Unsettled: Thriller Standalone

by A J Wolf

  She grabs onto my arm once I get her back in the chair, her feet coming up to kick me in the gut. They miss only because I move off to the side, twisting her arm back with me as I circle the back of the couch. Her screams ring in my ears, nearly blowing my eardrum as I wrench her head back into the back of the chair with my other hand. I had dropped the rope in our scuffle, but I'm able to slide it along the floor with my foot, dragging it to me. Releasing her arm but keeping a tight hold of her hair, I quickly scoop it up. Risking her getting away, I let go of her hair and quickly toss a loop of rope around her middle. She tries to duck under, but I pull it tight, my foot on the back of the chair as I force her to sit. Tying a quick knot, I throw another loop over her, this one squeezing her elbow to her chest so that her hand rests by her face when she tries to wiggle out. The next loop secures her other arm, that one at a more comfortable looking angle.

  Making sure my knots are tight, I walk around the chair, lungs heaving with the effort that took. My butterfly is still kicking and yelling, refusing to admit she's stuck. It's admirable, really; I hadn't expected her to have so much fight in her. She's still screeching, her screams only stopping long enough for her to draw air into her lungs. I didn't want to have to gag her, but I can't have her waking up the entire neighborhood before I'm finished. Looking around for something to use, I walk back to the foyer and grab a scarf off a hook by the door. I fold it in half as I walk back to my butterfly, quickly wrapping it around her head and tying the ends so that her mouth is covered. You can still hear her, but it's not nearly as loud or ear piercing.

  Leaving her alone in the room, I walk through her house to the back, opening the sliding doors onto the patio. Uncovering the barbeque, I grab the bottle of lighting fluid I'd seen here previously, bringing it back into the living room. My butterfly's eyes widen at the bottle in my hand, her legs kicking furiously. She's a smart girl, I'm sure she can see where this is going. Bringing the bottle over her head, I squeeze, the fluid drips down her hair and shoulders, running over her face, so she is forced to squeeze her eyes shut. Her head is shaking back and forth, body jerking uselessly within her bindings to get free, but I just keep squirting. I spray the fabric of her chair, the floor around her, her side table, the couch, and with the little that's left, her curtains. Tossing the empty bottle onto the floor, I walk over to the coffee table in front of the couch, picking up the candle I'd bought for her last week.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my lighter and light it, tucking it back away as I watch the candle flicker in my palm. Watching my butterfly squirm in her seat, listening to her muffled screams, I take out the gold paper butterfly from my pocket and bring it to the flame. This one they won't find, they won't know she's mine, but for some reason, that feels okay. Like I don't want them to know about this one. The gold paper starts to smoke, black stink rising before the little paper wing engulfs in flames. I toss it onto the carpet at my Vanessa carduiI's feet, watching the carpet quickly lick with fire as she raises her legs in an attempt to escape it.

  Her efforts are futile, the flames quickly traveling up the sides of her chair and then her legs, the smell of burning fabric stinking up the room in dark blooms of smoke. I watch the red and orange swarm her body as she shakes her head, listen to the screams leaking through the fabric bound around her head while I stand there holding the candle in my palm. The flames quickly move onto the other objects, wicking like wildfire across the room. It's getting hard to breathe, but I can't get my feet to move, eyes stuck on my butterfly as she burns in her chair.

  I can't feel the heat of the candle in my palm, but I know the glass is warm. The room is also getting unbearably warm. My butterfly stops moving from what I can see through the smoke and flames, so I turn, holding my candle up to the curtain at the edge of the room that has yet to start on fire. Watching it catch, I drop the candle to the floor and step from the room. Opening the front door, I simply step walk out, face immediately burning from the cold sting in the air. I shut the door behind me, eyes scanning the sleeping street before I start to walk back toward the park.

  I know it won't be too long before the fire starts to consume the house, and the neighbors wake. I'm banking on someone to notice and call the fire department. This won't feel complete until I've laid eyes on them. I wander in the shadows of the trees, ears listening for those sirens as I wait. I don't know how long it takes, but they do eventually go rushing by, their sirens blaring, lights almost blinding in the dark. Unable to stop myself, my feet follow after them, needing to see things unfold now that they're here.

