SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT - The Complete Psycho Thriller (The Complete Epic)

by Blake Crouch

  Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her eyes.

  She opened them a moment later, when the sound of the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn’t be eating at this hour. The doctor had warned him about that, and how it aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn aggravated Maggie with his constant tossing and turning all night.

  She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.

  “Sal! The doctor said no late night snacks!”

  No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had a hearing problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed and stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.

  She waited for his response.

  Got none.

  Maggie did it again, and followed it up with yelling, “Sal!” loud as she could.

  Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Then she heard the sound of the downstairs toilet flush.

  Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband had obviously heard her, and was ignoring her. That wasn’t like Sal at all.

  Then, almost like a blush, a blanket of doubt replaced her anger. What if the person downstairs wasn’t Sal?

  It had to be, she told herself. She hadn’t heard any boats coming up to the dock, or cars pulling onto their property. Besides, Maggie was a city girl, born and raised in Chicago. Twenty-some years in the Northwoods hadn’t broken her of the habit of locking doors before going to sleep.

  The anger returned. Sal was deliberately ignoring her. When he came upstairs, she was going to give him a lecture to end all lectures. Or perhaps she’d ignore him for a while. Turnabout was fair play.

  Comforted by the thought, she closed her eyes. The familiar sound of Sal’s outboard motor drifted in through the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal was. Why he didn’t buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the lake with him was because it stalled all the time and—

  Maggie jack-knifed to a sitting position, panic spiking through her body. If Sal was still out on the boat, then who was in her house?

  She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up the phone next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but the phone just wouldn’t work.

  Maggie’s breath became shallow, almost a pant. Sal’s boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away from docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an old man. What could he do against an intruder?

  She held her breath, trying to listen to noises from downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound wasn’t coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway right outside her bedroom.

  The sound of someone chewing popcorn.

  Maggie wondered what she should do. Say something? Maybe this was all some sort of mistake, some confused tourist who walked into the wrong house. Or perhaps this was a robber, looking for money or drugs. Give him what he wanted, and he’d leave. No need for anyone to get hurt.

  “Who’s there?”

  More chewing. Closer. He was practically in the room. She could smell the popcorn now, the butter and salt, and the odor made her stomach do flip-flops.

  “My…medication is in the bathroom cabinet. And my purse is on the chair by the door. Take it.”

  The ruffling of a paper bag, and more chewing. Open-mouthed chewing. Loud, like someone smacking their gum. Why wouldn’t he say anything?

  “What do you want?”

  Maggie was shivering now. The tourist scenario was gone from her head, the robber scenario fading fast. A new scenario entered Maggie’s mind. The scenario of campfire stories and horror movies. The boogeyman, hiding under the bed. The escaped lunatic, searching for someone to hurt, to kill.

  Maggie needed to get out of there, to get away. She could run to the car, or meet Sal on the dock and get into his boat, or even hide out in the woods. She could run to the guest bedroom, lock the door, open up the window, climb down—

  Chewing, right next to the bed. Maggie gasped, pulling the linen sheets to her chest. She squinted into the darkness, could barely make out the dark figure of a man standing a few feet away.

  The bag rustled. Something touched Maggie’s face and she gasped. A tiny pat on her cheek. It happened again, on her forehead, making her flinch. Again, and she swatted out with her hand, finding the object on the pillow.

  He was throwing popcorn at her.

  Maggie’s voice came out in a whisper. “What…what are you going to do to me?”

  The springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Everything,” he said.

  And now an excerpt from the horror novel ENDURANCE by Jack Kilborn, featuring Sheriff Dwight Roosevelt…

  Maria unlocked the door to her room and was greeted by Abraham Lincoln.

  The poster was yellowed with age, the edges tattered, and it hung directly over the queen-sized bed where the headboard would normally be. The adjoining walls were papered with postcards, all of them boasting various pictures and portraits of Lincoln. The single light in the room came from a floor lamp, the shade decorated with a collage of faded newspaper clippings, all featuring—big surprise—Lincoln.

  So that’s why the crazy old proprietor called it the Lincoln Bedroom.

  Maria pulled her suitcase in behind her, placed the room key on a scarred, old dresser, and turned the deadbolt. The door, like the lock, was heavy, solid. As reassuring as that was, this room still gave her the creeps. In fact, everything about this bed and breakfast gave her the creeps, from its remote and impossible-to-find location, to its run-down facade, to its eccentric decorations and menagerie of odd odors. But Maria didn’t have a choice. The hotel in town had overbooked, and this seemed to be the last room available in the entire state of West Virginia.

