Kill Creek Page 13

  Black shapes.

  Springing up, Daniel tore off his shirt, his hands running quickly over his loose, pasty skin.

  “Are there any on me?” The hysteria made his voice quaver.

  “Any what?” Peter asked, confused.

  Kenny was bowled over laughing at the sight of Daniel’s flab jiggling, barely finding enough air to power his horselike guffaws.

  “Are there any on me?” Daniel asked again, shouting this time.

  Peter did a quick sweep of his brother’s back, not sure what he was looking for, but thinking he would know it if he saw it. Finally, he shook his head. “Nope. Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’? Are you positive?”

  “Nothin’,” Peter repeated.

  “Hey,” Kenny said to Daniel, his horse laugh calming to mild giggles. He cupped his hands as if he meant to catch something. “The ball, dummy.”

  Daniel looked down to his right hand, to where he still clutched Peter’s prized baseball. Even in his blind panic, he hadn’t dropped it.

  Peter was staring at his kid brother, his brow furrowed, his head cocked. “What was under there, Danny?”

  Daniel didn’t tell him right then. He waited until he had given himself a thorough inspection, standing with his back to the cracked bathroom mirror, peering over his shoulder for any indication of bite marks.

  There were none. Not a single mark.

  That evening, Daniel, Peter, Mary Kay, and their mother watched from across the yard as their father tossed a bug bomb into the crawl space, pulling the pin and chucking it like a grenade into a foxhole. As the noxious white fumes rolled out from under the house, giving it the appearance of a rickety square rocket readying for takeoff, Daniel became aware of two unimpeachable truths:

  Kenny Milburn was a grade-A asshole.

  And God was love.

  On the other side of the well, the path became more overgrown, but still there was an apparent route through the foliage. Daniel followed this, mindful of the thorny vines that tried to snag him as he went.

  Even in autumn, it was dark under the canopy of trees. The fat, brittle leaves of the oaks and elms above refused to let loose of their branches, reducing what sunlight there was to mere slivers.

  Ducking under a fallen branch, Daniel found himself at the edge of a slope. With his arms outstretched, grasping exposed roots for balance, he awkwardly maneuvered the steep terrain and was soon standing at the center of what appeared to be a dry creek bed. In one direction, the creek abruptly curved, cutting a path to the side of the house. Daniel assumed this led to the bridge they had crossed when they arrived earlier that afternoon. In the other direction, the ravine plowed straight through the countryside, a dusty trail that was once a stream.

  So this was Kill Creek. Or what was left of it. With the exception of a few shallow puddles here and there, it appeared water had not flowed through this particular channel in years. Clumps of dead leaves formed curiously human-shaped mounds, giving the creek bed the appearance of an ancient burial ground. The only thing that seemed to thrive in the creek were vines—fat, knotted arms snaking through the forest floor, down the muddy slope, zigzagging over the creek bed in a patchwork of woven veins. Yet even the vines looked in desperate need of a drink. Although they were unusually large, about the size of a man’s arm, their color was a sickly brown, their exterior covered in coarse, hairlike bristles.

  Daniel went to take a step and nearly stumbled, the toe of his shoe wedged beneath one of the thicker vines.

  That’s odd.

  He didn’t remember stepping over it to get to this particular spot, although he surely must have. Gone unnoticed, a vine this big would have tripped him. He tried to pull his shoe out from underneath it and discovered that a second vine, slightly smaller than the first, now ran directly behind his heel.

  How on earth did I manage to get my foot into this spot without knowing it? he wondered.

  He gave his leg a good yank and his foot slid free, but his shoe remained in the tangle of vines. The unexpected smoothness of the sudden action caused Daniel to fall on his ass with a thud. As he did, he could have sworn he saw the vines constrict, tightening over his shoe like a snake attempting to keep hold of its prey.

  He sat there for a stunned moment, his eyes never leaving that shoe. The vines, of course, did not move, and after a full minute, he carefully reached between them and pulled the leather loafer out of their grasp.

  With a nervous chuckle, Daniel slipped the shoe on and turned back toward the slope, grasping a handful of yellowing weeds and preparing his poor arms for the climb. It was a good struggle, but he finally reached the top and was soon trudging down the trail. When he reached the well, he knelt down and secured the deteriorating planks back in place as best he could.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from there.”

  The unexpected voice made Daniel cry out. He spun around.

  It was Wainwright, standing on the path leading back to the house.

  “Oh y-yeah, right,” Daniel stammered, his heart pounding. “I was just . . .”

  Wainwright didn’t let him finish the thought. “Let’s get back to the house. No reason to be out here.”

  Without another word, Wainwright turned and disappeared up the trail.

  Daniel followed. He pushed through the low branches of saplings and was once again behind the house. The sky had brightened since he left, and a large blanket of warm sunlight now lay over the house. Its brick glowed red. Its windows sparkled.

  The Finch House beckoned Daniel Slaughter to come home.

  THIRTEEN

  4:14 p.m.

  KATE HELD HER breath.

