by Jeyn Roberts
MOLLY
I place Tatum on the dusty floor, careful not to jolt her body more than need be. Her face is pale, as if all the blood has already drained away, pooling on the floor beneath her. Dust becomes disturbed, rising in a soft cloud up into the air.
My eyes quickly grow accustomed to the darkness. I look around, hoping to spot something I can use as a light. In the corner, hanging on a nail, is an old oil lantern. I rush over and grab it, give it a shake. A small amount of fluid swishes inside the metal container.
I have matches. I reach inside my pocket and pull out the small wooden box I took from Mary. I strike the tip and a flame sparks. Quickly, I light the wick. We used to have lanterns like this so we could stay up late into the night, listening to Walter strumming his guitar, or for when Julian and I would read books after everyone went to sleep.
The flame glows warmly from inside the glass, and I put it down beside Tatum. There’s not a lot of oil left, but hopefully I’ll figure something out before we get cursed back into the shadows.
I don’t know anything about wounds. I do know from Mary, a few of the others, and from my own personal experience that it can take dozens of stab wounds to actually kill someone. One of the bonuses of being a murder victim, I guess. It comes down to where the cut is and the amount of damage it does on the inside. A lot of killers are pros at making sure they don’t nick arteries. They want the kill to last. But I’m worried that in Tatum’s case, Levi didn’t give a damn about prolonging her agony. No, his intentions were just plain old-fashioned death.
Hiding in the barn is the last thing I want to do, but it makes sense. I try and make sure Tatum is comfortable. I wish I had a jacket or something to use as a pillow. I go back to close the sliding doors. They creak and are unhinged, but with enough effort I manage to get them sealed almost all the way. I suppose a Remnant could squeeze its way through if it was determined, but thankfully enough of my friends have surrounded the door for our protection. Through the crack, I can see that they’ve formed a line, determined to keep the Remnants out.
Parker leads another group; he’s got them going strictly after the teens, trying to find a phone to call for help. There’s always the possibility that the red-haired girl or Scott has managed to send backup, but who knows how long that will take. Does either of them even know where we are to give directions?
There are still cars parked farther back toward the road. If we could get some keys, we could get out. Of course, I’m not actually sure if any of us can drive.
Too many questions, and time is running out.
I spin around, and my eyes fall upon the bicycle. I swear, my mouth drops to the floor. The bike is leaning against the wall, near an empty stall, as if no time has passed since the last time I saw it.
There’s a lot more rust and dust. The tires are flat and I’m sure the chain wouldn’t move, even if I greased it several times, but it’s still my bike. The streamers hanging off the handlebars have long since lost their color. Walter must have moved it into the barn, along with the few pieces of jewelry I’d planned on delivering, the day he took me here. He wanted to make sure to erase any evidence of me having been in his van. The bag of jewelry is gone, but the bike remains. Maybe the police didn’t put two and two together. Maybe they didn’t feel the bicycle meant anything.
Either way, apparently the owners of this barn haven’t cared either. They’ve obviously just let it sit for more than forty years. It makes me sad, remembering how much I loved that bike, to see it rotting away in this lonely place. A final piece of treasure to show the world I really did exist.
Off to the right, beneath the loft and hidden away in the shadows, I see a wooden post. It calls to me and I can’t help but follow, running my fingers along the dry surface until I find them. There, about three feet above the floor, hidden unless you knew they were there. Tiny fingernail scratches. I place my own hand over them, and yes, it’s a perfect match. The blood has long since faded away.
“Molly?”
“I’m here.” I go back and kneel down beside her, trying my best to keep my expression calm. Her shirt is completely soaked through now. Tatum’s teeth are no longer chattering; if anything, her face has taken on a peaceful expression and her body is relaxed. I tear off a chunk of my skirt and press it against the wound, hoping to try and stop some of the flow. Tatum winces slightly; her lips are pale and chapped.
“We’re in the barn,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll bet you never wanted to see this place again.”