  Iron Woman had become quite the popular event, with worldwide media coverage, and apparently they’d given her room reservation to some reporter. Which was ironic, because Maria was a registered contestant, and without contestants, there wouldn’t be any need for reporters. The reporter was the one who should have been staying in the Lincoln Bedroom, with its bizarre decor and its strange smell of sandalwood mixed with spoiled milk.

  Maria sighed. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was a good night’s sleep after more than twelve hours on the road. She’d missed her late night workout—this inn didn’t have an exercise room—so the best she could hope for was a five mile run in the morning before getting back to the event hotel, which assured her it would have a room available tomorrow.

  Actually, the hotel room will be ready later today.

  A glance at the Lincoln clock on the nightstand showed it was past two in the morning.

  She had promised to let Felix know when she got in, and pulled her cell phone out of her jeans, her thumbs a blur on the keyboard.

  F — U R probably asleep. I M @ a creepy B&B, not the hotel. Long story, but it’s free. That = more $$$ to spend on our honeymoon. J WTL8R. TTFN, H2CUS, luv U — M.

  Maria circled the room, holding her cell over her head, trying to find a signal while the floorboards creaked underfoot. When a single bar appeared, she sent the text message and walked to the poster. She placed her cell on the nightstand as a reminder to charge it before she went to sleep, hefted her suitcase onto the bed, and dug inside, freeing her make-up bag and taking it to the bathroom. She flipped on the light switch and was rewarded with the sight of President Lincoln’s face on the toilet seat cover.

  “I’ll never look at a five dollar bill the same again,” she said, but her tone was without mirth. Rather than amusing, she was finding this whole Lincoln thing creepy.

  Maria shut the door behind her—more out of habit than modesty—lifted the lid, undid her jeans, and sat down, the cold seat raising goosebumps on her tan thighs. She yawned, big and wide, as the long day caught up with her.

  The bathroom, like the bedroom, was tiny. The sink was crowded next to the showe
r stall, and if Maria were a few inches taller her knees would touch the opposing wall. Hanging on that wall was a framed painting of Lincoln. A head and shoulders portrait of his younger years, before he had the famous beard. His ultra-realistic eyes seemed to be staring right at her.

  “Pervert,” Maria whispered.

  Lincoln didn’t reply.

  Voices came through the wall. The same two men Maria had heard while checking in, arguing about some sports game, repeating the same points over and over. She listened to the floorboards creak and wondered if they’d keep it up all night, disturbing her sleep. The thought was quickly dismissed. At that moment, Maria was so tired she could have dozed through a Metallica concert.

  She finished peeing, flushed, then turned on the faucet. The water was rust-colored. Last week Maria had read an article about water-borne bacteria, and she elected to brush her teeth with something safer. She turned off the water and set her toothbrush on the sink. Then she opened the bathroom door, picked her suitcase up off the floor, and placed it on the bed. Maria pulled out a half-empty bottle of Evian and was two steps to the bathroom when she froze.

  Didn’t I already put the suitcase on the bed?

  A flush of adrenalin made Maria turn, her heart racing. She stared at the suitcase like it was a hostile creature, and then she hurried to the front door and eyed the knob.

  Still locked. The key was where she’d left it, on the dresser.

  Maria spun around, taking everything in. A small desk and chair were tucked in the corner of the room. The bed had a beige comforter and a matching dust ruffle, and it seemed undisturbed. The closet door was open, revealing an empty space. Tan curtains covered the window on the adjacent wall.

  The curtains were fluttering.

  Almost like someone is hiding behind them.

  Her first instinct was to run, but common sense kicked in. She was on the second floor. It was doubtful someone had come in through the window and moved her luggage. A more likely explanation was she’d put the suitcase on the floor herself and was too tired to remember it. The curtains probably jerked because the window was open and a breeze was blowing in.

  “You’re exhausted,” she said aloud. “You’re imagining things.”

  But Maria was sure she put the suitcase on the bed. She’d put it on its side and unzipped it to get her make-up bag. She was sure of it.

  Maybe it fell off?

  But how could it fall and land perfectly on its wheels? And why didn’t I hear it fall?

  She stared at the suitcase again. It was heavy; packed alongside her clothes was an entire case of bottled water, a result of her recent germ phobia. The suitcase would have made noise hitting the floor. But all Maria heard from the bathroom was those men arguing, and…

  “The creaking,” she said aloud. “I heard the floors creaking.”

  What if the creaking didn’t come from the room next door?

