by Dan Wells
She stirred, startled into consciousness, but I had plenty of time to tug the bag down firmly to her collarbone. She grunted something, still half asleep, and thrashed out with an arm. Her blow was weak. I reached out and ripped the clock radio away from the wall, popping the cord out of the socket, and bashed her on the side of the head. Mrs. Crowley choked on a scream, turning it into a half groan, and rolled toward me out of bed. I bashed her again, the thick radio slamming hideously into the pillowcase, and when she didn’t stop moving, I bashed her a third time. I hadn’t intended to hit her at all, but her feeble re sis tance was all it took to shock me into action. I was trying to knock her out, which always looked so easy in the movies—just a quick smack and you’re done—but this was prolonged and brutal, smashing the radio into her head again and again. At last she was still, sprawled grotesquely on the floor, and I stood over her gasping for breath.
I lunged for her again, eager to finish her off—hungry for the visceral impact of weight on bone, and the megalo-maniacal thrill of having a victim completely in my power. I stooped over her, but grabbed the edge of the bed at the last moment, pulling myself back and forcing myself to look away.
She’s mine!
No. My ski mask was suffocating, just like the pillowcase on Kay. I ripped off my mask and gasped for breath, fighting for control. I leaned toward Kay again, and had to wrench myself away, stumbling against the wall. I felt like I was playing one of Max’s video games, fumbling with unfamiliar controls and watching as my character on the screen ran helplessly in circles. The monster roared again, and I punched myself in the side of the head, savoring the sharp pain in my knuckles and the dull ring in my head. I fell to my knees, breathing deeply, and a haze seemed to fall over my eyes. I ached to attack again, desperate, and the monster laughed. I couldn’t stop. I raised the clock radio again.
My hand stopped in the air, knuckles white around the radio, and I thought about Dr. Neblin. He could talk me out of this. I could barely think, but I knew that if I talked to him right then, it would save my life and Kay’s. I didn’t think about the consequences, I didn’t think about the evidence I was leaving, I didn’t think about the confession I was about to make—I simply curled up on the floor, pulled out the business card Neblin had given me, and dialed his home number.
It rang six times before he picked up. “Hello?” His voice was tired and scratchy—I’d probably woken him up. “Who is this?”
“I can’t stop.”
Dr. Neblin paused for a moment. “Can’t stop . . . John? Is that you?” He was awake almost instantly, as if recognizing my voice had flipped a switch in his head.
“It’s out now,” I said softly, “and I can’t put it back in. We’re all gonna die.”
“John? John, where are you? Just calm down, and tell me where you are.”
“I’m on the edge, Neblin, I’m off the edge—I’m over the edge, and falling into the hell on the other side.”
“Calm down, John,” he said. “We can work through this. Just tell me where you are.”
“I’m down in the cracks of the sidewalks,” I said, “in the dirt, and the blood, and the ants are looking up and we’re damning you all, Neblin. I’m down in the cracks and I can’t get out.”
“Blood? Tell me what’s going on, John. Have you done something wrong?”
“It wasn’t me!” I pleaded, knowing that I was lying. “It wasn’t me at all, it was the monster. I didn’t want to let it out, but I had to. I tried to kill one demon, but I made another, and I can’t stop.”
“Listen to me, John,” said Dr. Neblin, more serious and intense than I had ever heard him. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth.
“It’s not John anymore, it’s Mr. Monster.”
“No it’s not,” said Neblin. “It’s John. It’s not John Wayne, or Mr. Monster, or anybody else, it’s John. You’re in control. Now, are you listening to me?”
I rocked back and forth. “Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “Now pay very close attention: you are not a monster. You’re not a demon. You’re not a killer. You are a good person, with a strong will and a high moral code. Whatever you’ve done, you can get through it. We can make it right again. Are you still listening?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it with me,” he said, “ ‘We can make it right again.’ ”
“We can make it right again.” I looked over at Kay Crowley’s body, crumpled on the floor with a pillow case over her head. I felt like I should be crying, or helping her, but instead I just thought, Yes, I can make this right again. My plan will still work. This will all be worth it if I kill the demon.
