“All the same, Mary, you keep your eyes open. And call me if you see anyone who even looks a little like these two, okay? The sooner we get this wrapped up, the better.”
The old woman gave a little salute and watched from the doorway as the policeman trudged back to his car. She saw him slide behind the wheel, take off his hat, and speak briefly into the car’s radio; but it wasn’t until blue clouds of exhaust belched from the tailpipe and the tires crunched through the snow that she stepped back into the house and closed the door.
Now that Howarth was gone, she allowed her face to pull itself into the long frown that had been so carefully masked. She thought of the photos the chief had shown her: the handsome young man with a boyish smile and dimpled cheek . . . the dark-haired girl with her serious eyes and small, thin lips. Glancing at the ceiling, she pictured the two of them, gagged and tied to their chairs, probably straining to listen for the sound of her feet on the stairs. Her mind flashed back to the cool certainty with which the man had threatened her. Even through a drugged haze, she’d detected something in his voice . . . something that told her not to fuck around with this one. She was right in wanting to kill him straight out; but, damn it, she was hoping to have a little fun with that woman of his..
“Plans change.” She said aloud. “And I reckon if they’ve done somethin’ bad enough to have the cops come a’sniffin’ around, then those plans better be changin’ right quick.”
There was no question about it: both of them would have to die. She’d slit their throats and when they boy’s got home, they’d dispose of the bodies. After all, you don’t keep snakes in the hen house, as her mother used to say.
A shiver passed along her spine and she lowered her gaze so that she was looking into the living room. Through the wide doorway, she could just make out the fireplace: the logs that had popped and crackled for most of the night were now nothing more than a pile of smoldering embers. Even the pine-scented smell of smoke had begun to fade. Before long, the house would be so cold that the sweat on the insides of the windows would freeze into meandering streams of ice. The chill would further aggravate the rheumatism that sometimes made her knee feel like a pincushion full of needles and walking upstairs would be a miracle worthy of Jesus.
So it was settled then. She would kill the man and the woman, come back down to throw some fresh logs on the fire, and have a nice cup of tea while she waited for Earl and Daryl to drag their sorry asses home. They’d be rid of these two before it was even time for lunch.
Mary slipped the knife out of her pocket and gripped the frigid, metallic handle. Even if it was only for a short amount of time, the young couple upstairs would bleed for her . . . and she was ready for the warmth of their blood to chase away the chill of the morning.
The old woman’s body stiffened as she stared at the coils of rope on the floor. For a moment, her mind simply refused to believe the evidence in front of her: it had to be some sort of trick, some clever ploy to simply make her think they had somehow escaped. After all, she’d watched Earl tie the knots herself. If it had been Daryl, then that would be a different story . . . but Earl was a master with the rope and there was no way they could have just slipped out of the bonds as easily as if they were pajamas. No way.
From the corner of the her eye, Mary noticed that the door to the other room hung open and she could just make out Darlene Honnicker through the gloom. The woman looked almost as if she were suspended from the table: her legs were splayed out behind her and her arms were bent awkwardly over the edge of the table as if she were struggling to maintain a grip; with her head bowed before her limp body and her shoulders locked into place near her ears, it was all too easy to imagine that the table was an altar before which the mutilated blond were praying. But Mary had made enough corpses in her day to recognize a dead body when she saw it . . . and Darlene Honnicker would most certainly not be providing any more blood for the old woman.
“I know you’re in there. You both best be comin’ out and I just might let ya live.”
Her words were short and clipped and Mary tried to suppress the rage that imbued them with a slight tremolo. It was better to keep it all inside, like a bottle of cola that had been vigorously shaken. When the time was right, she’d let it all spew out, would let the pressure burst forth as the walls and floor were covered with thick, dark liquid; but for now, she’d save it all up and wait for just the right moment.
“You hear me? I don’t know why ya killed the girl . . . don’t rightly reckon I care neither. But you can both step out here right this minute and hang on to some of your pride. Or ya can wait ‘til the boys get home and they drag ya out kickin’ and screamin’. Your choice.”
Mary cocked her head as she listened for the shuffle of movement from the other room or hushed whispers as the couple planned their course of action. She strained to hear the softest of breaths or even the rustle of fabric. But there was only a silence so complete that she could almost believe that the only occupant of the room really was the carcass dangling from the table.
“Fine. Have it your way. I can wait out here ‘til the cows come home. Or the boys. Whichever comes first.”
Still nothing. But she knew they had to be in there. She’d unlocked the door at the top of the stairs herself and she would have heard something if they’d somehow forced it open when she was talking with Howarth. And, while freeing themselves from the ropes was certainly a trick worthy of Houdini, she seriously doubted the couple had the ability to just walk through solid walls.
No, they were in there all right. They had to be.
Switching the knife from her left hand to her right, Mary pursed her lips and fought the urge to storm in after them. She wanted nothing more than to walk in with the blade swishing through the air before her, to cleave flesh from bone as they scurried away from her like cockroaches in the light. To make them pay for thinking they could actually escape. But the logical part of her mind knew that wouldn’t do. As long as she was in the bedroom with its brightly lit window and the only exit squarely behind her, she had the upperhand . . . and it was an advantage that she was not about to just foolishly give away.
