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

by Blake Crouch

  A filthy man with a rusty knife?

  Maria gave her head a shake.

  It’s the wind again.

  No, it can’t be. This side of the bed isn’t facing the window.

  A rat?

  Could be a rat.

  “I came in fourth in Iron Woman last year. I’m not afraid of a little rat.”

  Maria got on her hands and knees and began to crawl over to the bed.

  What if there’s a man under there?

  There won’t be.

  But what if there is? What if he grabs me when I lift the dust ruffle?

  “Then I’ll squirt him in the eyes and kick his ass,” she said to herself.

  Maria reached for the fabric, aiming her pepper spray with her other hand.

  I’ll do it on three.

  One…

  Two…

  Three!

  Maria jerked up the dust ruffle.

  No one grabbed her. The space under the bed was vacant, except for a small plume of dust that she waved away. Maria let the ruffle drop, and her shoulders drooped in a big sigh.

  “I really need to get some rest.”

  Maria got to her feet, wondering when she’d last slept. She quickly calculated she’d been awake for over twenty hours. That was probably enough to make anyone a little jumpy.

  She padded back to the bathroom, reaching for her toothbrush on the sink, picturing her head on the pillow, the covers all around her.

  Her toothbrush was gone.

  Maria checked under the sink, and in her make-up bag.

  It was nowhere to be found.

  She stared at the Lincoln poster. He stared back, his expression grim.

  This isn’t exhaustion. Someone is messing with me.

  “Screw the free room,” she said, picking up the bag. “I’m out of here.”

  Maria rushed to the bed, reaching for her cell phone on the nightstand.

  Her phone wasn’t there.

  In its place was something else. Something small and brownish.

  Maria let out a squeal, jumping back.

  This can’t actually be happening. It all has to be some sort of joke.

  She stared at the brown thing like it would jump up and grab her.

  Is it real? It looks shriveled and old.

  Some stupid Halloween prop?

  Then she smelled it. An odor of decay that invaded her nose and mouth and made her gag.

  “It’s real. Oh my god…it’s real.”

  Someone put a severed human ear in my room.

  She ran to the door, and the knob twisted without her unlocking it. Maria tugged it inward, raising her pepper spray to dose anyone standing there.

  The hallway was empty. Dark and quiet.

  She hurried to the stairs, passing doors with the names Theodore Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, and Millard Fillmore. Over the winding staircase was a gigantic poster of Mount Rushmore. Maria took the stairs two at a time, sprinting as soon as her feet hit the ground floor. She flew past the dining room, and the living room with its artificial fireplace, and ran up to the front door, turning the knob and throwing her weight against it.

  Her shoulder bounced off, painfully. Maria twisted the knob the other way, giving it a second push.

  No good. The door won’t budge.

  She tried pulling, with equal results.

  Swearing, Maria searched for a deadbolt, a latch, a door stop, or some other clue why it wasn’t opening. The only lock on the door was on the knob, and that spun freely. She ground her molars together and gave it another firm shoulder-butt.

  It was like slamming into concrete. The door didn’t even shake in its jamb.

  “Hey! Girly!”

  The words shook Maria like a blow. A male voice, coming from somewhere behind her. She spun around, her muscles all bunching up.

  “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to y’all, ya pretty thang. We gonna have some fun, we are.”

  The voice was raspy and mean, dripping with country twang. But she couldn’t spot where it was coming from. The foyer, and the living room to the right, looked empty except for the furniture. The overhead chandelier, made from dusty deer antlers, cast crazy, crooked shadows over everything. The shadows undulated, due to the artificial fireplace, a plastic log flickering electric orange.

  “Who’s there?” Maria demanded, her pepper spray held out at arm’s length, her index finger on the spray button and ready to press.

  No one answered.

  There were many places he could be hiding. Behind the sofa. Around any number of corners. Tucked next to the large bookcase. Behind the larger-than-life-size statue of George Washington, holding a sign that said Welcome to the Rushmore Inn. Or even up the stairs, beyond her line of sight.

  Maria kept her back to the wall and moved slowly to the right, her eyes sweeping the area, scanning for any kind of movement. She yearned to run, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Behind her, she felt the drapes of one of the windows. She quickly turned around, parting the fabric, seeking out the window latch.

  But like the Lincoln bedroom, there was no glass there. Only bricks, hidden from view on the outside by closed wooden shutters that she’d thought quaint when she first pulled in.

  This house is like a prison.

  That thought was followed by one even more distressing.

  I’m not their first victim. They’ve done this before.

  Oh, Jesus, they’ve done this before.

  Maria clutched the pepper spray in both hands, but she couldn’t keep it steady. She was so terrified her legs were trembling—a first for her. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, but it came out more like a whimper. Taking a big breath, she screamed, “Help me!”

  The house carried her plea, bounced it around, then swallowed it up.

  A moment later she heard, “Help me!”

  But it wasn’t her echo. It was a male falsetto, mocking her voice.

  Coming from the stairs.

  “Help me!” Another voice. Coming from the living room.

  “Help me!” This one even closer, from a closet door less than ten feet away.

  “Help me.” The last one was low pitched. Quiet.

  Coming from right next to her.

  The statue of Washington.

  It smiled at her, its crooked teeth announcing it wasn’t a statue at all.

  The incredibly large man dropped the Welcome sign and lunged, both arms outstretched.

  Maria pressed the button on pepper spray.

  The jet missed him by several feet, and his hand brushed her shirt.

  She danced away from his grasp, and then barreled toward the stairs as the closet door crashed open and someone burst out. Someone big and fat and…

  Sweet lord, what was wrong with his body?