  She walked slowly down the second-floor hallway, the camera perfectly level and centered. Wainwright always told her to invest in some form of Steadicam, but Kate prided herself on her camerawork. She didn’t need a cumbersome piece of equipment when she had two hands and the skill to pull off the shot.

  She was almost to the end of the hall, where a stained-glass window was set into the wall of a small alcove, when the toe of her shoe scuffed the wooden floor. The camera in her hands bobbed slightly.

  See? He’s right. You should have brought a Steadicam, she scolded herself.

  She stopped recording and pressed a button on the back of the camera’s body to review the footage. Most of it was usable for b-roll. A nice tracking shot down the hall would come in handy for atmosphere when she cut together the longer version of their Kill Creek video.

  Moving into the alcove, she realized her right foot was butting up against the edge of a step. It was a staircase leading to the third floor. But at the top, instead of a door, there was a redbrick wall.

  Rebecca Finch’s bedroom.

  She had read about Rebecca’s room in the Adudel book. The few times Wainwright spoke of the brick wall, it was with an odd reverence, his voice low as if someone might hear him. He had purposely left it off his tour of the house. He wanted the authors to discover it for themselves. He wanted the house to draw them to it.

  The colored light from the stained-glass window spilled across the surface of the first step, but it went no farther. Shadows engulfed the rest.

  Kate quickly adjusted the f-stop and shutter speed. She twisted the LCD screen so that she had a good view of the shot. She angled the lens at the multicolored light at the floor in front of the first step and pressed the button to start recording.

  She took a breath and held it.

  On the screen, the image was exposed perfectly. The richness of the sunlight gave way to the black depth of shadow as she smoothly tilted the camera up. One by one, the stairs led higher. Carefully, Kate began to zoom out to reveal the brick wall at the top.

  The wall was gone.

  “Holy shit!” she said, blowing out the breath she had been holding.

  She stumbled backward. The shot was ruined, but she didn’t care. She had seen . . .

  What the hell did I see?

  She looked up to the top
of the stairs, everything in her being telling her not to.

  Leave. Run. You don’t want to see it again!

  The brick wall was there, as it had been, as it should be.

  Her thumb, now slick with sweat, found the button to review the footage, and pressed it.

  On the LCD screen, she watched as the shot made its way gracefully up the steps, up to the brick wall covering the bedroom door. The wall hadn’t disappeared. So why did she think she saw—

  A woman, Kate realized, the image forming once again in her mind. The wall wasn’t there, but there was a woman with black hair and she was . . . she was . . .

  Kate closed her eyes tight, trying to force her mind to make sense of the memory.

  “She was scratching the air,” Kate said aloud.

  Of that, she was sure.

  The woman had been scratching the open air, her fingers curled into claws, fingernails digging into the space before her as if the wall were still there.

  Kate shuddered.

  She was trapped. And she wanted out.

  Like the rest of the house, the living room had the feeling of a museum whose restrictive red ropes had been removed to allow Sam to wander freely.

  It’s the silence, he thought.

  That was partly it. The quiet within the house did encourage a sense of reverence. But it was also the amazing craftsmanship on display in each room. To think that one man was responsible for not only the structure but also its countless intricate details was mind-boggling. The stonework around the fireplace. The images of leaves and vines carved into the crown molding. Even the grain on the wood floors seemed to run and swirl in deliberate patterns.

  Sam moved farther into the room and found himself staring out of the large window that looked onto the front yard. Outside, a light breeze softly tossed the tallgrass to and fro. The gravel drive cut through the yard and over the wooden bridge to disappear into a wall of trees. Above the trees, a bit of the gray had burned off to reveal patches of blue sky beneath.

  A woman stood just outside the window.

  Sam gasped.

  The woman had appeared out of nowhere and was now at the porch railing, looking out into the yard. Black clothes clung tightly to her lithe body, and a single rope of hair snaked down her back.

  Moore, he realized, immediately feeling foolish.

  Sam passed beneath a grand archway and into the foyer. There was the elevator, on his left. Its accordion gate was closed. Thick shadows hung low in the corners of the cab. Beyond the elevator were stairs that led to the second floor. He reached the front door and opened it, stepping out onto the porch.

  There was no one there.

  Sam pulled the door shut behind him. He looked around, listening.

  Only the faint whistling of the breeze and the rustling of tallgrass.

  He called out, “Moore?”

  No response.

  Careful, he warned himself. It could be Wainwright messing with you. He’s setting you up for a scare, to make a fool of you for the camera.

  Or worse. Maybe he has something darker planned for us.

  Sam shook off the thought. The weathered boards creaked under his feet as he crossed to the exact spot where he had seen her standing. He put his hands on the rail, just as she had. He stared out into the yard.

  Before him was the twisted claw of the beech tree. The breeze appeared to have no effect on it. Its branches were motionless, its few leaves frozen in place.

  “They hung her from one of those branches,” a voice called out from nearby.

  Moore was leaning against the side of the house around the next section of the wraparound porch. Her head was cocked back at a sharp angle so that Sam had no choice but to stare into her ruptured pupil.

  “Goodman’s lady. They dragged her dead body out here and strung it up. And for what?”

