Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  He picked up the trash bags and unrolled them, tearing them off one by one. He started whistling again, picking up the tune where Gene sang about September seeming as sunny as spring. The music buoyed his spirits, and he forgave her.

  “It’s alright Miss Lucy. I’m not mad, and I want to apologize ahead of time. This is gonna get messy,” he said. He laid the trash bags on the floor, overlapping them around and beneath her chair. When he finished, he picked up the roll of duct tape and ripped off a strip.

  “I’m gonna go ahead and gag you again. As far as screaming is concerned, I’ve found a little goes a long way.” He slapped the tape over her mouth and gave her cheek an affectionate pinch.

  She began to cry in earnest, though she tried hard to fight it. She breathed heavily, dragging air into her lungs through her nose, so fast and hard, each whistling intake flattened her nostrils. She sounded like a teakettle set to boil.

  “You need to try and calm down, now. You keep breathing like that, you’re gonna pass out and miss all the fun.” He knelt down in front of her, pinning her left foot beneath his knee and reached for the right. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she jerked her leg to the side, fighting to stay out of his grasp. He captured it easily—his fingers circled her bony ankle and pulled it back in place. He forced her foot flat on the floor and held it there, a nail pinched between his fingers.

  He could feel her foot straining against his hand, but it was useless. “You prayin’ Miss Lucy? You beggin’ God to save you—deliver you from evil? Deliver you from me?” He lifted the hammer and tightened his grip on her foot. “I’ll tell you something else my daddy taught me. God helps those who help themselves,” he said and drove the nail home.

  Shrieks ripped from her throat, got caught behind the strip of tape and collected there—building to a high-pitched hum he was sure only a dog could truly appreciate it. He grabbed another nail and forced her other foot flat.

  “Where is she?” He raised the hammer, held it high over his head and looked up at her. She writhed and moaned in pain but shook her head, still refusing to tell him what he wanted to know. He shrugged and brought the hammer down on the second nail.

  One high-pitched hum bled into the next.

  Without pause, he picked up his knife, dragged it up her calf, then down. First one and then the other. Back and forth until her legs were covered in dozens of thin, shallow cuts.

  He took the towel out of the bowl and bathed her cuts in the salty water. Salt seeped into the wounds, and she began to jerk in her chair. He repeated the process. First the knife and then the towel, each time dipping into the saltwater before applying it to her legs—until dozens of cuts became hundreds. They overlapped, creating an intricate pattern resembling the scales on a fish. Using the tip of his knife, he lifted the edge of one of these scales and pulled, peeling a thin layer of skin from her leg. First one … and then another and another until blood streaked her calves and puddled at her feet. Occasionally, he bathed her wounds in the salty water while she hummed and convulsed with pain. She jerked at her feet, tried to escape the relentless peeling, but it was useless. The nails in her feet trapped them in place.

  He gave the towel a final squeeze over her feet, brine pooled around the head of the nails for a moment before sinking in. Now the hums came in short bursts. She sounded like a siren, wailing in the distance.

  He sat back on his haunches and swiped a forearm over his brow and waited. After a while, her muffled screams tapered off into a series of snuffling whimpers, sounding more animal than human. He reached for her face, but she jerked her head away.

  “Be still now, I’m just gonna take the tape off so we can chat.” His hand darted out and snagged a corner, ripping the tape off and some skin along with it. Blood peppered her bottom lip and she cried out from the sting of it.

  “I’ll tell you Miss Lucy, this sure makes for thirsty work. Got any lemonade?” He stood and crossed the room—hammer in hand—to open the refrigerator. Disappointed, he pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. It’d have to do. He carried it to the counter and retrieved a glass from the dish drainer. The cake dome set in the corner caught his eye. “Mind if I cut myself a piece of cake to go along with it?”

  “ … choke on it.”

