by Amy Cross
“Just now.” She furrows her brow, and it's clear that she's struggling to stay conscious. “Weren't you in the basement?”
“No, I was outside with the generator.”
“You weren't down there?”
I shake my head.
“Oh.” She pauses. “Never mind. Just see if you can find some water, okay? I'm burning up.”
She turns and looks down the steps, toward the darkness of the basement.
“You can rely on me,” I tell her. “I swear, Becky. I won't let you down.”
Chapter Fourteen
Pushing open the next bedroom door, I shine my flashlight inside but see only some old furniture and a set of thin drapes hanging across the window.
“Damn it,” I mutter, pulling the door shut.
I've been searching for water for a few minutes now, without any luck. I've checked thoroughly downstairs, but there's definitely no water anywhere, and now in sheer desperation I've come up to see if maybe somebody left some up here somewhere in a bottle. I know that's pretty unlikely, but then again it was unlikely that somebody would've left a working generator outside, so I guess strange things happen sometimes.
If I find some water for her, Becky'll be really impressed.
Heading to the door at the far end of the hallway, I turn the handle, only to find that the damn thing seems to be locked. I remember Freddie mentioning this earlier, and as I try the handle again I realize that maybe I need to find some way to force my way through. After all, I have to check everywhere for water.
I've seen movies where people kick doors open, so I figure that must be possible. Taking a step back, I stare at the area around the handle, trying to work out where I should aim. Finally, I take a deep breath and then I step forward and kick the door as hard as I can manage.
To my surprise, the handle breaks instantly and the door clicks open on the first attempt.
Damn, I wish Becky had seen that. I'll have to tell her later. She'll be totally impressed.
Pushing the door all the way open, I step through and shine the flashlight around. To my surprise, I see that there's a desk at the far end of the room, with various pieces of equipment laid out. I wander over to take a closer look, and sure enough there are a couple of old-fashioned tape decks wired to a monitor, along with some items that I guess go with old 2000's video equipment. The more I peer at the equipment, the more I realize that I seem to have found a room in the house where videos were put together.
Maybe this is where the video was edited.
A shudder runs through my chest as I realize some murderous asshole must have sat here and edited the Molly Holt video. Looking over at the office chair next to the wall, I also spot some crumpled beer cans down on the bare wooden floor.
“Sick bastards,” I whisper, before noticing a thick white wire poking up through the floor and running over to the back of the video equipment.
Outside the window, the generator is still running.
I step over to the desk and look down at the tape decks. They're definitely old, older than me, but I guess maybe these things were pretty state-of-the-art back in the day. I know I should get back down to Becky, but I can't help pressing a couple of buttons, and to my surprise the decks start whirring. Realizing that they seem to be playing, I flick a switch on the front of the monitor and a dark, blurry image bursts onto the screen.
“This is some next-level shit right here,” a man says on the video, and I immediately recognize his voice from the Molly Holt video I saw earlier. “We've got -”
“Make sure you keep the camera pointing the right way!” the other man hisses.
The camera swings across the room, and suddenly I see Molly Holt's naked, bloodied corpse on the basement's concrete floor. Her legs are missing, having been severed just below the hips, and a man wearing a dark mask is crouched next to her, holding an ax.
“Okay?” he asks, looking at the camera with only his eyes visible from behind the mask.
“Okay.”
The man looks back down at the body, and then he swings the ax, chopping off Molly Holt's left arm and sending the stray limb rolling across the concrete.
“No!” I gasp, turning away and leaning against the wall. For a moment I feel as if I might be about to vomit, and then sure enough I bring up a little bile at the back of my throat.
In my mind's eye, I see the arm coming loose again.
Hearing more chopping sounds from the video, as well as laughs from one of the men, I take care to not look at the screen as I reach over to the video deck and fumble for the off switch. For a few more seconds, the chopping continues, and I even hear the sound of bones splintering, before finally I manage to switch everything off.
Turning to look at the monitor, I see that the images are gone.
“What kind of sick monsters would do something that?” I whisper, unable to stop thinking back to the horrific sight of Molly Holt's arm being cut away.
Spotting some notebooks piled on the floor, I pick one up and find that it contains lots of handwritten comments about editing the video together. There are shot-lists and notes about image quality, but there are also more mundane things such as little doodles of cartoon animals, as if somebody was actually bored while they worked on the video. It's hard to imagine someone sitting around, making little drawings while they edited a video of a girl getting murdered, but I guess these freaks were accustomed to what they were doing. Maybe Molly Holt wasn't even the first girl they filmed.
Flicking to another page, I freeze as I see a faint patch of smeared blood on the paper. I stare for a moment, before closing the notebook and setting it down.
“That's evidence,” I say out loud, feeling a rush of anger rising through my chest. “We're gonna turn it all over to the police and -”
Stopping suddenly, I look at the equipment as I realize that something isn't right here. Sure, these people clearly edited the movie right here in this house, but why would they then have left all their video gear behind? For a moment, I start to worry that they might still be around somewhere, but then I realize that they wouldn't still be using equipment from the 2000's, not all these years later. It's almost as if they finished the video and then for some reason they had to leave the house in a hurry. Then again, they must have worried that somebody might find all this stuff, and that it could be used to track them down, so why were they so careless?
