Fatal Games

by Bruce Richards

  Chip went to the window and looked up and down Elm Street, searching for the hooded figure that had been in his room. But he saw only shadows.

  Then behind him, the door creaked open.

  Oh no, it's back.

  He spun around, his mouth twisted into a silent scream.

  Chapter 18

  The hooded figure with the club was walking toward Chip. Then it spoke.

  "What's your problem, man?" Al asked, still pumping his handheld dumbbell, working up a good sweat.

  "Al?"

  "What was all that banging?"

  Chip suddenly realized his head hurt fiercely. "I banged my head on the wall," he said.

  "Smart," said Al. "Like about a hundred times? That's what it sounded like."

  "I guess that's why it hurts so bad," Chip said. He gently rubbed the back of his head, but it only made the pain worse.

  Al grinned. "Another bad dream?"

  Outside, a terrific flash of lightning was followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Then it started to rain.

  Al pumped the dumbbell more vigorously.

  "Mom working late?" Chip asked.

  Al nodded. "I guess."

  Chip wished she were home. If she were, maybe he'd go downstairs and tell her about his nightmares. But then she'd just worry about him — worry she was neglecting him while she got her business going. No, this was something Chip had to work out for himself. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was glad that Al was here. Chip knew that if he were ever in really big trouble, Al would stand up for him. They were brothers, after all. "So, what are you up to?" Chip asked, trying to start a conversation.

  "About six-four," Al joked.

  "For real."

  "Nothing. Just working out." Al switched the dumbbell to the other hand. He seemed in no hurry to go.

  "Kind of late to be doing that, isn't it?" Chip asked.

  "Maybe I was having trouble sleeping, too," Al answered vaguely. "Besides, it's cold in my room, but nice and warm in the basement."

  The rain fell harder.

  Al's eyes wandered over to the cast-iron stove. "Did you get that thing going yet?"

  "Oh, yeah," Chip said. "It works."

  The brothers were silent for a moment, just listening to the squeaking and groaning of the rickety old house, as Al kept pumping his dumbbell, switching from hand to hand. The veins at his temples were beginning to poke out from the exertion.

  "Did you lock up?" Chip asked his brother.

  "Yeah."

  Al pumped off three more quick curls with each hand then set the dumbbell on top of the cast-iron stove. He crossed the floor and sprawled his sweaty body out on Chip's futon, and stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard.

  Chip was looking out the window again, into the shadows of the old elm tree. A flash of lightning illuminated the yard. There was nobody in sight.

  He turned to look at Al. "You wanna get your sweaty body off my clean sheets?"

  "Why don't you get some furniture for your room?" Al asked, not moving.

  "I like it bare."

  "You ready for the tryout on Monday?" Al asked, stretching. The veins in his temples were still pulsing visibly.

  "I guess," Chip mumbled.

  "I heard Springwood lost again last night. To those chumps from Lafayette, the worst team in their conference. Springwood's got a freshman playing quarterback, some dweeb named Roger Dawson — Roger the Dodger they call him because he won't stay in the passing pocket when the pressure gets heavy." Al gave Chip a devilish grin. "Like you."

  "I stay in there long enough to get the job done. And in case you forgot, I led Middleton to more wins last year than you did your first two years."

  "Pure luck," Al snorted.

  "Yeah, right," Chip shot back.

  "Springwood's also got a senior quarterback playing second string," Al continued. "Barney Something-or-other. I hear the guy's a total geek."

  "Probably why he's second string," Chip commented. He gave his brother a long look. "So, how do you know all this, bro'? You been scouting the opposition or something?"

  Al's face had the expression of a kid's caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I know a guy from the summer league who plays for Springwood."

  "Who?"

  "Just someone," Al said evasively. "And that's not all he told me."

  "So what else did your secret pal tell you?"

  Al didn't answer. Chip wondered if Al was acting mysteriously just to yank him around.

  Al fixed Chip with his icy blue eyes. "I'm gonna win that starting quarterback job," he said with quiet intensity. "I'm going to be the number-one guy. At Springwood, and around this neighborhood, too."

  "We'll see," Chip said nonchalantly.

  "There's no seeing about it. I'm gonna be number one. Número uno. The straw that stirs the milkshake," Al said with sudden, intense passion that verged on anger. "I know what you've always thought. That you're better than me. Giving me those looks of pity. Well, I've got news for you. It's the other way around. I pity you. I'm top dog around here, and I'm going to prove it."

  The rain came down in torrents, lashing the street outside.

  Chip felt a shiver run through him. Al's behavior was bizarre, even by Al's standards.

  "Hey, Al?" Chip asked. "Are you on something, man?" He tried to look into his brother's eyes to see if the pupils were dilated.

  Al flashed Chip a crooked grin, and pointed his finger at Chip as if it were the barrel of a gun.

  He flicked his wrist then, as if he were shooting an invisible bullet right into Chip's chest.