“Good,” said Dr. Neblin, “now tell me where you are.”
“I need to go,” I said, and raised myself to my knees.
“Don’t hang up!” Neblin shouted. “Please stay on the phone. You need to tell me where you are.”
“Thank you for your help,” I said, and hung up the phone. I realized the clock radio was still in my other hand, and threw it aside with revulsion.
I looked at Kay. Had I killed her? I tore off her pillowcase as brusquely as I had torn off my mask, and checked her head for obvious signs of damage. It felt fine, with no blood or breaks, and she was breathing shallowly. Seeing her face was too much for me, and I turned my head. I didn’t want to think of her as a person. I didn’t want to think that what I had just done had been done to a living, breathing human being. It was easier without a face.
The phone rang abruptly, startling me, and I glanced at the caller ID. Dr. Neblin. For the first time, it occurred to me that my call to him would leave tracks—evidence on his phone, and on Mrs. Crowley’s, that would lead the inevitable investigators back to me. I took another deep breath. There was no stopping now—evidence or no evidence, I needed to kill the demon.
Thought of the demon flooded me with fear, and I checked the GPS. The car was still moving; I still had time. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing Kay and pulled the pillowcase back on, more gently this time, then picked up the phone to snap more pictures. The call from Neblin stopped ringing, and moments later a small beep told me he had left a voice mail.
My pictures now were more elaborate, as I took time to arrange the body.
She was sprawled on the floor in her floral nightgown, tiny blue hospital socks on her feet, and a pillowcase on her head.
She was rolled onto her back, the busted radio displayed next to her head.
She was stretched out on the floor, my shadow falling ominously across her.
I pulled the strips of ripped curtain fabric from my backpack and tied her wrists together as tightly as I could. Her bones were thin and brittle, and I thought I could probably snap them in half if I wanted. I realized that I was already squeezing with one hand, pressing toward the breaking point, and pulled away.
Leave her alone!
Gently, I stretched her bound wrists above her head, and tied them securely to a radiator below the window. I did the same to her ankles, tying them first to each other and then to the foot of the bed. All the while, snapping photos, shot after shot, keeping an eye on the GPS handset.
The demon’s car stopped moving.
I dropped the phone, and grabbed the GPS with both hands, eyes glued to the dimly glowing screen. He was on the far side of town, near where Lauren lived, at an intersection. I held my breath. He started driving again, and I let it out. False alarm.
I peeled back the pillowcase just far enough to see Mrs. Crowley’s mouth, and gagged her with another strip of curtain. She was still unconscious, and still breathing evenly, but I didn’t want to take any chances of her waking up and calling for help. I took another picture of her face, and then pulled the pillowcase back down. I had enough photos now. The monster snarled again inside my head—a picture of her arm, lying unattached in the middle of the floor, would be so effective—but I struggled to ignore it. With one eye on the GPS I repacked my bag. It
was time for phase three.
And then the demon stopped again.
The street corner on the screen was unfamiliar, but both streets were named after flowers, so I could guess which neighborhood he was in—The Gardens, just this side of the train tracks that led through town to the wood plant. He was very close to where he’d killed Max’s dad. It was sure to be patrolled, and he was taking a big risk. Maybe he’d been stopped by a cop. I held the GPS unit in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting. The car was motionless. It was now or never. I created a text message, attached the first photo of Kay, and dialed Mr. Crowley’s number:
MY TURN
As soon as I sent the message, I created a new one, then the third, then more, dropping the GPS unit, and using both hands on the phone to keep up a rapid-fire onslaught of horror. Soon I stopped sending messages altogether, just photos, one after the other, in a step-by-step catalog of everything the demon’s wife had suffered. I paused a moment to glance at the GPS screen and cursed loudly at the motionless arrow. Why wasn’t he moving? What was he doing? If I didn’t catch him in time, he’d kill someone, and the whole plan—everything I’d done—would be wasted. I didn’t want to let him kill anyone else—not even one more person. Had I waited too long?
