But not telling them…that could prove to be a mistake. No one knows I’m here.
What if the true killer is inside?
I am frozen, standing in front of the garage door. The blank windows on the second floor look down at me like lifeless eyes. Like the Mannequin Man’s eyes were at Cocoa’s two years ago.
The house is eating itself. Soon, I think, it’ll fall.
“What am I doing?” I whisper. “You’re an idiot, Melanie.”
In my back pocket is my iPhone. I pull it out now. Of course, I have no service. The little bars in the upper corner are nonexistent.
My mind is telling me to get back into the car and leave. To put the pedal to the metal and go, go, go.
But another part of my mind is telling me that I’ve already come this far. I have nothing to be afraid of. This is just an old, abandoned house. No one is here. Not now, at least. If I don’t get something out of this trip, the curiosity and the feeling of failure will eat away at my brain until I go insane.
I’m thinking that if it’s lived in recently, I’ll be able to tell. I won’t have to go inside. I can just look through the windows.
So I shake the frozen feeling away. Take a step, and then another, and then another. I approach the door to the left of the garage. Overgrown bushes crowd the porch. One of the steps is gone; another is slanted. I hop over them, using the wobbly railing for support. The curtains are drawn in the window, but I stand on my tiptoes and peer through a small part between them.
The place is pretty much empty except for a rolled-up rug resting against a far wall and some newspapers, very old by the faded looks of them. There’s a bookshelf in the corner of the room. Dust piled on it, inches thick. I look for a long moment.
I see no movement. Not even rats or stray animals that have found refuge in the place, though a sour smell emanates from within.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding for I don’t know how long.
Part of my mind whispers: Bodies? Is that the smell of bodies? The missing girls?
“There, Melanie,” I say. “The place is empty.” I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.
What was I really expecting? A slaughterhouse? Something straight out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Corpses hanging from meathooks, all faceless and rotten?
Back in my car. Close the door, start the engine. I look over my shoulder as I reverse into the turnaround.
The house is on my left now, still looming, brooding. It almost seems a living thing.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe an intuition, but as I pull forward, I look back at it, and I swear I feel eyes watching me.
Human eyes.
Hungry eyes.
Thirty
When I get home, I’m exhausted. There’s no new developments on the case. Wymer hasn’t given up the locations of the other bodies yet. The media thinks he and his lawyer are holding out for a better deal.
Lola texts me: Goodnight, hope to see you soon.
I don’t text back. I mean to, but I’m lying in bed with Chester purring softly next to me. The feeling of being home is one I’ll never take for granted again, not after being in the middle of nowhere.
I was dumb to go to the farmhouse. I know. I realize that. I didn’t go inside, no, but I didn’t see anything but an old, rotting house. There isn’t anything in there. Can’t be. At least, I’ve convinced myself that is the case, and it has become a weight off my shoulders.
With that said, I fall asleep almost instantly.
I dream of faceless women stumbling toward me. They are talking without lips.
Help us…helpppppp ussssssss.
I can barely understand them. I’m screaming, but no sound escapes from my mouth. I try to run.
I’m in the farmhouse, Wymer’s old childhood home. I turn to my left, and I see a mirror. In the mirror is my reflection.
My face is gone, just a bloody smear of meat with bulging eyes.
I wake up sweating. My hands slap at my cheeks, pinch, prod. It’s still there.
As I calm down, which is far from easy, the heaviness of exhaustion settles over me. It was not a good night’s sleep.
The light coming in through the window is cold and blue. Today will be a gray and rainy day.
I get up and shut the curtains. There’s enough grayness in my life.
Five minutes later, I’m back asleep. This time there are no nightmares.
I’m aware of my mother coming in my room and telling me bye, kissing me on the forehead. Her and my father went somewhere. To the grocery store or to visit friends, I think. I don’t know because I’m so out of it.
Not long after, I wake.
I check my phone. For the last however long Lola and I have been dating, she has always sent me a good morning text with a barrage of cute heart-eyed emojis, bright and early.
But not today.
The time is 11:19 a.m. The sun is now out, and the sky is blue. Gray, gray, go away, come again some other day. Looks can be deceiving, though. It can look like a summer’s morning but be bitter cold when you step out. That’s Ohio for you.
I text Lola instead. Hey. How are you?
I wait a moment, wait for those little dots indicating she’s texting back. She works on an iMac, so she has iMessage linked to her work computer. She’ll get the text instantly unless she’s in a meeting. At her job, she’s got a cool boss. She says she can pretty much get away with anything.
Then again, she takes a lunch break at eleven. I know this because I’ve met her for lunch at least five times.
I’m starting to get worried. A bad feeling invades my stomach, the same feeling I got last night at Wymer’s old farmhouse. I still remember thinking someone was watching me as I drove away, watching from the shadows, breathing heavily.
I shiver.
Don’t let it get to you. She’s fine, I think as I head into the bathroom for my morning ritual. I need to get Lola off my mind. I need to get everything off my mind. Maybe a trip to the Lounge and a date with some vodka are in order.
Lola will text back and tell me she’s mad or something, since I’ve been ducking her lately and acting all weird. We’ll make up. It’ll be fine.
