Dark Screams: Volume Two

by Robert R. McCammon

  She finished going over the room, a bit more satisfied that this location would be ideal for filming. “Is there more to see?”

  “Of course.” He pointed out of the room. “Right this way, everyone.”

  The dining room on the other side of the hallway had a few flaws. Some of them more obvious than others. The paisley-print draperies, left behind by the previous owner, could be replaced with a new set of dark red curtains.

  The crack across the plaster in the back of the room was another matter entirely and would be visible in any camera shot.

  Patrick remained at the doorway, filling the frame. She didn’t glance at him as she walked around the ten-seater dining room table. She reached out and touched the table. “How old is this?”

  “This was a part of the Fosters’ original furniture collection. It’s maybe a hundred years old. Abraham’s staff took good care of it until a caretaker from Boston inherited it.”

  “Caretaker?” She snorted. “You must be referring to the guy who ruined everything.” There were more signs of renovation here: the basic builder crown molding along the ceiling, the blasé baseboards from the early nineties along the wall. This job was supposed to be quick and easy—not so much now.

  Patrick nodded.

  “So what happened to the Fosters?” Gail asked. “The producer told me the writer had trouble finding information. The locals wouldn’t talk about it and we only got so much from the newspaper articles.”

  Patrick sighed. “The folks in town have tried to suppress most of the rumors regarding the disappearance of Abraham’s wife. Foster told everyone she ran away, but one of the couple’s former maids said Abraham probably killed her. Hence the mystery surrounding the property.

  “The small businesses in Hastings depend on visitors every summer. The last thing they wanted was an urban legend to bring out the kooks.”

  “But darkness is just what we need.” Eleanor approached the wall and touched the crack. The plaster was brittle and crumbled from pressure. Not a good sign. “The staff writer will need a monologue on what happened, so any details you can offer would be valuable.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to do what I can for now.”

  “For now?”

  Patrick’s warm expression grew stern. “I’m expected in Europe in four weeks. If I understood the arrangement with your producer, you’d complete filming in that time.”

  If everything went as planned this weekend, there’d be more than enough time to fix the issues in the sitting room and the dining room. Eleanor’s staff had spent plenty of time on the front lines with the tools needed for heavy lifting.

  Dark memories bubbled from the cracks in this home. Leaving wasn’t an option, but soon enough she’d be back in Manhattan where she wanted to be.

  —

  With just forty-eight hours until the production staff arrived, the weight of the world pressed down on Eleanor’s shoulders. She’d swallowed more pain pills than she’d deemed necessary to knock out a growing tension headache.

  The cold rain never ceased outside, making the process of hauling supplies and tools all the more stressful. Instead of hiring local contractors, she had the best team in place to handle most of the issues on their own. Depending on others had all too often cost her time and money on rush work.

  Precious hours that morning had been spent covering the living room and dining room furniture with tarps to protect them. Part of that time had been spent boxing up vases, the paintings, and the like.

  Seeing all those paintings, with most of them depicting hunted animals, leave the room was a welcome sight.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a studio setup. We wouldn’t be in such a hurry.” Gail popped yet another chip into her mouth and extended the bag to Eleanor.

  She shook her head. They still had a few hours’ work to do before lunch, and she didn’t have time for a snack. She sorted through the tools, forming a plan in her head, while Gail and Brody chatted.

  Her assistant’s phone rang, the tone a chorus of chirping crickets. By now Eleanor had gotten used to it, but once in a while it annoyed her to no end. Her headache didn’t appreciate it, either.

  “Looks like we’ve got a lead on the local rumor mill,” Gail said. “I’m heading into town to check it out.”

  “For all that’s holy, bring back some fried chicken or burgers or something,” Brody begged. Gail turned around long enough to wink at him.

  Patrick had been kind enough to serve them sub sandwiches, which apparently didn’t contain enough grease for Gail and Brody.