  “Now, that ain’t Christian-like, Miss Lucy.” He splayed a hand across his chest and shook his head, but truthfully he found her rebellious attitude amusing. He used his knife to cut the cake. Her blood leached into the yellow of it, creating an orange ring around the outside edges. He liked the way it looked. Like one of those bright crayon drawings of the sun kids did in elementary school. He set it on the plate she’d laid out on the tray along with the coffee and grabbed a fork.

  “I’m gonna find her, one way or another. I did it once, I can do it again.” He poured tea into the glass and took a long drink. It wasn’t lemonade, but it was sweet, just the way he like it. “This can all end now, Miss Lucy. I’ll kill you quick, cross my heart. All you gotta do is tell me where she is.” He took a bite of cake and smiled. It even tasted like sunshine.

  “Go to hell,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, garbled from the pain. He nodded his head and took another drink.

  “Figured as much. Obviously, Melissa got her sass from you. She sure didn’t get it from her mama.” He smiled at her when she looked at him. The mention of her daughter surprised her. “Kelly was all talk. She acted tough but folded like a bad poker player the very first time I cut her.” Lucy’s eyes, glassy with pain, jerked to his face. He lowered his tone to an exaggerated whisper. “I did her just like I did Melissa. Just like I’m doing you now—but you knew that, didn’t you? Only difference is, I know for a fact Kelly liked it.” He took a final bite and washed it down with the last of his tea. It occurred to him he’d now had three generations of Walker women under his knife. He thought it was sweet. It felt right. The way things should be.

  “Alright, Miss Lucy, time to get serious. What’d you say to O’Shea when you called him?”

  “Told ’em the man … killed his sister … in my sittin’ room … send the law,” she said between labored breaths, and he laughed.

  “Send the law … good one, Miss Lucy.” He set his plate down and picked up the hammer. “How ’bout I use this to shatter your knee. Bet you’ll tell me then.”

  He stepped toward her, purposely bringing the heavy sole of his boot down on the tops of her feet.

  “No, no, I lied … I didn’t tell him anything. I swear—nothing, I swear.” She was babbling and crying, her face twisted tight with terror, eyes squeezed shut against the sight of him.

  “Liar, liar.” He brought the hammer down. It hit the kitchen table, the loud crack of it echoed in the small space. Her eyes popped wide, and she yelped like a whipped dog.

  “I promise, I promise, please … please, don’t,” she said in a pleading rush. He dropped the hammer onto the table and smiled at her.

  Finally, he was getting somewhere.

  “Why’d you call him?” He knew he should be focusing on where to find Melissa, but the phone call was bothering him.

  “He’s … my friend.” The tears started again.

  “That ain’t sayin’ much. Up until about an hour ago, I was your friend, too,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Do I have to worry about him busting in here tryin’ to save the day?” When she didn’t answer right away, he applied pressure to her feet with his boot. Already, the area surrounding the nail holes were bruised and swollen. When she cried out, she croaked so she sounded like a frog on the wrong end of a gigging fork.

  “No.”

  He watched her face for lies, but she only shook her head. The hopelessness in her eyes told him she was telling the truth. “That’s good. Real good, Miss Lucy.” He leaned back against the table and pulled the picture from his pocket. “This is Melissa.” It wasn’t a question but he held the photo up to her face for confirmation any
way. She said nothing, but when he stepped heavily on her wounds, she croaked again and nodded. “She’s calling herself Sabrina these days?”

  She said nothing, even when he twisted the heel of his boot, putting pressure on the head of the nail, driving it deeper into her foot. “That’s alright. I know the answer. Got it right here.” He fished the note from his back pocket and waved it at her. “I hear she’s living in California. What’ve you got to say about that?”

  She must’ve found her second wind, because she spat at him again.

  “Lord, save me from stubborn women,” he said under his breath. He flipped the picture over to read it out loud. “Jason and Riley Vaughn, age 16. Riley sure is a peach, ain’t she? Don’t think I’ve seen a beauty like her since … well, you know.” He looked up from the photo and smiled at her. “Either you tell me where Melissa is, or when I do find her, I’ll add little Riley here to my list. What I did to her big sister won’t even come close to what I’ll do to her,” he said. She looked him in the eye and swallowed hard, running her tongue over her teeth, trying to clean away some of the blood.