“My bicycle is still here. Can you believe that? How weird. I wish someone had thought to take it away. It was meant to be ridden, not entombed.” I’m rambling. I can’t help myself. If I stop talking, I’ll be able to hear the wheezing in Tatum’s chest. Her death rattle.
Tatum tries to move her head toward the corner but gives up. Too much effort. “I’ll bet you loved it,” she whispers.
Outside, someone is shoved against the barn wall. The movement rattles the wood, sending dirt and sawdust raining down on us from the rafters.
“I did,” I say.
“I’m sorry we’re here,” she says again.
“It’s okay. Walter is gone. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Tatum puts her hand out toward me, and I take it, squeeze gently. Her fingers are freezing. Her lips are turning blue.
“Tell me your story.”
“We don’t have time,” I say. “Help is coming. They’ll be here any minute.”
“You’re lying.” She coughs weakly, and I can see blood on her teeth.
I shrug, because she’s right. Or maybe she isn’t. I simply don’t know. Everything is out of my control, and there’s nothing I can do. The barn doors rattle and I can hear angry shouts. I can’t tell who’s winning or if the fight is almost over. I realize that I don’t really care.
I failed.
“Molly? Please. I need to hear it.”
I sigh. This is a story I don’t want to tell. It doesn’t have a happy ending. It’s filled with pain and struggle. It’s not a parting tale to tell a dying girl.
But it is a last request.
* * *
I remember seeing a frog by the side of the road the day I was abducted. We’d barely gone any distance when Walter pulled the van over and turned us down the dirt road that led to the barn. I didn’t really think too much of it; he’d said he had a few errands to run on the way, and he pretty much knew everyone in the area. That was one of the reasons Walter and Olivia came this far north in the winter: Walter had grown up here, and he knew enough people who were willing to take him in. He was liked by many of the local famers.
“You have to see this place,” Walter said. “I’ve been in talks with Ron Kroger, the man who owns this land. He goes down south for the winters these days, and the local guy who watches his property had an emergency. Had to get out of town for a bit. But this place. We can’t use the house, but the guy said we can use the barn. No animals or anything. It’s been empty for a while, gathering dust and whatnot. It’s big and we can damn sure make it cozy. I figure if we can get our hands on a woodstove or something, we’ll live like kings.”
It did sound good. My tent had recently sprung a leak, and I had been forced to spread plastic all over the ground so I wouldn’t wake up with a soaked sleeping bag. Even though we’d already made it through the worst of the winter, the nights were still hard when you were sleeping alone in a small tent with no body heat. Sometimes Julian would join me, but he shared a tent with Sage’s two little kids. There simply wasn’t enough room for me to crawl in there with them. We’d talked about getting a bigger tent, but in reality, Julian and I wanted to be alone.
Spending time together without other people was hard when you lived in a commune, especially one that shared everything from child rearing to bedding.
The barn stood at the far end of a large field. The area looked like it hadn’t been farmed in a while. T
he soil hadn’t been turned or planted for the new season, and lots of weeds and garbage covered the faded tractor tracks. Trees grew up around it, keeping it perfectly hidden from the road. As I got out of the truck, I could see the farmhouse in the distance. A good half mile away from where we stood, it was the only other building in sight.
I took a few steps forward and stopped, my foot in midair. Beneath my sandal was a tiny frog. I bent down and scooped it up into my hands, enjoying the soft rubbery feeling.
“You’re gonna get warts touching a frog,” Walter kidded.
“It would be worth it,” I said, looking around. Beside the barn, partly hidden in the bush, was a small pond. I carried the frog over and released it.
“I used to keep tadpoles in a jar when I was a kid,” Walter said from behind me. “Always died on me. My fault. I’d shake the jar or pencil-poke them to see what happened. Never had any patience when it came to living things.”