  “Let’s get started on this wall,” Eleanor instructed. Using chalk, she marked out the sections of the wall to cut. Soon enough the crumbling plaster would be replaced with something far more suitable. She touched the cool surface, pressing into the indentation. A lingering scent of decayed wood drifted to her nostrils. Even furniture polish couldn’t take that away from an older home.

  Using the utility blade, she scored the plaster, removing the pieces as they fell. An arduous task without patience. A crackle of thunder shook the house. A large piece of plaster fell with the resounding thwack.

  The crumpling plaster stuck in a few spots to the underlying narrow strips of wood, but progress was made. The chill from the outside stiffened her hands. There wasn’t any insulation between the narrow strips of wood and the outer brick.

  Work quickly. Get it done.

  A familiar feeling crept into Eleanor’s mind. One she couldn’t suppress. This was a living room, not a locked and lonely bedroom with a single mattress, she reminded herself. But the smell was the same—one of rotted wood. Of abandonment. She focused on her task at hand. The sooner she tore the plaster off, the sooner she could get the bonding agent on the narrow wood beams and apply the new mud and texture.

  She jerked harder, catching and removing the plaster until she came to a crack in the underlying lath. A crack that widened with each movement.

  Bits of hair, covered in cobwebs, poked out. Her hand froze in mid-thrust. She couldn’t look away as a large piece of plaster fell to the tarp on the floor. A limb, thin as bristly twig, extended out of the opening as a shrunken head rolled to the side. Vacant eye sockets stared blankly at the fireplace. A faded sapphire blue dress hung on the skeletal form.

  Holy shit.

  Eleanor fell backward. Her bottom hit the covered wood floor hard, forcing a breath from her lungs. She clutched the chisel tight enough for the metal to bite into her hand.

  “Are you all right?” Brody bounded over, only to freeze with his hand on her shoulder.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “It’s a body.” Her voice was hollow, like her insides had been scraped out.

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Brody hesitated, then crept toward the wall. “The clothes look old, like that Prohibition series we filmed last year.” Grasping one of the chisels nearby, he tapped the end against the woman’s shoulder. The petrified flesh caved in and gray flakes littered the floor. The scent of decay intensified.

  Somehow Eleanor pushed the words past a lump in her throat. “Go find Patrick. The homeowner needs to know about this so he can call the police.”

  Who had put her corpse in the wall? Or—and Eleanor’s throat closed as she thought it—had she still been alive when the wall was sealed? Eleanor fought for breath, much as Mrs. Foster might have, all those years ago.

  Brody returned with Patrick. His face went ashen and his mouth gaped.

  “Oh, damn,” he breathed. “I wonder who it is.”

  Eleanor fought to get to her feet. “I have a feeling it’s Mrs. Foster.”

  They stared at her, no one moving, until Patrick checked the wall, glancing into the cavity where the woman lay. “The laths are old and weakened here.”

  Just seeing the woman in blue recalled nightmares she’d buried so deep. Another form, thin and lying prone against a bedroom wall. Eyes open and cracked lips parted. The woman’s rib cage slowly moved up and down.
Until it moved no more. Mama? Mama, don’t leave me alone in here!

  Eleanor cleared her throat, her stomach turning sour. A wave of loneliness tried to rise, but she pushed the feeling away. “We should call the authorities and report what we found.”

  Patrick didn’t speak, the disbelief in his features growing by the second.

  “Patrick?” she asked again.

  “I agree,” Patrick finally said. “Let me call them.”

  Brody nodded.

  “Find some tarp to cover her up.” She gently pried the chisel from Brody, who stood like a statue before the grisly scene, mouth agape.

  “Not a problem,” he mumbled. He complied, taking a tarp from the pile. She turned away while he finished his work. “I’m freaking out here, so I’m gonna go get some equipment from the van.”

  Her mouth moved on autopilot. “Yeah, you go do that.”

