Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  “G’night, Hopper. See you in the morning.”

  If I make it to morning.

  “You’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself. “Settle down and call the cops. Once they arrest Hannah, they’ll figure out how to remove this gun.”

  There are only two ways, her voice echoed in his mind. Either kill six people or kill yourself.

  No. Had to be a third way. Maybe he needed some Goo-Gone or another chemical compound. Maybe a drug to relax his muscles, a session with a hypnotist, or a good night’s sleep. Anything. He had to think of something.

  First, he needed to set his mind straight. He was still in shock over Dad’s death. No time to process it or cry.

  Do the sane thing, he told himself. Call 911. Get this sorted out.

  Drawing a deep breath, he popped the phone from its cradle. As he dialed the first two numbers, a dark thought entered his mind. What if Hannah isn’t lying? What if murder and suicide were the only methods of removing the gun? What would the police say to that? They certainly wouldn’t let him trot out into the free world with a gun stuck to his mitt. They’d probably transfer him to a federal agency that would lock him in a bulletproof cell and run tests on him. And that was the sunny scenario. What if the feds killed him so they could have the revolver? They could make it look like a suicide and sweep his corpse under the rug.

  Even if they let him live, his life would never be the same. He wouldn’t be allowed to attend his father’s funeral. There would be no more afternoon walks with Hopper. No more classrooms full of students. No more chances at happiness with someone like Angela. And worst of all, what would happen to Robby? How would he ever kick his heroin habit without family around to support him?

  Instead of calling 911, Ken checked the caller ID and dialed Takahashi, who had called to warn Dad during breakfast. Maybe Takahashi knew something about the gun. When the man picked up, Ken found himself unable to speak. Forget the gun—how could he possibly explain his father’s death? That would make everything too real.

  “Hello?” Takahashi said. “Goro?”

  “No, it’s Ken.”

  “Oh. Need something?”

  “Yes.” Ken wondered how to ask about the revolver without sounding like a lunatic. “When you called my father this morning, why was he in danger?”

  Takahashi cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “Mr. Takahaski?”

  “Your father prefers to keep his past private.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. Good night, Ken.”

  “Wait,” Ken said, his lungs heaving. “Are people coming after my father? Will they break into the house? Threaten him with a knife? A gun? Some strange weapon?”

  “Strange weapon? What do you mean?”

  “Like something…unusual.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Why’s my father in danger? Who’s after him?”

  Takahashi went quiet. It sounded like two people were whispering in the background. Then he said, “Mind putting your father on the phone?”

  “Now?” Panic spread through Ken’s chest. “Why?”

  “Need to speak with him.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “It’s important.”

  “He needs his rest. I’ll have him call you tomorrow.”

  Ken slapped the phone into its cradle. He trembled all over. Takahashi, his best hope, had proved useless. Ken couldn’t think of anyone else to call. His only remaining choice was to dial 911 and hope for mercy.

  He picked up the phone and studied the number pad as though it were from another world. The number six caught his attention. He stared at it until the dial tone cut to a beep and startled him.

  Then he hung up and ran downstairs.

  Chapter 18

  The blood puddle was spreading. Before Ken went upstairs, it hadn’t been much larger than a manhole. Now it surrounded Michelle’s corpse like a syrupy halo, its outer edge reaching the rear wall. Thin red tendrils trickled between the scattered canned goods. A coppery odor choked the basement; without any ventilation it proved thick enough to taste.

  But what unsettled him most was seeing his father’s blood-soaked sweatpants. Two years ago, shortly after Mom’s death, Dad had gotten drunk and tumbled down the basement steps. He whacked his spine off the risers and never walked again. The first time Ken helped his father into a wheelchair, he promised Dad that someday he would regain his legs, rise from his seat, and leap in triumph.

  Promise broken, Ken thought forlornly.

  The scarlet mess oozed within inches of the shelving rack Hannah was taped to. She turned her head from the sight of her mutilated sister and sobbed.

