by Amy Cross
“Hello?” I whisper.
This is dumb.
Still, I have to be sure.
“Hello?” I call out, louder this time.
No reply.
Of course there's no reply.
Finally realizing that this is a hopeless cause, I switch the flashlight off and start making my way back down the grassy incline, toward the path that runs along the side of Marie's building. I almost lose my footing a couple of times, but eventually I make it all the way to the bottom and jump off the wall onto the path, where I stop for a moment and look up at the light in Marie's window. She gave me the key to her apartment, and she said I could go inside if necessary. It might not be strictly necessary, but still, there's one other thing I want to check before I leave.
***
As I'd half-expected, Marie's apartment turns out to be an absolute mess. The first thing that strikes me is a damp, fusty smell, and the second thing is the fact that there are old crates and boxes piled all over the hallway. Then I almost trip over some old metal pipes that have been left on the floor, and I realize she definitely seems to be a hoarder.
“Great,” I mutter, fumbling for the light-switch before realizing that it's probably hidden behind some of the old, broken canvases that are leaning against the walls.
Once I've pushed the door shut, I pick my way carefully through the dark apartment until I reach the kitchen, which is the one room where the light has been left on. Sure enough, the carton of milk is still on the counter, and there's a broken glass on the floor, just as Marie warned. Milk is spilled everywhere, which fits with her account of having dropped the glass when she saw the figure through the window, so I spend a few minutes cleaning up the mess and disposing of the glass shards.
“I draw him,” Marie told me yesterday. “I know it doesn't help, but it's my way of trying to remember what he looked like.”
Heading back to the hallway, I take a look at some of the canvases. She gave me permission to poke around, and I think she specifically wanted me to see her drawings. All I find at first, however, are damaged canvases with what look like random dabs of color. I guess her style is pretty abstract. It's not until I get to the canvases next to her bedroom door that I see anything that even remotely resembles a human figure, but still the images are mostly very vague and it's difficult to really work out what I'm seeing. Still, I pull more of the canvases away, until finally one catches my attention. It takes a moment to pull this particular canvas out so I can see it properly, but sure enough it shows a hunched figure.
The face, however, is a blur.
Luke and the others all say the same thing, which is that the man's face is impossible to remember. Checking some more canvases, I can see that Marie has been trying desperately to draw eyes and a mouth on the figure, but each time something seems to have held her back. At the same time, on each canvas the figure itself is drawn a little larger, and as I go through them one by one it's almost as if the figure is slowly coming toward me. There's something creepy about the hunched posture and the way the creature almost fades into the shadowy background, but at the same time I'm starting to think that maybe Amanda was right when she said that Marie isn't the most reliable witness. After all, these pictures seem very hurried, almost scrawled, and when I run a fingertip against the canvas I feel thick ridges of ink and paint. It's not difficult to think that Marie got a little carried away.
There are even holes in some parts of the canvases, as if Marie stabbed the images.
She even signed and dated them in the bottom corner. And, as I look more closely, I see that she put a time-stamp on them too. The one I'm holding now, for example, was apparently painted on June 5th last year at 8:37pm.
I check the next painting.
June 5th last year at 8:40pm.
I guess she works fast.
Lining the paintings up side by side in order, I find that they were all painted within about forty-five minutes of one another. The earliest was on June 5th at 8:31pm, and the latest was at 9:15pm on the same night. Once they're in the correct order, however, I can't help noticing that the figure is smaller in the first painting and then becomes a little bigger as they go along, culminating in the 9:15pm picture in which the figure's blurred face fills almost the entire canvas.
But still she wasn't able to mark out any features.
“Who are you?” I whisper, looking at the images again before realizing that this is no way to get answers. I might not be as harsh as Amanda, but I can tell that Marie's attempts to paint the figure's face are rather haphazard. And I might be wrong, but some of the reds and browns in the paintings seem very rich, leading me to wonder whether Marie has been mixing some of her own blood onto the canvases.
I hope not, but as I start carefully putting them all away, I can't shake the feeling that I just got a glimpse into the mind of someone who's very disturbed.
I came into the apartment to check for pills, so that's what I do next. I'm also slightly worried that I might find something stronger, and that Marie might have been taking something that could cause hallucinations. There's nothing stronger than aspirin in her bathroom cabinet, however, and I don't find any hint of weed or other types of drug. In fact, by the time I've finished taking a quick look around, I'm starting to think that I misjudged her. There's not even any wine anywhere, or beer in the fridge.
Ending my search in the kitchen, I take one last look to make sure I got all the glass from the floor, and then I switch the light off. There's no need to hand around when -
And that's when I see him.
Now that the lights are all off inside the apartment, the communal garden is visible through the window, and there's a figure out there, standing between two trees and seemingly staring straight at me.
I freeze, convinced that I must be wrong, but after a moment I realize that the dark shape is definitely human.
