by Steve Frech
“Not yet.”
*
Sure enough, Dana backs away from the door as I open it. She’s been listening.
“So, are you going tell me what this was all about?”
“He’ll tell you, himself. I don’t have time.”
I walk past her, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door.
I get in my car and start the engine. I back out of the driveway, slam it into gear, and stomp on the gas. The tires scream and the car lurches forward, carrying me off in the direction of the highway.
I know everything now and she’s been trying to tell me from that first night. The drips. Seeing her in the lake by the pier when I lost Nicole’s ring. The basement. Mr. Whitlock was the last piece of the puzzle that’s made it all clear.
She was never at that train station.
The night Rebecca Harker told Thomas Carrington she was pregnant, he panicked. He worried that his daughter would tell his wife, and that would be the end. He’d be cut off. He chased her through the house to the backyard. That’s where it happened. That’s where he did it. He drowned her, and had to hide the body somewhere it would never be found. Like Thomas Carrington had told Rebecca Harker, “She was somewhere that she would never be found.” Then, he paid Theodore Whitlock for an alibi.
The more I think about it, the more furious I become. Not only had Katherine been trying to tell me, but so had Caitlyn. She tried to tell me after the incident at school, and I didn’t believe her.
Katherine was trapped. Her father won’t let her leave because if she leaves, he has to go, too.
Just as before, he would lose everything.
*
I whip the car onto the exit before Kingsbrook, and drive to the hardware store on the outskirts of town. I park in a handicap spot, not caring about the scolding looks I receive. I walk up to the first person wearing a nametag, which happens to be the guy who helped me, before.
“Crowbar, sledgehammer, and shovels?”
“Oh … Did you lose something, again?”
I’m sure my appearance doesn’t look good for someone asking for crowbars, sledgehammers, and shovels, but I don’t care.
“Crowbar. Sledgehammer. Shovels.”
“Umm … crowbars and sledgehammers are on aisle five and shovels are on aisle nine in the garden sect—”
I’m already off.
After finding what I need, I get some odd glances in the checkout line.
The girl scans the items while keeping her eyes on me.
“Sixty-three dollars and eighty-seven ce—.”
I take four twenties from my wallet and drop them on the scanner. Without a word, I grab the tools and start walking.
“Sir, your change!”
I keep walking.
30
I pull into the driveway of the Nightingale House.
Midway down the drive, I hit the brakes, put the car in park, and kill the engine.
The sun is starting to set, casting an orange light over the gables and the Turret Room.
Caitlyn’s in there, somewhere.
And so is he.
I know what I have to do and I know he’ll try to stop me. He’s almost made me kill myself, twice. I don’t know how to keep him out. I’m not sure that I can. The only thing that saved me is Nicole.
I reach into my pocket and pull out her ring. I turn it over in my hand while keeping an eye on the house.
“Nicole … I don’t know if you can hear me, but I … I don’t know what’s gonna happen … and I’m really scared. I know I’ve been scared before, like the night Caitlyn was born … and the time we took her to the ER because of that flu … I know you said you were just as scared as I was, but you always did a better job of hiding it. You were always that rock, through everything … I know we didn’t have as much time as we thought we were going to, but even if we did … I don’t think I could have said ‘thank you’ enough … Caitlyn and I really need you, right now … I don’t care if I walk out, so long as our daughter’s safe … I don’t know if you can, but please, be by my side for this one …”
I pick up the necklace from the passenger seat. I slide the butterfly pendant off the chain and set it aside. Then, I thread the chain through Nicole’s ring. I hang it around my neck, reach back, and tie the chain into a small, simple knot around the broken clasp.
Just to feel that small weight, again, pressing on my chest, fills me with calm. I close my eyes and I can see her. I see us — the moments we sat together at the kitchen table. The walks we would take. Playing with Caitlyn. I’m filled with a soft warmth.
I open my eyes. The Nightingale House waits.
I don’t know if I’ll walk out, maybe I’ll be with Nicole again, but I’ll be damned if he gets our daughter.
I tuck Nicole’s ring into my shirt and step out of the car.
*
I open the front door. The house is already tense, waiting, and watching.
I step inside, close the door, and lock it behind me.
I stride with determination through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen. I slowly open the basement door. The wooden stairs creak as I begin my descent. I don’t bother with the flashlight app on my phone. I reach the bottom of the stairs, step into the darkness, and find the chain. I reach up and pull.
The glow from the light shows that everything appears as it should.
I go to the spot where I saw Katherine standing and where Caitlyn was kneeling. I drop the sledgehammer and shovel, but hold onto the crowbar. I take a deep breath, raise the crowbar, and ram the thin end into the space between the floorboards. I pull against the crowbar with all my weight and I’m rewarded with a sharp crack as one of the floorboards comes free. I pry it up, rip it away, and throw it into the corner of the room. I repeat the process. The next board springs free. I continue until there’s a hole large enough to stand in. I inspect the concrete underneath.