Where have Molly Holt's killers been for the past ten years?
Spotting a small black item around the far side of the monitor, I step past the office chair. To my surprise, I see that there's a wallet resting on the table, and when I flick it open I find an old-fashioned driving license registered to somebody named Anthony Jewell. When I look at the photo section, I immediately realize just from the eyes alone that this is one of the men who appeared in the video. Anthony Jewell is the man who was on his knees, chopping Molly Holt's body into pieces. He's probably also the AJ who was referred to on the generator. Maybe he was the mastermind behind this whole sick enterprise.
And then he left his wallet behind.
That seems... careless.
Still, at least it means we can hand all of this over to the police. Anthony Jewell and his friend are probably still out there somewhere, and they deserve to spend the rest of their lives rotting in a jail cell.
“You're gonna pay for what you did to that girl,” I mutter, staring at the photo of Anthony Jewell. “You might have gotten away with it at the time, but you're gonna pay big-time when the cops finally catch up to you.”
Closing the wallet, I put it back on the table and then I head back to the door. I've had enough of this room, and I feel sick just being here. In fact, as I pull the broken door shut, I feel as if just going into the room has made me dirty. I'm not an idiot, and I've always known that there were some disgusting people in the world, but it's still horrible to actually see where they commit their crimes. I hate the thought that they got away with this for so long, and that they've
been out there walking free, but at least I know they'll be facing justice soon. And all because one of them was so dumb, he actually left his wallet behind.
That's worse than dumb.
That's arrogant.
It's arrogant and -
Suddenly, downstairs, Becky screams.
Chapter Fifteen
“Stop!” I shout as I reach the top of the basement steps and see to my horror that she's lifting her leg free of the broken wood. “Becky, stop! What the hell are you doing?”
Letting out a gasp, she falls back against the wall. She's freed her leg, but now there's blood pouring from the gaping wound. Whimpering, she starts sliding down the wall until she slumps against one of the creaking wooden steps, and then she starts muttering something under her breath that I can't quite make out.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, stepping down to her and watching as blood flows from the wound. “I told you to wait until Freddie gets back with help!”
“I can't wait,” she stammers, barely able to keep her eyes open and more and more sweat runs down her face. “I can't sit here like this. What were you doing in the basement?”
“I wasn't in the basement,” I reply, crouching down and taking a closer look at her leg.
I wince as I see bloodied, mangled skin that has been pushed far enough aside to reveal a section of bone. Whereas before the piece of wood was at least keeping Becky from bleeding too much, now there's nothing to stop blood running down her leg and splattering against the step. And while she might have removed the largest chunk of wood and pulled herself free, she's left several splinters dug deep into the meat, and I don't even know how I'd begin to get them all out.
“How bad is it?” she asks through gritted teeth. “Tell me the truth.”
“Freddie'll be back soon.”
“How bad is it, Tim?”
“It's not good, but you'll be okay as soon as Freddie arrives with help.”
“I couldn't sit here like that,” she continues. “I'm so cold. What were you doing down there?”
“I was upstairs, looking for water,” I tell her, figuring that this isn't the right moment to tell her about the video equipment. “I think -”
“I don't want to be here,” she says suddenly, as she starts trying to get up. “I don't want to be right here.”
“Wait!”
I get up with her, supporting her as best I can, but she's very unsteady and she lets out a cry of pain as soon as she tries putting weight on her damaged leg.
“I'll help you,” I tell her, “but I don't know where you want to go.”
“Anywhere,” she says, slurring her speech now. “Just not here. Please, I don't want to be on the stairs anymore.”
“I'll take you up to another room,” I reply, putting an arm around her so she can limp up to the next step.
Beneath us, there's an ominous creaking sound, as if another part of the staircase might collapse at any moment.
“Damn it!” she gasps, pulling down heavily on my shoulder as she makes her way up to the next step.
Barely able to support her weight, I struggle to follow.
“What were you doing down there, Tim?” she asks, as we get to the top. “I thought you were going to find me some water.”
“That's what I was doing!” I gasp.
“So why were you in the basement?”
“I wasn't in the basement.”
“Yes you were. I could hear you shuffling about down there.”
“No, I -”
“I heard you!”
Glancing over my shoulder, I look down toward the bottom of the wooden stairs. Obviously there's no sign of anyone, but for a moment I wait, just to make sure that I don't hear anything at all. As Becky gasps and struggles to hang onto me, however, I realize she's probably just imagining things. In fact, I think she might be borderline delirious.
“Let's get you to somewhere you can sit while we wait for Freddie to come back,” I mutter, turning and helping her across the hallway. “I know it must have been hard with that piece of wood in your leg, but I really don't think it was a good idea to get up.”
“What the hell do you know?” she gasps. “It's my leg.”
