“At least no one came inside,” he said to himself, a wave of relief washing over him. He was satisfied at finding nothing damaged and no one on the property.
After his second pot of coffee, Corey decided it would be best not to alarm Sam and Jonothan. He told Samantha he was off to pull his weekly ten-hour guard duty shift. He didn’t like lying to Sam, but this was for her own peace of mind. He was doing this for her. He kissed her goodbye, hugged his son, ruffled his hair, and left. He didn't go to work, though; he went across town to the police station.
The building sat in the middle of downtown, facing the public library, and was flanked by the courthouse on its right, the fire station on its left. Corey had been sitting in his car in the police station's parking lot for nearly forty-five minutes, trying to figure out exactly what he would say. He stepped out of his car and entered the front door of the station.
The reception desk was manned by two uniformed officers, both currently taking phone calls. After waiting for a few minutes, he was waved forward by the officer on the left.
“Good morning. How can I help you, sir?” The officer's flat tone seemed a little bit too rehearsed.
“Um,” Corey said, looking down onto the officer's chest to get his name, “Officer Dawes, I need to speak with someone about some trespassing that occurred on my property early this morning.”
“Okay, fill out this report and have a seat. I’ll see if there’s an officer available to speak with you. It might be a bit. With Christmas being a couple weeks away, we're dealing with a lot of stupidity around here. Busy morning,” Dawes said, again a little too flatly.
Corey looked around the waiting area of the police station and found only two others in the room besides the uniformed officers behind the desk. Corey sensed the man didn't care and would probably find a way to step out some back door to waste time, have a smoke, or grab another cup of coffee.
“I just want to talk to an officer to see if there is anything I should be worried about,” Corey said to the man's back as he walked away.
“Sir, give me a few minutes. I'll have an officer come and speak with you as soon as one is available.”
Corey took the sheet of paper the officer had given him to a seat in the small waiting room. He filled in all of the information the form requested and then sat there waiting. He was sitting in the corner of the room and could keep a vigilant watch for Officer Dawes. His gaze went from the front desk to the door on its left, which Dawes went through. After what felt like an eternity, the man finally came back.
“This is Officer Miller. He can take your statement and help you with any concerns you may have,” Dawes said to him.
“Good morning,” Corey told the officer and stuck his hand out. Miller took his hand and shook it firmly.
“This isn't the usual way to conduct business, but I will need to leave soon. Do you mind if we speak outside at my squad car?” Miller asked, a warm smile peeking out from under a thick, bushy mustache.
“Sure.” Corey thought the request seemed odd but followed the officer outside.
“What's going on?” Miller asked over his shoulder as they stepped through a doorway leading into the parking area. “Dawes said something about trespassing.” Then, without giving a chance to reply, the officer added, “Just so you know, there isn't much we can really do for you unless there’s major damage and we basically catch the person red-handed.”
Corey told the man everything that had happened. He began with finding the first slip of paper and explained up to the snowman incident and footprints this morning.
“All I want is to see if there’s anything that can be done.”
The officer listened patiently, leaning up against the driver’s side door of his car.
“Okay, so whoever wrote the messages turned the snowman around and stuck a second note in his arms? Do you still have the notes?
“I didn't bring them with me. I don't think they physically turned the whole snowman around. They moved his face, and you can see where the arms had been removed and then stuck back into it.” Corey felt a wave of stupidity wash over him for not bringing the notes. “I can bring the notes to you if you want to see them, though,” he added.
“That's okay. From the way you describe them, the notes are fairly cryptic, but that's really all they are right now. Notes, most likely harmless. What concerns me more are the footprints leading into your backyard that go right up and to your back door.” Officer Miller crossed his arms over his chest. “With there being no real sign of an attempted break-in, and nothing was damaged or taken, I don't see that there is much we can do. Is there any chance your wife or son could have made the tracks?”
“No, Sam was in bed the whole night, and Jon is deathly scared of the dark. They wouldn't have gone outside unless something major was happening. Even then, they wouldn't go without me.” Corey lit a cigarette, offering one to the officer.
The officer eyed Corey from head to toe, seemingly sizing his answer up, and took the offered smoke. “Okay, Corey, if they didn't leave the house then obviously someone was there. My thought on it is very much the same as yours. It sounds like a prank by some high school kids. You might have even scared them off before they could do anything more than mess with the snowman.”
“Have there been any reports of anything in my neighborhood? What would you recommend? Is there anything I should be doing?” Corey asked him, annoyed that the officer wasn't really being all that helpful at all.
“Right now, just sit tight. Keep an eye out for any further activity and basically go on living life like you usually do. If you do see anything else or receive another note, you can call me. My route takes me by your residence; I can swing in and check things out if you receive another note.” He offered a card, and Corey took it, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Um, okay,” Corey said, only somewhat satisfied. “Thanks for your help.” He tried to keep any hint of sarcasm out of his voice.
Corey walked back to his own car slowly, lighting up another cigarette on the way. The cold air bit at his flesh but cleared his head. He got into his car and sat there for a few minutes.