My heart is pounding as I make my way across the dark kitchen. I try to tell myself that this is just a coincidence, that even if someone is out there it can't be the man. Maybe it's just someone walking a dog, or hunting for Pokemon, or maybe it's just the friendly neighborhood pervert. By the time I reach the window, however, I can see that he's simply standing and staring, no more than twenty or thirty feet from where I am right now. I can't make out any of his features in the darkness, but he definitely wasn't there earlier when I was out in the garden.
But he's there now.
And he's hunched over slightly.
I pause for a moment, before realizing that I have to get out there.
Turning, I hurry back across the kitchen and through to the hallway. Before I reach the door, I trip over some of Marie's boxes and end up tumbling to the floor, landing hard and letting out a gasp of pain. I immediately scramble to my feet and race out through the door, then I run along the corridor and down the steps. As I get to the bottom, I realize I left the flashlight inside, but there's no time to go back now. Instead, I run to the building's front door and then out into the night air, and then finally I stop at the edge of the garden and look up toward the trees.
He's still there.
I wait, expecting him to react somehow or to run, but he simply stays in the shadows. From down here at the bottom of the incline, it's impossible to tell whether he's looking directly at me or whether, instead, he's still staring at the window.
Reaching into my pocket, I check that I still have the knife, and then I climb up onto the wall and start making my way slowly up the grass incline, edging cautiously toward the figure.
This has to be an illusion.
Maybe a trick of the shadows, or somebody's idea of a joke, or -
Stopping once I'm about ten feet away, I realize that it's no illusion. The figure is still standing there, still just a silhouette against the dark trees, but now I think I can tell that he's looking straight down toward me.
He knows I'm here.
“Who are you?” I call out, and I instantly realize that I sound terrified. “I ha
ve a weapon,” I continue, taking the knife from my pocket. “Whoever you are, you need to...”
My voice trails off. I don't have a clue what to say.
It's not him.
It can't be.
“What are you doing here?” I ask finally. “If you don't identify yourself, I'll... I'll call the police!”
So far, it's almost as if the figure hasn't heard a word I've said. In all the time I've been searching for the truth about Charlie's death, I imagined over and over what it would be like to finally come face-to-face with whoever's responsible. Now that I might actually have found him, however, my mind is running blank and I'm not entirely sure what I should say.
I edge closer, with the knife gripped in my trembling hand. I need him to do something, to react in some way. If he attacks me, I can defend myself. If he tries to escape, I can run after him. But while he's just standing there, waiting for me to make the first move, I genuinely don't know how to react.
“Listen,” I continue, trying to stay calm, “if you're just some kid who's out here for fun, that's fine, but I really need to see your face. You're not in any trouble, but -”
Before I can finish, I stop as I feel something brush against my thoughts, scattering my mind. I take a step back and my thoughts return, but for a moment it was almost as if the closer I got to the figure, the less I was able to think properly.
“Are you him?” I ask finally.
No reply.
“Are you?” I continue, with tears in my eyes. “If you're him... If you're the...”
My voice trails off as I feel my chest starting to tighten.
“My name is Emily Carter,” I stammer. “Do you hear me? My name is -”
Suddenly he turns and walks away, fading into the shadows.
“Wait!” I call out, hurrying after him, filled with a sense of panic at the thought that I might lose him again. “Stop, you can't -”
Before I can finish, something dark rushes straight toward me, knocking me back and sending me crashing down to the grass. I roll a short way down the incline before managing to steady myself, and as I get to my feet I hear a voice giggling nearby. A moment later, I feel a sharp pain in my ankle, and I realize I landed awkwardly. Scrambling back up toward the trees, I look around for any sign of the figure, but all I see is darkness.
“Stop!” I shout. “Wait!”
There's no sign of the figure now, so I hurry to the trees and glance around again. Realizing that I need help, I take my phone from my pocket and switch it on. I have to wait while everything loads, and I see a bunch of missed calls from Craig and other numbers, but I quickly bring up Luke's details and wait for him to answer.
“It's me!” I say breathlessly. “I'm at Marie's apartment and -”
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, sounding just as concerned. “Emily, I've been trying to reach you! We've got a problem. Amanda's gone missing!”
Chapter Eleven
“I left Alice with a neighbor,” Luke explains as we hurry up the steps at the front of a large, white-walled house on the other side of town. “I should have done that earlier and come with you to Marie's place. I can't believe I let you go alone.”
“When was the last time anyone heard from Amanda?” I ask. “It's only been a couple of hours since she was with us, maybe she just wants some time alone. She seemed pretty annoyed.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps at the screen. A moment later, he starts playing a voicemail message and I immediately recognize that it's from Amanda.
“Luke, please pick up,” she begs. “Luke, I'm at home and I think...”
She pauses, followed by the sound of footsteps, as if she's running through her house.
“I think he's here,” she adds finally. “Oh God, I think he's actually here. I think he's watching me, I think -”
She stops suddenly. For a few seconds, there's a faint static buzz, followed by a brief bumping sound.