  What if the creaking came from her room—from someone walking around?

  Maria felt goosebumps break out on her arms.

  What if that someone is still here?

  She paused, unsure of what to do next. Her feet felt heavy. Her mouth became so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth. Maria knew the odds were high that her paranoia was the result of exhaustion. She also knew there was practically a zero likelihood someone had come into her room just to move her suitcase.

  And yet…

  Maria clenched and unclenched her hands, eyes locking on the curtains. She made a decision.

  I need to check.

  She took a deep breath, let it out slow. Then she crept toward the window. The curtains were still, and Maria wondered if she’d imagined the fluttering. No light came through them even though they were thin. Not surprising—the inn was way out in the boonies, not another building for miles, and the tall pine trees obscured the moon and stars.

  Either that, or someone is crouching on the window sill, blocking the light.

  Maria swallowed, knowing she was psyching herself out, feeling the same kind of adrenaline tingles she got before a race.

  Upstairs, the arguing abruptly ceased, mid-word. The room became deathly quiet, the only sound Maria’s timid footfalls, creaking on the hardwood floor. The smell of rot in the room got stronger the closer she got to the window.

  Could someone really be behind the curtains, ready to pounce?

  Maria felt like she was nine-years-old again, playing hide and seek with her younger brother, Cameron. He loved to jump out and scream Boo! at her, making her scream. For an absurd moment, she could picture Cam behind that curtain, hands raised, ready to leap out and grab her. One of her few pleasant childhood memories of Cam.

  Then she pictured something else grabbing her. A filthy, hairy, insane maniac with a rusty knife.

  Maria shook her head, trying to dispel the thought.

  The thought wouldn’t leave.

  “Get a grip,” she whispered. “There’s nothing there.”

  She was two feet away when the curtains moved again.

  And again.

  Like someone was poking them from the other side.

  Maria flinched, jerking backward.

  It’s just the wind.

  It’s got to be.

  Right?

  “It’s the wind,” she said through her clenched jaw.

  The wind. Nothing more. Certainly not some creep climbing into my room.

  But, what if…?

  She thought about the pepper spray in her suitcase. Then she thought about just getting the hell out of there. Maria wished Felix was here with her. He’d find this whole situation ridiculously funny.

  You compete in triathlons and you’re too chicken to check a window?

  No. I’m not chicken. I’m not afraid of anything.

  But she got the pepper spray anyway, holding it out ahead of her like a talisman to ward off evil. She paused in front of the window, the curtains still.

  “Do it.”

  Maria didn’t move.

  “Just do it.”

  Maria set her jaw and in one quick motion swept back the curtains—

  —revealing bricks where the glass should have been.

  She stared for a moment, confused, then felt a cool breeze on her arm.

  There. In the corner. A hole in the mortar, letting the air in.

  Maria let out an abrupt laugh. It sounded hollow in the tiny room. She gave the bricks a tentative push, just to make sure they were real and didn’t swing on hinges or anything. They were cold to the touch, as hard as stone could be.

  Only a ghost could have gotten through that. And Maria didn’t believe in ghosts. Life had enough scary things in it without having to make stuff up.

  She let the curtain fall, and thought of Cameron again. About the things he’d gone through. That was real horror. Not the wind blowing some curtains in a run-down, hillbilly bed and breakfast.

  Maria hadn’t seen Cam in a few weeks, because of her training regimen. She promised herself she would visit the hospital, right after the event. Maybe Felix would come with, even though Cam seemed to creep him out.

  He’ll do it anyway. Because he loves me.

  Again, she wished Felix were here. He promised to be at the race on Saturday. Promised to rub her sore muscles afterward.

  She glanced down at her left hand, at the pear-shaped diamond on her ring finger. Yellow, her favorite color. Sometimes hours would go by and she’d forget it was there, even though she’d only been wearing it for less than a week. Looking at it never failed to bring a smile.

  Maria walked past the bed, glanced at the knob on the front door to make sure it was still locked, and mused about how she’d gotten herself all worked up over nothing.

  She was heading back to the bathroom when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

  The dust ruffle on the bed was fluttering.

  Like something had disturbed it.

  Something that had just crawled underneath.

  Maria paused, standi
ng stock-still. The fear kicked in again like an energy drink, and she could feel her heart in her neck as she tried to swallow.

  There is NOT some man under my bed.

  And yet…

  Far-fetched as it may be, there was probably enough room for someone to fit under there. The bed was high up off the floor on its frame, with plenty of space for a man to slip underneath.