One by One

by D. W. Gillespie

  Chapter Nineteen

  There were sensations.

  The sense of being carried, through the cold, back in from the shadow world of dark and snow to be eaten by a looming thing with yellow eyes. The house. The warmth. The smell. The taste of shit in her mouth. The feel of it drying in her eyes. Something warm and wet. Harsh light. Her clothes gone. Shampoo in her eyes, up her nose, in her mouth. The taste of it bitter but welcome, an escape from the horrors of the pool. Naked but safe at the same time. Strong hands patting her dry. Making her clean, making the nightmare a memory, something distant, a dream. Something she could forget.

  Pajamas, clean, dry, from head to toe. A brush through her hair. The strangeness of it all swirling around her, encompassing her entirely. And, at long last, her bed, nestled into the sheets, warmer and safer than she’d ever felt in her life because she knew the long nightmare was ending. Every moment, from finding Baxter until this one, was finally coming to a conclusion. The dream had been long and awful, but like all dreams, it couldn’t last forever.

  From the moment she slipped into the pool, Alice had experienced the entire string of events like a person trying to watch a TV screen hidden behind a pane of cracked glass.

  Or ice.

  There was an urge, however faint, that kept coming to her as she dug deeper into the blanket. It was the same feeling she had every weekend when there was nothing to do, no soccer games scheduled, no errands to run. It was the feeling of the day rising around her, tempting her, asking her to join the world of the living and to leave the world of the dreamers behind.

  The only problem was she didn’t want to. There wasn’t a weekend in her life that she had ever experienced a love of her bed so deep, so all-encompassing. Nothing, it seemed, could get her out of that bed.

  A warm, hearty smell began to fill the room, welling up from the vents to the ceiling.

  Mom is cooking.

  Was that it? French toast? Bacon and eggs?

  No. Something richer. Something…meatier.

  Her breakfast casserole? The one she always made on Christmas morning? Yes, it was. It had to be. She could practically taste the sausage, the cheese, the spicy bite of it.

  No…

  But it was. And she knew what that meant. It was Christmas morning. The one she remembered was just a part of the dream, part of the awful nightmare. It all made sense. Everything had started going wrong the moment they moved, so soon after Christmas that not all the toys were even opened yet.

  It’s not that.…

  But it was! She knew it was. And she was up, on her feet, stumbling around, trying to find her footing in the dark room. The layout was wrong, though, the bed out of place somehow, and as Alice fumbled for the light switch, the familiar sickness rose up inside her.

  You’re still here.…

  The overhead light bloomed, confirming what the cold, truthful part of herself already knew. She didn’t want it, didn’t want to look at it, but it was her room. Mary and Alice both lived here, and she wondered if somehow both of them had died here. Her eyes hurt in the light, and she rubbed them, feeling the grit in the corners of them. There was a taste in her mouth, up her nose, something beyond foul. What was it, this thing that lingered, this awful memory?

  It’s shit.

  There was no arguing with the brutal, simple truth of it. She was clean, true, but there were some things that would always be there, always be with her, until the day she died. Alice’s head was spinning when she walked out of the bedroom, her feet wobbly, her knees nearly buckling, the scent of meat still filling the house. The floorboards creaked under her feet, and she froze, listening to the busy footsteps in the kitchen. It was still dark outside, the morning refusing to come.

  Alice rounded the corner and peered to her right. Even in the dim light, she could see the picture. The three black Xs had become four. She had been taken, claimed, and devoured by the house as well. Perhaps this was the other side, an endlessly cold place that mocked the life she’d known before. It was insane, but then again, it was all insane.

  We’re all mad here.

  There was nothing else to do but see for herself, see what new world had been made for her. She crept into the sliver of light that beamed out of the kitchen, and stood at the threshold, peering in.

  Her family was sitting around the table. Her mother and father at each end, Dean on one side, and an empty spot, just for her, across from him.

  Dead. All dead.

  She saw it. She believed it. Each of them was tied to a chair, their arms behind their backs, filthy rags wrapped around their mouths, gagging them. All three of them slumped forward, their heads hanging limp.

  Your family is dead. You’re the only one left.

  Alice couldn’t move any further. It was as if she were peering into the frame of a grim painting, an artist’s rendition of the worst thing she could imagine.

  Orphan. Orphan.

  From the opposite side of the kitchen, something stirred. The familiar sound of the oven opening, closing. The silverware drawer being drawn before sliding shut. The sound, sharp, sudden, made an incredible thing happen. Her mother flinched.

  Alice opened her mouth and moaned, a sound that came from deep within her lungs, a sound of hope being eaten by fear. The owner of the footsteps must have heard; a figure walked into the center of the kitchen, into the light.

  At first, Alice couldn’t understand what she was seeing. The figure was tall, topped with a wild mess of long hair that seemed to swallow its entire face. Drapes of greasy hair covered the forehead, but the eyes shined out, blue and mad. A thick beard, scraggly and black, rounded out the bottom of the face.

