Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  Suddenly, there were scuffling sounds coming up through the open vent. I stuck my face to the grate again, peering down anxiously. I saw Claire wrestling with a woman, but it wasn’t Jeanna. This woman was smaller and stouter, probably one of Jeanna’s helpers.

  Claire screamed shrilly, clawing at the woman’s face and hands, trying to overtake her. The woman was on top of her now. “Hey—up here, bitch!” I screamed. My shouting distracted her; she looked up toward the ceiling, and when she did, Claire coldcocked her in the jaw. The woman fell to the ground hard, hitting heavily like a dumpy sack of potatoes.

  “Run, Claire! Run through the door!” I screamed, my heart lurching with excitement and fear. I was pounding my fists against the grates, rooting for my best friend. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

  Claire ran for the door. She swung it open and went through. I couldn’t see her anymore, but I could see the fallen woman on the floor. She was getting up.

  “Run, Claire, run! She’s awake!” I screamed. The woman jumped up, shot an evil look up at me, and went charging through the door behind Claire. I could see and hear nothing for several moments. I closed my eyes and murmured The Lord’s Prayer over and over again. My grandmother taught it to me when I was little, and I couldn’t believe I was still able to recall the chant. “Give us this day, our daily bread…And forgive us our trespasses…As we forgive those who trespass against us…”

  I was still repeating the prayer when several moments later I heard the door to the room below opening. I squinted down through the grate, trying to see what was happening. Again it was the stout woman. She was bent over in the door frame, with her wide rear end pointed in my direction. She moved backwards, dragging something across the floor.

  I gasped, jumping back from the grated vent. She was pulling my best friend’s body across the floor.

  Chapter 8

  Claire was dead and it was my fault. Her face, with all of its adorable features, was smashed in, making her barely recognizable. Her dull, open eyes stared up at me lifelessly. I sunk to the floor and crawled away from the image below.

  I didn’t cry. I just sat there, sucking in shallow, raspy breaths of air. Edging back over, I looked through it again. Once more I was met with the image of Claire’s lifeless eyes and broken face. It was hard to believe that only moments ago she was looking up here, an animated human form. I shuddered, overwhelmed with grief and hatred for my captors.

  Claire was dead. “You’re next,” I imagined a voice saying in my head. I clamped my hands over my ears, begging the voice to stop. I rocked back and forth, keeping my ears covered…They killed my friend. She’s dead. She’s gone. And crying won’t help me.

  I jumped to my feet, charging toward the locked door in front of me, punching with all my might, screaming at the top of my lungs. I kicked at the door angrily, cracking the wood with my foot. “Come fight me, bitch!” I screamed, kicking more forcefully at the splintered wood.

  Suddenly, the door flew open and Jeanna came charging in. I swung a punch in her direction, but she charged toward my middle, knocking me to the floor. The back of my head slammed against the hard floor beneath me, sending vibrations of pain throughout my entire body. She had me pinned, but I fought and kicked at her ceaselessly, howling and growling wildly.

  A needle emerged from her jeans pocket. I watched helplessly as she jabbed it into my forearm. “No, no, no, no…” I pleaded, but then I was hit with a wave of something cool and calm. My body became soft and pliable. I slept dreamlessly.

  Chapter 9

  Despite my earlier protests, I became grateful for the drugs. I spent the next…hours? Days? Weeks…lying on my back in that dingy, dilapidated house, the faces of men hovering over me. The smell of their breath and body fluids were putrid.

  The drugs kept me numb and sedated. Jeanna kept me fed and brought me water often. A few times she lifted me into the bathtub and washed me, as I was too weak to perform the simple task myself.

  I felt nothing except the loss of my friend. The image of her face, with her dead eyes so empty and cold, swarmed through my mind, presenting itself over and over like an endless loop. Claire was dead and gone, and nothing I could say or do would ever bring her back. When I closed my eyes, I thought about her bracelet and those tiny little beads.

