Endurance (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Two pages missing.

  June 1998

  Barry hasn’t returned yet. I’m getting worried. I hear noises. I hope we get the car fixed soon so we can leave.

  Page missing.

  9/19/02

  It’s the middle of nowhere. There’s no place to run. What am I supposed to do?

  Another page torn out.

  6/2005

  This place is really fucked up. I think we’re gonna die here.

  More missing pages. Letti turned to the most recent entry.

  June 12, 2007

  Exhausted. Iron Woman training is both the hardest and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I wish I was at the event hotel, but this isn’t a bad substitute. And you can’t beat the price, even though this place is sort of scary. I___

  The “I” trailed off, making a pen mark that went all the way down to the bottom of the page. Like someone bumped the writer. And on the bottom of the page…

  Brown stains. Like blood drops.

  Letti looked around the room, feeling goosebumps raise up on her arms. This had to be some sort of prank. A gag journal, to amuse the guests.

  But Letti wasn’t amused. She was seriously weirded out.

  I need to check on Kelly.

  She was getting ready to toss the journal aside and hop out of bed when a mark on the page caught her eye. A black mark.

  Letti turned the page past the final entry, and saw a child’s handwriting, written in black crayon.

  Letti scratched at the printing with her fingernail, getting black wax underneath. The familiar smell of crayon wafted up at her, reminding Letti of when Kelly was younger. But Kelly’s childhood printing never looked so… creepy.

  Letti turned to the next page.

  Letti’s head shot up. She scanned the room, listening for strange sounds, feeling like someone was indeed watching her, and at the same time knowing it was crazy to be thinking that.

  It’s a joke. A dumb, sick joke. When I see Eleanor again, I’m going to tell that crazy old hag what I think of her stupid little Inn.

  Letti stared down at the journal again. She touched the top corner of the page, ready to turn it.

  Do I really want to keep reading this BS?

  No. I should go check on my daughter.

  Letti began to close the book, and stopped.

  They’re only words on paper. I don’t need to be afraid of them.

  So why am I?

  Letti chewed her lower lip, undecided what to do next.

  Florence would think I’m a real chicken. She was in a war zone for four years, and I can’t even read a silly journal.

  Letti turned the page, feeling her breath catch.

  Letti sprang out of bed, backpedalling to the opposite side of the room, her eyes glued to the closet.

  There’s no one in there.

  But how do they know my name?

  Letti wondered if Kelly somehow had fabricated this, had put the journal in her room. She loved scary movies.

  But Kelly hasn’t been in this room.

  Could she have snuck in while I was talking to Florence?

  That seemed a lot more plausible than someone named Grover hiding in the closet.

  And if Grover really is in the closet, why would he tell me?

  Letti set her jaw.

  It’s a joke. Stop being a baby.

  She marched over to the closet, grabbed the knob, and with no hesitation pulled the door open, staring up at the tall, deformed man with the bloodshot eyes and the crazy smile on his face.

  “You’re pretty,” Grover said in a high voice. “Like Kelly.”

  Letti froze in shock. As the scream welled up in her throat, Grover grabbed Letti around the back of the head with one huge hand and pressed a wet towel to her face with another.

  Letti got over her surprise quickly, and her body went on autopilot, executing the self-defense moves Florence drilled into her head years ago. First came a fist to the throat, followed by a heel grind to the instep.

  She hit fast and hard, holding her breath, waiting for him to stagger back.

  Grover didn’t stagger. The punch to his neck missed his Adam’s apple, because it wasn’t where it should have been. Her hand sunk into doughy neck fat, and bounced off harmlessly. Letti’s kick was similarly ineffective. Her bare heel bounced off what seemed like steel-toed boots.

  She quickly followed up with a knee to the groin, putting her weight behind it.

  Her knee connected with… nothing.

  Along with his other defects, Grover didn’t seem to have genitals.

  Letti didn’t give up yet. Still refusing to breathe in, she cupped her hands and slapped them against Grover’s ears, trying to burst his eardrums.

  This time Grover did react. He stuck his lower lip out and started to cry, the tears running down his misshapen face. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Letti tight to his body. She continued to punch and kick, but she didn’t have any room to swing, and her blows did little damage.

  Finally, no longer having a choice, Letti inhaled.

  The liquid soaking the towel burned her nose and throat when she sucked it in, and for a moment Letti felt like everything was okay, that she was completely safe, and it was perfectly reasonable to fall asleep right now.