  After Brody left, only the sounds of the rainstorm outside filled the room. She was alone—other than the deceased woman. Even with the thick plastic over the wall opening, Eleanor couldn’t look away. She added some distance, taking the time to look for her phone. She’d left it on the fireplace mantel, but now it was gone.

  The phone didn’t matter right now, anyway. Soon enough this place would be swarming with cops. The very thought lifted a weight from her shoulders.

  The tarp shifted.

  The plastic folded inward, only to flex out again.

  Her heartbeat sped up as her gaze flicked from the doorway to the hallway. Would Brody and Patrick come by soon? When the tarp moved again, she couldn’t take it anymore. She darted across the room, snatching away the covering. The dead body hadn’t moved. The lady in blue remained stiff and quite dead. Wasn’t she?

  Slowly, she reached out. Ellie had done this before, many years ago. She could do it again. Mrs. Foster’s dead. She’s long gone.

  Before she touched the petrified skin, a faint breeze brushed against the top of her hand. The wind came from the cracks. They were most likely the source of the movement.

  Eleanor chuckled to herself. All this fresh and clean country air had gotten to her. She left the room and decided to hang out in the hallway. Seeing Brody return to the house, even soaking wet from the rain, was welcomed.

  The way he shuffled into the foyer gave her pause. “What’s going on?”

  “I couldn’t find my phone to call Gail to tell her what happened, so I went out to the van. On my way in I found this.” He opened his palm to reveal a white smartphone in a lavender case.

  “That’s Gail’s,” she said. “She probably dropped it on her way out—”

  “All the cars are still here.”

  Eleanor swallowed deeply. There had to be a simple explanation for this, yet she couldn’t think of one. She plucked the phone from him.

  “I don’t like this,” she admitted. She glanced past him, down the dark hallway toward the front door. Through the windows in the foyer she could see out into the front lawn. The rain pelted against the swaying trees. Maybe if she wished hard enough the police would show up. Anytime now would be good. “Go find Patrick. I’ll check the other rooms and the bathroom.”

  Brody nodded and headed for the study off the kitchen.

  Eleanor checked through the phone calls to see if Gail had made any. Her last phone call had been with someone with a local area code. That had been less than an hour ago.

  So where had she gone without her phone or the car?

  “Gail? Are you here?” Eleanor checked the dining room first. There wasn’t much there except for scattered tarp, equipment, and covered furniture. Nothing was disturbed. She searched the bathrooms next. The ones on the main floor were empty. The only thing left was to check the bedrooms where they’d slept last night.

  Beyond the sitting and dining room, the hallway led deeper into the house. The faint light from the antique sconces on the walls left too many shadows. Too many places to feed overactive imaginations. If her mom had been here, she’d probably tell her to fear what was in her mind more than what she saw with her eyes.

  “What you fear in your head will cut you more sharply than any knife in a kitchen, Ellie.” Her mother had pulled her young daughter close while her father stirred behind a thin wooden door. The door to their prison he’d forced them to stay within for years. “If we ignore him when he’s drunk like this, he’ll go away eventually.”

  Right now her imagination had to be a machete, not a mere kitchen knife. Was that why her heart beat so fast as she approached the door to the large bedroom she’d shared with Gail? A few hours ago the room had been filled with light as they’d talked and joked around.

  It was the lack of voices that sucked her in. The lack of people that fed dark memories she’d never shake. Alone. Alone.

  The doorknob was cold. No one had touched the heavy brass recently. The knob squeaked as she turned it. Like before, the door stuck on the hinges but gave way for her to go through.

  I’ll see Gail any second now and I’ll feel like a damn fool, she thought.

  But no one waited for her. The far wall where there had once been a painting didn’t have one anymore. No painting graced the far wall. Someone had placed a tarp along the floor and had left a plaster compound pail. But this room didn’t need repairs. With each step closer to the wall, she told herself nothing was wrong.

  A hole had been carved into the plaster and the laths behind it. The gray outer brick was exposed. A shock of color protruded from the arm’s-length hole—a pink sweater.