  “She won’t let you.” Her ironclad belief that even if he did manage to find the woman in the picture, he would be no match for her—that she was better—brought the rage screaming to the surface.

  The picture crumpled in his fist and he stepped into the swing, landing a haymaker on the side of her head. The force of the blow would’ve knocked her over in her chair if not for the nails. She was unconscious now, but he slapped her again anyway. He picked up the knife and grabbed her by her hair and shook her. Used the grip he had on her scalp to revive her.

  “Wakey, wakey, Miss Lucy.” He grinned when her eyes fluttered open. She was terrified, but not of him or what he would do to her. No, she was terrified because the words she’d fought so hard to keep to herself were near the surface, threatening to break free. She was on the edge, he could see it. All she needed was a little push.

  “It’s there, right there on the tip of your tongue. Can you feel how close you are?” he said into her ear, and she shook her head against his grasp.

  “I won’t … I won’t … I won’t … ”

  “Yes, you will. Where. Is. She?” He was close enough to feel her heart slamming around in her rib cage. It beat so hard and fast he was surprised it didn’t burst through her chest. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment before she exhaled.

  “No,” she said, but they both knew this was her last stand. The next words out of her mouth would be the ones he wanted to hear.

  “Have it your way.” He straddled her and yanked her head to the side to wedge the jagged edge of his knife into the crease behind her ear. “Tell me, Miss Lucy. Tell me where she is, and I’ll stop,” he said, but he knew the promise was a lie. There was no stopping now, not even if she talked. She said nothing, and he took her silence as another refusal.

  He began to saw the knife back and forth. The serrated edge bit into the tender flesh behind her ear and chewed. Blood bloomed, a bright red flower behind her ear, and ran thick and warm down her neck.

  He stopped for a moment, wiped sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He caught sight of her arms, still bound to the chair. Her hands fluttered rapidly, like the tiny wings of a frightened bird. Music still flowed into the kitchen, and he imagined she was moving them in time with the melody.

  He forced the knife deeper, separating the fleshy cartilage of her ear from the meat and bone of her skull. He pulled on the lobe and cut the last bit of if free, tightening his fist around her ear. It felt warm and wet in his hand. Her hands were suddenly still, and she stopped screaming. She’d passed out again.

  Blood poured from the jagged hole and coursed down her neck. It soaked the front of her faded house dress, but she didn’t make a sound. He reached for the towel again and brought it, salty and wet, to the side of her ear and squeezed. Still nothing.

  He stood back to drop the towel into the bowl and tossed her ear on the table. He’d do the other one next and maybe start on her fingers. She’d tell him where Melissa was soon enough. First, he needed to wake her.

  He traded knife for extension cord, fashioned it into a makeshift noose, and slipped it over her head. He gave it a sharp yank, tightening it around her throat until it disappeared into the soft skin of her neck. Seconds passed. The sudden loss of air did nothing to rouse her. He jerked it again and her head tipped forward, her chin hit her chest with no resistance and stayed there. Something close to panic settled into his chest.

  No, no, no, no. He dropped the cord and lunged at her. His fingers fumbled at her throat, looking for a pulse. Nothing. The blood covering her chest was cool and tacky against his hand. She wasn’t breathing. He slipped his hand under her chin and tipped it upward. Her eyes were open but empty.

  She was dead.

  This wasn’t happening. No fucking way was this happening. He shook her, slamming her head against the back of the chair with each thrust. What the hell happened? A heart attack? A stroke? Who the fuck knew? He didn’t really care. She was dead, and she hadn’t given him what he wanted.

  “Selfish bitch, she’s mine. She belongs to me, and I want her back!” He gave her a final, neck-cracking shake, but it did nothing to staunch the steady flow of rage coursing through is veins.

