he could, even though it was so deep now he could barely move at all.

  Todd had to be behind him. He had to be right on his heels.

  Any second, Sam was going to feel the sharp rip of a knife in his back.

  Sam glanced over his shoulder.

  Todd wasn’t just behind him. He was further back, a hulking dark form against the startling whiteness of the snow. He was walking.

  Sam was running, scrambling, pushing his way through the snow, and Todd wasn’t even concerned that he’d get away. He was coming after him, but there was no hurry.

  Todd strode behind him, his pace even and steady.

  Sam choked with fear. He looked ahead at the white expanse of driveway. Of course Todd wasn’t in a rush. Where did Sam have to go? Todd knew that if Sam ran, he’d eventually tire, and then Todd would catch up to him. And it wasn’t as if Sam had anywhere to hide, not out here in the open.

  Sam swerved, hurtling into the woods that flanked the driveway.

  He ducked around dark tree trunks. The wound in his side pulsed pain through his body. Sam looked down and saw that blood was soaking through his jeans. It hadn’t made it through his winter coat yet, but he could feel it against his skin, hot and wet and sticky.

  He looked back. Todd had followed him, crossing into the woods as well. He was ten feet back, still moving steadily after him like some kind of inexorable force. The knife hung from his hand, still stained red with Sam’s blood.

  Sam pushed himself to go faster. He flew through the trees, zigzagging between them, trying to put more distance between himself and Todd.

  The pain in his side increased. It seared through him.

  He was out of breath.

  The whole world was pain and gasps and tree trunks looming as he dodged them.

  More pain—brighter, fresher. Points of it, tearing into his ankle and calf.

  Sam looked down to see that he’d stepped in a snow-covered briar patch.

  He turned back to see Todd still coming after him, still moving forward. Blood streaked down Todd’s face, down over his chin, but Todd didn’t seem concerned. He was still coming, still clutching the knife.

  Sam tore his leg out of the briars and kept going. The sharp points took out chunks of his flesh, ripped holes in his jeans.

  Sam gritted his teeth.

  He kept going.

  Now every step was agony. The pain started in all the tiny cuts on his leg and radiated up to the place he’d been stabbed. His heart was pounding double time. His chest was painfully tight. He could hardly draw a breath, and every breath he did take hurt like hell.

  Sam shot another glance over his shoulder.

  Todd was still there, although further back now.

  Was that progress?

  Then his foot caught—something, a stray vine, a root, some underbrush? Whatever it was, it had been covered in snow.

  Sam teetered, flailing for balance.

  He grabbed at a tree branch, caught it.

  Tried to pull himself upright.

  But the branch broke in his hand and down he went.

  He hit the ground hard. The snow didn’t cushion his fall much. His knee struck a rock or something hard and more pain cut through him.

  Sam exhaled noisily.

  He grimaced, pushing himself to his feet.

  Todd would be closer now. He’d have gained on him.

  Sam turned, looking for him.

  Where was Todd?

  He looked back the way he’d come. He could see his trail in the snow. Todd wasn’t there.

  Sam whirled, looking behind him.

  Trees. Snow. No Todd.

  Sam turned in a circle, looking all around. All he could see was whiteness and bare tree trunks. Nothing.

  Todd was hiding somewhere, then. He was behind this tree, maybe, going to jump out and bury the knife in Sam.

  Sam trudged around the tree.

  Nothing back there but snow.

  He looked around again, his breath still coming in gasps.

  What the fuck? Where had he gone?

  Sam rested his back against the tree trunk, struggling to breathe, flinching every time he did. Everything hurt.

  He didn’t want to run anymore. This was stupid anyway. There was no place to run. He’d had a gun, and he hadn’t managed to shoot Todd at close range.

  Sam was a fucking writer. He wasn’t cut out for this. He was going to die here, and it was going to be his own damned fault for n
ot knowing how to shoot or run or handle being stabbed in the side. And, damn it all, he wished he’d really quit smoking. Maybe then his lungs wouldn’t be on fire.

  Sam laid his head against the tree trunk.