Looking down, I see that she's leaving patches of blood on the floor as we head over to the doorway.
After a couple of minutes, I manage to get her through to the front room, and finally I lower her into one of the dusty old armchairs. She groans as I settle her into place, and then I head through to the hallway and grab the standard lamp, moving it back into the front room so that at least there's a little light. The generator is still running outside, but when I look out the window I see no sign at all of Freddie coming back with help.
“Come on, dude,” I whisper. “Get a move on.”
I watch the yard, hoping against hope that I might spot flashing lights in the distance, but there's nothing. Right now, even the lights of town aren't visible. If I didn't know better, I'd think we were a million miles from anywhere, and that there was no hope of help ever reaching us.
“What were you doing in the basement?” Becky asks suddenly.
I turn to her.
She's staring at me with her left eye half-open and her right eye completely shut.
“I wasn't in the basement,” I tell her.
“I heard you.”
“You must have imagined it.”
She shakes her head, and I can't help noticing that she's shivering now.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“Aren't you? It's freezing in here.”
“It's pretty cold,” I admit cautiously, “but it's not freezing.”
“My goddamn teeth are chattering,” she hisses. “I feel like I'm turning to ice.”
Grabbing my jacket, I take it over and put it over her shoulders. I lean her forward slightly so I can put the jacket properly in place, and she immediately stops shivering. I know she'll probably tell me to go to hell, but I can't let her freeze to death.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“It's nothing.”
“Why were you down there in the basement?”
“I told you, I -”
“I heard you, Tim,” she continues, and her teeth are still chattering slightly. “I was sitting right there on the step, and I could hear you walking about down there. It was as clear as you being here right now.”
I open my mouth to tell her she's wrong, that she's delirious, but the words catch in my throat. Reaching out, I touch the side of her face and feel warm sweat running down her cheek. She might say she feels cold, but actually she's burning up.
“What were you doing in the basement?” she asks again. “I called out to you, but you didn't answer.”
“I wasn't in the basement.”
“I heard you.”
“I really -”
“I heard you, Tim,” she adds, as she turns away and closes her eyes. “I heard you.”
We sit in silence for a moment. It's nice being so close to her, and smelling her hair, and I feel like maybe when this is all over she might agree to hang out a little. After a few seconds, however, I realize that she seems to be nodding off, and that maybe that's not a good thing.
“Hey, don't go to sleep,” I tell her, nudging her shoulder. “Becky!”
“I'm not sleeping.” She opens her eyes again, staring off toward the window. “I'm just resting.”
“I wasn't in the basement,” I say again.
“I heard you down there.”
“But I wasn't, Becky! You must have been hearing things, 'cause I wasn't in the basement at all!”
“Okay,” she replies, before suddenly reaching over and taking hold of my hand. She slips her fingers between mine and squeezes tight. “When you go to find water, don't go too far, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
I pause, before squeezing her hand in return.
“I promise.”
Chapter Sixteen
Shining the fla
shlight straight ahead, I look through into the basement's main, concrete room. There's no sign of anyone or anything, of course, but I'm still glad I came down to check. After Becky's insistence that she'd heard me down here while I was upstairs, I began to feel just a little creeped out, and I also started to worry that Freddie might be up to some kind of prank.
At least now I can see for myself that the basement is empty.
It's cold down here, too, and I can see my own breath in the air. As I turn and shine the flashlight around, I can't help thinking that this whole house oughta be torn down. Sure, I don't believe in ghosts, but there's still a creepy atmosphere in here, and I can't imagine anyone would ever want to live in a house where somebody was so cruelly tortured and killed. In fact, I think that if nobody knocks the place down, I'd be tempted to come out here myself with a can of gasoline and burn it all to the ground.
Not that I'd actually do that, of course.
I'd never dare.
Just as I'm about to turn and head back upstairs, the flashlight's beam falls across a wooden chair in the corner. I feel a shudder in my chest as I realize that I recognize the chair; it looks exactly the same as the chair that was in the Molly Holt video. Making my way over, I look down at the chair and see that there are even some strands of rope still hanging from the frame.
I reach down and give the chair a gentle shake, and I find that the legs are pretty loose. I remember seeing in the video that Molly Holt was straining desperately to get away, and I guess she damn near tore the chair apart. Maybe if she'd had just a little more time, she would have been able to slip out of the ropes and fight back against her attackers. For a moment, I imagine her pulling free and wrapping a rope around Anthony Jewell's throat and pulling tight, suffocating him until his lifeless body slumped to the floor.
Then I imagine her killing the other guy before running out of the house and making her way back to civilization. This whole story could have turned out very differently.
I wish she'd managed to fight back.
Suddenly I hear a very faint bump above my head. Looking up, I shine the flashlight toward the bare wooden ceiling, and a moment later I hear another bump, then another. As the sounds continue, I realize that somebody seems to be walking very slowly across the kitchen directly above this part of the basement. I aim my flashlight at the spot where I think the feet are, and after a few more seconds the footsteps pass directly over my head before continuing on toward the door that leads into hallway.
