by Amy Cross
Feeling a rush of nausea in my belly, I'm about to tell her that she's sick when I suddenly remember being in this cabin before. It was a night long ago, when I was just a little girl, and Diane was holding me here with the help of a man who must have been Neil Bloom. I was barely conscious, and I only managed to briefly open my eyes as they were undressing me. The next thing I remember after that is waking up safe at home, with my parents looking after me. I threw up, but otherwise I was fine.
And I remember the taste in my mouth back then.
Sweet.
Metallic.
Some kind of drug. A sedative.
“I came so close to doing the same thing to you,” Diane says, stepping toward me with the knife raised. “If Lenny and your father hadn't shown up, you'd have felt our touch all over your pretty, young flesh. And who knows? Unlike that ungrateful wretch Mo Garvey, maybe you would have liked it.”
“Go to hell!” I spit back at her.
She laughs again, while raising the tip of the knife until the blade brushes against my chin.
“Relax,” she whispers. “You're in your late twenties now and that's about twenty years too old for my tastes. I'm sure you tasted good back then, though. Maybe even as good as Mo.”
“Help!” I scream, tilting my head back and crying out as loud as I can manage. “Somebody help me!”
Diane starts laughing.
“Help!” I shout, although my voice is already starting to sound hoarse. “Please! Get me out of here!”
“We're miles from anywhere,” Diane points out. “Who the hell do you think might hear you? Neil and I picked this spot precisely because it was so remote. Poor Neil, he was always so timid and scared of getting caught. He had none of my confidence. Sometimes I really had to coax him out of his shell.”
“Help me!” I yell, struggling desperately to get free, even though the ropes are far too tight. “Please -”
Suddenly Diane leans closer, holding the knife for me to see, and I can't help noticing the glistening saliva on her lips.
“Oh how we'd have enjoyed you back then,” she continues, lowering the knife and using the tip to pull at the top button of my shirt. “Poor Tom knew all about my predilections, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do anything about it. He knew I'd never hurt anyone before Mo, and after the attempt to take you, I promised him that it wouldn't happen again. I wanted another girl, but I knew it was too risky. And then there was the matter of that horrid little ghost I saw in the window of your house. I knew she was watching me.”
“She killed the others!” I hiss.
“Oh, I know. But she never came for me, or for Tom. Don't you want to know why?”
Letting out a cry of anger, I tug harder than ever against the ropes, but they still won't budge.
“It's because she was scared of me,” Diane continues. “She's always been scared of me, even in death. Maybe she knows that in order to kill me, she'd have to touch me. And as she proved with her tears and her screams twenty years ago, she never learned to appreciate my touch. I appreciated her, though.” She leans closer, until I can smell her foul breath. “The taste of her -”
Suddenly I slam my head forward until my forehead crunches against her nose. Letting out a cry of pain, she stumbles back and drops the knife, and then she reaches up and touches her face as blood starts streaming from her nose.
“Did you think that was funny?” she snarls, grabbing the knife and stepping back toward me.
I cry out and try to turn away, but the knife flashes against my face and I feel a sharp pain slice across my cheek, missing my left eye by millimeters. The chair wobbles and tips, sending me crashing down against my right shoulder. I cry out, sobbing as the agony throbs through my chest, and a moment later I realize I can feel blood trickling down across my face. The pain is so strong and so piercing, for a moment I can't even breathe.
“You broke my nose, you stupid whore,” Diane snaps, before spitting some blood at me. “For the love of God, girl, what's wrong with you?”
I turn to look up at her, but suddenly I spot a figure in the cabin's far corner. Mo Garvey's ghost is here, but she's curled up in a ball with her face buried in her hands, and she seems to be weeping.
“She's pathetic, isn't she?” Diane continues, spitting out more blood. “A ghost who's terrified of the living. She was all brave when she was dealing with the others, but with me she can only whimper like a wretched little pig. I don't know what she's so worried about. After we ruined her pretty little face, she was no longer my type. She was still Neil's, though. You should have seen the things he still wanted to do to her corpse. It was sick, really. Say what you want about me, but at least I only did those things to her when she was alive. And at least I tried to be gentle, even while she was fighting back.”
She takes a firm step toward Mo's shivering ghost, and the girl turns and tries to curl into an even tighter ball.
Laughing, Diane waves the knife at her before coming back over toward me.
“I knew I'd have to do something about you, Alex,” she explains. “That first day when I met you outside the house, and when you told me your name, I knew you'd be trouble. Still, in a way it's probably a good thing. I was always going to have to clean up the mess eventually, and I figured you'd slink back to town some day. I actually thought you'd try to clear your father's name, but I guess even you believed the lies about him. People were so happy to believe that he'd murdered Lenny and the others. They were even willing to believe the worst, that he'd killed little Mo Garvey. I was surprised how easily that idea took hold, but I guess everyone loves a spot of gossip.”
“Help me,” I sob, as I look toward Mo's ghost and see that she's still crying and trembling. “Please...”
“Begging a ghost for help?” Diane asks. “Now that really is desperate.”