  Maybe he’d just wait here. Maybe he’d wait until Todd came for him.

  He didn’t have a weapon, and he was outmatched physically, but running wasn’t doing him any good. If he faced Todd down and was killed, at least it wouldn’t be a coward’s death. At least he wouldn’t have been running like a scared pussy.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  He waited.

  Time passed. His breathing returned to normal.

  Nick didn’t appear.

  It started to grow even darker, and now the tree trunks around him were nothing but tall shadows.

  The wind blew through the trees, skittering the snow around, blowing it against the trunks, into the air.

  Sam cringed against the icy points of cold on his face.

  He shivered.

  All right, this was ridiculous. Todd was playing some kind of game with him. Sam didn’t know what it was, but maybe it didn’t make sense to stand out here in the cold, shivering, getting pelted with snow every time the wind blew.

  Taking a deep breath, Sam pushed away from the tree trunk.

  That hurt.

  He gasped.

  The wind blew again, and instead of feeling warm against him, the blood that had seeped out of him felt cold.

  He swallowed.

  Sam staggered away from the tree, squinting to make out his own tracks.

  How had he gotten here?

  They weren’t there. The snow in every direction that he could see was smooth and wind-swept.

  Shit. He shut his eyes.

  The fucking wind. The wind had blown over his tracks.

  He let out a shaky breath. Okay, which way should he go? Which way was the house?

  The woods continued for nearly a mile in the other direction.

  Of course, maybe if he went that way, he could get to the neighbor’s house. He could get help.

  He looked around, trying to get his bearings. But it was twilight. It was hard to see. Everything had taken on a blue-black sheen. He couldn’t be sure which way he’d come anymore.

  But.

  He was fairly sure it was that way.

  Yeah, so that way must be the house.

  He turned in the other direction. This way would be the neighbor’s house, then.

  He would go this way.

  *

  But Sam saw the lights of a house far too soon. He’d picked the wrong way to go. He was going back to his own house. Back to Lola. Back to Todd, who had to be around here somewhere, didn’t he?

  He was awash in despair. How could he have gotten so confused?

  He thought about turning around and heading the other direction.

  But he was bleeding, leaving a trail everywhere he walked, black on the snow in the scant light.

  He kept going for the light. For the shelter.

  He dragged himself up the steps into the house. He was starting to feel vaguely lightheaded.

  He yanked open the door.

  A blast of warm air hit him.

  He stumbled inside. He slammed the door behind him and locked it. Then, back against the door, he surveyed the living room.

  It was empty. The light was on. The couch was sitting up against the big picture window. The loveseat sat adjacent to it. Lola’s laptop was still sitting on the loveseat, but the screen was blank.

  Phone, thought Sam. He felt in his pocket. By some miracle, it was still there. He pulled it out.

  No bars.

  Fuck.

  He stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

  He staggered into the living room.

  He peered through the doorway into the kitchen. The light was off in there. Sam reached in and turned on the light switch.

  The stove came into view, still spattered with the remains of the blackened, Cajun stir fry. There were dirty dishes in the sink. The refrigerator was chugging along.

  Sam went back to the drawer where he’d found the first knife. There weren’t any as big or as sharp. He had to settle for a steak knife.

  He held it out in front of him and went into the hallway.

  He turned on the light in the bathroom.

  There was soap—Lola’s—sitting on the sink. It was purple and feminine.

  The toilet lid was down.

  He went inside and shoved aside the shower curtain.

  Nothing in the bathtub.

  Sam shut the door. He locked it.

  He set the steak knife down on the sink.

  He threw open the medicine cabinet, but it was empty. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Why would his mother have kept anything there?

  Painfully, he crouched down to open the cabinet under the sink. There were some ancient cleaners down there—probably over twenty years old. He grabbed them with both hands and swept them out of the way.

  And then… there… bandages.

  He grabbed them.

  Sam took off his coat and his shirt and examined his wound.

  Blood was pumping out of it at an alarming rate, and it hurt like hell. But he didn’t think that Todd had got any major organs.

  Sam grabbed a wad of toilet paper and shoved it against the wound.