So she decided to wait it out. Earl and Daryl should be home any time now. In fact, she’d expected them to be back before it had even begun getting light out. Where the hell were they, anyway?
Mary looked toward the window as if she could somehow will the sound of the truck engine to appear in the yard outside. And that was when she saw it.
The blade of the knife trembled in her hand and her shoulders hunched as she ground her teeth together. The anger that had made everything within her feel like a tightly wound spring began to slip and her eyes sparked as her sagging breasts rose and fell with each quick breath.
“Sons of bitches . . . no good, ass lickin’ sons of bitches . . . .”
Her feet thudded against the floorboards as she stomped to the window and her left fist clenched as she fought the urge to shattered the rippled glass with a punch. Her entire body seemed to be drawn in now, as if she were compressing into a seething ball of sinew and veins. How much time had she pissed away talking to an empty room? Even now, they were probably laughing at her as they scuttled through the woods, calling her an old fool, a stupid hick who could be tricked so damn easily.
Every ounce of her concentration was focused on the edge of curtain that was trapped under the sill and the little flakes of paint that had fallen when they’d pried it open. She was only peripherally aware of the footsteps pressed into the snow that covered the roof outside . . . the same footsteps which led to the edge of the rusted gutter. At that moment, if she’d had it within her power, Mary would have set the curtains ablaze with nothing more than the heat and intensity of her gaze. She would have beamed all of her hatred and anger into a roaring column of fire that would have reduced the cheap fabric to nothing more than ash.
“Oh, I’m gonna find you, oh yes I will. I’ll find you and you’ll only wish ya hadn’t escaped. I�
�ll track ya down and . . . .”
The house filled with music so suddenly that Mary jumped just as if someone had snuck up behind her and tickled her ear.. It was the familiar pop and crackle of the phonograph, the almost Spanish-sounding horns and acoustic strumming of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire. But the last record she’d listened to had been Boxcar Willie. Which meant someone had to have changed albums. Someone had to have turned the record player on.
Someone was in the house.
And she had a pretty good idea who.
Mary giggled as she crept toward the door and her eyes twinkled as brightly as the knife she held before her. The damn whelps should have left when they had the chance. Now, they would pay dearly for making her play the fool. Oh yes . . . they’d pay with their lives.
She passed through the short stretch of hallway quickly but then slowed her pace as she descended the staircase. The steps creaked and groaned every time she’d place her foot upon one of them, but the blaring music would mask the sounds anywhere else in the house. But it was still best not to rush. Did they really think her feebleminded enough just to go rushing into an obvious trap? Did they really think she was that stupid?
So she continued down the steps as slowly as a sleepwalker, her eyes scanning the doorways for even the smallest hint of movement. This would be the best kill yet, the sweetest blood she’d ever spilled.
By the time she was halfway down the stairs, Ring of Fire had faded out only to be replaced by the plodding bass of Walk The Line. But still no signs of life in the house. No traces of her pray what-so-ever.
Her heart pattered within her chest and her breath was so shallow that it was practically non-existent.
“Mary Gruber . . . .”
The whispered voice seemed as if it were right beside her and Mary spun quickly as she jabbed the knife into the darkness between the railings of the banister. The blade, however, passed harmlessly through the empty air from where the voice had originated.
She froze in place and watched for a shadow moving in the darkness. But there was nothing. Almost as if it had been the voice of a ghost calling her name.
From behind her, a child-like giggle bubbled through Cash’s ominous baritone and she pivoted sharply with the knife raised above her head, ready to strike. But again . . . nothing.
She took the stairs even more slowly than she had before, swiveling her head in all directions before committing herself to the next footfall. Though her heart was now thudding so heavily that she could feel it pounding against her chest and adrenaline made her feel as if she’d had one sip of whiskey too many, she reminded herself to stay calm. To stay focused and alert.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a dark blur as it streaked past the doorway to the back bedroom. By the time she snapped her head toward the movement, it was too late to tell if it had been the man or the woman. But it had definitely been one of them.
In the living room, the record had become stuck and a single line kept repeating over and over: because you’re mine, because you’re mine, because you’re mine . . . .
Four steps from the bottom of the stairs, Mary paused. The knife now felt warm and slick and she switched hands again while she wiped her moist palm against her dress. Somehow, it felt as if her windpipe were growing smaller. Like there was some sort of valve attached to her throat that was slowly being turned, allowing less and less air to flow into her lungs.
And still, Cash continued to chant on.
Because you’re mine, because you’re mine . . . .
The repetition rubbed her like sandpaper on a raw wound. She clenched her teeth and flinched every time the scratchy record looped back. Why the hell couldn’t it just finish the damn song?
Something soft and warm slide over her bare ankle and a sharp shriek burst from the old woman’s mouth as she hopped backward.
A hand.
It had definitely been a hand. The brush of fingertips against bare flesh, the slight tickle of unexpected contact.
