Charlie started to say something to the little girl, but his words were stopped short by the pain that ripped through his right thigh. Instead of words, he could only scream.
He screamed and staggered back, reaching down to the source of the pain. He didn’t need a light to know that he was bleeding. He could feel warm blood spurting from a deep cut just above his right knee. The little girl had stabbed him with something. He was bleeding bad enough to need a doctor.
“Ross, help me! Please, help me!” His cries for help went unanswered, because Ross had not returned. Charlie looked up, but the little girl was no longer in front of him. She had moved. He started to turn around to defend himself, but he was too late. The girl had slipped behind him and was on the attack again.
Another bolt of fiery pain shot through Charlie’s right leg. He had been stabbed again in the thigh, this time just beneath his right buttocks. She must have severed his tendon, because his right leg collapsed beneath him like an accordion.
He fell to the floor and the girl jumped on him. She stabbed him again and again, driving a knife deep into his back. Charlie tried to scream, but he could not find his voice. He tried to get back up, but his body refused to obey his command. He could only lay there, whimpering like a whipped pup, as the long steel blade of a knife sank deep into his body. He died a few moments later, his face only inches away from the beer he would never finish.
Ross banged his shin against a wooden shelf and bit his lip to keep from crying out. He knew Charlie McGee would laugh at him if he heard him cry out, so he remained quiet despite the pain. He did, however, mutter a few choice words under his breath.
Rubbing his shin to take away some of the hurt, he reached around on the shelves in search of his flashlight. It was there the other day, but now, when he actually needed it, the flashlight seemed to have vanished. Without a light it would be nearly impossible to check the fuses in the fusebox, which was mounted on the back wall in the beer storage room. He could probably use a lighter, but it was hard to hold a lighter steady while he did the checking. The beer storage room was also the darkest room in the place, and the most cluttered, and he would probably trip over something and break his neck if he didn’t have proper lighting.
Since he couldn’t find the flashlight that he kept in the bar, he decided to go get the one from his cabin. He called out to Charlie, to let him know that he was leaving for a minute, but the old man didn’t answer. He either didn’t hear him, or he didn’t feel like answering. Hell, knowing Charlie, the old fool had probably fallen asleep at the bar again. Or he was in the bathroom, trying to hit the urinal in the dark. Not that he could hit it much better in the light. Old Charlie, bless his heart, could be rather messy at times, especially when it came to pissing with a drunk dick.
After making his way slowly to the back door, Ross unlocked it and stepped out. He saw that the light above his cabin door still burned, and knew that he had indeed blown a fuse. Blown fuses were nothing new. The wiring in the lounge was old and overloaded, especially with the coolers and air conditioning running at the same time. It was really bad in the summertime, when the equipment was doing double duty to keep everything cold. He could expect a blown fuse at least once a week during the summer months.
Closing the back door, he made his way across the campgrounds to his cabin. The lights were off inside the cabin, which meant Mary had already gone to bed. Unlocking the front door, he slipped in as quietly as possible.
He found the flashlight in the kitchen, in a cabinet drawer on the left. Checking to make sure the batteries were still good, he closed the drawer and started back toward the front door.
“What are you doing?”
Ross stopped and turned around. Mary stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ve blown another fuse at the lounge. I couldn’t find my flashlight, so I came here to get this one.”
“You didn’t wake me,” Mary said. “I was having trouble sleeping. You sure it’s just a fuse?”
“Yeah. None of the other lights are out.”
“You going to be long?”
“Not long. I’ve just got to replace the fuse, then finish filling the cooler.”
“Anyone still over there?”
“Just Charlie, and I’m going to send him home in a few minutes.”
“Okay then.” Mary nodded. “With any luck I’ll be asleep by the time you get here.”
“I’ll be quiet when I come in.”
Ross left the cabin and hurried back to the lounge. He had just entered through the back door when he heard a crash from the front.
“Charlie, are you okay?”
There was no answer.
“Charlie, what was that noise? Are you okay?”
Still no answer.
Ross headed for the front of the building to investigate the noise he heard. “Aw, hell. What did you do now, old man? I told you to sit still until I got the lights back on. Don’t tell me you tripped over something, or knocked something over. If you knocked one of my beer mirrors off the wall I’m going to kick your butt.”
He pushed through the swinging double doors, entering the front room directly behind the bar. Shining his flashlight from left to right, he saw that Charlie McGee no longer sat at the bar. “Where did you go? I don’t have time to be playing games.”
Ross turned left and walked past the drop-box cooler and draft beer taps, stepping out from behind the bar. He kept the flashlight aimed at the floor in front of him as he went. He had heard a crash and didn’t want to trip over something in the darkness.
The first thing he saw as he stepped out from behind the bar was that one of the square wooden tables had been turned over. The table had obviously made the crash he had heard from the back room. The second thing he saw was a pair of legs lying on the floor just beyond the table. The legs were dressed in faded blue jeans, with feet covered with Timberland work boots. The legs, jeans, feet, and shoes all belonged to Charlie McGee. The old man was sprawled on the floor just beyond the overturned table.
“Oh, Jesus. What did you do?” Ross took two steps forward, the beam of the flashlight he held sweeping up Charlie’s legs to his back. He froze when his light illuminated the still-widening puddle of crimson beside the old man’s body.
It only took one glance to know that Charlie McGee was dead. He lay on his stomach, his head turned to face Ross, eyes open and staring, his eyeglasses on the floor in front of his face. Charlie’s shirt, once white, was now bright red with blood, and there were tears in the back of the shirt that looked like stab wounds.
“Sweet Jesus. No.” Ross stood staring at the old man, unable to tear his gaze away from the carnage that lay before him. Charlie McGee, the lovable elderly drunk, was as dead as a doornail, stabbed to death, his blood forming a huge pool around his body. Old Charlie had just been murdered.
“Murdered.”
The word snapped Ross out of his daze. If Charlie McGee had been stabbed, then somebody had to do the stabbing. It had only been a few minutes since the old man was still alive, so that meant the murderer was probably still around. He could be in the camp. Hell, he could still be in the lounge.
“Shit.” Knowing that he was also in danger, Ross turned and swept the flashlight around the room. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean he was alone. The lounge was cloaked in darkness, creating a hundred places a killer could hide. He could be in one of the restrooms, in the storage room, in the closet just off the kitchen, hiding in the walk-in cooler, even crouching in the shadows beneath one of the tables. He could be anywhere.
“Shit,” Ross said again as he turned on his heals and raced behind the bar. He kept a loaded .38 revolver on a shelf beneath the cash register. He had never needed the gun before, but he damn sure needed it now. For a moment he was afraid the gun might not be there, but it was still lying on the shelf where he always kept it.
He picked up the revolver and switched off the safety. There was no need to che
ck to see if it was still loaded. If the pistol had not been moved, then it was. A quick glance showed him that the cash register had not been touched either. If robbery was the motive behind the murder, then the thief had not gotten to the register yet. Perhaps he heard Ross coming back and had taken off.
God, I hope so.
A dark thought crossed his mind. What if it was more than one person behind the killing? Even with a loaded gun he was ill equipped to go up against multiple bad guys. Hell, he wasn’t really equipped to go up against just one bad guy. His hands were shaking so bad he wouldn’t be able to hit what he was aiming at. If he missed in the close confines of the lounge, then he too could end up as a bloody victim, especially since he was apparently up against a psychopath.
Okay, I’ve got the gun. Now what do I do?
Call the police. That’s what he had better do. Dial 911 and get some help. Someone had just been murdered in his place of business, and the killer could still be around.
Ross held the pistol in his right hand, and the flashlight in his left. He was reluctant to set either of them down long enough to pick up the phone. Knowing he had to let go of one on them, he laid the flashlight on top of the bar and grabbed the telephone.
He had just picked up the receiver when he heard a noise coming from a row of booths just to the left of the front door. Ross froze, the phone halfway to his left ear, his blood turning to ice.
What was that?
He heard the noise again, a strange whimpering sound that sent chills marching down his spine. The noise sounded like someone softly crying.
Ross hung up the phone and picked up his flashlight. He aimed the light at the booths, his mouth going dry with fear. There was something in the booth closest to the door, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He hadn’t seen it before, because the high back of the booth’s seat had hidden it from view.
He was suddenly very afraid, almost too afraid to move. He thought about running out the back door to his cabin, worried now that Mary was all alone. But he was afraid to take off, fearing that whatever was in that booth might not be there when he got back. Was it a person? Was it the killer? Surely not, because it wasn’t big enough.
The sound coming from the booth grew louder, causing the skin at his temples to pull tight. It was strange sound, almost animal, like the whimpering of a small dog. But it wasn’t a dog in the booth, he could tell that much. The thing in the booth wasn’t hairy.
Knowing he had no other choice but to take a closer look, Ross slowly moved out from behind the bar. The thing at the booth didn’t move; it remained an unidentifiable lump of darkness lying on the seat. He wished it would move so he could see what in the Sam hell it was, but if it did move he would probably shoot it out of fear.
As if in a strange dream, Ross suddenly became aware of everything around him. He became aware of his footsteps, the sound of his breathing, even the beating of his heart; the sounds seemed to be magnified by the fear that enveloped him. He was aware of the brightness of his flashlight, and the tiny motes of dust that danced hypnotically in the light’s beam. Even the wood floor he walked on seemed different, as if he had never truly seen it before.
He was getting closer to the front door, and still the thing in the booth had not moved. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. It wasn’t an animal, he was certain of that now, for he could make out the fabric of clothing. Dirty. Mud-caked. But clothing nonetheless.
A horrifying thought crossed his mind, nearly causing him to turn around and flee in fright. What if the thing at the booth was a dead thing? What if it was something that had crawled out of a graveyard, like the things they showed on those late-night zombie movies? Or what if it was a creature like nothing anyone had ever seen before, some kind of monster that had come out of the woods?
“Ain’t no such thing as monsters,” he whispered, trying to gather his courage. That may be true, but there were such things as killers that murdered old men, and things that hid in bar booths and whimpered.