“She dropped the phone,” Luke says.
And then the message ends.
“You heard Amanda earlier,” he continues, as we reach the wide-open front door. “She's not exactly given to flights of fancy. She was always the most adamant that this was over, that none of us would ever see the creature again.”
“We should ask her neighbors if they saw anything,” Carl says, already heading across the garden, toward the next house along. “It sounded like she was almost shouting on that message. Someone must have heard her!”
“Stay close,” Luke says as he and I step into the house's hallway, where the lights have been left on. “The police are on their way, but I don't want to wait for them to get here. Besides, I've got a feeling they won't find anything.”
“Amanda?” I call out, limping to the foot of the stairs. I twisted my ankle when I fell earlier, but I just have to push through the pain. “Amanda, are you here?”
I wait, but there's no reply.
“I'll check upstairs,” I tell Luke. “You look around down here.”
“We have to stick -”
“We don't have time for that,” I continue, turning and hurrying up the stairs. The lights have been left off in the bedrooms, and it only takes about a minute for me to check that there's no sign of Amanda. Hurrying back down, I go through the front room and finally reach the kitchen, where I find that Luke has already gone out through the door that leads into the garden.
“Anything?” he calls back to me.
“There's no sign of a struggle.”
“The back door was open too,” he continues as I head out to join him. “Who leaves their house unlocked like this in the middle of the night?”
In the distance, a lorry rumbles along the road at the bottom of the hill.
“This isn't like her,” Luke mutters. “Amanda's the most level-headed person in our group. The only time I've ever even heard her raise her voice is when she's annoyed at the rest of us.” He turns to me. “Tell me exactly what you saw at Marie's apartment.”
“It's hard to be specific,” I reply. “It was really just a silhouette, and -”
“But it rushed at you? And you said it was giggling?”
“Maybe, but -”
“Was it giggling or not?”
“I think so. I just -”
“You seemed more sure earlier.”
“Why does it matter?” I wait for an answer, but deep down I get the feeling that my account of the incident at Marie's apartment is feeding into some of his wilder theories. That's the last thing I want. “If this Chanciechaunie character was known for laughing at people,” I continue, “that still doesn't -”
Before I can finish, I spot something moving in the distance. Looking past Luke, I realize I can see a small dark figure walking along next to the freeway about half a mile away. I step forward, squinting a little in an attempt to get a better view, but there's definitely someone down there.
“What's wrong?” Luke asks, turning and looking the same way. “I see her!”
We set off through the darkness, running to the bottom of the garden and then clambering over the fence. Once we reach the street, we hurry down a steep hill, and I stick close to Luke since I figure he must know this neighborhood. When we get to the bottom of the hill, he leads me onto a dirt road and then into a patch of forest, but I can already see the lights of the freeway up ahead. Even this late, traffic is racing through the night.
“Amanda!” Luke yells. “It's us! Wait!”
It takes a couple more minutes before we get to the edge of the forest, but now we're much closer to the freeway and I can definitely see the silhouette of a woman stumbling along. Before I can say anything, however, I realize I can see something else a little further along, and I feel a shudder in my chest as I realize that there's a figure on the other side of the road. A moment later, Amanda suddenly stops and turns to face the figure, as if she's waiting for something.
A truck roars past, ruffling Amanda's skirt.
“No,” I
whisper, starting to run toward the fence that separates the forest from the freeway. “Amanda! Stop!”
“Amanda!” Luke shouts, hurrying after me. “Wait!”
Reaching the chain-link fence, I look up and see barbed wire. Amanda must have found a way through somewhere, so I hurry toward the spot where she's standing, desperately trying to figure out how to get onto the freeway. I can hear the ground starting to rumble now, and a moment later another truck rushes past.
“Amanda!” I yell. “It's me! Amanda, wait! Don't -”
Suddenly she steps forward, onto the freeway. A fraction of a second later, a huge truck roars straight into her, its brakes screeching far too late for it to have any chance of slowing down. I stare in horror as the rear of the truck comes to a halt over the spot where Amanda was standing, and after a moment I realize I can see a dark patch on the ground.
“Please, no,” Luke stammers, stepping past me but then stopping.
The truck has finally stopped now, but all I can do is make my way a little closer and hope desperately that Amanda somehow survived. After a moment, however, I spot a severed arm on the ground just a few meters away, and then I hear footsteps coming closer.
“I hit someone,” the truck's driver says, sounding shocked as he reaches us. “It was too late by the time I saw her, I couldn't slow down in time.”
“Maybe she ducked out of the way at the last moment,” I suggest, even though I know the odds are low.
“There's blood on the window at the front,” the driver continues, before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. “I have to call this in. Jesus Christ, I saw her face right before I hit her. She looked so calm, it was almost like she stepped out on purpose.”
As he stumbles back toward the front of the truck, I stare down at the severed arm, and then I turn to Luke.