  His field of vision narrowed, all he could see was her face, all he could hear was the roar of blood pounding in his head. His knife was suddenly in his hand and he brought it down again and again, ripping into her soft flesh, tearing the papery skin that covered it. He stabbed and hacked, even though Lucy was well beyond his reach now, one motion blurring into another until his arm was tired and his vision cleared.

  His rage finally spent, he stood over her, chest heaving as his breath came in deep, gasping gulps. His sweat and her blood mixed together, plastered his shirt to his chest. Looking down at the mess he made, at the lump of flesh barely recognizable as a human being, he felt no remorse. Only a need for more.

  He felt a tingle, a crackle of electricity danced along his skin. His hands and face were covered in the old woman’s blood … but it was Melissa’s blood too, wasn’t it?

  He could feel it seep into his pores—currents of electricity dove deeper and deeper. No longer skin deep, they jolted his bones, moved his muscles. On impulse, he brought the broad blade of the knife to his mouth and ran it along his tongue. Heat flooded his veins and settled heavily in his groin. God, he’d missed the taste of her.

  Lucy’s sightless blue eyes, so like her granddaughter’s, seemed to stare at him. Beckoned him.

  More. He needed more.

  He folded his knife, slipped it into his pocket and picked up the hammer. He used the claw end to remove the nails from her feet and tossed them aside. Whistling along with Gene, he gripped the back of Lucy’s chair and dragged her to the doorway leading to the basement. The door swung shut behind them, and he was careful to lock it. He was with his Melissa again.

  They were alone in the dark, and he didn’t want any interr-

  uptions.

  Eleven

  In the end, the Glenfiddich went unopened. Instead, Michael took a few aspirin and washed them down with a bottle of water. Sabrina was a machine. She and that goofy-ass dog ran eight miles every morning. No matter how little sleep she got or how bad the nightmares were, she never missed a run. Running with a hangover was never a good idea.

  And her nightmares had gotten bad. So bad that if she wasn’t pacing the length of her room in the dark, she was thrashing around on her bed, trying to pull clear of whatever nightmare held her. She usually gave up around one or two in the morning. Sometimes she’d make her way through the house, checking and re-checking windows and doors to ensure they were locked.

  Other times she’d clean her collection of firearms. Make sure they were all loaded and easily accessible. Her behavior bordered on compulsive. He’d been watching he
r long enough to know the shield and armor she’d fashioned herself out of lies and years of denial was starting to crack.

  His watch read just before noon. She wouldn’t be home for at least another five or six hours. He tossed the binocs on the bed and hit the shower. What the aspirin couldn’t fix, he was hoping hot water would take care of. He took his time; with Sabrina at work, he had plenty to spare. He shaved away a few days’ worth of stubble before stepping into the shower stall. The spray of scalding water loosened the stress-induced knots, and he stayed in long after the water began to cool. He stepped out of the stall just in time to hear his cell issue a muted beep from the next room. He’d missed another call.

  He threw a towel around his waist, left the bathroom to retrieve his phone from the dresser. The screen display showed six voicemails. Scrolling through the missed call log, he saw every one of them were from Lucy.

  On speaker phone, he guided his cell through the menu until he reached the first message.

  “Michael, it’s Lucy. Call me, please … ” Delete.

  “Michael, this is Lucy. I need to talk to you … ” Delete.

  “Michael, I know you’re avoiding … ” Delete.

  “Boy, if you have the sense God gave a turnip … ” Delete.

  “Michael—who did you tell?”

  He almost deleted the message before he fully comprehended what was said. He hit the playback option instead and listened to it again.

  “Michael—who did you tell?” Lucy said, her voice hushed, like she didn’t want to be overheard. In the background, he heard someone call out. What was said was indistinguishable. The voice was too low and faint to make out the words. Apprehension tightened the skin on the back of his neck.

  She hadn’t been alone when she left that last message.

  He saved the message to his archives and played the next one, hoping it would offer a clue to what was wrong. No one spoke. On the other end, all he heard was a deep well of silence.