  A man…

  Yes, a huge, wide-shouldered man. That was clear, that was easy enough to make out, but the rest of it was so at odds, so incredible that she struggled to make sense of it. There was the pink she had seen time and time again, a girl’s raincoat that he wasn’t wearing so much as bursting out of. The seams were completely torn, and they were held in place by what looked like shoestrings, and the entire thing was cobbled together in places with duct tape. Under it all, he wore yellowing, insulated underwear that covered his chest and arms. It looked to Alice as if a wild animal had somehow come across a high schooler’s abandoned closet. The jacket was like a hermit crab’s shell, something this creature had grown out of but never discarded.

  The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Then he smiled.

  “You feeling better?” he asked, his voice a raspy, high-pitched whine. She knew at once that the voice he was using wasn’t really his, but some kind of act. “I always feel better after a nice shower.”

  As he spoke, Debra looked up and stared at Alice. Her eyes instantly welled with tears, and she began to tremble, violently enough to make the table shake and bounce, and the empty glasses begin to rattle. The strange man put a hand on her shoulder, and Debra stilled, but her struggles had been enough to rouse Frank as well; he began shifting in his seat.

  “Everything’s fine now that you feel better,” the man said, patting Debra’s shoulder. Her mother’s eyes were wide, and they showed a depth of terror that Alice had never seen in anyone before. It was, she knew, a terror not just for herself but for everyone seated at the table.

  Now that Frank was looking up, she saw a similar look in his eyes, but it was almost hidden under a patchwork of bruises and cuts. His right eye was swollen nearly shut, and trails of blood marked his face with lines of various shades of dark brown, maroon, and still-fresh red. The look of him, the man she had been so absurdly afraid of, beaten and bruised, was more than she could bear to look at. Alice looked away, back at their gruesome host.

  “Please,” he said, motioning to the empty chair. “Come in. Have a seat.”

  She held for a moment, refusing to go any farther into the madhouse that had once been a kitchen. Then she saw the lo
ng, stony fingers close on her mother’s shoulder, saw her mother’s eyes narrow in pain.

  Alice walked in and sat down.

  “I’ve waited so long to meet you in person,” he said, turning back to the counter and busying himself with whatever meal he was preparing. “I’ve been watching you since you moved in.”

  Alice looked from parent to parent, then across the table at Dean. He was still slumped forward facedown, his forehead nearly touching the table.

  He’s dead. You know he’s dead.

  “I gave you the diary,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “I wanted you to be here. To be with us. To help fix everything.”

  Alice didn’t understand, but in that moment, she didn’t even care. All she wanted was for Dean to move, for his chest to heave, for him to look at her. The silence draped over the room again, and Alice realized she wasn’t looking at her host; when she glanced up, his face was strained, annoyed.

  “Do you understand?” he asked impatiently. As if to make his point, he crept back over to Debra and once again placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Alice felt as if she were standing on a tightrope, perched above a drop that would assuredly kill her if she leaned too far one way or the other. On either side was open, dead air, and only her decisions could save her from this point on.

  Balance, girl, the voice inside her whispered, suddenly and strangely helpful.

  “I understand some of it,” she said quietly. “But there’s a lot that…I don’t know.”

  Her voice was quivering, and it felt as if she were holding a hand out to feed an alligator. No quick movements. Steady.

  Balance.

  “I need you to show me,” she added.

  The crazed man stared at her for a moment. Then he smiled.

  “Good!” His voice was perky, a girlish twinge in it that did little to cover up the gravel in his throat. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I did all of this.”

  He finally lifted a hand off Debra’s shoulder and motioned at the table. There was pride in his eyes, a true, deep excitement for what he had done, what he was still doing. He was gliding toward her, his bare feet soundless on the floor, so much like a ghost’s. Debra and Frank both leaned forward, panic in their eyes, as if through sheer will alone, they could stop what was happening. And there he was, before her, blocking the light as he reached down to her.

  “I did this for you.”

  His blackened fingernails brushed across her cheek, but she never blinked. She was afraid, but simply drinking in the sight of this creature, of what he was, of what he meant, somehow overrode her fear.

  “Who are you?” she whispered softly.

  He laughed, the soft tone gone from his voice, replaced a second later by his reply. “I’m Mary.”

  Then he was gone, back across the kitchen, to the oven, to the upcoming feast. Alice’s head was spinning, but she still used the small opportunity as best as she could. Stretching her leg beneath the table, she nudged Dean’s knee with her bare foot. It felt solid, lifeless, but she did it again, kicking him hard enough to shake the chair he sat in. The man who called himself Mary looked back once, then continued with his preparations. Dean slumped forward even further, and then he coughed.

  He’s alive.

  He was struggling with the gag in his mouth, trying to catch his breath against the ropes that held him. He began to shake violently. Debra moaned in response, and Frank screamed through his own gag, his face turning the color of a summer apple.

  Alice never saw or heard him walk over, but their captor slapped Frank across the face, sending a small shower of blood droplets across the table.

  “I warned you,” he said, his voice deeper.

  “Please,” Alice said. “My brother. Please, can you do something to help him?”

  Dean was still shaking, and the stranger turned and watched him.