  “Question,” he said, approaching her.

  “Cover Michelle up,” she said, sniffling. “I can’t look anymore.”

  Under different circumstances, he might’ve comforted her. Instead, he ripped open a cardboard box and grabbed beach towels. He carried them toward the bodies, careful to avoid the spill. He dropped one towel along the edge of the puddle to stop its spread. He laid another over Michelle’s legs—a challenge with only one hand—and dragged it evenly across her torso. After he hid the ugliest wounds, he leaned forward to cover her face.

  The final towel he gently draped over his father’s head and chest. A void widened in Ken’s stomach as he did. The sight bothered him but hadn’t yet broken him. When Mom died, he cried over the railing of her hospital bed for hours. Now he simply felt numb. Confused. How could Dad possibly be dead?

  He faced Hannah. “It’s done.”

  She sobbed.

  He wasn’t sure what to say. “You two were close, huh?”

  “Well, no shit. She’s my sister.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t say sorry. I hate that word. It’s meaningless.” She cleared her throat. “You didn’t call the cops, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Listen, please don’t rat me out. This whole thing was Michelle’s idea—she threatened to kill me if I didn’t tag along. When she grabbed that gun and realized she had to kill people, she was hellbent on driving across the country. I told her we should stay in LA, but she wanted revenge for our parents’ deaths. She insisted.”

  “Wait, slow down. Where’d she get this gun?”

  “The other day we received a security box left by our father. A yakuza delivered it, said we should have it. Inside was cash, a note, and the snubnose. Michelle picked up the gun before she checked the note. Big mistake.”

  “What’d the note say?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Can you move me upstairs? This smell is—”

  “What’d the note say?”

  “Michelle has it in her phone wallet. Read the thing if you want—assuming you didn’t shoot through it.”

  Ken reached for Michelle’s front pocket. He slid his forefinger and thumb inside and plucked the wallet. The outside rubber pouch was moist with blood. He emptied the contents onto the workbench. Credit cards spilled out, along with scratch-off tickets and business cards from acting agencies. He checked the driver’s license. Michelle Saito was twenty-four and lived in an apartment in Los Angeles. She was an organ donor.

  Pretty sure I shot every organ worth salvaging, he thought. Since people can’t be saved by her liver and whatnot, those should count toward my six kills.

  Between a pair of credit cards, he found a folded piece of yellow legal paper. He unfolded it. Loopy handwriting was scrawled across it.

  Hannah and Michelle,

  Should I pass away before you receive this, please know two things. First, I love you. Second, everything I do is for your safety and happiness.

  In this security box you’ll find five grand and a snubnose revolver. DON’T PICK UP THE REVOLVER WITH YOUR BARE HANDS. Use a t-shirt or rag, but never touch it with your bare hands. It was supposedly cursed by the shamans on Mt. Fuji back in the 193
0s. Anyone who wields this weapon can’t drop it until they die or murder six people.

  As for how I came to possess the gun, it was given to me by your grandfather. He said he won it gambling, but that’s beside the point. What you need to know is this. The weapon has a deep history within the yakuza. If you ever—

  The letter ended. There was an uneven rip along the bottom of the sheet, suggesting that a lower portion had been torn off.

  He faced Hannah. “Where’s the rest?”

  “No idea. We found it that way.” Her queasy demeanor and downturned eyes made it hard to tell if she was lying.

  He reread the note, then studied his gunhand. Aside from the tight tendons, the hand itself looked normal. He considered wedging a knife between his palm and the gun grip, but the thought made his stomach clench. Hell, this whole situation did.

  Turning to her, he asked, “Did your sister really kill six people?”

  “She had no choice. It was either that or suicide.”

  “No other options?”

  “None we knew of.”

  He sighed.

  She swallowed hard. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Suicide wasn’t a sexy idea, but neither was shooting six people—well, five, since he’d already killed Michelle. But five was still a massive number. Did he even know five people who deserved a bullet? Some people pissed him off—Principal Soward, drug dealers, and many others—but he never wanted to see them die. Especially not by his hand.