Am I overreacting?
He contemplated this question for the better part of a full minute. When no satisfying answer came to him, he started the car and headed back for home. He resisted the urge to turn on the radio. He needed to think.
They’re probably right, he told himself. It’s only kids, having fun trying to pull a prank. But what if it’s not that? What if I really do I need to worry?
His mind raced. Questions with no answers dashed back and forth—running circles round his head. Finally he gave up and turned on the radio, turning it up until it almost hurt. It didn't matter how loud he cranked the volume, the thoughts were always louder. They screamed at him. Corey hated being inside his own head. What he hated more though was mystery and surprise and not being in control. That's exactly where he found himself now with these damned notes. Someone was playing with him, taunting him. Those damned notes.
EIGHT DAYS, SIX DAYS.
It was obviously a countdown to something. But to what? He wasn't planning anything, nor did he have any events coming up that someone would try messing with him about. The police weren’t going to be of any help; that was the only thing that truly seemed clear. He was on his own, and he had only a short time to figure it out.
When he arrived home, Sam's SUV was gone, so Corey pulled the car into the driveway instead of parking on the street. She was probably out at the store. He would keep an eye out for her to return and move his car then. Before going inside, Corey stopped at the door and looked out at his snow silenced neighborhood. He couldn’t help wondering whether the person responsible for the notes was out there, looking back. Watching him from inside their car, or even one of the homes. The wind howled, nearly blowing his stocking cap off of his head. Corey pulled it back down and stepped inside to the warmth and security of his home.
His vision w
as blurry. He couldn't hear anything except the screaming and crying of Sam and Jonothan. As his vision cleared and his hearing followed, he saw there were three masked people in the room with them. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. He found himself bound to one of their dining room chairs, barbed wire wrapped around each wrist and ankle. He turned his head to the right and saw Sam in the same situation. He followed her gaze forward and saw his son. The sight sent a roar of anger and pain which remained trapped behind a gag of duct tape. He glared at the intruders; each mask had distinct markings on them. Two of the masks were cheap white plastic faces. One had EIGHT DAYS written in red across the forehead; the other was similar but said SIX DAYS. They stood bent over Corey and Sam on either side of them, their blank faces less than an inch from theirs. The third intruder wore a masquerade-style mask, the kind with the long, pointy nose. The mask itself was white with blackened eyes. The nose had been painted a vibrant orange. The man behind the mask wore a dirty black top hat and had a red and white striped scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood before Jonothan but kept his eyes on Corey as he removed the boy’s fingers.
The high-pitched shriek of pain from his son woke him. Corey lay in a heavy sweat, his hair in his fists. He climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen, where he spent the next hour smoking cigarette after cigarette while nursing a tumbler of rum. The burn of the drink calmed his nerves, but the anger never left. He felt nauseated and helpless to do anything.
The next few days went by without any incident. No notes left for him. No one was found on the property nor any evidence that would show anyone besides Corey and his family had been at their home. He did exactly what the officer had recommended he do: he continued life like he always had. Corey was surprised to find out how easy it was to do that considering his initial fears.
He sat stretched in an over-stuffed recliner. He clicked the TV off and stood, stretching a bit. Today was his day off, and he planned to enjoy doing absolutely nothing. He shuffled into the kitchen and poured himself another mug of coffee, adding a bit of cream and sugar to it. He opened the fridge and reached for the milk jug when he noticed what looked like a piece of mail sticking out from under the toaster oven. He slowly pulled the white envelope from its hiding place. The envelope was sealed and addressed to him, no return address. He flipped it over and saw the flap that sealed it was closed and secured with a small round smiley face sticker.
He dropped the envelope to the countertop. The smiley face sticker stared up at him. Corey stepped forward and picked it up, forcing his fingers not to tremble.
Maybe I should just throw this away. Maybe I should give this to the police.
He looked around the counter, finding the remains of an opened electric bill. Sam must have checked the mail. The thought relaxed him in a strange way, but not for long. His next thought was of how Sam always put the mail on the table for keys and mail right by the front door.
What if they came inside? What if whoever has been leaving me these notes found a way to get inside the house?
He twirled the letter between his fingers. His mind went back to his dream. The screams and tears from his five year old sent a resurgence of anger through his entire body. He pulled out the bottle of rum and added a splash to the mug of coffee on the counter.
You're being stupid. This might not even be related to the other notes. Maybe someone sent you an early birthday card.
Corey tore open the letter and pulled out a folded sheet of ruled notebook paper. The paper looked as though it had been hastily torn from its binding, the left edge a ragged mess. There were two lines of swooping cursive followed by another sticker, this one a winking face.
It is my pleasure to invite you to the night of your life!!!
In just three days, we're all going to have one hell of a time!!!
Corey stared at the page for a full two minutes, reading it over and over. His initial gut feeling had been correct. The letter was related.
In my house, he thought.
Then said aloud, “You were inside my fucking house!”