“I love frogs,” I said. “Any type of animal.” I thought about the animals I wanted with Julian. I’d have to consider a fish tank so I could keep some amphibians. I stepped back from the pond, certain that my little friend would find his family, and joined Walter in front of the barn.
“Perfect, right?” Walter asked. “No one back until June. That would give us a little more than a month. Plenty of time to relax before hitting the road again.”
I nodded. Julian and I still hadn’t told Walter and Olivia that we wouldn’t be heading off with them this summer. Julian had been putting money aside to rent a little apartment in Seattle. I planned on getting a job. We didn’t know how to tell them yet. I knew Olivia would be very disappointed, but hopefully thrilled too.
“It’s lovely,” I said.
Walter went over and pushed open the sliding doors. They opened easily; obviously they’d been oiled recently. He stepped inside, motioning at me to follow.
I wish I could say I had an epiphany or my own vision that might have saved me that day, a weird feeling that raised the hairs on my neck or the sudden realization that Walter had ulterior motives, but I’m sad to say that I didn’t. Even knowing that Walter occasionally had roving eyes that followed me when they shouldn’t wasn’t enough to make me think, Oh hey, this guy’s a killer. Find your bike and run. I figured that if Walter made a pass at me, I’d brush him off, experience the awkwardness, and that would be it.
How blind I was. A foolish, foolish girl.
I followed him.
Inside, the air was cool, but not drafty. A bit of dust covered the floor, proving that it hadn’t been used in a while, but nothing that Olivia, Sage, and I couldn’t fix with a good wash bucket and a few rags. The wood boards creaked beneath my feet, but the foundation was solid. Strong posts held everything up, and a ladder in the corner led toward the rafters.
“We could hang blankets in the loft,” Walter said as he shook the rungs to make sure they were nice and strong. “And make separate bedrooms. Could always pitch our tents round back for when we want some adult time.” He gave me a leering grin, his eyes pausing a bit too long on my chest. I wrapped my sweater tighter around my body, thinking that we might be having that brush-off talk sooner than later.
“It’s a good idea,” I said, too cheerfully.
“What’s that?” Walter leaned against the ladder. “Adult time?”
“Using blankets for walls.”
“I like the sex part better.” Walter grinned at my shocked face. “Oh, come on, darling. I know you’re getting it on with my boy every night. I’m sure you ain’t no prude. We picked you up at Woodstock, for fuck’s sake.”
“This isn’t an appropriate conversation.”
“You’re a pretty little thing,” he continued, ignoring how uncomfortable I’d obviously become. “We share everything here. Everything. And it’s about time you considered paying for your share of what I’ve given you.”
“I think we should leave.”
I turned to move toward the door, but Walter went over and planted himself between freedom and me. There was a long pause while he waited, as if he expected me to say something else. I didn’t know what he wanted, so I made my way over toward the other side of the barn, keeping an eye on the door. I acted like the conversation hadn’t fazed me at all and I wanted to check out the rest of the place. There were no other exits in the building. No side doors and no windows, except for the one up in the loft, where they used to store the hay. If I had to, I was pretty sure I could get there before Walter caught me. I was a lot younger and hopefully much faster. I was certain I could easily climb the ladder and get to the window. But how on earth would I get down without breaking a leg?
“I’m not a complicated man,” Walter said. “I see something I want, I go get it. And I have desires. Different things, stuff I can’t share with Olivia but I very much wish to experience with you.”
“I want to go home,” I said. I no longer cared about going into town to sell the jewelry. I couldn’t understand how this had turned so dangerous.
“No,” Walter said. “I don’t think so.”
I ran for the ladder.
Walter caught me before I even got my foot on the first rung. Grabbing my shoulders, he yanked me back, hard, and pulled me down to the floor. I kicked him and screamed as loudly as I could. I swung around, nails clawing at his face, leaving a long red welt down the side of his cheek before he managed to pin my arm beneath his sweaty body.