“Please,” I whimper, “just -”
Suddenly I gasp as Diane flashes the blade toward my face. She doesn't cut me, not this time, but I pull away and try to twist so that she can't get to me.
She laughs.
“I'll make sure you're blamed for my husband's death,” she explains. “And for Harry Bishoff's death, too. That idiot with his book, I always knew he'd be trouble one day. I doubt many people will question what I tell them. They'll just assume that it's a case of a daughter following in her father's footsteps. You even look a little like him. It's in your eyes. You'll probably be buried in an unmarked grave, just like your father.”
“Go to hell!” I shout, turning to her and then seeing that Mo's ghost has vanished from the corner. I look around, trying to spot her, but I guess she got too scared and fled.
“I'll be glad to draw a line under the whole thing, actually,” Diane says, kneeling next to me and rolling me over until I'm on my back. She holds the knife up, letting the blade glint in the low light. “Now I'll be able to enjoy my retirement in peace. No more worrying about you eventually showing up. No more dealing with Tom moping about, letting the guilt get to him. I might even leave Railham. Leave all the ghosts behind.”
With that, she presses the knife against my throat.
And that's when I realize the ropes are coming loose around my wrists. Somebody has started untying them, and a moment later they fall away entirely. I can't quite twist my left hand around, so I try to find some feeling in my numb right arm.
Diane smiles.
“Any last words?” she asks.
“Go to hell,” I whisper, waiting for the right moment to strike.
“Ouch,” she chuckles.
I try again to pull my left hand free. I have to time this perfectly.
“At least your death will be useful for others,” Diane says with a smile. “Just like your father.”
With that, she slashes the knife toward me.
Reaching up, I push through the pain and grab her wrist. For a fraction of a second, I manage to push her away, but she twists my hand and forces an agonized cry from my lips as she leans closer.
/> “Nice try, Alex.”
And then, suddenly, she flashes the knife across my throat.
Crying out, I swing my numb arm at her, hitting her hard enough to send her sprawling back against the floor. She doesn't drop the knife this time, and she quickly flashes the blade toward me, but I manage to stumble out of the way and rush toward the door. Once I've got the door open, I rush out into the cold night air and hurry away from the cabin, racing toward the dark trees even as I hear Diane already coming after me. I can feel a sharp pain on my neck, am I'm already starting to stumble.
“Help!” I scream, even though I know there won't be anybody around for miles and miles. Reaching up, I feel the shallow cut across my throat, with blood already dribbling out. “Somebody help me! I need -”
Suddenly Diane crashes into me from behind, sending me thudding down against the forest floor. Crying out in pain, I try to push her back, but a moment later I feel the knife's blade slicing into my waist and grating against my pelvis. I twist around and slam my elbow into Diane's face, which causes her to fall back, leaving the knife embedded in my body. Despite the immense pain, I reach down and pull the knife out, screaming in the process but forcing myself to turn and hold the blade up just as Diane stumbles back toward me.
“You wouldn't dare!” she snarls. “You haven't got it in you!”
“Try me!” I hiss, flashing the knife toward her.
“You were much more pleasant when you were an unconscious little girl,” she sneers, and I can tell that she's waiting for the right moment to grab the knife back from me. “I might not have done everything I wanted to you back then, but we still had a few moments alone before Lenny and your father took you from the cabin.” Her smile grows. “I managed to start undressing you, just enough to -”
“No!” I scream, lunging at her, but she uses this as her chance. Grabbing my arm, she cracks my wrist against her knee.
The pain is immense, and she manages to grab the knife before turning to toward me and stepping closer.
“How about I help you remember a few more things before you die?” she asks. “Do you remember how Neil and I came into your bedroom and gave you a sedative to make you sleep?”
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly she slashes the knife at me, cutting my hand as I try to push her away.
“How about when you briefly woke up in the car on the way to the cabin?” she continues. “I don't think you liked where my hand was!”
“Stop!”
She slashes me again, this time catching my wrist. I stumble and fall, landing hard, and then I try to hide my face as she towers above me.
“Let's think, what else have you forgotten?” she continues, towering over me. “How about the photos I took while you were out? The ones I put online to be shared by -”
“No!” I scream, lunging at her. She drives the knife into my shoulder, but my right arm is already numb so I barely feel anything anyway. Grabbing the handle, I pull it out and turn the blade toward her face, but I hesitate just as I have a chance to finish her.
“See?” she continues with a grin. “You don't have the killer instinct. At heart, you're still just a scared little girl!”
Suddenly I spot a rush of movement behind her, and something slams into her back. Before I even have a chance to react, Diane falls against the knife and the blade slides deep into her neck with such force that the bloodied tip is forced out through the base of her skull. Letting her weight fall against me, she lets out a pained, shocked gasp, but whatever was behind her, it seems to have already faded into the night air.
“Who's a scared little girl now, bitch?” I stammer, before pushing her dead body away.