The phone rang again, and I almost dropped it. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Mr. Crowley’s number this time—I had his attention. I ignored the call and sent him more photos: Kay sleeping, Kay hooded and gagged, Kay tied to the radiator. A moment later the arrow on the screen jerked backward, turned, and came barreling back down the road. The bait had worked, but would it be enough? I watched the screen intently, waiting for the car to slow down, or careen off the side of the road—any sign that his body was finally destroying itself. But nothing changed.
The demon was healthy, the demon was mad as hell, and the demon was headed straight for me.
18
The arrow on the GPS set raced closer. I looked around at the room—at the disheveled sheets on the bed, the scattered mess on the dresser, and the beaten body of my next-door neighbor lying bound and gagged on the floor. I couldn’t clean any of it up—I would barely have time to get outside before the demon came back, let alone find a place to hide. In a few seconds I’d be dead, and Crowley would rip open my chest and pull out my heart. After what I’d done to his wife, he’d probably kill my whole family, too, just for vengeance.
Well, everyone in the family but Dad—good luck finding him. Sometimes it pays to be estranged from your psychopathic son.
Yet even if I had given up, the monster inside me had not. I looked up from my fatalistic thoughts to find myself gathering my things—the GPS set, the ski mask, the backpack—and heading for the bedroom door. As my intellect caught up with my instinct for self-preservation I doubled back into the room, scanning the floor for anything I might have dropped. DNA evidence didn’t worry me—I had spent so much time in the house for legitimate reasons that I could probably explain anything the police found. I told myself that the phone records could also be explained, or erased, and that somehow I could still hide who I was. I took the phone with me, just to be sure. As a final action, I turned out the lamp and slipped into the dark hallway.
The house was pitch black, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I stumbled blindly toward the stairs, my hand on the wall, not daring to use my penlight. I felt my way carefully down the stairs, one step at a time. Halfway down, I caught a glimmer of light from the window in the back door. Moonlight, faint and sullen. I reached the ground floor and turned toward the basement stairs, but another light was growing in the front windows, pale yellow, and the dull roar of an engine swelled rapidly to an angry scream.
Crowley was back.
I forgot about the basement and ran for the back door, desperate to be out of the house before the demon entered. The knob stuck, but I twisted hard and a little button popped out, unlocking the latch. I threw the door open, stepped outside, and drew it closed behind me as quickly and quietly as I could.
The car screeched into the driveway, and the distant trees in the back were suddenly flooded with an angry yellow glare as the car headlights reached down the side yard and out across the snow. I heard the car door open and the demon roar, and I realized too late that I’d failed to relock the back door behind me. I was still crouched next to it in fear; if he checked it, I’d be dead. I wanted to open it again and lock the knob, but the sound of the front door opening told me I was too late; the demon was in the house. I leaped down the few concrete steps to the ground, and ran to the corner of the house. Stepping around meant facing the glare of the headlights, where it would be impossible to hide, but staying here meant he would see me when he opened the back door. I took a deep breath, and ran across the headlights, diving into the shadow of the garden shed.
There was no sound behind me. The back door didn’t open. I cursed myself for being so scared of something so small—of course he wouldn’t notice that tiny button on the unlocked knob, not when he was racing to rescue his wife. A moment later I heard a howl from the second floor, confirming my suspicions. He’d gone straight to Kay, and I might be able to escape after all.
I crept back into the light, furtive and wary, ready to run, and convinced that if he saw me, running wouldn’t make any difference. I didn’t know how much time I had. He might untie Kay immediately, or he might wait until he regained his human shape; he might stay and make sure she was okay, or he might rush back outside to find the person who’d hurt her. I had no way of knowing, but I did know that my chances of getting away decreased with every second I delayed. I had to go now.
