Haunted

by Amy Cross

  “Hey!” Harry says breathlessly, suddenly appearing next to me and following as I continue to make my way toward the lights. “I was up looking for you by the road.”

  “Tell me what we've got.”

  “Well, about forty-five minutes ago one of the rangers was out at -”

  “I don't need a story!” I say firmly. “Just tell me the basics again.”

  “Well, it's little Mo Garvey.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Um, it's difficult to be specific.”

  “No obvious wounds?”

  “Too many.”

  “All over, or focused?”

  Taking care not to slip on the wet leaves as I make my way down a shallow slope, I reach the bottom before glancing back at Harry.

  “Well?” I continue impatiently.

  “I think you'd better see for yourself.”

  “Is she wearing clothes?”

  “I think you'd better -”

  “What the hell's wrong with you?” I snap as I turn and head over toward the others. “Why can't you just answer a straightforward question with a straightforward -”

  And then I see the little girl's dead face, picked out in a flashlight's beam, and I immediately realize that her eyes are gone. Two dark pits are staring up into the night air, but that's only the start of the damage. Slowing my pace a little, I see that there's also a huge amount of blood caked all around her open mouth, and more blood on the side of her head, as if her ears have been mutilated in some way. She's been left on her side, with plenty of dirt and wet leaves stuck to her face, and she seems slightly hunched. Her bare, pale flesh has been left filthy by the mud, and it looks like all the blood in her body was drawn up out of her mouth. Every goddamn drop.

  Her fingers and toes are blue.

  But it's the dirt that really gets me. The filth. Mud is caked against her pale flesh, with fragments of old leaves dried to her face. Once she'd been used for her tormentor's vile purpose, she was tossed aside like a piece of trash.

  “Jesus,” I whisper, stopping just a few feet away and staring down at her eyeless features. “What the hell happened to her?”

  “We're waiting for the coroner,” one of the other deputies, Jackie Oakley, explains. “We didn't really want to shift her too much, in case we disturbed any evidence.”

  “She's been stabbed,” Harry adds.

  “I can see that.”

  “In the back, I mean,” he continues. “And the front too, actually. I counted at least eighteen separate wounds.”

  I swallow hard, fighting the urge to turn away. Still, every second I look at her, I feel a little more of my soul curling up and dying.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  I wait for an answer, before turning first to Harry, then to Jackie, and then to the others.

  “Is there anything else you've noticed so far?” I ask, snapping my fingers. “Come on, guys. Talk to me!”

  “Well...”

  I turn to Harry, and I can see that he's reluctant to say something.

  “Is there any sign of her having been interfered with?” I ask. “Anything sexual?”

  “Well, yeah,” he replies finally, barely able to look me in the eye. Instead, he keeps his gaze mostly fixed on his hands. “Yeah, we think so. It looks that way from, uh... From what we've been able to discern so far. It looks like there might have been a lot of that going on here. A lot of... damage. But really, we thought we should leave that for Doc Milford to look at. It didn't seem right to go poking about too much.”

  A shudder passes through my chest as I force myself to turn and look back down at the girl. Now that I'm closer, and now that I'm looking at the rest of her body, I can see multiple knife wounds that have left cuts all over her pale flesh. I can also see significant amounts of blood around several slits in her belly, extending all the way to her knees, while her bare feet are covered in mud, leaves and even more blood. Her clothes are torn, and in some cases the fabric looks to have been cut open, perhaps by a blade or a pair of scissors. Her shoes are missing too, and I can't help noticing that she has quite a large gap next to each big toe.

  Just like Alex.

  “This is a pretty quiet part of the forest,” Jackie points out, looking up at the trees as if he's trying to find some excuse to keep from looking at the girl. “Even the dog-walkers don't usually come out this far, on account of it being so far from town. I'm thinking that if someone wanted to dump a body and have a reasonable hope of it not being found for a few hours, this'd be as good a place as any.”

  “You're probably right,” I mutter.

  “The road comes to about three miles from here,” he continues. “I reckon someone could park up, carry the body out here and dump it and then get back to their car and drive off, all without being seen. I guess we'll have to wait for Doc Milford to take a look, but the body could've been here most of the day.”

  I nod, before stepping around the body and crouching down to get a closer look. My gut is churning and I feel sick, but at the same time I know that it won't do any good to hang back. The others are busying themselves with paperwork and anything else that gives them an excuse to look away, and I can tell that they're happy to wait for Doctor Milford to come and do the dirty work. Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury. As I lean down and look into the girl's dead, empty eye sockets, I know that I have to face this thing head-on.

  “They've been gouged out,” I whisper.

  “What was that, boss?” Harry asks.

  “I said they've been gouged out,” I say loudly, so I can be sure they'll all hear me. Aiming my flashlight at the girl's face, I take a closer look. “There's so much flesh missing from the sockets, I can see bone.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Harry replies.