  Maria pulled her eyes away and attacked the stairs with every bit of her energy. The hundreds of hours she spent training paid off, and she climbed so quickly the man—don’t look at his horrible face—on the second floor couldn’t react in time to grab her. She ducked past, inhaling a stench of body odor and rot, heading for the only other room she knew to be occupied, the two men arguing sports.

  And they were still arguing, behind the door labeled Theodore Roosevelt. Maria threw herself into the room without knocking, slamming and locking the door behind her.

  “You’ve got to help—”

  The lights were on, but the room was empty. Maria looked for the voices, which hadn’t abated, and quickly focused on the nightstand next to the bed. Setting on top was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder. The voices of the arguing men droned through its speakers in an endless loop.

  A trick. To distract her. Make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

  Or maybe the purpose of the recording was to lure her into this room.

  Then the tape recorder, and the lights, abruptly went off.

  Maria froze. She heard someone crying, and with no small surprise realized the sound was coming from her. Dropping onto all fours, she crawled toward the bed. This
room was laid out the same way as the Lincoln room, and she quickly bumped against the dust ruffle, brought her legs in front of her, and eased underneath on her belly, feet first, keeping her head poking out so she could listen.

  At first she couldn’t hear anything above her heart hammering in her ears and her own shallow panting. She forced her breathing to slow down, sucking in air through her nose, blowing it out softly through her puffed cheeks.

  Then she heard the footsteps. From the hallway. Getting closer. First one set, slow and deliberate, each footfall sounding like a thunderclap. Then another set, equally heavy, running up fast.

  Both of them stopped at the door.

  “I think the girly is in here.”

  “That’s Teddy’s room. We can’t go in.”

  “But she’s in there. It’s bleedin’ time.”

  Maria heard the doorknob turn. She scooted further under the bed, the dust ruffle covering her hair.

  “You shouldn’t do that. You really shouldn’t do that.”

  The door creaked, inching open. Maria saw a beam of light sliver through the crack. It widened until she could see two huge figures silhouetted in the doorway. They each held flashlights.

  “The one that catches her, bleeds her first. Them’s the rules.”

  “I ain’t goin’ in. You shouldn’t neither.”

  “Shuddup. This girlie is mine.”

  “It’s Teddy’s room.”

  “Shuddup!”

  The man dressed in the George Washington outfit shone his light on the other man’s face. Maria put her hand in her mouth and bit down so she didn’t scream. His face was…dear God…it was…

  “Watch my eyes!”

  “I said shuddup!”

  “I’m tellin’ on you!”

  “Hey! Don’t!”

  The door abruptly closed, and both sets of footsteps retreated up the hall, down the stairs.

  Maria’s whole body shivered like she was freezing to death. Terror locked her muscles and she couldn’t move. But she had to move. She had to find some kind of way out of there.

  Were all the windows bricked-over? Maybe some of them weren’t. Maybe she could get out of a window, climb down somehow. Or get up on the roof. The roof sounded a lot better than waiting around for those freaks to come back.

  Maria heard something soft. Faint. Nearby.

  Some kind of scratching sound.

  She concentrated on listening, but couldn’t hear anything above her own labored gasping. She took a deep breath, held it in.

  And could still hear the breathing.

  Raspy, wet breathing.

  Right next to her.

  Someone else is under the bed.

  “I’m Teddy.”

  His voice was deep, rough, and hearing it that close scared Maria so badly her bladder let loose.

  “I’m gonna bleed you, girly girl. Bleed you nice and long.”

  Then something grabbed Maria’s legs, and she screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her life, screamed louder than she’d ever thought possible, kicking and clawing as she was dragged down through the trap-door in the floor.

  And now an excerpt from the horror novel TRAPPED by Jack Kilborn, featuring Taylor…

  Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving non-stop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

  Strangely enough, Jack seemed to be enjoying it. The three-month-old baby in the sling around Sara’s chest had a grin on his face and was drooling happily. Sara pulled a tissue from the sling’s pocket and wiped off her son’s chin, wondering how anyone, especially someone so small and fragile, could actually like this awful motion. Even though she was feeling ill, she smiled at the sight of him. Just like she did every time.

  Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal picata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.

  Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blond hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.

  “How are you doing?” Sara asked.

  Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”

  Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.

  Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.

  A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A seagull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. She wondered, fleetingly, what if be like to feel so free, so alive like that.

  In the distance, a green dot against the expanse of dark water, was Rock Island. Even from this far away, Sara noticed its wedge shape, the north side of it several times the height of the south, dropping off at a sharp cliff.

  Sara shivered, protectively cupping her hands around Jack.

  There was a soft thump, next to her. Sara jumped at the sound.

  Another gull. It had hopped onto the deck, and was staring at her with tiny black eyes. Sara touched her chest, feeling her heart bounce against her fingers.

  Just a bird. No need to be so jumpy.

  Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel energized. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closed for good.

  Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.

  “Tom! Back in the boat please.”

  Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.

  “No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.

  Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs. The stairwell was tight, and the sunlight didn’t penetrate it.

  “Tom?” she called down after him.

  He didn’t respond. Sara hesitated, adjusted the knit cap on Jack’s head, then took the first step down.

  As she descended the staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm tempo of the waves. The hallway was dark, cramped. Sara didn’t like it, and she picked up her pace, her palms on the walls searching for a light switch and not finding any. Her breath quickened, and her fingers finally grazed some protuberance which she grasped like it was a life preserver. She flipped it up and an overhead light came on.

  Sara sighed, then chided herself for feeling so relieved. She tried to remember the Capta
in’s name.

  Captain Prendick. A peculiar name, but a familiar one; Sara recalled it from an old H.G. Wells horror novel.