  It hurts to breathe my heart is pounding so hard, an anxiousness making my hands shake. I feel angry despite doing exactly what I wanted. Livid even. It does nothing but confuse me and find my hands clenching in my pockets as I stomp toward my burning butterfly. I stop when the fire trucks come into view, shift my face off the side when two police cars go rushing past where I'm standing on the sidewalk. Part of me wants them to see me, wants them to ask if I saw anything, know what happened. I almost want to go tell them, a strange nagging in my chest urging to do just that even while my feet stay rooted to the spot by an unseen force telling me, they can't know. That they can never know. My mind is warring itself in a way I can't understand.

  I did exactly what I wanted, everything is exactly how it should be, but instead of feeling satisfied, I'm denied once again. But this time, it's worse. I can't seem to catch my breath, my fisted hands are shaking so hard inside my pockets that my jacket zipper is jingling under my chin. Shuffling out of view the best I can on the sidewalk, I double over, grabbing my waist as I try to suck in a decent breath. My chest feels like it's caving in, a weight sitting right on my collarbone while my head spins. I don't know what's happening, and I don't know how to fix it as my lungs wheeze. A gloved hand slaps onto the fence I'm leaning against, my hunched body shuffling back toward to park, so my back is to the now raging fire. I almost think I'm having a heart attack with the way my chest is squeezing beneath my palm as I try to jog, back bent, so I'm curled in on myself.

  Finally, making it to the park, I b-line for my car, my lungs slowly starting to gain their ability to suck in air. By the time I get there, I'm standing straight, my heart beating a tiny bit slower than before. I jerk my door open and fall into the driver's seat, resting my forehead on the steering wheel while I try to keep my breaths steady. My hands are still shaking, trembling in my lap while I squeeze my eyes shut. When I can finally sit up without my vision going blurry, I start my car and pull from the parking spot. I want nothing more than to go home right now. I don't know what this was supposed to prove, why I've reacted this way, but I'm scared to find out.

  I don't have to work. When Nana passed, she left me a very large amount of money in her life insurance policy that ensured that I'd be set for a very long time. But sometimes it's boring doing nothing all of the time. So twice a month, I go to the Rivercrest retirement home and help with an arts and crafts class that they have. I'm sure I stick out like a sore thumb there, but I like it. It reminds me of the many times I spent with my Nana painting stained glass. Dropping my armful of supplies on the front table, I start spreading out different colored paper in various shapes and textures. Today, we're doing origami.

  Trisha, a CNA who often helps with the crafts, comes into the room, wheeling one of my favorite residents into the room with her. She smiles at me, pushing him to another table. He scowls at me. "How are you doing today, Larry?"

  "I'd be better if they'd let me have another fruit cup with lunch." His shaky wrinkled hands cross over his chest.

  "You know we need to watch your blood sugar, Larry." Trisha gives me side-eye, smirking at me as she comes to stand by the table. "Now, what color do you want? We're going to be making origami today."

  "Ori-what? Just give me blue."

  She chuckles, putting a square of blue paper in front of him. The other residents are starting to file into the room, a few others being wheeled by CNA's like Larry was. It doesn
't take long for everyone to settle, and Trisha takes over since she knows I don't like to.

  "We're making origami hearts today! Hadley brought a bunch of different kinds of paper for us to use and you guys can come pick what you'd like."

  After everyone has picked their paper and I've done a demonstration on how to fold the paper to make a heart, I walk around the room, making sure no one needs help. Most of the ladies here are crafty themselves and already know how to do most of what we do in these classes, but others, like Larry, struggle a bit. I move to stand near his table, watching as stares at the triangle he's made.

  "That doesn't look like a heart, Larry."

  He frowns at me, showing me the paper in his hand. "No. It looks like shit."