  Whaaaaa-owwww!

  Both boys jumped as a sudden loud wail of pain filled the air.

  Chapter 19

  "It's coming from the basement. Up through the air vent," Chip said, standing motionless by the window.

  "No kidding, Einstein," Al replied sarcastically, staring at the vent.

  "Should we call the cops or something?" Chip asked.

  "Yeah, we could," Al said, finally moving from his spot on the futon and walking toward the air vent. "If we had a phone."

  Chip walked over, got down on his hands and knees, and put his ear to the vent. "There's someone crying down there."

  "Crying?" Al asked in disbelief. "Hey, maybe your weird girlfriend came back," Al suggested.

  "Why would she be crying in our basement?"

  "The same reason she was running around up here last night," Al said. "The chick's nuts. Cute, but nuts."

  Chip stood up from the air vent. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Should we go down there?" Chip asked. "Or are you chicken?"

  Al glared at his brother. "Who're you calling chicken?"

  "You. Chicken. Chicken like the way you ran out on me last night."

  "I was just goofing around," Al protested, "trying to freak you out."

  Chip shook his head and rolled his eyes. He didn't buy that for a moment. For all his bravado, Chip knew his brother was insecure and easily scared. Chip picked up his jeans and sweater from the window seat and started to put them on.

  "You going down?" Al asked.

  "I'm not going to hang out up here all night listening to a lot of moaning and groaning." Chip sat on the floor and laced up his sneakers then left the room with Al behind him. He stopped in the kitchen and picked out the biggest, sharpest knife he could find, then he headed for the basement stairs. Al was armed with his dumbbell.

  Chip's heart was thudding inside his chest. "You ready?" he whispered to Al over his shoulder.

  "Yeah," Al said. "Right behind you."

  Yeah, right, Chip thought, so you can make a quick getaway.

  They crept down the basement stairs. Chip held the knife in front of him.

  The door to Dr. Hawke's office was open.

  In the eerie red glow cast by the furnace fire, Chip could see someone sitting in the old examination chair with his back to them.

  He wore a hood.

  Against the opposite wal
l, outside the office, the rectangular basement window had been shattered, and moonlight ricocheted off the jagged shards of glass.

  A savage jet of flame shot out the open boiler door, illuminating the figure sitting in the examination chair.

  A chill raced up his spine.

  It was the guy who had been in his room. The guy with the club instead of a right hand.

  Chip realized the butcher knife was shaking in his hand. His whole body was trembling.

  The hooded figure was now standing stuffing things into the boiler fire with his left hand. Chip heard him sobbing softly. He was crying.

  Chip glanced back at Al, whose expression was a mixture of dread and curiosity.

  They walked slowly to the open office door.

  Chip felt something rub against his leg and uttered a startled cry. He glanced down and saw Maggie scurry away. When he looked back up the hooded figure was spinning around to face him.

  Chip and Al gasped in horror.

  Although Chip had seen the hooded figure's face before in the dim light of his room, it was even more hideous in the glow of the crackling fire. The ugly gash that ran diagonally across his face was scabby, with bits of it peeling off, revealing pink flesh underneath. Part of his lip hung limply from his mouth, and the eye that hung down was moving around as if it had a life of its own.

  The thing on his hand wasn't a club at all, Chip could now see, but a plaster cast.

  The deformed face was wet with tears.

  Chip's mouth dropped open as he fought back the revulsion he felt at the sight of the ghastly face. The whole scene was so bizarre, so grotesque.

  "What are you up to, buddy?" Al asked.

  The simple question in the outlandish setting sounded absurd to Chip.

  The hideous face stared back at them, speechless.

  Al flicked the office light on, and the face squinted.

  Then Chip realized who it was.

  Even though the face was horribly deformed, he could still recognize the boy.

  He remembered what he had looked like when he had played against him last year in the Middleton-Springwood football game.

  It was Scott Martin!

  Chapter 20

  "So, what's the story, ace? Let's hear it," Al said, gesturing with the dumbbell. "Before I mess up what's left of your…"

  "Chill out, Al!" Chip exclaimed. "That's Scott Martin, Springwood's ex-quarterback. You remember. He played against us last year. And killed us."

  "Jesus…" Al lowered the dumbbell, his mouth agape. He stared dumbfounded at Scott. "What happened to your face, dude?"

  "I was… in a car accident," Scott said in a soft, lisping voice, tugging the hood tighter around his face, turning his head, keeping it in the shadows.

  "A car accident did that to your face?" Al asked in disbelief.

  "Hey, cool it, Al. Huh?" Chip reproached his brother. "Have some…" Pity. He turned his attention to Scott. "What happened, Scott?"

  "The accident was only part of it," Scott said in a bitter voice. "And Evan Walker was the other part."

  "Evan Walker? You mean the kid who used to live here?" Chip asked, setting the butcher knife down on Dr. