Ordinary Souls

by J. S. Bailey

  I zoomed in above Creep’s house. Unlike the field I had imagined, woods comprised most of the area around his home. An L-shaped house sat at the end of a driveway that looked to be about a quarter of a mile long. A small pond shaped like a jellybean lay a short distance behind the house. I wondered if he and his “woman” ever sat beside the pond listening to the sound of bullfrogs during the summer, or if they’d simply stay inside so he could order her around like some self-righteous jerk. Make me a sandwich! Bring me a beer! Fold my socks! You sure are lucky to have a guy like me, babe.

  My hands were shaking, and I felt like smashing something expensive that would make a glorious shattering sound as it exploded against the wall. However, the only item in my house that fit the bill was an eighty-year-old porcelain vase that my great-grandmother had given me as a graduation present (family tradition, don’t ask), and I had no desire for her angry ghost to materialize in my living room demanding an explanation.

  Instead of destroying family heirlooms, I went to the kitchen and poured myself half a glass of Jenna’s Little Helper; known to the rest of the world as that cheap wine that comes in a box with a spigot. I returned to the living room, sat down in my favorite chair with wine glass in hand, and brooded.

  Any sane person will tell you that I grossly overreacted to Larry Theiss’s visit to the Bar and Grille, and they will be absolutely right.

  But let me tell you a little something about Jenna Carlson. You do not mess with her and come out unscathed. Remember how I mentioned a guy named Leroy Graves? Well, I guess I’ll tell you a bit about him after all. When we were eighteen he asked me out on a date. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy at the time so of course I agreed. He was good-looking, with wavy golden hair that made him look like he should be wearing a crown. We went out to dinner and a movie and I didn’t understand that I was required to “pay” him in return for the pleasant evening. He drove me to an old country lane a few miles outside of town despite my protests, and when he tried to stick his hand up my shirt I kneed him in the crotch and punched him so hard he had a shiner for the next week and a half. I walked all the way home after daring him to run me down in the truck.

  So you see? No one dares mess with Jenna Carlson.

  She bites.

  I don’t know what’s going on anymore. If I were sane, I would not be crouching outside an unlit window of a stranger’s house 22.1 miles from my home in the dark.

  But that’s what I’m doing. I did it. Here I am. And all because Creep’s address repeated itself in my mind like the soothing words of a hypnotist, beckoning for me to come, come.

  I tried to reason with myself. Honest. Driving that far would waste gas. I might get lost. I wouldn’t be home until late so I would be even crankier at work due to lack of sleep. I never do this sort of thing. I’m a good girl.

  Then that other voice from earlier in the restaurant had spoken up, telling me I should have no regrets; reminding me that justice would not be served if I chose inaction, so now I’m crouching in the dirt beside Larry Theiss’s window trying to decide just what I’m going to do to him.

  Don’t get me wrong. I own no weapons. Killing is out of the question. Dead men don’t learn their lessons and change their ways. The only things I’ve ever killed are the bugs that sometimes get into my house, and I don’t even like doing that. Compared to some, I’m a total pacifist. A saint.

  I did bring a pepper spray with me. I tucked it into my pocket before I left the house. I hope I won’t have to use it, but a girl can never be too safe in a world teeming with Creeps.

  I’ve been here several minutes now, so my eyes have had the chance to adjust to the dark. I left my car parked out at the end of the lane, so the only vehicles I can see are a pickup truck leaning awkwardly to one side like it has a flat and a giant conversion van that looks as though it might have been directly exported from the year 1985. A serial killer with giant square-framed glasses and a shiny head with a bad comb-over would drive a van like that. All the easier to hide the victims, my little pretty.

  I shiver. Larry Theiss may be a Class-A womanizing jerk, but that doesn’t mean he murders people for a living. Or does he? What if he finds me out here, has his way with me, and leaves me for dead?

  My legs ache, so I rise and glance around with caution. I’m glad Creep doesn’t have any dogs out here or my presence would have been made known to him the second I put the car into park. I should just walk back to the car and go home because I’m exhausted, and it’s late, and it’ll be even later by the time I tuck myself into bed. I’d best get going. I don’t want to become crazier than I already am. Let’s go, Jenna. Chop-chop.

  I take two steps in the direction of the road when I hear the first scream.

  My veins turn to icicles, and I freeze mid-step.

  I live in a town surrounded by countryside. I know that owls scream, and some wildcats scream, and children afraid of monsters in the dark scream, and Jenna Carlson screams whenever she finds a spider in her sheets.

  This scream came from beyond the darkened window, somewhere deeper inside the house. It sounded more like a scream of rage than of fear. Something on television? Maybe. I hope it is. Oh, how I hope.

  Then I hear a glass or something like it shatter into a million pieces. Funny how I had been thinking of doing just that before I came here.

  I step back into the untended flowerbed and press my ear against the cool glass, wondering if police detectives can track down suspects based on their ear-prints. Ha-ha. Like that would happen. I’ve already left behind enough footprints for any investigator to have a field day. Female, small frame, size eight shoes. Like someone could track me down based on that.

  It might be my imagination, but I think I can hear voices through the glass. One is low, like a man’s. Big surprise. I don’t hear any canned laughter or music, so I’m going to assume that the voices I hear are being spoken right this instant in real life.

  A female voice barks a sharp retort that puts my nerves even more on edge. Is Creep hurting her and she’s trying to fight back? What is she saying? What is he doing to her? I could always rush inside to save her from his clutches like some five-foot-five deus ex machina in a ponytail and sweats, but I’m not nearly as stupid as I am insane. If Creep really is harming a woman in any way, the only thing my spontaneous charging-in will accomplish is getting myself beat up, too.

  God, why didn’t I stay home?

  The voices fall silent for the time being, but the wind has picked up a little and is making it harder for me to hear anything through the window. I can’t hear any more screams or breaking glass. I could leave now, go home, drink another glass of Jenna’s Little Helper, and forget that any of this ever happened. Sounds nice, right? It’s not like I know that anything is wrong on the other side of this wall. For all I know, Creep and his current woman might be into something kinky. I love you, baby. Now let me throw a dinner plate at your head.

  Yeah, right.

  Another shriek splits the air, and I hear something else break.

  I want to leave.

  I can’t. I have to see what’s happening in there or I’ll never stop thinking about it.

  The only way to find out is to go inside or find another window to peek through that will offer me a view of the action.

  I opt for the window. Jenna Carlson plays it safe.

  I hunch down and come up to the front of the house (also dark) and around to the other side, where pale light spills from between a gap in the drapes. I slowly straighten a bit so that only my head is sticking above the level of the windowsill. I’m looking into a bedroom that has a nightlight plugged into an outlet. I try not to laugh. Creep is afraid of the dark? Cute.

  The nightlight illuminates a neatly-made full-sized bed covered in a black comforter and fuzzy white pillows. A shelf on the wall holds an array of dolls that look like they might be porcelain. They’re wearing Victorian clothes and have the sort of eyes that seem to follow you no matter what part of the ro
om you’re standing in. On the wall below the shelf is a giant poster of a bare-chested Taylor Lautner.

  Creep just got creepier.

  Despite my new vantage point, I still can’t see anyone, and now it sounds like someone is emptying an entire china cabinet against a wall piece by piece. I hear swear words and curses that would make a sailor hang his head in shame.

  I move to the rear of the house and locate a well-lit window that gives me a partial view of a kitchen. A chicken-shaped clock on the wall reads nine-thirty. Creep, wearing one of those white muscle shirts that some people call “wife beaters,” is blocking his face with one hand and ducking as a barrage of glass tumblers, saucers, and goblets is launched at him by someone I can’t see. Most of the dishes seem to be shattering in the sink and on the countertop. A bruise is already forming on his cheek where one must have hit him. His eyes are so livid that I half-expect something to burst into flames. I feel a sick sort of satisfaction in seeing him so angry, though I’m afraid for the person who is the object of his anger. She must be trying to protect herself using the only weaponry she has on hand.