There’s a patch in the old concrete that’s noticeably different than the rest. It’s uneven, and fine cracks stretch across the surface. I’m no contractor, but this was poured at a different time than the rest. I grab the sledgehammer and brace my legs against the sides of the hole. I raise it over my head, and swing. The impact sends shockwaves through my body. Bits of concrete fly in all directions. A few of the cracks become sharper and new cracks snake out in all directions. I raise the hammer again and bring it down with a grunt. Larger bits of concrete come loose, and more cracks appear. I swing again and again. To my relief, the concrete is only about half an inch thick, but it’s still tiring work. Finally, I bring the hammer down with all the strength I can muster and the concrete shatters into large chunks. I can see the dirt underneath. I crouch down and clear out the heavy pieces of concrete, sweat pouring down my face and neck.
A few more swings and I have a big enough opening to the dirt below to start digging.
Suddenly, the air around me changes. It grows cold and more dense.
It’s starting.
The skin on my arm ripples with goosebumps. There’s a sound. Breathing. It’s quiet but intense. I look around but it’s only me down here. I clear more debris from the hole. The breathing continues to grow. I grab the shovel and drive the spade into the ground.
“… I can’t sleep …”
The whisper comes from every corner of the room. I’m not going to look around. I don’t want to. Whatever is going to happen, let’s get it over with. All I care about is saving Caitlyn. I ram the shovel into the hard earth, lift it out, and throw it onto the floorboards.
Another sound joins the tense breathing that fills the air — a slow heartbeat. I stop, but still refuse to look. She could be standing right next to me, but to look would slow me down. I continue plunging the shovel into the ground and throwing the dirt out of the hole. The disembodied breathing continues, as does the sound of the heartbeat. Both grow louder and more rapid.
“… I can’t sleep …”
The whisper is r
ight next to my ear — a child’s whisper.
Katherine.
I quicken my pace.
The beads of sweat feel like ice sliding down my face. The hole is now about a foot deep.
“… Hurry …”
I try to go faster. The pile of dirt on the floor next to the hole is growing.
“… Hurry …”
The breathing quickens. The heartbeat grows louder.
She has to be down here. She has to be.
“… He’s coming …”
The adrenalin that’s been fueling my spent nerves and exhausted muscles gives way to blinding terror. I swallow down the bile that’s rising in my throat. I can no longer tell if the pounding heartbeat I hear is in the air around me, or if it’s my own heart slamming against my ribcage.
“… Hurry …”
I frantically dig. The hole is now about two feet deep, oval-shaped, and wide enough for me to stand in.
“… He’s coming …”
The heartbeat sounds like thunder. I can hear the wooden shelves tremble with each thump. I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.
“… He’s coming …”
I scream while continuing to frantically throw dirt onto the floorboards. I clench my teeth and keep digging. I’m three feet down into the dirt. The heartbeat rumbles. The breathing rages. I throw two more shovelfuls across the floorboards.
Suddenly, everything stops.
The heartbeat and breathing cease.
It’s cold and silent.
“… Father …”
The whisper drifts away.
I wait, absolutely still.
Then, I hear it. It’s faint, but the sound travels through the house—the sound of the door to the master bedroom opening.
Footsteps.
I look up at the ceiling.
They’re moving down the hall, making their way to the stairs. They’re slow, heavy, and deliberate. They descend the stairs, and methodically cross the living room … through the dining room … now in the kitchen. They stop at the top of the basement stairs.
I can’t move.
The first footfall echoes on the top stair. I wait and watch, expecting the feet and legs to come into view but they don’t. The footsteps come down the stairs, which groan under a weight I cannot see. They reach the bottom of the stairs, cross the floor, and stop.
Whatever it is, it’s standing right in front of me, but I can’t see it.
I know it’s here, watching.
I’m waiting for something to happen, anything.
I can’t take it any longer. I push the shovel into the ground. I lift the dirt out of the hole and look up to toss it onto the pile.
He’s here. He’s right in front of me.
Thomas Carrington.
He’s standing exactly where the footsteps stopped. He looks as he did in the photos. Imposing. Intimidating. The only difference is his eyes. Instead of the clear blue eyes Rebecca Harker described, they now are milky and gray and stare lifelessly ahead.
He’s not looking at me, but I can feel his awareness.
My feelings of dread and fear evaporate. This thing knows where Caitlyn is.
“Where’s my daughter?”
He stares straight ahead.
“Where’s my daughter, you son of a bitch?!”
No response.
“Answer me, Goddamnit! Where is my daughter?! Because I’m about to find yours.”
His face lowers. Those eyes don’t focus but he’s looking at me — through me. His expression doesn’t change but there’s pure hatred emanating from him.
I wait, thinking I’ll have to defend myself, but nothing happens.
Fine.
I ram the shovel back into the dirt. I glance up. He’s still there. I hoist the shovel, full of cold black dirt, out of the hole, and throw it across the floor.
He still doesn’t move.
I do it again. No reaction.
I remove two more shovelfuls. I go to throw the last load of dirt and stop.
He’s gone. The room is empty, but I can still feel his presence. He’s still here. I don’t know what to do … so I go back to digging.