  Gail! Oh, God, oh, God! Eleanor sucked in a scream and slapped her hands over her mouth. Don’t make noise. Her mama had always told her that.

  Gail had been crammed into the one-foot-thick wall. Her neck had been snapped and now her chin rested between her breasts.

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

  Where the fuck were the cops? Shouldn’t she hear sirens?

  Bile rose up the back of her throat as she stumbled backward until her calves hit one of the twin beds. With a strangled cry, she ran from the room. Unable to be alone. Alone with Gail’s body. Just like her mother. “Brody! Where the hell are you?”

  The living room was empty. As was the sitting room. Staying here wasn’t an option, so she headed for the foyer, but before she left, she used Gail’s phone to dial Brody’s number.

  The faint sound of ringing echoed down the hall from the kitchen. Part of her wanted to stay by the front door. If she was smart she’d rush into the rain and escape with one of the cars. She’d go get help. But what if Brody was hurt? What if he needed her right now and she chose to be afraid instead of helping him?

  And what about Patrick? Was he hurt, too?

  Who the hell had snuck into the house and hurt Gail?

  She followed the ringing toward the kitchen. Along the way she grabbed a metal level from the heap of supplies in the sitting room. The double doors that led into the large kitchen were partially opened. She pushed them a crack as Brody’s phone went silent. Along one marble countertop someone had been busy cleaning up their lunch. The remnants of deli meat and bread had been left out. As if someone had been in the middle of working and fled for their lives.

  She crept around the kitchen island, searching for Brody’s phone until she found it lying on top of a white shirt on the floor. She picked up the white shirt. It smelled faintly of Patrick’s cologne and had crimson spots along the lapel.

  Her chest tightened painfully as a cold sweat formed on her brow. Had someone entered the house and killed everyone? She dropped the shirt, somehow hoping whatever evil had taken Patrick wouldn’t find her.

  Her feet scraped against the floor as she stepped backward. It was time to go. She said a silent prayer that Brody had made it outside because she couldn’t stay in this house for another second.

  Something hard poked into her back. A second later a shower of white electricity shot through her. Her muscles spasmed. Her teeth ground together. The never-ending voltage sent her shuddering to the groun
d.

  —

  The world suddenly shifted. Ellie blinked rapidly.

  One moment she’d laid on the cold hardwood, shuddering, the next, she lay still as a dark form tied her hands and ankles together. Someone had carried her from the kitchen to the sitting room.

  “Let me go,” she murmured. Her lips wouldn’t close. Her mouth didn’t respond as expected.

  A pinprick of pain stabbed her wrist. “This should keep you docile while I work,” a masculine voice whispered.

  “Who…?”

  “You know who I am.”

  A scent reached her nose—the one she’d last smelled on a shirt from the kitchen. Her eyes widened and she couldn’t stop the shudder up her spine.

  Holy shit. It’s Patrick.

  The cops weren’t coming.

  Numbness settled on her fingertips, all sensation vanishing in a slow creep up her limbs. She tried to shift her digits and nothing happened. Had he injected her with something? From her vantage point on the floor of the sitting room, she spotted Patrick adding wood to the fireplace. He’d removed the protective tarp.

  A bright light filled the once-dim room. Her shoulders went numb next as he added another block of wood to the fire, using a shovel to work the wood into the small flames. A crackle and hiss filled the silence. His grip on the shovel tightened.

  Does he plan to use the shovel on me?

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m doing all this.” He gestured around himself. “Burying people in walls. Drawing you here to witness it all.”

  “Let me go, Patrick.” She wiggled against her bonds, a useless task with weakened limbs. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Your pleas are sweet, but I’m one of convictions and not empty promises.”

  What the hell was he talking about?

  He grinned at her confusion. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t. Where is Brody?” she gasped.

  “He’s sleeping in one of the closets. He’ll join Gail soon enough.”