Then I think the worst: What if this is her way of breaking up with me?
No. No. That would be bad. I really, really like Lola. Throwing all that away for what? Because I’m being paranoid, like she and everyone else in the world thinks I’m being?
I go downstairs. I’m hungry. Cereal and a bagel sound pretty good right now.
Before I’m halfway down the steps, though, I hear Chester yowling. It sounds like he’s stuck somewhere, and I nearly hop the last few stairs.
Chester, he’s not stuck. He’s at the front door, pacing frantically. I’ve never seen him like this before. Is he hungry? No, he can’t be. I remember filling his bowl to the brim last night.
“Chester? You all right?”
He looks back at me, fear in his eyes. He stands on his hind legs and leans against the door. He rakes his front paws up and down, up and down, like he’s trying to dig through the wood.
“What is it?”
He yowls.
“Something outside? Sexy little alley cat?” I laugh, reach out for the doorknob, unlock the deadbolt and then the lock on the knob.
This is when I see it. The piece of paper taped to the outside of the storm door.
Chester meows again, jumps up at the little white envelope the way he does when I bust out the laser pointer and have him chase the red dot all around the house.
On the envelope, my name is written in shaky purple ink.
MELANIE
My breathing turns raspy. I’m shivering. The world around me dissolves into hazy pixels, so all that my eyes can focus on is the envelope. I recognize that handwriting as easily as I’d recognize my own face.
Now Chester’s scratching at the glass.
All I want to do is slam the front door, lock the deadbolt, hook the chain, and barricade myself in my
room. A scream builds in my throat, but it’s lodged there.
Be strong, I tell myself.
Easier said than done.
I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them, the envelope will dissolve with the rest of the world, hoping that I’m actually still asleep and this is all a hyper-realistic nightmare.
It’s not. I know. It’s too lucid. The difference between reality and nightmare isn’t hard to decipher. Unfortunately.
Be strong. Be strong.
I’m prepared for anything. At least, this is what I’m saying in my head.
I ease the storm door open, the hinges creaking. Absentmindedly, I shoo Chester back into the foyer.
The letter is cold, and I know there’s only a single sheet of paper inside it, but it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, that it’ll rip my arms out of my sockets.
My fingers feel something inside it. Something bumpy and hard.
I shut the door. Chester is still yowling. He follows me into the kitchen, where I sit down at the table. My pulse races. I feel light-headed, like I’ll pass out any second. Part of me hopes that’s what happens; at least I’ll be able to put reading this letter off a little longer.
I tear open the side with my finger, and my skin crawls thinking the Mannequin Man might’ve licked the top of the envelope. I know, it’s a long shot. He wouldn’t be that stupid to leave behind obvious DNA, but still, I can’t shake that feeling.
The letter slides out. Whatever’s hidden inside its folds clunks on the tabletop.
I take another deep, shaky breath, trying to mentally steel myself for whatever words are written there.
I unfold it.
The same purple ink as the last letter. But there’s something else that catches my eye first…
It’s a ring. A small silver ring, a shining green emerald on top. It’s Lola’s ring, the one she told me her grandmother gave her.
My heart breaks.
Lola. No. God, please.
I try to read the words written above it, but I can’t. My eyes are shaking; I can’t focus.
Tears streak down my cheeks, drip off my jawline, and splash the tabletop. I swipe them away. Take another deep breath.
I have to read it. I have to. For Lola.
Melanie,
As you can see, I have your pretty main squeeze. You are smarter than you look. But this is not over. I have a bone to pick with you, little lady. If you want Lola back safe and sound, you’ll have to play by my rules.
I saw you last night. Snooping around. You can use a computer. Good for you.
Come back. The house is not as empty as you think. We’ll have a nice chat.
But…little kitten, if you go to the police, if you consult with that buffoon Klonowski, I’ll slice Lola’s face off, and then I’ll go for your parents. How sweet and miraculous it is that your mother has beat her cancer. It’d be a shame if I had to gut her after all she went through.
Come now. Don’t waste any time.
I’ll be waiting.
-M.M.
Thirty-One
I’m not an idiot.
But I’m scared. No. Not scared. I am petrified.
I have to do it. I have to go back to that creepy farmhouse. I can’t let him hurt anyone else. My mother, my father? Lola? They’re all I have left in this fucked-up world.
It’s time for me to face my fears.
But like I said before, I am not an idiot.
I try calling Klonowski three times. He doesn’t pick up, so I send a message his way instead with a picture of the letter. Slightly blurry. No time to take another one. After this, I forward him the name ‘Helen Wymer’ and the address of the farmhouse from my GPS app.
4436 Great Creek Rd, Southington, Ohio.
This is where it ends, I think.
I hope.
Thirty-Two
Klonowski doesn’t text me back. He’s probably sleeping. I call him twice more and it goes to voicemail each time. I leave a message, tell him that I was right, the Mannequin Man is still out there. Wymer is just a pawn. And that he needs to check his text messages, which is something he’s never been good at. He’s an old man when it comes to technology; texting is as mystical to him as mermaids or centaurs to the average person.