But where had they gone? There was no movement from the other side of the stairs, no trace that anyone had ever been there at all
These people moved like phantoms, like evil spirits made of nightmare and fog, slipping in and out of reality as if it were no more solid than a memory.
Mary tried to listen for sounds but the recurring snippet of song drowned out everything . Other than the swish and thud of blood coursing through her temples. Other than her own, irregular breathing.
In a flurry of movement, she ran down the remaining stairs as quickly as she could and pressed her back flat against the wall. She held the knife in both hands now, as if it were a talisman that could protect her from dark and malevolent magic. Edging along the wall, she made her way toward the entrance to the living room. Bent nail heads snagged and ripped at her dress like the clawing fingers of demons . . . but it didn’t matter now.
Because you’re mine, because you’re mine, because you’re mine . . . .
All that mattered was getting that damn record to stop playing. To regain her sense of hearing so she would have one more tool with which to defend herself. And there was no doubt in her mind now that was what she was doing.
The hair on the back of Mary’s neck bristled as she craned her neck around the doorway and peered into the living room. She’d expected a face to appear in front of her like an apparition . . . but the room appeared to be empty.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped around the corner and braced herself for the impact that was certain to follow.
But nothing happened.
She’d taken three steps into the room when she heard the whisper behind her again.
“Mary Gruber . . .:”
So close that she could feel the warmth of the breath on the back of her neck. Or was that just her imagination?
This time, however, she didn’t spin around. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. They were playing with her, toying with her head, and she’d be damned if she gave them the satisfaction of hearing her gasp again. She would spin around and no one would be there . . . so why even bother?
Instead, she padded quickly across the room until she stood in front of the sewing desk that the record player sat on. This close to the speakers, it sounded as if Cash had taken up residence in her head and she flung open the transparent lid that covered the spinning vinyl disk. With a quick swipe of her hand, the needle raked across the album and there was finally silence.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of second as she relished the blessed stillness of the house and immediately realized her mistake.
Her eyelids snapped open and she saw his reflection in the opened lid of the phonograph. A cruel sneer was spread across his face and, even though he appeared as transparent as a wraith, she could see a cold light glint in his eyes. His hands were formed into claws and he was reaching out for her, mere inches from the back of her neck but still so silent she never would have known he was there had she not caught his reflection.
Her wrinkled hands gripped the sides of the record player and she twirled around with enough force to send her glasses flying from her head. The speakers were pulled from the sewing desk and crashed to the ground as the chunk of metal and plastic smashed into the side of the man’s face.
Stumbling backward, he tripped over his own feet and the entire house rattled as he thudded to the floor. Mary sprang like a mountain lion, her knee burying into Matt’s groin as her full weight fell upon him. He tried to instinctively cup himself as his face twisted with pain and Mary’s voice shrieked so loudly that her words were almost indecipherable.
“Fuck with me, why dontcha? Fuck with me, boy? I’ll fuck with you, I’ll fuck with you good!”
She raised the knife above her head as if it were a trophy she’d just won and cackled as it began it’s deadly descent.
SCENE ELEVEN
As Daryl crept closer to the police officer, he felt the demon loosen its grip on his skull. The pain and pressure still bulged behind his eye, but now it was
more of a dull ache than a series of excruciating jabs. With every breath of cold, crisp air, the pain faded even further and, at the same time, it almost seemed as if something were welling up within him. He felt as though his chest was as broad and firm as the trunk of a mighty oak and his arms were like thick branches capable of withstanding centuries of abuse from the elements. Even the scars, which he usually kept hidden beneath long sleeved shirts, felt as if they were shrinking away to the point that they were nothing more than scratches.
But it made sense, didn’t it? Mama had tried to teach him, ever since Daddy died, what it meant to be a man. A man had to be strong . . . the slash of a knife against bare flesh was nothing compared to what the world would do if it had half a chance. And a man had to be fearless. Only babies were afraid of the hidden things that might lurk in the darkness, of the unknown nightmares that slithered and crept in pools of shadow. But, most importantly, a man had to respect and care for his mother . . . even if what that mother demanded with the blood from his very veins.
As a child, he hadn’t understood. All he’d known was that the blade hurt, that his skin opened far too easily, and that the sight of his own blood leaking from his body made his head feel as if he’d spun around too quickly on the merry-go-round. He’d cried when Earl would hold him down and Mama leaned over him with what looked to be the biggest knife in the world. He’d squirmed and thrashed and begged to be let go: no Mama, please Mama, no, no, no . . . .
But it never made any difference. For, he knew now, she’d been trying to teach him a lesson. The pain was simply a tool, a way to make sure that the wisdom she was trying to impart was seared into his young, impressionable mind. Without pain, someone had told him once, there can be no growth. And that was all Mama ever really wanted. For him to grow into a strong, fearless man. For him to dam the tears that had welled in his eyes and keep the snot from bubbling out his nose. To choke back the shrill screams that, as he’d been so often reminded, sounded like a little girl throwing a fit because her favorite dolly had been taken away.
Shut The Fuck Up And Die! Page 10