He tossed the sheet onto the remnants of the envelope and put his fist through a cabinet door. He pulled his hand out and promptly swung again, striking the shelving inside, knocking over some canned food. Corey pulled his hand out again and sent it forward a third time. He looked at his fist; the skin had been flayed from the first two knuckles, and there was now a two-inch gash on the outside of his palm that was beginning to well up with hot blood.
He walked out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, holding a kitchen towel around his palm, opened the medicine cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of bandages. He cleaned the cuts and wrapped his hand. Corey entered the master bedroom and rummaged through the clothes that had been collected into the laundry basket.
“Where are you?” he muttered under his breath. As he neared the bottom of the hamper, he found the jeans he had been wearing the morning of the first note.
Corey reached his fist into the pockets until he found the first note he received, scraping the freshly wounded flesh of his right hand. He unfolded and smoothed the slip of paper out on the carpeted floor. The letter only read EIGHT DAYS, but Corey was more interested in the handwriting. The words on this first note were capitalized. He picked up the wrinkled paper and ran back into the kitchen and threw it onto the counter next to the new note. He raced back through the living room and put his coat on, stepped outside, and was greeted by the cold tearing at his face. It made his eyes water.
He went to his car, pulling his keys out of his pocket and pressing the unlock button on the key ring. He opened up the passenger side rear door and pulled out the folded cardboard he had shoved there, unfolded it, and looked at the garishly painted letters. Capitalized. Corey shut the car door and went back inside.
Now he sat at the dining room table. He had arranged everything in order in front of him. His grip tightened on his iPhone, and he enjoyed the sharp pain from his cuts as he scrutinized each letter. He placed the phone next to a glass of rum. He had upgraded his beverage of choice in hopes of the rum's relaxing capabilities.
EIGHT DAYS, SIX DAYS, and then a letter that actually confirmed something was going to happen. Corey now thought there might be two people sending him these little love notes. One sent the first two; there was no doubt about that. Same handwriting, same capitalized block letters. This third note, though, something about it unsettled him more than the others besides the written words. The swooping cursive, the sticker. The smiley face was what got to him. It was a taunt.
Corey picked up the glass and took a long, slow drink. Relishing the burn, he set the glass back down on the table. He grabbed his phone and swiped through his contacts until he found the number he wanted, then selected the icon to send a text message.
The message he sent was to Sam's mom. He told her that some things had come up and the plans for their visit the following week would have to be moved up to this weekend. He also explained to her how some work-related problems would keep him from joining Sam and Jonothan until Monday, maybe even Tuesday. She responded fairly quickly, saying the change in plans would be fine, and she was sorry he would not be able to join them sooner.
Starting in Jonothan's room, Corey packed, gathering enough clothes to last him four days, then did the same for Sam. As he worked, he was thankful his wife was currently out with Jonothan doing some clothes shopping. It gave him more than enough time to gather everything and get it ready.
Sam sat across from her husband with a look of disbelief on her face. Corey had tried to explain to her how, due to things coming up with work for the next weekend, the planned trip to her mother's would have to be moved up to this weekend. She didn't like it. Corey had to brace himself as he added the fact that he wouldn't be going with her. In fact, wouldn't be there until probably Tuesday.
“I knew this was going to happen,” Sam said, her voice quiet and surprisingly calm. “As soon as you said you were having issues with work a
few days ago, I knew.”
“I'm sorry. I really tried to work around the plans.”
“You can stop. If you truly tried, you would have found a way to work it out with your buddy Steve.” She put extra emphasis on his assistant supervisor’s name. She stood. “Your birthday is Monday. I wanted to spend time with you, not be sitting around waiting for you to get to my mom's.”
“I know, love, but we can do something for my birthday on Tuesday.”
“But we planned this. Steve knew. He is such a fucking ass for not helping you. He is worse than the guy you caught stealing,” she spat. “What if we do something on Monday? We can come and just have a little barbecue.”
“No, babe, I have to work. It's not that big of a deal, just another day.”
“I want to do something nice for you. You work your ass off for us. Let me do something for you.”
“Tuesday, Sam. On Tuesday, you can do something. I won't let anything stop it this time.”
“Fine.” She seethed, her face flushed with both anger and disappointment.
Corey sat at the table, barely picking at the burger Sam had brought home for him. He hated deceiving her twice in the same week. He didn't like to lie at all, for that matter, but it was for their safety. Corey found that if he kept telling himself that he actually had an appetite. She had believed him; that was what mattered. She bought that he had to work, and she bought that he had been so angry he put his fist through the cabinet. She wasn't happy about that either, but he would fix it next week.
After dinner, he went into the bedroom to see how upset she still was but found her asleep, Jonothan passed out on his side of the bed. He picked up the sleeping boy and carried him to his own room, taking care not to wake him as he pulled the covers back and slid Jonothan into the bed. His son stirred a little, giving Corey a sleepy half-smile that solidified any doubt Corey had about sending his wife and son to his in-laws’. He had to protect them. He couldn't let anything happen to them.
13 Night Terrors Page 20