  I laugh, taking it from his palm. Unfolding it, I smooth it out, starting to refold it in the correct way for him. I hold it where he can see, so he can watch the steps. When it's a cute little heart, I set it back into his palm. "Here."

  His fingers close around the little heart, "My granddaughter used to paint." He shifts in his wheelchair, and I wait for him to continue, "She did watercolor."

  "I bet it was really pretty."

  "It was shit." I laugh again, and he smiles, putting the paper heart in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "But she loved doing it, and that's all that mattered."

  "You said she used to. Does she not paint anymore?" He shakes his head, the look on his face stopping my heart in my chest and immediately making we wish I could take the words back and pretend I never asked.

  "No. We lost Tracy this summer."

  I swallow hard. "Tracy? Tracy Mucket?"

  "Yes. She took her stepfather's name. Did you know her?"

  I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, vomit burning up my esophagus that I have to fight down. "I'm so sorry, Larry. Excuse me, I have to use the restroom." Spinning from the table, I walk as fast as I can from the room without drawing attention to myself. My lungs are on fire as I try to keep my breathing under control. Palm on the doorframe to steady myself, I push into the bathroom and close the door behind me.

  I don't understand what's happening, I don't know why the mention of Tracy, someone I don't think I've ever even met, is triggering such a response. Falling forward, I grip onto the sides of the sink, head bowed as I try to get my breathing under control. My chest is tight, making each breath hard to pull in, my heart beating so hard I can feel it vibrating my ribs.

  "....ing News. Tracy Mucket, a senior at Rivercrest University, was found murdered in her own home. Detectives say she appears to be another victim of the Butterfly serial killer. RLQ News anchor, Robert Yunder, is currently on the scene..."

  Turning the cold water on, I splash my face. It doesn't help, I feel like I'm on fire, my skin burning in hot flashes. My vision is blurring out of focus, black dots dancing when I blink.

  Focus!

  Focus Hadley!

  Hadley!

  “Am I weird, Nana?”

  Nana frowns at me over her magazine, curling the edge down with her hand so she can see me properly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Am I weird? Brandon Moore said he wouldn’t go to the dance with me because I’m weird.”

  “Yes.” She lifts her magazine back up, ignoring my gasp. “What? You asked, and I answered.”

  “That’s rude, Nana. You were supposed to make me feel better, not rub it in.”

  She drops her magazine in her lap, lips pursed. “Honey, you should know by now that you’re weird. It’s okay to be weird. If anything, it makes you unique. Can you imagine how boring the world would be if everyone living in it was normal?” She lifts her magazine back up, ending our conversation. “Now leave me alone weirdo, I’m trying to read.”

  Trisha grabs my arm, lightly shaking me, so I look at her. "Don't you hear the siren? Someone pulled the fire alarm; we have to evacuate."

  Now that she's said it, I notice the white and red lights blinking on the ceiling and hear the loud wailing. "Yea, sorry, I was just in the bathroom."

  "Well, you're out now. Let’s go."

  There's knocking on my door, and I look over my shoulder with a frown as I wash the dishes. When they don't just come in, I shake off my hands, grabbing a rag off the counter to dry them. There's another knock before I get there, "Hang on."

  Swinging the door open, I blink at Kyler. "What are you doing here? How did you even know my address?"

  He shifts in front of the door, looking over my shoulder into the house. "Can I just come in? I just want to talk."

  "What is Vickie out of town?" I step to the side, opening the door further for him. "If you came here to fuck, I'm not interested." He shakes his head, walking past me, and I shut the door behind us. He stops in the living room, awkwardly looking around. "Well? You wanted to talk, so talk."

  His hand raises to his hair, shaking the dark brown strands anxiously through his fingers. "I just... I'm just worried about you, Hadley."

  I huff, crossing my arms over my chest, watching his fingers nervously fidget. "Over what? We aren't even friends, Kyler."

  "Don't act like that. I've known you since my freshman year at University, Hadley. We might not hang out all the time or talk as often as we used to, but I obviously care about you."

  "Yea, whatever. Get to the point, Kyler."