  He glanced over at Dad, then at Hannah. She’d done far more than piss him off. If anyone deserved—

  No. Stop. I’m not a killer. I’m not.

  He started toward the stairs.

  “Don’t leave me here!” she called. “Not with the smell. Remember, I could’ve shot you earlier, but I didn’t. I don’t deserve—”

  “Shut up!” He stormed toward her, raising the snubnose inches from her tear-streaked face. “You and your homicidal sister came here to kill my father. You could’ve stopped her, but you didn’t. You let it happen, and now I’m stuck with this mess. I’m confused, I’m scared, I can’t process my dad’s death, and you could’ve stopped all this.”

  “You’re right,” she said, visibly shaken. “I should’ve stopped it. I wanted to. I really did.”

  Ken didn’t buy it. He thought about the empty wheelchair upstairs. Someone had removed Dad from his seat and dragged him down here. Michelle’s hands had been tied, which meant only Hannah could’ve moved Dad. Ken thought of the times he lifted his father onto the toilet with the utmost care. To think Hannah dragged him downstairs like a sack of potatoes…

  He jammed the barrel against her forehead.

  “Wait!” she said. “I can help you!”

  “I don’t want your help. You helped your sister and look what happened. Think of all the suffering you caused.”

  “We tried not to. We didn’t want to hurt innocent people. That’s why we went after revenge.”

  “Revenge?” He gritted his teeth. “Against an old man in a wheelchair?”

  “You don’t understand!” Her voice was cracking. “My parents were killed by your father. He wasn’t a helpless old man to us—he was a monster.”

  Ken set his jaw. He shoved her, slamming her head against the shelf. The metallic thud echoed through the basement. Her head dropped. She was unconscious, her hair hanging over her face like a black wing.

  He touched the barrel to the middle of her scalp. His index finger, the only part of his right hand under his control, stroked the trigger.

  He wanted it. Wanted it bad.

  So bad that he curled his finger.

  Applied pressure.

  But at the last second, he backed off.

  “Fuck!”

  He aimed again but couldn’t do it.

  “Fuck! Fuuuck…”

  He was in trouble.

  If he couldn’t shoot Hannah, he’d have a hell of time killing anyone else.

  Chapter 19

  Ken snapped awake, the sun in his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he found himself slumped in Dad’s leather recliner in front of the Weather Channel. His head pounded like hell. The recliner creaked as he rocked in place, an empty bottle of vodka tucked between his thighs. Crumpled beer cans surrounded his feet. Sunlight reflected off them and increased the throbbing in his skull. He must’ve drunk every drop in the house last night. He vaguely remembered grabbing a beer from the fridge after—

  Oh, shit.

  Ken turned his pounding head and saw his right arm dangling past the armrest. He couldn’t see his hand, nor could he feel anything below the elbow. If last night were a dream, his fingers would be empty now. But when he lifted his hand into view, the snubnose appeared, gripped by his unflinching fingers.

  He sank back into the recliner, unable to face the day. He sat there until he heard the scrape of the dog bowl along the kitchen floor. The sound was irritating enough to coax him into the kitchen. He filled the bowl at the faucet and patted Hopper’s head. Rubbing the smooth fur relaxed him somewhat. Instead of feeling like the entire house was collapsing, it merely felt like the walls were on fire.

  Hopper lapped at the water. Ken sat on the floor and welcomed a sloppy lick across the face. He hugged the dog tight, careful where he pointed the gun.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Ken asked his pit bull. “Can’t go around killing people. And Dad’s…gone.”

  A moan echoed from the basement. Apparently Hannah was awake.

  Clutching his swollen head, he wandered downstairs. A rotten stench greeted him. It soiled his lungs and greased his stomach. The sensation passed when he noticed Dad, covered with a bloody towel. The sight numbed him. He wondered what to do about Dad and Michelle. What to do about their bodies.