  A bit of panic-fueled realization got through—I’m being drugged—and she lashed out one more time, reaching for Grover’s eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks.

  But before she could gouge them out, the darkness took her.

  Mal Deiter stared into the garbage can at the severed head. He debated picking it up, showing it to Deb, but rightfully decided that wasn’t in good taste.

  “What did I just eat, Mal?” Deb asked, an edge to her voice.

  “It wasn’t pheasant,” Mal replied, eyeing the small beak. “It was partridge.”

  “You mean like in a pear tree?”

  “His pear tree days are over.”

  Mal discarded the remnants of their snack, then closed the lid. He faced Deb and saw she wasn’t amused.

  Too bad. Deb was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, she was dazzling. So far, Mal hadn’t been able to make her smile more than a few times, even though he was trying his damnedest. Deb was too guarded which was a shame. If she relaxed a bit, Mal knew he could really fall for her. But he doubted Deb would let him get close enough for that to happen.

  For the time being, he tried to reign in his feelings and keep things professional. Even guarded, Deb was an interesting person, and he liked being around her. He was already trying to think up some good excuse to call her after the interview ended.

  “So what’s your impression of our hostess?” Mal said, taking his seat. “I’m thinking about calling The Addams Family, seeing if one of them is missing.”

  Deb’s mouth curled in the faintest smirk, and the lines on her forehead smoothed out.

  “You might want to call the White House instead. These decorations are mind-blowing.”

  “They’re unpresidented.”

  This time Deb actually did smile, full wattage, and it lit up the room.

  “Thanks for splitting a partridge sandwich with me, Mal. I think I’m going to turn in. Long day.”

  Mal wracked his brain to come up with some reason to keep talking. Another interview question? Something more personal? A joke?

  Then he saw Deb stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, and realized the proper thing to do was let her get some sleep. She was, after all, competing in a triathlon.

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  They took the stairs slowly, silently, but the silence wasn’t awkward. When they arrived at Deb’s room, Mal felt a tinge of uncertainty, like he’d just been on a date and was unsure if he should try for the kiss.

  Deb unlocked her door, then turned and looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, Mal saw in her eyes the same desire he felt.

  Should I try it?

  Then Deb stuck out her hand.

  The g
oodnight handshake. Ugh. That’s even worse than the goodnight peck on the cheek.

  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Deiter.”

  He folded her hand into his. “The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Novachek. See you in the morning.”

  Mal let the touch linger. So did Deb. Her eyes were big and her chin was titled up and all the signals were there, so Mal went for it. He leaned down, parting his lips, and got a faceful of hair when she abruptly turned around.

  Deb slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving Mal standing there like a dork. He recalled what Deb told him earlier.

  “How old are we, twelve?”

  He sure felt like it.

  Mal let himself into his room. Several dozen Harry S. Trumans stared at him, and they all seemed to be thinking what Mal was thinking.

  Smooth move, Casanova.

  Mal padded into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and pants, and took a leak. Then he turned his attention to the shower. Unlike the rest of the room, which was decorated in late 60s Norman Bates, the shower stood apart by appearing modern. It was a walk-in, with a floor-to-ceiling glass door, and the shower head was big and chrome and new.

  Mal turned the knob to scald and stepped inside. The water was rust-colored, and smelled medicinal, but the stream was strong and felt good on his body. He opened the little box of soap in the soap dish and worked up a lather. Also in the soap dish was a mini bottle of shampoo. Mal unscrewed the top, dumped the brown contents into his hand, and raised it to his head.

  That’s when the smell hit him.

  A foul, rotten smell, like meat gone bad. He brought his hand to his face, sniffed the shampoo, and almost puked.

  It’s not shampoo. It’s blood. Old, decaying blood.

  Revolted, he pawed at his head, trying to get the gunk off. He could feel little pieces—clots—become tangled in his hair. Mal felt his stomach twist again, the partridge sandwich struggling to get out like it still had fluttering wings. Doubling over, Mal took deep breaths, watching gunky, brown blood swirl down the drain. He put a hand on the glass door to steady himself, wiping off a streak of steam—

  —and saw someone standing in the bathroom.

  Startled, Mal backed into the corner of the shower, watching the figure approach. Once he got over the initial shock, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.

  Deb? Coming back for that good night kiss?

  Another guest, who walked into the wrong room?