  One night, while I was nodding out from the heroin, I dreamt I was in my old bedroom at my parents’ house. The carpet of my room was covered from one end to the other with tiny lettered beads, and they rose higher and higher, edging their way to the popcorn-patterned ceiling above. I jerked my arms out in front of me flimsily, a lame attempt at swimming through a sea of substance that in no way resembled water. Eventually, my face and head were covered with the hard little beads, and they filled my mouth and throat. I couldn’t breathe, and all I could think was that if I could just figure out what all the lettered beads spelled, I would somehow be saved from drowning in them.

  I also dreamt of Claire’s face, and the faceless men that surrounded me in the darkness of that horrible room. Jeanna kept me so heavily drugged that I didn’t know when I was dreaming and when I wasn’t, honestly.

  I thought about my mother and father. When they were hurting me, I thought about stupid things, like Mr. Rocher’s science class, and my upcoming egg drop experiment. We had to drop an egg off the side of our school building and somehow prevent the egg from cracking when it hit the ground. How would I do it? I wondered.

  “If you want to save the egg from cracking, you must create something to break its fall…it needs protection at all times,” I could hear my father’s voice instructing dryly. But there was no one to protect me. Not in this hellhole. Not anywhere.

  I dreamt about Sunday dinners and church outings. But then most days, I would remember where I was, and that I would never be going back home, to church, or science class again. I thought about the egg cracking, and then I thought about Claire’s delicate face. I didn’t protect her; she’s broken…

  There were days when nothing happened, when no men came and no one bothered me. One time, I spent the entire day lying on a fake-leather sofa, following the cracks on the wall with my slanted eyes. It was like a maze I was trying to get out of; if I followed the cracks long enough, they would show me the way out. That day in particular, I think they forgot about me, because I lay on that couch for so long I started wondering how long it would take for my body to stick to the slick surface of the couch. My skin and its plastic fibers were molding together, growing together as one, like symbiosis, or whatever it’s called. I tried to force myself to move, staring down at my useless legs and arms. Get up, my brain would say, but my body resisted.

  When I was up walking, gravity pulled me down, pushing on my shoulders and pulling at my legs, making every step feel painful, heavy, and slow. I couldn’t help thinking about that expression, “The weight of my burden was too much to carry.” I certainly felt like I was carrying something around, something that felt like a two ton steel ball. I wore that ball around my neck, dragging my feet from one room to the next, unable to accomplish much.

  They kept me sedated and zombie-like. I didn’t recognize any of the men that came and went, except the one Jeanna called Garrett, the same guy who kidnapped me from the skating rink. He oversaw the other men who came in to see me, but thankfully, never touched me himself.

  One night, I awoke in the dark, seemingly alone. “I really did like you,” said a boyish voice from somewhere in the room. Before I could answer, the door to the room opened, and I watched the silhouette of a boy leave the room. I wouldn’t swear to it, but the voice sounded like Joey’s.

  ***

  One night, when my head was the clearest it had ever been in this house, I was brought out of the room and taken to an eat-in kitchen area. Jeanna was seated at the Formica table, waiting for me. The man who escorted me was unfamiliar.

  I took a seat across from her. Even though I’d been at this place—The House of Horrors I’d begun calling it—I didn’t recognize thi
s room. Everything around me seemed shiny and new since my vision was clear, like when someone with poor eyesight puts on a pair of glasses for the first time.

  A plate sat before me, filled with what looked to be meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and some mystery vegetable. The man left the room, leaving Jeanna and I to dine alone. I ate without looking at her, shoving the food in my mouth, barely chewing it. I was ravenous, filled with the kind of hunger I’d imagine waking up with after a long stint of being unfed in a coma.

  Jeanna didn’t speak until I was done with all of my food. Finally, when she did talk, what she said made me drop my fork with a sharp clang. It hit the corner of my plate, banging loudly onto the floor below. I didn’t bother picking it up.