  “You’re an idiot!” she screams; the thickness in her voice telling me that she is likely in tears. “I can’t believe you’d try to get away!”

  “You can’t control me!” Creep bellows, dodging a ceramic sugar bowl that cracks open and adds to the rubble on the counter.

  “You wanna bet?” A plate whizzes by. “Stop defending yourself.”

  Creep’s arms drop to his sides. A salt shaker hits his nose, and he barely even flinches.

  “There’s someone outside,” the woman says without warning. The barrage of dishes ceases. “Would you know anything about that?”

  I hold my breath. How could she know I’m here? I can’t even see her. No way can she see me.

  “Why should I?” Creep snaps.

  “You tell me.”

  I decide I should leave before they come out and get me. I don’t know what’s going on now. Who exactly is in charge here? The woman, or Creep?

  I start toward the driveway, my heart rattling behind my ribs, when a door bangs open, a spill of light cuts through the darkness, and the sound of two sets of footsteps pursues me.

  Now, in my fear, I’m disoriented. Which way is it to the driveway? I start off in a random direction and promptly trip over something that is either a garden hose or an unnaturally motionless snake. I get back to my feet and keep running.

  Someone fires a gun close by. The sound of the shot reverberates throughout the woods surrounding the yard. “Hey! You!” A flashlight beam cuts back and forth like a horizontal search light. Crap. They’re going to see me.

  My chest heaves as I run. I see the driveway now. My car is barely visible at the far end of it. Oh, sweet escape!

  But now the rapid sound of feet crunching in gravel says they’re right behind me.

  I nearly pee my pants. Instead, I run faster. I can see moonlight glinting off the rear windshield of my Cavalier. So close. So close!

  Something heavy knocks me to the ground. A thousand tiny rocks dig into my skin and through my clothes. A foot presses into my back, pinning me in place. “Well this isn’t quite what I expected,” the woman says coolly.

  Heavier footsteps approach and stop several feet away. “What you expected?” Creep asks.

  “I thought you’d been stupid earlier when you escaped, and called the cops. You know what I’ll do to you if you ever call the cops.”

  Something pokes me in the shoulder. “You. On your feet,” the woman says. “Try anything funny; you know we’ve got a gun.”

  Boy, do I.

  So I stand, and instead of the woman I expected, I’m looking at a black-haired teenage girl just as skinny as me. She has a nose ring and a pierced eyebrow and is wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with a cupcake and crossbones. Is this Creep’s child?

  “Let me see your hands,” she says.

  I hold them out, palms up. The girl shines the flashlight in my face, then at my hands. I don’t dare reach for my pepper spray; not when she’s holding the gun in her other hand.

  There are several beats of silence. Creep’s eyes widen with recognition. “You came,” he says, sounding more surprised than angry.

  The girl takes a step closer, lowering the flashlight. “So you do know her. I figured as much.”

  “Ellie, please. I don’t know why she’s here.” For the first time, I hear fear in Creep’s voice. Actual fear. I try not to giggle at the absurdity. Or cry.

  Ellie looks at me like I’m a mess that a dog left out in someone’s yard. “Then maybe she should enlighten us.”

  “I, uh…” My mind silently screams out the truth, and it’s all I can do not to blurt it out loud. Because Larry Theiss is filthy scum and made me angry and people who make me angry pay!

  So I lie. Sort of. I try to act meek. “When you paid for your lunch,” I say to Creep, “I saw your driver’s license in your wallet.”

  The girl glares at me, unimpressed. I’m under the impression that I’m about five seconds away from being shot. I feel small, like an ant.

  “You were hitting on me,” I say. “A lot.” My face flushes. I’m glad that the main source of illumination out here is a flashlight and not a spotlight. “I’ve been really broke lately. I thought maybe you’d lend me some money if…”

  The teenager’s face warps into a smirk as she turns to Creep. “So that’s what you were doing at that restaurant. Trying to get someone to go after you so you could be rescued from me.”