I try to get up, but the pain is too much and I simply fall back against the forest floor. High above me, a blanket of stars fills the night sky. Looking across the clearing, I see that Mo Garvey's ghost is still weeping next to the cabin, but I guess she must have somehow summoned the strength to help me. After all, there's nobody else it could have been.
Letting out a slow gasp, I stare up at the blanket of stars. After a moment, no matter how hard I try, I find that I can no longer keep my eyes open. As they slip shut, I realize I can feel someone close to me, and a moment later a hand brushes against my cheek. But not a cold hand.
Epilogue
Alex Roberts
Two weeks later
“In loving memory of Michael Eric Blaine,” Brad reads from the newly-erected tombstone. “Husband and father. Never forgotten.”
“Better late than never,” I whisper, feeling a shudder pass through my chest as I think of all the years when his grave was unmarked. All the years when he was so hated and reviled, nobody even wanted to mark his final resting place, not even his own daughter. All the years when he was written off as an insane, child-murdering monster.
“I'm sorry your mother couldn't be here today,” Brad continues, turning and limping toward me. “I called the hospital this morning, just to make sure, but they said she's stopped talking again.” He places a hand on my shoulder, and for a moment he seems to be waiting for me to say something. Then, slowly, he runs his hand down onto my belly, although it's too early to feel a bump from the child that I know now is growing inside. “Maybe I should leave you alone for a few minutes. I'll wait in the car.”
He pauses, before turning and walking away.
“How did you find me?” I ask, turning to him.
He glances back at me. “Huh?”
“I just realized, I never asked. That night, how did you know to bring the police to find me at the cabin?”
“Well, it helped that you wrote the word Cabin in blood on the wall at home, before the mad bitch dragged you away.”
“I didn't write -”
The words catch in my throat as I realize that Mo must have helped. In fact, I think she was trying to help me all along, even when she led me away from the house while I was sleeping. That must have been her way of trying to get me to safety.
“I'll join you in a minute or two,” I tell Brad. “We need to be back at the house before three, so we can show the realtor around.”
“And you're sure that -”
“Yes. I'm sure. It's time to move on.”
As he walks away, I turn and limp closer to the gravestone. I take a moment to read my father's name again, and I've got to admit that I feel guilty. It took me all these years to stop believing the worst about him, and to arrange for a stone to be erected to make his grave. I shouldn't have been so quick to believe the stories I heard, and I should have found a way to remember that awful night. More than anything, I should have had faith. Faith in my own father.
“It was you, wasn't it?” I whisper, and then I wait in case he shows up.
Shows up?
What does that even mean? Am I expecting to see a ghostly figure suddenly appear right in front of me? Am I expecting to hear him whisper in my ear? A whole bunch of cliched ideas rush through my thoughts before I realize that if he could just appear right in front of me like that, he'd probably have done so by now. Either to tell me he forgives me for believing the worst, or to ask why I didn't trust him.
Instead, all around me, the only sound is the rustling of nearby treetops.
“Was it you?” I ask. “Right at the end, right when Diane had me pinned down, were you were the one who came and helped me?”
I wait again, but deep down I guess I didn't really expect a response. Maybe it's just not that easy. Besides, there's been no sign of Mo Garvey's ghost since Diane died, so they probably can't just come and go as they please. Maybe Mo is finally at peace, and maybe my father is just gone.
At least I remember everything now, and by that I really mean everything. I even remember a few moments from the night I was abducted, but I think maybe Brad was right when he said that you can't remember the good things without remembering some of the bad too. And as Diane Milford discovered, you can't choose your ghosts, either. They either haunt you, or they don't.
�
��Bye, Dad,” I say finally. “I'll come back to Railham and visit you again soon, I promise.”
With that, I turn and walk away from his grave. At that moment the wind picks up all around me, blowing old leaves across the cemetery, and the nearby tree-tops rustle louder than ever. I can see Brad in the distance, kicking some rocks near the car, but as I get to the cemetery gate I can't help but notice a magpie hopping along the old stone wall.
As I slow my pace, the magpie comes all the way over to the side of the gate, stopping to look down at me. Usually I'd just keep walking, but this time I come to a halt and look up at the bird, watching as his little black eyes twitch.
“Hey,” I say with a faint, unintended smile. My first real smile in several weeks. Months, even. “How are you doing there?”
The magpie tilts his head slightly, keeping one of his beady eyes fixed on me.
“Nice day for a fly, huh? You must have better things to do than hang around a cemetery. Shouldn't you be up there in the bright blue sky?”
This time, the magpie hops forward a little, until he's right on the edge of the gate. I swear, it's almost as if he's come to take a closer look at me, maybe even to say hello. If I reached up, I'd be able to touch him.
“Well,” I continue, starting to feel a little silly for talking to a magpie, “have fun, little guy.”
With that, I make my way through the gate and over to the car, although after a moment I can't help glancing over my shoulder. To my surprise, I see that the magpie is still watching me, and I catch myself smiling again. I don't even know why the sight of a random bird gives me such comfort, but I feel a genuine rush of optimism in my chest as I watch him fly away. He soars high above us, arcing and wheeling across the sky until he flies in front of the sun.