Suddenly, I feel it: the cold. Not just on my skin. This is different. It’s in my bones. It’s a cold that’s painful. It’s the same cold I felt in the bedroom with the gun in my hand and in the living room when I almost stabbed a pencil through my eye, when he had taken over. It makes every movement feel like bits of broken glass are circulating in my veins, but I still keep digging.
I’m about to lift out another shovelful of dirt, when I’m shoved by unseen hands. I stumble backwards against the floorboards, but stay upright. I widen my stance, bracing myself against the sides of the hole, and slam the shovel into the dirt.
A roar begins to build like an oncoming freight train, but it’s not in the air around me. It’s in my head. It grows from a steady rumble to a skull-splitting roar. I keep digging. It feels like my head is about to cave in. Every fiber in my body is in agonizing pain.
I go to drive the shovel into the ground again, but the weight of it is unbearable, and my arms refuse to respond.
He’s inside me.
I grunt, and with every ounce of strength I can muster, push the shovel into the ground. The pain is so intense, I scream. I lift it out of the pit like I’m lifting a truck.
“I’m not a little girl, you fucking prick,” I rage. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Just like that, it stops. I can breathe again. I frantically complete two more cycles of digging before all my limbs tense.
There’s pressure in my throat. My airway is closing. I drop the shovel and pull at my neck. I fight, but it’s useless. I can’t stop him. I grab the shovel and keep going. The roar inside my head is back. The cold, penetrating pain has returned and now I can’t breathe.
My efforts slow and became less effective, but I keep digging.
My vision fills with spots. My eyes bulge in their sockets. I can feel the pressure in my face as my lungs claw for air.
My consciousness begins to surrender.
Suddenly, I see Caitlyn. Images of her. Horrible images that I know he is putting there. They’re the stuff of a parent’s worst nightmare. Caitlyn dead in the car. Caitlyn floating face down in the lake. Caitlyn’s broken body lying in a coffin. The images rush through me. I can’t block them out.
Then, everything goes black.
I’m looking into a void. I can still hear the sounds of my struggles and the digging, but it’s miles away. I don’t feel my screaming muscles, or my lungs clutching for air. The only physical sensation I feel is the light weight of Nicole’s ring against my chest.
Another image appears before me.
Nicole.
She’s standing before me in the void. She looks just as I remember her— beautiful, smiling. The most amazing woman I have ever known.
“Let go,” she whispers.
“No. You’re not her. You’re not Nicole,” I say, the sounds of my digging and gasping growing further and further away.
“We can be together, again,” the thing pretending to be Nicole says and adds with a grin, “Just like you wanted.” Her lips curl into a sinister, knowing smile. “Just like you planned.”
My heart collapses from grief. The grief of knowing that deep down, on those lonely, depressing nights, I had thought about it. I had thought about ending it all to be with her. That’s why I bought that gun—not for protection, but because I didn’t want to go on, not without Nicole. I bought it so that one day, I could use it to blow my brains out and be with Nicole.
“You’re not her! You’re him!” I scream.
Nicole’s face contorts in a flash of anger, but instantly returns to a caring expression.
Then, out of the darkness, Caitlyn appears by Nicole’s side, holding her hand. She smiles at me, her face angelic.
“Let go, Daddy,” she says. “And we can be a family, again.”
This is too far.
He’s gone too far.
To be with Nicole again, is something that I would give almost anything for, but what keeps me from using that gun to end my life is Caitlyn. I could never leave her. Never. If I did make that terrible decision, whatever bridge I crossed, I know Nicole would be on the other side, and she would never forgive me for abandoning Caitlyn. I’ll never let anything happen to my daughter.
In a flash, I see everything—every memory I have of Caitlyn. I see Nicole telling me she’s pregnant. I see Caitlyn’s birth. I see us taking Caitlyn home from the hospital. I see Nicole and I watching Caitlyn take her first steps in the living room of our apartment in Portsmouth. I hear Caitlyn’s first words. I see her first day of kindergarten. The three of us celebrating birthdays. Every simple joy from making her breakfast, to kissing her good night, every night. All of it. Every moment of a love I didn’t know could exist until Nicole and Caitlyn were in my life.
Suddenly, the black void around me is filled with light. I feel warm.
I’m released.
I can breathe. I can see.
I’m in the hole, shovel in hand, and air filling my lungs.
He’s there, standing where I last saw him.
I can feel fear and uncertainty swirling around me, but they’re not mine.
They’re his. He’s afraid.
I pushed him out.
I regain my senses, slam the shovel back into the ground, lift the dirt out, and hurl it away.
Almost immediately, it’s back.
The previous roar, pain, and grip on my throat, are nothing compared to this. This is agony. This is desperation. This is Hell.
I’m going to vomit but can’t because my throat is clenched shut. Tears pour down my cheeks. I keep my eyes focused on the hole below me. I can see drops of spittle fall from my lips and coagulate in the dirt.
The swirling spots before my eyes explode into pinpoints of light.
I weakly push the shovel into the ground. It hits something. I’m too weak to lift the dirt away. The shovel drops from my hands.
The darkness is coming, rushing at me like a wall of black nothing.