  He looks away from me again, eyes falling on my Nana's wind chime. "Were you at the nursing home when the fire alarm went off?"

  I run my hand down my arm, frowning at his question. "Yes? Why?"

  "Did you do it?" He turns to face me after he asks, his face blank of emotion that I can read.

  I scoff, shaking my head at his ridiculous question. "What? No! Why would I do that."

  His tongue comes out to swipe over his lips, hand brushing down his face again, "Are you taking your meds?" My lips pinch at his question. The words sinking in my gut. "Don't look at me like that, Hadley. Just answer the question."

  "It’s none of your business. It wasn’t your business when you filled in for one of your dad’s pharmacists, and it’s not now. But yes, I am."

  He laughs like he doesn't believe me. "I don't know that I believe you. Dad said, you haven’t been by the pharmacy in a while."

  I shake my head, heart thumping beneath my ribs as I walk back into the kitchenette. Dunking my hands in the soapy dishes, I start washing again. "It doesn't matter what you believe. And it’s gross and creepy of your dad to be keeping such tabs on me. If all you did was come here to yell at me about something I'm already doing, then you can leave."

  "Who's Rhys, Hadley?"

  My hand slips on a plate, and I almost drop it. "We already had this conversation, remember?"

  "I remember. I want you to remind me, though, where is he now?"

  I shrug, dropping some silverware into the clean side of my sink. "How would I know? I don't have a tracker on him."

  He walks past me, grabbing a black hoodie Rhys left last time he was here that's off the hook to holding it up. "Is this his?" I don't answer, and he grabs a pair of sneakers, "Are these?"

  Setting more dishes into the sink to rinse, I shrug again. "Yea, they look like his."

  He blinks at me, carrying them over to me in the kitchenette. "This is an extra small hoodie and size seven shoe. You think these belong to Rhys?"

  I stare at them, my eyes shifting from the things hanging from his fingers and his face. "Guess not. We wear similar things."

  He tosses them on the couch, shaking his head like he doesn't understand how I'm not getting what he's trying to say. "Remember when you started running? And I made fun of you for it, saying only losers ran? Why'd you stop running, Hadley? Weren't you driving all the way on the other side of town to see some girl? Why'd you stop seeing her?" He grabs my arms across the counter, and I freeze, my heart pounding harder with each question. He looks worried as his dark browns search my face, "Did you kill them, Hadley?"

  I jerk back from him, water splashing onto the floor. He walks around the counter, movi
ng to stand in front of me. "Who's Rhys, Hadley?"

  Just as her eyes flutter open under my gaze, I slam her face back into the ground, watch her nose crunch, and lips split even more.

  I step back from him, and he follows, matching my step. "Who is Rhys, Hadley?"

  Her movements are slowing, her limbs looking heavy and weak, but her eyes never close. Those beautiful minty greens stay locked on mine as her arms drop into the water, and the last air bubble leaves her parted lips.

  My back bumps up against the counter, my lungs burning, my anger making my hands shake. I know who the Butterfly Killer is. "Who is h...."

  He looks down at the kitchen knife lodged in his gut, hands shaking as he steps backward from me. "You're just like everyone else. Pathetic." Gripping the handle, I yank it out, watching Kyler fall back onto his ass. My ears are ringing as I bend down to look into his face, "I didn't kill those girls." He looks like he doesn't believe me, body shifting backward in a weird crab walk as he tries to get away from me. "I didn't kill those girls!" I kick his legs, dropping down to stab my knife into his thigh. "You know what? You're just like them. All of them. You think I need those pills to be normal, that I can't function like a regular person without them? Well, you're wrong." Ripping my knife out, I slam my knife into his stomach. I do it again, and again, and again, using his body like the therapy, I never had. Until his torso is nothing but torn, bloody flesh, and my arms are shaking with exhaustion.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  "Put that down and come here, Hadley." My mother's voice calls from the doorway, the silver butterfly clips holding back the hair at her temples, glinting in the light of a candle on the shelf. I ignore her, shaking my head in silent defiance. "Be a good girl and come here."