  “I’m letting you go now.” I will never forget those words. Neither of us moved for several moments, but then she handed me a small purse from next to her chair and pointed to a suitcase that sat near the double oven stove. “There’s a thousand dollars in the wallet and a suitcase filled with clothes and toiletries,” she said flatly.

  “So, what? I can just walk out of here?” I asked incredulously.

  “You’ll ride blindfolded. One of my men will take you and drop you off. Where you go from there is your business,” she said, tapping her long, lacquered nails on the counter impatiently. After everything she’d put me through, now she was letting me go? Nothing about this made any sense. It felt wrong. Like some sort of trick.

  “And why the money? I’m not a prostitute,” I told her frankly. She shrugged. “You earned the money, and you’ll need it to get home. Or to go wherever you’d like,” she answered plainly. It was my turn to shrug. “Well, in that case, I’m ready to go now,” I said, scooting the chair back noisily and standing up straight. My legs suddenly felt lighter, more airy, and my thoughts were my own, not dreamy or confused.

  I walked over to pick up the wallet. I half expected her to get up and stop me, but she remained in her seat, sipping a glass of water quietly. I took the purse and I went over to retrieve my suitcase. “Thanks for nothing,” I said, staring at her face, a face I once considered beautiful.

  “Before you go, we have a few things to discuss,” she said abruptly, stopping me in my tracks.

  I knew it was too good to be true, I thought tiredly.

  She said, “Your mother, Barbara, and your father, Thomas, think you ran away. Your father works at a sanitation plant and your mother’s a hairdresser. Your favorite cousin, Andrew, goes to Plainview High. I can list off your other family members, where they work or go to school, if that’s necessary.” She continued to rap those stupid nails on the table, as though she wanted to get this over with. As though giving me a few precious moments of her time was so much to ask. I hated this cold-hearted bitch.

  When I didn’t respond, she started talking about my cousin, Kara, listing off her class schedule at Nightingale Middle School. I sensed that she was expecting a reaction from me, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that I know everything about you and your life. If you go to the police or tell anyone, I will hunt you down and kill your entire family, and then I will kill you. I’ll have people watching you at all times, no matter where you go,” she warned, holding up a steady finger, her way of trying to scare me. I rolled my eyes. I was past the point of intimidation. I knew what this woman was capable of; I didn’t need any warnings.

  “And Claire’s parents? What do they believe?” I demanded, clutching the suitcase to my chest. She winced at the sound of Claire’s name. “They also think she ran away,” she replied softly. Pursing my lips, I stared into her evil eyes, challenging her wordlessly.

  “I could kill you, Wendi. But I would prefer not to. In fact, I’ve been clearly instructed not to. I do what I’m told, and you should too. Either way, you’re not walking out that door until I have your word that you’ll keep your mouth shut,” she said, a pleading quality to her voice.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. “I won’t say a word. I promise,” I swore, as much as it killed me to say it.

  “One more thing,” Jeanna said, standing up and walking over to the kitchen counter. She lifted a small, orange flowery boombox, and she handed it over to me. I looked at her strangely. “The gift you were carrying when you came here. I’m sorry. One of the guys thought it would be funny to unwrap it,” she explained. I stared at it sadly, thinking of my mother.

  I tucked the wallet in the back of the sweatpants I was wearing, leaving the purse behind. I stood there, holding my suitcase and boombox, waiting for whatever came next.

  Jeanna stood there too, like she expected me to hug her or something. Finally, she lifted her hand and I half expected her to smack me. Instead, she placed a finger under my chin, and lifted my head up, making my eyes meet hers. “Keep your mouth shut,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly. I understood her perfectly, and I believed her when she said she would go after my family.

  Moments later, I was blindfolded and led outside to a vehicle I couldn’t see. The person who led me away from the house was a man. I could tell by the roughness of his hands on my forearms, and the stench of his sweat as he moved.