  In front of him, Hannah moaned, interrupting his thoughts. She remained upright, taped to the shelving rack. In the dim lighting she looked wan and exhausted.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “What isn’t?” she said. “My arms are on fire, my lower back won’t stop throbbing, and I pissed myself at least twice. Either cut my tape or cut my throat, I don’t care. My arms… Fuck.”

  “Quiet down, okay?” He grabbed a retractable knife from the workbench and sliced the tape securing each wrist.

  Her arms dropped free, and she groaned. Then she dropped her shoulders and hunched forward. “Ugh, my back. Fuck.”

  “Quiet,” he said, massaging his temple. “I drank myself to sleep last night.”

  “Lucky you.” Clutching her knees, she panted. “Smells so bad here… Can’t you clean this shit up?”

  He grabbed the mop and bucket from upstairs. Left-handed mopping proved clumsy, but he nonetheless scrubbed both the vomit and the blood, which had partially dried. Despite his efforts, a heavy stench hung in the air. Dad and Michelle were starting to reek of things other than blood.

  “Here’s the plan,” Ken said, eyeing the wooden door at the rear of the basement. “Over there is a root cellar where my mom used to store her garden veggies. I’ll move my dad and your sister inside to contain the smell.”

  After he dragged the bodies inside and shut the door emphatically, he finished mopping.

  “Better?” he asked.

  Hannah leaned back against the shelves, moaning, arms limp at her sides. “Everything hurts. I want to lie down. Can you free my ankles now? Please?”

  “No,” he said. “For all I know you’ll strangle me once you’re free.”

  “Strangle you? I can’t lift my arms. They might be permanently fucked up.”

  “You’re staying here,” he said.

  The doorbell rang. Or at least he thought it did. He couldn’t be sure what he’d heard through the ringing in his ears. His brain was tied in knots. Then the bell chimed again. He pointed the gun barrel at Hannah. “Keep quiet.”

  He trudged upstairs. In the living room Hopper barked wildly at the front door. Ken nudged him aside and twisted the knob. Then, remembering, he
tucked his gunhand behind his back. With a deep breath, he opened the door a crack.

  On the porch stood Officer Rick Isaacs, a local cop who lived up the street and patrolled the area five days a week. The sight of his freshly pressed uniform drove stabbing fear through Ken’s chest.

  “Morning, Fujima.” Isaacs’ face was puffy today, maybe from lack of sleep, and his gray mustache resembled a roughly used toothbrush. Nonetheless, his eyes were sharp. “Your hair’s a mess. Rough night?”

  Ken patted his hair down and forced a laugh. “Not really. More like a rough week. Missed out on a full-time teaching position.”

  “Oh yeah? That sucks. Y’know, my daughter had you for class the other day. Said you’re a half-decent teacher.”

  Ken blinked. It took him a moment to make the connection between Officer Isaacs and Lexi Isaacs, the goth girl who’d announced Trevor Tyson’s hiring. “Didn’t realize Lexi was your daughter.”

  “Probably because she hides behind all that sorceress makeup.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  Isaacs waved it off. “Where’s your father? Gotta ask him something.”

  “Right now?” Ken’s heart kicked into high gear. “Why? Did we do something wrong?” He cringed, knowing he sounded mega-guilty. “Sorry, I’m a little hungover.”

  Isaacs narrowed his eyes. “Bring your father out here.”

  “Can’t. He’s sleeping. Sleeping in today. Because it’s Saturday.”

  “Not surprised he needed extra sleep after last night. The neighbors complained about loud noises.”

  “Might’ve been the bar next door.”

  “Don’t think so. The Carters across the street said the noise came from your place.”

  Ken swallowed hard. “What’d it sound like?”

  “It was loud. Fourth of July loud.”

  “Probably the fireworks then.”

  Isaacs scowled.

  “I’m kidding.” Ken laughed to settle his racing heart. “Guess my jokes don’t land when I’m hungover.”