I wish I could sit and wait for his reply, for some help, but I cannot wait any longer.
My parents aren’t home. If they were, I could hug them and kiss them and tell them I love them. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.
Chester senses something wrong. He jumps into my lap. He doesn’t do that often, not unless he wants food. Seeing as how I just fed him, this is different. His animal senses are attuned to this. That’s why he went crazy when the letter was posted on the storm door. He must’ve sensed the Mannequin Man…or another one of his errand boys, like Cooper Wymer.
I stroke his head, lift him up, and kiss him between the eyes. He purrs lovingly.
“I have to go, buddy,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
But I don’t know if I will. Not really. The future is as much a mystery to me as it has ever been.
I put him down, throw my coat on, and then I am out the door of my childhood home. Perhaps for the last time ever.
Thirty-Three
The drive to Southington goes by in a blur. Reception is spotty, but I get no reply from Klonowski. I call the police, get put on hold, and the call drops.
Hopeless.
I keep to the speed limit. I know I should be speeding, have my foot slammed on the gas, but I can’t.
It’s because I am scared.
I have brought a weapon, one of Mom’s butcher knives. It has an orange handle and oranges on the blade. It is exactly the type of weapon you wouldn’t expect to defend yourself with. My options were limited.
I don’t listen to music; instead I listen for my phone to go off, to ring, hoping to see Klonowski’s name across the screen, but he doesn’t call back. Doesn’t message.
I am on my own.
The farmhouse is so different in the sunlight. The time is one in the afternoon. I can see all the deformities of the place, instead of what was illuminated by my headlights yesterday. It looks sloped, as if the ground is swallowing it into its own grave. Parts of the roof have caved in. The chimney juts up like a jagged finger.
Somehow, it’s more foreboding in the day than at night. Maybe it’s just that I know what awaits me inside.
I turn right into the driveway.
My phone doesn’t ring, and it won’t now because the bars in the upper right corner of my screen are gone. No service.
The butcher knife weighs heavily in my pocket. I picture slitting the Mannequin Man’s throat, getting revenge for all the women he’s killed, for all the trouble, fear, and anxiety he’s caused me.
I pull into the same spot I was in yesterday, but I’m hesitant to shut the engine off.
Waiting.
Waiting.
A few minutes pass and nothing happens. I begin to think it is all a joke, that someone is messing with me. The letter was a hoax, like the previous ones should’ve been.
As I’m thinking this, the garage door raises up about a foot. I see legs in the gap, wearing jeans. The breath is stolen from my lungs.
The door goes up no farther.
In a crack, I see the shadow of a face looking out at me.
He won’t step out until I shut the engine off and I prove that I am not a threat. I know this. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.
So I shut the engine off, and I sit there for a moment, trying to wrap my head around what is going on. I’ve found myself playing a game of cat-and-mouse with a serial killer.
Where did my life go wrong?
I shake my head.
No. I have got to do this for Lola. I have to save her. I will sacrifice myself so she can keep on going. That’s how much she means to me.
Another deep breath.
I get out of the car.
I close the door.
&
nbsp; A voice: “Keys. Throw them this way.”
I recognize this voice. It’s the same voice that called me a stupid bitch before my shoulder and upper arm were slashed to ribbons at Cocoa’s.
It’s the Mannequin Man.
I close my eyes. This can’t be real. Please don’t let this be real.
When I open them, all this will dissolve away like a bad dream.
But as I open them, that’s not the case.
The house is still there, the empty windows staring at me, the half-open garage door like a hungry mouth.
I toss the keys toward the visible legs. There’s a chuckle, shrill and insane. It’s him. I can’t see his upper half, but I know it’s him.
“Well, c’mon, Melanie,” the voice says. “I won’t bite.” Another burst of laughter.
Far off, a bird caws. The wind blows and it’s colder than it has been all day.
I step forward, fighting the ice coating my limbs and joints again.
“That’s it. That’s it. My, my, you have gotten so much prettier since I’ve last seen you so close. Womanly.”
“Fuck you,” I say. The words burst through my lips on their own. I’m no longer in control.
“That’s not very nice. I’ll let it slide, though. I think we can be good friends, you and me. A couple of lookers like us. Ooh, boy!”
I stop about ten feet from the door. Slowly, it begins rising.
It comes to his waist. The door pauses there.
“Yes, so, so pretty. But you’ve gained a little weight, haven’t you? Been eating too much of your mother’s world-famous spaghetti and garlic bread, I presume? Been bingeing?”
His words bring a bitter taste to my mouth. The very idea of him spying on us while we ate that night makes me never want to eat again.
Where else has he watched me? In bed? The shower? At the hospice? At work?
“Well, Mel, we can fix that, I think. Oh yes, we can.” His tone changes from playful to a tone full of venom. “Come closer.”
I don’t.
I feel the butcher’s knife in my back pocket. The handle jabs me in the spine, beneath my shirt and jacket. I let my hands fall to my side. I’m wondering how fast I can pull it free. I’m wondering if I’ll have the courage to actually stab this piece of human garbage, the way he has stabbed his victims.
Plastic Girls Page 10