I stuck close to the house, walking quickly toward the blinding headlights. I kept my eyes averted, shielding them from as much light as possible, to make it easier to adjust to the darkness beyond. When I reached Crowley’s car I ran out around the far side, away from the house, and crouched by the tire. I could peer over the car and see the front of Crowley’s house: the door hanging open, the upstairs curtains still tightly drawn. I looked out at my own house, a million miles away across the street. Ice and snow surrounded it like land mines and razorwire, waiting to trip me up, or show a footprint, or simply delay me as I ran for the shelter of home. If I could make it across and into my house I’d be safe—Crowley might never suspect I’d been involved—but it was a long way, across an open street. All it would take was a single glance through the window and it would all be over. I braced myself for the sprint . . .
. . . and that’s when I saw the body in the passenger seat.
It was slumped over, below the window line, but in the dim light of the open door I could see him—a small man, half hidden in shadow and a drab woolen coat, lying in a pool of blood.
I sank down to the frozen pavement, numb with shock. I hadn’t stopped the demon from killing at all—I hadn’t even slowed him down. I’d taken too long with the pictures, and with Neblin, wrestling my darkest impulses until it didn’t even matter, and by the time I distracted the demon he had already found a victim, and stolen an organ. He was already regenerated, and all because I couldn’t control myself. I wanted to slam the car door, or shout, or make some kind of noise, but I didn’t dare. Instead the monster inside me, smooth and insidious, crept forward to look at the corpse. In all these months of killings and embalmings, I had still never been alone with a newly dead body. I wanted to touch it while it was still warm, to look at the wound, to see what the demon had taken. It was a stupid urge, and a stupid risk, but I didn’t stop. Mr. Monster was too strong now.
The driver-side door was open, but I was on the passenger side, away from the house, and opened that door quietly. The car was still idling, and I hoped the low rumble masked any noises I made. I pulled open the body’s coat, looking for the slashed abdomen that had become so familiar from the demon’s other victims.
There wasn’t one.
The head was twisted grotesquely, face planted in the seat, but when I peered at it from the door
way, I could see that the throat had been cut, probably by one of the demon’s claws. It was the only wound. The coat was undamaged, and the flesh beneath it felt fine. The blood on the seat and floor seemed to come solely from the neck wound.
What had he taken? I peered in to look at the neck more closely. It was still attached, but the veins and throat had been sliced clean through. Nothing seemed to be missing at all.
Finally, I looked at the man’s face, twisting back the neck and wiping aside the blood and matted hair, and in that instant I almost cried out.
The dead man was Dr. Neblin.
I staggered back, nearly falling out of the car. The body fell slowly back to the side, lifeless. I looked up at the Crowleys’ house in shock, then back at the car.
He’d killed Dr. Neblin.
My mind searched for meaning in the revelation. Was Crowley on to me? Was he already targeting people I knew? But why Neblin, when my Mom was right across the street? Because he needed a male body, I supposed. But no—it was too strange. I couldn’t believe that he knew I was involved. I would have seen some hint of it.
But then why Neblin?
Staring at his corpse I remembered our phone call, and I felt myself grow cold. Neblin had left me a voice mail. I pulled out the phone and dialed it up, terrified of what I knew I would hear.
“John, you shouldn’t be alone right now; we need to talk. I’m coming over—I don’t even know if you’re at home, or somewhere else, but I can help you. Please let me help you. I’ll be there in just a few minutes. See you soon.”
He had come to help me. In the middle of an ice-cold January night, he had left his home and gone into the empty streets to help me. Empty streets where a killer was hunting for fresh prey and finding none, until poor, defenseless Dr. Neblin walked right into his sights. He was the only man in town that the demon could find.
And he’d found him because of me.
I stared at the body, thinking of all the others who’d gone before—Jeb Jolley and Dave Bird; the two cops I’d led to their deaths; the drifter by the lake that I didn’t speak up to save; Ted Rask and Greg Olson and Emmett Openshaw and however many others I didn’t even know about. They were a parade of cadavers, resting inert in my memory, as if they had never been alive at all—a row of eternal corpses stretching back through history, perfectly preserved. How long had this been happening? How much longer would it go on? I felt that I was doomed to follow that row forever, washing and embalming each new corpse like a demonic servant—hunchbacked, leering and mute. Crowley was the killer, and I was his slave. I wouldn’t do it. That row of corpses ended tonight.