  “Please,” she sobbed, “I don’t think he can breathe. Please, just take that thing out of his mouth.”

  Something about her tears, the sound of her voice, seemed to bring some change in him, and Alice saw it in his face, some guilt or fear that hadn’t been there before. A split second later, it was gone, the mask now firmly back in place.

  “Oh, this won’t do,” he said as he pushed Dean back in his chair. A loop of rope had gone taut around his neck, and the second he was raised up, the blood rushed back into his face. The stranger removed the gag, and Dean coughed deeply, a wet sound that ended with him vomiting onto the table.

  “No, this won’t do at all,” he said as Dean finally sat up and saw Alice for the first time.

  He was barely able to hold his eyes open, but aside from the rope mark on his neck, he looked more or less okay, especially compared to Frank. After glancing around the room, Dean looked straight at their captor. Besides the occasional cough, he never made a sound, not even when the stranger placed a hand on his back and patted it.

  “There, there…big brother.”

  Alice looked from Dean to the man, waiting for some further response.

  “You always do eat your food so quick. Not surprised you’d choke. Dinner’s almost ready.…”

  He was gone again, and there they were, the four of them crowded around the family table, like they hadn’t done in years. Alice and Dean finally locked eyes, and the confusion that consumed her must have been clear on her face. She started shaking her head, soundlessly trying to ask him, What is all this?

  She was hoping for some spark in his eyes, some signal that he understood what all this was about. She hated the heavy, leaden feeling of knowing more than they did. She was the baby, a child, too young to deal with this alone; all she wanted in the entire wide world was for her big brother to smile and nod, to grin and wink, to let her know that he had a plan. But she saw nothing but fear in his face, a mirror of her own terror. He had years on her, but those years meant nothing, not when a madman was cooking them dinner in their own kitchen.

  It’s not your kitchen, a voice whispered.

  That’s not true.

  Watch him, the dark voice snapped back. Look at him move around the place. He’s been here before.

  Alice did watch, and she saw it all, saw a man who knew this place, who looked at home here.

  Home.

  Home.

  Yes. Home. But whose home?

  Look at the jacket. A girl’s jacket. Way too small for a man. I’ll bet he got it from someone close.

  From his daughter…

  Alice’s mouth dropped open. It was all there, all clean and neat and simple. The true owner of this house was still here because…

  Say it. Say it out loud.

  “He never left,” she whispered.

  Her family heard her words, and they looked at her, their eyes asking why she should be mumbling to herself at a time like this.

  Who never left?

  Alice looked at each member of her family, one after the other. She knew what they didn’t, what they wouldn’t if she didn’t get them out of this situation. For the first time in her life, she was more powerful than all of them, simply because she knew.

  Say it. Say his name. Say it out loud so your ears have to hear it, so you can stop pretending. Stop acting like the voices in your head make you crazy or different or less than anyone else. Say it. Believe it. Then save your family.…

  “Walker.”

  The man at the kitchen counter froze, but he never turned around, not yet at least. Alice’s heart tightened. Was such a thing possible? She began to process it, to go through everything she knew, to make sense of something so unthinkable, so impossible.

  Walker, an abusive father.

  Mary, his rebellious daughter.

  An accident on the stairs. Mary dead.

  A ghost.

  No, not a ghost. Gone. Dead.

  A brok
en family. Parents split, mother and son gone, leaving the house. Walker, the sole occupant, disappeared.

  What a deal.

  No. Not disappeared. Here.

  Here!

  Always here. At her window the first night, peering in. In the woods, following them. Killing Baxter. Taking Dean. Locking her in the bathroom. Taking her mother and father. Chasing her into a pool filled with shit…

  His shit.

  And now, here he was. The picture in the hallway filled her mind. That was his family. That was what he lost, what he destroyed with his own hands. And now, that was what he was rebuilding. Making new.

  Daddy never fixed anything.

  That was true. Before now, he never even tried.

  But the jacket? The name?

  Alice didn’t know how it worked, but she had seen it play out in movies, on TV. When someone is so thoroughly unable to deal with reality, that person sometimes breaks from it. Creates a new one. A safer one. And becomes someone else, someone within that new world.

  He…thinks he’s Mary.

  Walker returned with four plates, which he began to carefully place in front of them. Alice had to do something, had to find a way to get them all out of this. Whatever the deranged truth of this situation was, there was no denying one thing. Walker looked at her differently than he did the rest of the family. There was something there, something small that, just maybe, she could use.

  “Mary?” she said as he set down the plate.

  Walker paused for a minute, and Alice imagined his mind working on overdrive, trying to reconcile two truths at once. Then he smiled. “Yes, Alice?”

  “What do you want?”

  His eyes met hers, and, subtle though it was, she saw it: a conflict. A battle between something passive and something furious, a desire to kill mixed with a desire to give up. It was a terrifying thing to look at straight on, and she didn’t dare look for more than a moment.

  “This,” he said through his teeth, as if the words were painful. “A family. Together.”

  He was walking away, back to the counter to fetch something else, when she asked another question. “But…what else?”