  I try to still my shaking hands. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t say anything about needing rescued. And if he’s under your—your control, how did he get out in the first place?”

  “Unfortunately, I do have to sleep sometimes. The downside to wearing a human body.” Her lip curls. “Larry?”

  “What, Ellie?”

  “Go get me some rope.”

  I come to in a dark place that smells like dust, mold, and something dead, my head splitting like someone tried to pry it open with a crowbar. My hands are cuffed behind me. What happened? I remember running out of coffee, and then…

  Oh. Right. Creep.

  My pulse spiking, I try to stand but find that my ankles are bound together, too. I feel like I’m going to puke. I probably have a serious concussion after being conked with who knows what—maybe the butt of the gun. I don’t even know how long I was out, how long I’ve been here. All I know is my own insanity brought me to this place. What a day, huh? What. A. Day.

  Footsteps are coming, and then a light switches on overhead, blinding insane old Jenna for a brief moment. I blink and blink and then I see the girl, the one who’d thrown all the dishes, standing in front of me wearing a smirk.

  “You’re awfully stupid,” she says. “You know that, right?”

  Without answering, I glance around and find I’m in what appears to be a drained cistern with smooth concrete walls and floor. I nearly scream when I see two other women chained to the wall to my left and a third to my right.

  I can instantly tell that none of them are alive, and haven’t been for a while.

  Creep is chained to a wall as well, his eyes gleaming with terror. A low altar draped with a black cloth across from me bears a bowl and a long knife. My pepper spray lays beside them.

  “It’s funny,” Ellie says. The whites of her eyes have turned black as tar. “Normally Larry brings my victims to me because I make him, but this time his little plan backfired. I forced him to talk. He wanted you to call the police on him to report some sort of sexual harassment—he even showed you his license so you’d know where to find him, and me. In doing so, he turned you into a victim. Isn’t that cute?”

  I don’t have anything to say. My mind spins and spins.

  The teenager moves to the altar and picks up the knife, making a show of examining it. “Larry seems to have outlived his usefulness. Maybe after I’ve killed him, you can be his replacement. Won’t that
be nice?”

  I don’t think it’s nice at all, but I open my mouth and say, “If I work for you, will you untie me?”

  She takes a moment to ponder this. “Of course I will.” Her eyes look normal again. “You’re small, so it might be easier for you to bring me children. It’s been a while since I’ve had any of them here.”

  I nod. “I can get children for you. Lots of them.” I think of Julie Harkness’s son throwing his temper tantrum in the restaurant and know just where to start.

  Ellie lets out a snicker and moves toward Creep with the knife and bowl in hand.

  I feel myself relax. I smile at Creep, who is now sobbing as Ellie drags the blade down his chest and collects his blood in the bowl.

  Everything will be okay after all.

  THE RED MERCEDES SUV wound its way over mountain roads like a blood cell traversing great wooded veins. Dr. Simon Washington, DDS, sat behind the wheel keeping his eyes peeled for the correct turnoff while his wife Keisha analyzed a map she’d unfolded in her lap.

  “It’s got to be coming up,” Simon said, slowing the car every time a new road came into view and speeding onward every time he saw it was the wrong one.

  “If you weren’t so adverse to using a GPS, we’d know for sure, wouldn’t we?”

  Simon glanced over to see Keisha raising a sculpted eyebrow. “Their voices annoy me,” he said. “Wait, this should be it.”

  He turned onto a road that led steeply uphill and carved treacherous angles through the trees. The sense of foreboding brewing in his gut ever since they left Detroit at four in the morning grew stronger now that they were nearly here.

  GPS voices weren’t the only kind that annoyed him. Keisha’s younger cousin Shonté’s voice annoyed him, too, and to his complete and utter dismay, Shonté herself drove the green minivan that had been following them for the past nine hours.

  As they neared the top of the mountain, Simon caught sight of a rustic wooden sign reading “Alpine Rest” and turned onto a paved driveway leading downhill a hundred feet.