  “What happened to her mouth?” I continue, leaning down and trying to shine the beam between her open lips. It's a struggle to really see inside, and there's a lot of blood, but after a moment I feel a chill across my shoulders as I realize what's missing.

  Her tongue.

  Somebody cut out her tongue. I can just about make out the ragged, severed stump at the back of her throat.

  Suddenly feeling as if I might be about to throw up, I get to my feet and turn away. The sensation settles a little, but I still feel faint, and I think maybe I need to wait for Doctor Milford now.

  “This wasn't just a murder,” I point out, taking a few steps away before daring to turn and look back at the body. “They mutilated her. I mean, they hacked pieces away and they cut chunks off.”

  “Do you think she was alive when they did that?” Harry asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I guess Doc Milford'll be able to figure that out.”

  “I guess he will,” I reply, before turning as I hear footsteps in the distance. Spotting a figure coming this way between the trees, accompanied by an officer carrying a flashlight, I feel a shudder of relief as I realize that we're about to be joined by someone who might have a few answers. “And it looks like he's here right now.”

  As soon as Tom Milford gets closer and sees Mo Garvey's body, the shock in his face is apparent. I feel so sorry for him, because he's the guy who's going to have to cut her open and find out exactly how she died. Still, he doesn't have a choice, because we have to get to the bottom of this. I swear to God, I'm going to catch the bastard who did this to her. And as Tom Milford quietly kneels down and begins his preliminary examination, I force myself to keep watching even as the others turn away.

  Slowly, Tom uses a pair of tweezers to lift the front of Mo's shirt, revealing several more thick knife wounds. There's also some kind of translucent substance on her bare belly, glinting in the flashlight's beam.

  Chapter Five

  Alex Roberts

  Today

  “Huh?”

  Opening my eyes, I find that I'm in the hallway. I look around, startled, and it takes a couple of seconds before I realize that I'm standing outside the bedroom in compl
ete darkness. I have no idea how I got here, but I can only assume that after going to bed, I dozed for a while and then got up without really waking properly. Either that, or I started sleepwalking. As I rub a cold patch on the side of my neck, I stand completely still and listen to the silence of the house.

  And it really is silent.

  There's not a sound, not a bump or a creak, and I don't even hear any noises coming from outside. When we lived in New York, we were constantly surrounded by the din of the city, and I guess the incessant background rush started to seem natural. Now that we're out here in the sticks, the silence is overwhelming, especially since Brad insisted on installing new windows. It takes a moment before I realize that this is how things are supposed to be now. I guess this is how things were when I was a kid, too, except that I don't remember any of that.

  Was I talking to someone just now? Just before I woke up out here, I think maybe I was whispering something.

  Looking down at my right hand, I realize that the palm is icy cold. I press it against my other hand, and sure enough I wince slightly as I feel my own freezing skin.

  “Great,” I mutter with a sigh, “I must've sleepwalked and stuck my hand in the freezer.”

  Making my way toward the top of the stairs and then down to the hallway, I almost feel guilty every time a floorboard creaks beneath my feet. I probably crept down loads of times when I was a kid, but it all feels so different now. By the time I get to the kitchen, I've started to come to terms with the reality that I'm the adult in the house now. Well, along with Brad, anyway. I live here, I own the house, and I don't need to creep about anymore. There's no-one I'm going to disturb, no-one who's going to suddenly walk through a door and tell me off for being naughty.

  It's my place.

  Stopping at the kitchen sink, I pour myself a glass of water. As I take a sip, I look out at the dark garden. In New York, there were always lights somewhere. Now, standing here at two or three in the morning, I find myself staring out at pitch darkness.

  Suddenly I hear a scratching sound nearby, and I turn to look across the unlit kitchen. I wait, already trying to tell myself that the sound was all in my head, but at the same time my heart is pounding and I can't help watching the shadows in case something moves. The sound seemed to come from somewhere near the farthest window, but I hesitate for a moment before starting to make my way over. By the time I get to the window, I've almost managed to convince myself that the sound was just a random bump.

  Almost.

  Reaching out, I switch on the light and look around, but there's really no sign of anyone. Brad's fast asleep upstairs, and I know I should just go up and join him, but at the same time I've got this really strong sensation that makes me feel as if I'm being watched. At first I assume the sensation is coming from somewhere inside, but then I look at the window and realize that it's as if someone is watching me from out on the lawn. It's almost as if I can feel somebody's gaze burning into me.

  I pause, before switching the light off again so I can see outside.

  The lawn is dark and empty, and there's no sign of anyone.

  And then the scratching sound returns.

  It's barely perceptible at first, existing at the very edge of my thoughts, but gradually the sound comes closer until I feel certain that something's scratching at the decking outside. An animal, probably, although when I peer out the window I can't see anything at all. I lean a little closer to the glass, while debating whether or not to go out and take a proper look, but at the same time I'm not sure I fancy coming face-to-face with some kind of angry critter or -

  Suddenly something moves in the corner of my vision, and I immediately turn to look back at the lawn.

  There's nothing there.