“No one’s gonna hear you,” Walter said. Bits of white hair had escaped his elastic band. Strands stuck up in all directions, making him look even crazier than I believed he already was. He panted heavily, his eyes wild and shining. He flipped me over on my stomach like I was a rag doll. I kicked and flung my arms uselessly, trying to swim away from him in a sea of dust.
“Please,” I begged. “Let me go.”
“You’re like a little monkey,” he said. “And I got some stuff to get from the van. Best you quiet down now.”
He grabbed hold of the back of my head and slammed my face into the wooden floor. Everything went black.
When I came to, I was staring down at my feet. He’d hoisted me up against one of the sturdy posts and wrapped several coils of rope around my stomach and shoulders to keep me vertical. My hands ached behind me, tied tightly to the point where my fingers tingled. When I made a fist with my hand, I could feel the blood swelling beneath my skin. My feet were tied too, my sandals removed and flung into a corner of the room. I helplessly twisted my toes around in the dust.
Walter stood in the far corner. He’d brought in the oil lamp from the van, and the glow of the glass made me realize that a lot of time had passed. The barn doors were closed, but there was no light slipping between the cracks. Only darkness. Night had come. I wondered if Julian was home yet and if he was wondering where I was. Would he and Olivia even think to worry yet? Maybe not. They’d probably just assume we were still in town.
Walter had brought in a toolbox and was emptying everything onto the floor. Some of the tools were ordinary: pliers, a hammer, a rusty saw. There were also assorted knives, including butcher knives and scalpels. A long roll of plastic and some duct tape leaned against the wall beside a bucket. My bicycle was there too, along with the bag of jewelry I hadn’t delivered.
“How’s your head feel?”
I don’t know how he knew I’d come around. I hadn’t said a word, and he still had his back to me. I didn’t answer. I might not have known much, but I knew my stirring would trigger some new event that I definitely wouldn’t enjoy.
“I know you’re awake. You’re panting like a dog in heat. I can hear your heart racing from here, little birdie. Thump. Thump. Thump.”
“Please let me go home, Walter.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Molly.”
“Why not? I’m not going to say anything to anyone. They never have to know.”
It’s funny how people always say the exact same things when they’re about to die. They beg to be released, make promis
es never to tell a single soul, anything to try and grasp for that last straw. That final desperation. The same words are always spoken, regardless of sex or age. Everyone in my ghostly world said those very words at one point or another. We all begged for our lives, hoping to get some understanding from our killers.
But that’s the problem. There’s never any empathy to be had.
Walter taught me that. He told me that every single girl he killed said the same things. They sometimes substituted and added extra: My father is rich and will pay anything if you let me go. I have a husband. I have a child. I don’t want to die. All these women tried to convince Walter to give them their freedom, but none of it mattered. He wanted the kill more than anything else. The begging was an added bonus. Just another part of the ritual.
So I stopped begging pretty quickly. It was what he wanted, and I was determined not to give him that. I concentrated instead on freeing myself. I’d do whatever it took.
“I’m gonna have to go soon,” Walter said. “Olivia will have my hide for missing dinner. And I’m sure there’s going to be some excitement tonight with you not returning and all.”
He picked up the duct tape and approached me slowly, a cat chasing his prey. I didn’t look at him; instead I chose to keep my gaze on the floor.
“You’re gonna have to spend the night here; I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be able to come back over tomorrow once it’s safe.”
When I didn’t answer, Walter used the duct tape to cover my mouth. When he was finished, he leaned back and examined his work.
“Ain’t no one gonna hear you anyway, but I need to be careful,” he said. “Remember, there’s no one around for miles. It’s just you and me.”
The knife appeared in his hand. He brought the metal edge against my skin, scratching a line down my arm without drawing blood. I tried to gasp in shock, but of course no sounds came out. Just a heavy whooshing of air passing quickly through my nose.
When the blade cut skin, my eyes grew wide. A slice along my cheek, sending white-hot pain along my face. My mouth tried to open, but Walter had done his job properly. I couldn’t scream.