  “They were Confederate raiders,” Sam said.

  “They were pieces of shit.”

  “Now you’re just being redundant.”

  Moore stared at him for a silent beat, then pushed off from the wall and crept slowly across the porch to stand by his side. She looked out at the tree. The breeze picked up, and still its branches did not move.

  “I hope, when they died, that they saw her bloated face staring down at them from that tree and knew she was waiting for them on the other side.” She paused, relishing the thought. Then the mean little smile playing at her lips slowly vanished.

  She doesn’t believe that could happen, he realized. She knows there was no justice here.

  Sam listened to the wind whispering between them. Moore seemed lost in heavy thoughts.

  “I’ve read your books,” Sam said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They’re messed up in the best possible way.”

  Moore laughed, an honest, out-before-she-could-catch-it laugh. She relaxed, just a little bit.

  “I’ve read you too,” she said.

  Oh man, here it comes.

  “And?”

  “And you hold back.” She turned to face him. She studied him with her mismatched eyes. “Like you’re being cautious. Like you’re hiding something.”

  A wisp of smoke slipped up into Sam’s throat and twisted, trying to take hold.

  “And you,” he managed to say, “you write like you’re going to battle. So what is it, Moore? What are you fighting?”

  She leaned back against the railing and considered the question. “The same thing you’re running from, I suppose. Life is fight or flight. I choose to fight.”

  Her gaze drifted down to Sam’s scarred left arm. She said nothing.

  Without the usual cover of her sunglasses, Sam had a perfect view of Moore’s ruptured pupil. He knew that in most cases, a ruptured pupil was the result of physical trauma. When he had first seen her eye, he’d found it revolting. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but it was true. Now he had a different reaction. That eye was a constant reminder of some past pain.

  We both have our secrets, he thought.

  Her eyes flicked up and narrowed as she smiled. She knew he was watching her, and she liked it.

  “So? What do you think of Wainwright?” she asked.

  Careful. Don’t sound crazy.

  But you are crazy, his mind insisted.

  “I don’t trust him,” was all Sam offered.

  “And the house?”

  Sam considered this for a moment. “Nothing yet has made me believe that any of the stories are true.”

  “How would you write it? If you decided to write its story?”

  Now it was Sam’s turn to smile.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

  “I do,” she said confidently. She pushed off from the railing and began to slowly circle Sam as she talked, forcing him to turn to follow her. “You would start with a character from some seemingly perfect small town, someone not unlike yourself. You know, a little bland.”

  Sam gave a snort. “Sounds good so far.”

  “And the house wouldn’t be in the country; it would be right in the middle of town so you could overpopulate the book with too many characters and Midwestern details. No offense.”

  She stopped, her back now to the house. She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head in an overexaggeration of serious thought.

  “There would be a boy—some painfully sweet little kid—who is obsessed with the house. Maybe he saw something there when he was riding by on his paper route—by the way, kids still have paper routes in your book—something he can’t explain, but no one will believe him. And then the house would begin to infect the people of the town with its evil. Their unhealthy urges and dark fantasies, which up until this point have only existed in their heads, drive them to commit unspeakable acts. The evil in the house pulls every loose thread in that small town until the entire community unravels. And, in the end, that little boy is the only one who can stop it.” She squinted and glanced up, sorting out one last detail. “And . . . the ki
d would probably have some sort of half-assed psychic power or some shit.”

  Moore looked to Sam. She grinned seductively.

  “So? How’d I do?”

  She nailed you, he told himself.

  Sam pretended to feel the pockets of his jeans for some misplaced object. “I wish I’d brought a pen or something. Would you mind emailing all that to me? It’s fucking fantastic.”

  Moore laughed, her armor down for the moment.

  “What about me?”

  Sam cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”

  “How would I write about this house?”

  “Let’s see . . .” He ran a hand over the back of his stubbly head. “First of all, the house would be in a city.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some rundown, disgusting part of town where people do combinations of drugs that make almost no sense and engage in sexual activity that in no way sounds enjoyable.”

  “Mm-hm.” Moore’s jaw had clenched slightly.

  The shoe’s on the other foot. Guess that’s not easy for her.

  “There would be a handful of thoroughly unlikable characters, just filthy, filthy people. Except for one. A young woman from somewhere else. An affluent family, perhaps. Or a woman who married young and now feels trapped in her painfully domestic life.”

  “Who is she?” Moore asked. She took a step closer.

  “She’s a police officer. No, wait. She works for a security company. She’s the only woman on the payroll, which means she’s surrounded by blowhard, overweight men with fake badges and Tasers on their belts. The company has been contracted by a real estate firm to keep crack-heads and tweakers from squatting in empty houses. And that’s where she falls in with the other characters, when she tries to run them out of a house that looks suspiciously similar to this one.”

  He pointed up at the porch overhang and the unseen stories above it.

  “Together, they discover that a power in the house offers them the escape they’ve always desired. But, of course, it comes at a price.”

  “Of course,” Moore said quietly. She had taken another step toward him without Sam noticing. She was no more than four feet away from him now. Her eyes never left his as he spun his yarn.