  There was something, though, and my heart is pounding faster than ever as I realize that I'm sure I spotted a human figure darting through the shadows. I instinctively step toward the back door, thinking I should go out and check, but then I stop with my hand resting on the key and I realize that going out there might not be such a good idea after all. If this was a movie and I was watching someone in my position, I'd be screaming at them to keep the door locked.

  But this isn't a movie.

  And I want to prove to myself that there's nothing there.

  I pause for a moment, before flicking a switch on the wall, turning on the light outside. The patio area is immediately bathed in a bright electric light, and sure enough there's no sign of anyone. Still, the minutes tick past and I keep my eyes fixed on the dark lawn beyond the patio. I don't know how long I'm going to have to stand here before I can convince myself that I'm not being watched, but I figure there's no point going to bed just yet, not while my head is spinning. Besides -

  Suddenly I spot something moving, rushing across the lawn.

  My heart thuds in my chest.

  “No way,” I whisper, as the figure hurries closer, heading straight for the door, “there's not -”

  Something flies through the air.

  Suddenly the window shatters, showering me with glass. A heavy object hits my shoulder and then crashes down against the kitchen table, and I stumble back as glass hits the floor all around me. A fraction of a second later I feel a sharp pain in my left foot, and I look down just in time to see that I stepped on a shard of glass.

  “Alex!” Brad calls out from upstairs, accompanied by the sound of frantic footsteps racing out of the bedroom. “Alex, where are you?”

  Turning to look at the table, I see that a brick has landed at the far end. I step away from the glass and make my way around to take a closer look. As I hear Brad rushing down the stairs, I realize that the brick has a note tied to its other side. Reaching out, I turn the brick over until I can see the note, and my blood runs cold as I read the handwritten message.

  “No-one wants Michael Blaine's daughter in Railham,” I whisper. “Leave now or face worse than this.”

  “What the hell's going on down here?” Brad shouts as he rushes through. “Alex, are you okay?”

  He stops next to me and looks down at the brick, and then he mutters something under his breath as he picks his way past the glass and heads out onto the porch.

  “Come back, you goddamn coward!” he yells, even though the attacker is surely long gone by now. “Come and say that stuff to our faces! I dare you!”

  As if his anger is overflowing, he turns and slams his fist against the jamb.

  “Coward!” he hisses.

  With tears in my eyes, I sit at the kitchen table and read the message over and over again. My whole body is starting to shake and no matter how hard I try to focus on staying calm, I feel as if I'm finally on the verge of breaking down completely. I tell myself that I'm not weak, that I'm not the kind of person who collapses just because some local asshole is having a pop at me, but something deep down is bubbling up and I can't hold back. It's too much.

  Putting my head in my hands, I focus on holding the tears back, even as Brad puts his arms around me from behind.

  “We'll call the cops,” he says, and I can hear the anger in his voice. “Whoever did this, they're not going to get away with it.”

  “Damn straight they're not,” I mutter, wiping my eyes as I get to my feet. “There's no way I'm being run out of my own hometown.”

  Chapter Six

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  “Are you coming home soon, Daddy?”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” I reply, sitting at my desk with photos of the crime scene spread out in front of me. “I just have some work to do first.”

  “Can you read me a story before bed tonight?”

  “Of course. I promise.”

  “But if you're home too late, I might be tired.”

  “Then I'll read it to you in the morning.”

  “But I want you to read to me tonight.”

  “I'll do my best.”

  “But just now you promised.”

  “Alex -”

  Before I
can finish that sentence, I spot Tom Milford signaling me from the office, which can only mean one thing. He's ready to talk me through his preliminary report.

  “I'll try,” I tell Alex finally. “I promise I'll try.”

  “Mommy said you'd probably be too busy.”

  “Tell Mommy to have a little more faith,” I continue. “I'll do my best to be there, sweetheart. You have my word on that. And Alex, even if I don't make it, remember that Daddy loves you. Never, ever forget that.”

  ***

  “You were right about the sexual assault,” Tom says as he pulls the sheet away, revealing Mo Garvey's body on the slab in his examination room. “I'm sorry, Michael, but I've never seen anything like it before, not first-hand. This girl was subjected to a sustained attack of unrelenting brutality. All told, I'd say it must have lasted between fifteen and thirty minutes.”

  I catch a brief glimpse of the damage, of the torn flesh and splinted bones, but finally I have to turn away.

  “You did say you were okay to see her,” he continues.

  “I know, but...”

  My voice trails off. A moment later I hear him rearranging the sheet, and I turn just in time to see that he's re-covered her up to her neck, leaving just her ravaged face exposed. Still, that's bad enough, and the dark pits of her empty eye-sockets seem to be staring straight up toward the ceiling. I know it's crazy, but I half expect her to suddenly turn and look straight at me.

  “How old's Alex now?” Tom asks.

  I can't stop looking at the dead girl. “Seven.”

  “Two years younger than Mo, then. I'm sorry, Michael, I'm sure this must be very difficult for you.”