  Eleanor Roosevelt’s son, the one with the truck who was supposed to take them back into town?

  Someone trying to do me harm?

  Mal hollered above the water spray, “Who’s there?”

  The person didn’t answer. He came up to the door and stood there.

  Christ, he’s huge.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The giant didn’t reply.

  Mal’s heart went into overdrive. This whole situation felt like it was happening to someone else, and it was so far removed from reality that he wasn’t sure how to react. That he was naked made the vulnerability even more intense.

  “What do you want?”

  The man stayed silent, continuing to stare.

  “Get the fuck out of here, asshole!”

  More silence. More staring.

  Mal felt like his legs couldn’t support him anymore. He’d been in confrontations before. Shoving matches in bars with men who’d had a few too many. Once, a fist fight in high school, that resulted in a black eye.

  But this was something different. Something very bad.

  This isn’t someone in the wrong room. This is someone who wants to hurt me.

  Mal reached up, wiping his palm across the glass so he could see the man’s face.

  Holy shit! What’s wrong with his—

  The door jerked open, the giant’s hand reaching for Mal’s neck. Mal danced under the grab, making a fist, letting it fly.

  His fist hit the man in the face—

  —and sunk in to the gaping hole between his upper lip and his nose.

  Mal’s knuckles were engulfed in something warm and wet; snot, saliva, or both. He recoiled, pulling his hand out of the giant’s harelip, and got shoved back against the shower wall.

  Then a wet towel was pushed over Mal’s face. When he tried to breathe, his lungs filled with an acrid stench that Mal knew all too well. From his cop days, busting huffers—kids who inhaled chemicals to get high.

  Ether. He’s trying to knock me…

  That was Mal’s last thought before he spun into unconsciousness.

  I should have kissed him.

  Deb sat on the Teddy Roosevelt bedspread, staring at the door, willing Mal to knock on it. She had wanted to kiss him. She had really wanted it. But when he went for it she chickened out, no doubt humiliating him.

  He’s not going to knock. He’s not ever going to try it again.

  Deb closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed, sighing deeply.

  I can run triathlons, but I don’t have the guts to kiss a guy I like. Pathetic.

  She thought back to Scott, her last boyfriend. He patiently waited during her months of recovery, and when they finally tried to have sex again for the first time since her accident, he couldn’t get it up. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

  “I’m sorry, Deb. I can’t.”

  “Why, Scott? I’m the same woman.”

  “You’re… grotesque.”

  Mal didn’t seem to find her grotesque. And Deb doubted he’d have any sort of problems in bed.

  But Deb knew she had problems. Body image problems. Mobility problems. Self-confidence problems.

  She wasn’t comfortable letting another human being see her bare stumps. How was she supposed to get completely naked with somebody?

  I’m so sick of hating myself.

  Deb opened her eyes, struck by an intriguing thought.

  I could go to his room.

  Not to sleep with him. Deb knew she wasn’t ready for that. But she could at least kiss the guy good night.

  It had been so long since she’d kissed a guy.

  Deb pushed herself off the bed, and walked to the door. When her hand rested on the knob, she paused.

  Now I’ve gone from being a chicken to being needy.

  She thought about what was worse, cowardice or insecurity, and decided cowardice was worse.

  Deb stepped into the hall and walked over to Mal’s room. Surprisingly, his door was open a crack.

  Is he expecting me?

  Deb hesitated again.

  Knock? Go back? Or go in?

  She knocked lightly.

  No answer.

  Deb lightly bounced up and down on her Cheetahs, trying to decide her next move. If he left the door open by accident, going in would be a bad move.

  But who leaves their door open accidentally?

  Deb went inside. Immediately, she realized why he didn’t respond when she knocked. She heard the shower, and saw steam coming out from under the bathroom door.

  He isn’t expecting me.

  For a moment she debated walking into the bathroom and joining him in the shower. It was purely fantasy—she just wasn’t the type to do that, legs or no legs. But she let herself imagine how it would unfold. Maybe she could say something clever, like, “Is there room for two?” Or maybe she’d just slip in behind him, and start washing his back.

  Damn it, I should have just kissed him.

  The shower cut off.

  I could wait here. Surprise him when he walks out. “Your door was open. I thought maybe we could give that kiss another try.”

  The bathroom door creaked, pushing outward.

  Deb turned fast and got out of there. Heart pounding, she slunk back into her room and locked the door behind her.