  He nudged me into the back of a vehicle. I wondered if this was some sort of sick trick, and they were taking me away to kill me. Shuddering, I imagined my parents finding me in an abandoned field. No, Jeanna wouldn’t do that…They were too smart to leave me somewhere dead out in the open, I tried to assure myself. Maybe they’ll just toss you in the river, a voice in my head said. I shivered again, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I thought about the gushing waters of the Ohio, my body drifting all the way to the Mississippi. From the Mississippi River, my body would float on down to the Gulf of Mexico, the uneaten parts of my body surfacing in the grassy wetlands for the seabirds to peck at…

  We rode in silence. Everything in my visual field was dark, even though I tried to peek out from under the blindfold. I would have tried harder to see, but I was afraid if he caught me peeking he might just shoot me dead. In my head, I counted the minutes until I was dropped off.

  Six hundred seconds is what I came up with, which was about ten minutes, right? Suddenly, the vehicle screeched to a halt and I heard the car door open. I waited for several spine-tingling seconds, the pounding of my heartbeat vibrating my ears and chest.

  I was yanked out of my seat and I hit the ground knees first. Rocks stabbed at my kneecaps. There was the scuffling of his shoes behind me as he tossed what I knew must be the boombox and suitcase on the ground.

  I was left on the side of a dirt road with my meager belongings, the blindfold still covering my face.

  Chapter 10

  I sat there on my knees for a few seconds, afraid to take the blindfold off. I was afraid if I saw my captors, they would just shoot me dead on the spot. When I removed my blindfold, I blinked hard, recognizing the street as the one where “Jed” picked us up that first night in the limo. The skating rink was only a few blocks away from the drop off point. I looked around warily, trying to see which direction my kidnappers went, but the street was deadly silent and void of any cars, except the few stationary vehicles parked in front of houses. Even carrying the heavy boombox and suitcase, it only took about fifteen minutes to walk to the skating rink.

  When I got there, I paused in front of it, staring dubiously at the small concrete pad where I’d sat that night, waiting for my mom. How long had it been since that awful night? A few days? Months? I couldn’t say for certain. It felt like it’d been ages.

  My stomach was in knots, a cold sweat dripping down my backside, saturating the butt area of my sweat pants. It was not the fact that I was standing in front of the scene of the crime causing these symptoms, either. Something else was going on with my body, and I knew what it was precisely. My body needed the heroin they’d been feeding me.

  I was agitated, achy, and weak. I felt hot and cold at the same time, unable to regulate my own body temperature. I tried rolling up
the sleeves of my shirt, and eventually the legs of my sweats. But then my body would alternate to feeling cold, so I’d pull the sleeves back in place and wait for the sweating to return. I kept sneezing and coughing uncontrollably, choking on what felt like a lump in my throat. I felt deathly ill.

  All I knew was that I needed the heroin right then, and I could have used the money Jeanna gave me to look for some, but who in the world would sell a young girl heroin? I realized at that moment I was an addict.

  I walked nearly two miles, the bus station emerged from the distance like a welcoming beacon of light. When I got there, I used the money Jeanna put in the wallet to buy a bus ticket to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Why New Mexico? Because I’d had a dream about it once.

  Selecting a seat in the back, I shifted around on the plastic seat in agony, wishing the pain would go away. People were probably looking at me like I was crazy, but I honestly didn’t care. I was too exhausted to move, but too edgy and irritated to sleep. The hours of that ride ticked down miserably, and I wished the entire trip that I’d chosen a closer destination point.

  There was a children’s rehab center in New Mexico, but by the time I made it to their front stoop, my entire body was writhing in so much pain and discomfort that I was gritting my teeth, unable to speak.

  Eventually, I identified myself to them as a homeless youth, whose parents had died from a drug overdose six months ago. I told them my name was Elsie. I don’t know where the name came from. Or maybe I do…a stupid children’s book I read in third grade: the story of a poor little fat girl that took everyone’s lunch money to buy candy. All of her classmates called her awful names, like “fat” and “gross,” but I always liked her character. I felt sorry for her, even pitied her. Maybe I wanted everyone to pity me. The name fit me perfectly. The girl who didn’t fit in. The misfit everyone felt sorry for.