  He grunted, shutting his eyes.

  This is okay. You’re going to be okay. Stop the bleeding, close it up.

  He looked up at the ceiling. He probably needed stitches. What was he going to do with these fucking bandages? They were for paper cuts, for fuck’s sake.

  He dumped the box out on the sink.

  He moved the toilet paper away from his wound.

  Okay, there. He could see how big the slash actually was now.

  He felt a little faint.

  But no. No, it was a little better than he’d thought.

  He was going to have to stand up.

  He managed to push himself to a standing position. He turned on the sink. He cleaned up as best he could.

  Down on the ground, in amongst the cleaners, was an ancient bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Would it even still work?

  He picked it up and poured it all over his wound anyway.

  It burned like fuck. He clutched the edge of the sink, breathing heavily, until it was bearable.

  Then he rinsed it off again.

  He managed to use the bandages like butterfly bandages, using the sticky edges to hold his skin together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

  Then he put more toilet paper over it and secured that with the remaining bandages.

  He lifted the leg of his sopping jeans to examine the cuts from the briars. They weren’t too bad, and there weren’t any more bandages anyway. He cleaned them with wet toilet paper, with the hydrogen peroxide.

  He pushed his wet pants back down and got to his feet.

  He picked the steak knife up. He opened the door again.

  The hallway was empty.

  Sam looked back down to the living room. Also empty. Door closed and locked.

  Back against the wall, Sam eased his way down the hallway to the first bedroom, the place where he’d slept last night. It was his old room, and there was still a narrow single bed and a desk. Some of his old stuff was still here too.

  It was empty.

  There was a closet. He opened it. Nothing in there, nothing at all, just stained carpet peering up at him.

  He crossed to the bed, where his open suitcase was sitting. He took out his last clean shirt and pair of pants. Eye on the doorway, he changed quickly.

  He even put on dry socks.

  Dry socks, he decided, were a revelation from heaven. Everything in life was a little better with dry socks, even being stalked by a psycho killer.

  He laughed a little, a nervous, tinny noise.

  Then he made sure to get the steak knife again.

  He checked his parents’ old bedroom. E
mpty as well.

  Lola had slept in this bed last night. The covers were askew.

  He checked that closet too. Nothing in there either except some old wire hangers. Sam pushed them aside, and then jumped a little at the noise they made banging against each other.

  He looked around, expecting to see Todd in the doorway. Or Lola, laughing.

  But the house was silent. Still.

  He backed out of his parents’ old room.

  There was only one room left.

  He went to the doorway. He gulped. You looked in here before, remember, he told himself. It was okay.

  Sam’s hand turned the doorknob.

  He slowly swung the door open.

  There was a flash—girlish skin—a bare neck—a—

  Hannah’s dead, he told himself firmly.

  Inside, it was dark.

  Sam felt for the light switch, and the room was full of light.

  It was completely empty in here. He looked at the walls, holes where posters had been tacked up.

  The carpet was bright blue. He remembered that Hannah had picked it out. His father had let Hannah choose her carpet, but not him. Because Hannah was always— He didn’t want to think about her. He had other things to worry about.

  He stalked over to the closet and yanked it open.

  She was curled in the corner, her hands up as if to ward him off.

  Hannah?

  “Sam?” she whispered.

  He started to shake.

  “Did you kill him?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was Lola.

  Sam’s voice was hoarse. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Hiding,” said Lola, who was no longer tied up.

  “How’d you get free?”

  She got up, coming out of the closet. “The keys, just like you.”

  He backed away from her warily. Then he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her out of the room. “Don’t go in there, okay?”

  “Why?” said Lola. “Is this her room? Hannah’s? Your sister’s?”

  Sam shoved her down the hallway.

  She stumbled but righted herself. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Sam.

  Lola hugged herself. “Well, then, let’s talk about Nick. Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

  “No,” said Sam. “No, he got away.”

  Lola glared at him. “Sam, you had a gun. He wasn’t even armed.”

  “He had a knife,” said Sam. “And he probably has a gun somewhere. He killed all the other people with a gun.”