He was only a few feet away from the booth, close enough to make out the form of what lay on the seat. It was human, and it was small. The tiny form was huddled up on the seat, facing away from him, knees drawn up to its chest. He could see mud-crusted tennis shoes that might have once been red, and long hair that might have been blonde but was as muddy as the shoes. He could also see the crimson stains of blood splattered on small legs and arms. The tiny person in the booth was apparently hurt and in need of medical attention.
Ross stood staring at the figure for a few more moments, suddenly realizing what he was looking at. It was the little girl everybody was searching for. Krissy Patterson was in his lounge, and she was obviously hurt.
“Krissy, is that you.” Lowering his pistol he stepped forward. The little girl had obviously been hurt by the same sick bastard who had killed Charlie. She was covered in blood and was probably in danger of dying on him. He had to do something to help her.
He set the flashlight on the booth’s table, aiming it so the beam pointed in the girl’s direction. Reaching out with his left hand, he gently touched her shoulder and attempted to roll her over.
The little girl rolled over easily at his touch, and as she did Ross knew that something was very wrong. She was splattered with blood, but there didn’t appear to be any wounds on her body. And even though she had been whimpering in pain only moments before, she was now smiling. It was a hideous smile that stretched her mouth far too wide. Then Krissy Patterson opened her eyes, and Ross knew he was in serious trouble.
It may have been a little girl lying there on the seat, but she didn’t have the eyes of a little girl. She had the eyes of an animal, glowing a strange bluish color in the darkness. Ross looked at those strange, terrifying eyes, and then he noticed the object she held in her left hand, an object she had kept cradled to her body so he would not see it.
Ross tried to jump back, but he wasn’t quick enough. The object the girl held was a butcher knife, its blade stained with the blood of Charlie McGee. Before he could back up, she uncoiled like a snake and stabbed him in the stomach.
The blade sank deep into his abdomen, the pain sending a shock wave through his body. The muscles in his right arm spasmed, causing the pistol to fire. The gun was pointed away from the girl, the bullet striking the floor near the front door.
Stumbling backward, out of control and off balance, Ross felt his legs go out from under him. He landed on his butt, hitting the floor hard enough to make his teeth clack together, causing the pistol to fly out of his hand. The gun skidded across the floor, disappearing into the darkness.
He watched the pistol vanish from view, and then he looked down and was aware of the blood spurting from his body. He placed his left hand over the wound, but could not stop the flow. The wound was deep, and a major organ had obviously been hit. Already he was becoming woozy and light-headed.
A strange laughter split the night. Ross looked up and saw Krissy slide out of the booth and move toward him. She was still smiling, and she still held the butcher knife. He suddenly recognized the knife. It was Mary’s favorite butcher knife: an Old Henry he had bought for her years ago. The knife had been used to cut beef, veal, pork, chicken, even venison. It was now being used to cut a different sort of meat.
Ross tried to stand up, but he could no longer feel his legs. He had already lost too much blood, and was on the verge of passing out. He actually wished that he would pass out, so he wouldn’t have to feel what was about to happen to him. But he had no such luck. Ross Sanders was still very much awake when the butcher knife sank into his flesh again and again and again.
Chapter Twenty-five
Mary Sanders was still awake when the sound of a gunshot split the night. The sound was close, but it was somewhat muffled, as if it came from inside a building. Sitting up in bed, she listened carefully but the gunshot was not repeated.
Knowing that her husband kept a loaded pistol at the lounge, she climbed out of bed and hurried to put her clothes on. Ross kept
the gun for protection, though there had never been need for him to use it. Most of the customers who frequented the bar were regulars, and fairly well behaved for drunks. Even the rednecks and troublemakers had enough respect for Ross to take their fights outside. The gun was only there in the event they were ever robbed, and that had yet to happen.
Still, the gunshot had come from the direction of the lounge. Not that she thought there was any trouble. Not really. Ross had just been over to grab a flashlight, complaining that the electricity was off. He had probably been fumbling around in the darkness and knocked the pistol off the shelf, causing it to fire. She was worried now that her damn fool husband might have accidentally shot himself in the foot.
Slipping on her blue jeans and blouse, she pulled on a pair of sneakers and hurried to the front door. The night was quiet, no sounds of shouts or screams. That was a good sign. Had her husband shot himself in the foot, or had there been an attempted robbery, she was quiet sure she would be hearing six kinds of hell.
Looking around, she noticed that no lights burned in any of the other cabins, so the gunshot had not disturbed any of the guests. Actually, the Pattersons were the only guests still staying at the campgrounds, and their cabin could not be seen from where she stood. The other guests, two pair of fishermen from somewhere up north, had grown tired of all the recent chaos and confusion and had cut their vacations short to go back home.
Closing the cabin door, she crossed the campgrounds to the lounge and entered through the back door. The electricity was still off, and the interior was as dark as a tomb. She had to slow her pace, being careful where she stepped, fearful of tripping over a beer box or mop bucket. Ross was real bad about leaving things lying in the way, and the electricity being off would not mean he had suddenly changed his habits.
She called out to her husband as she entered the back room, but did not get a reply. Figuring he just didn’t hear her, she called out again. “Ross, was that a gunshot I heard?”
Evil Whispers Page 22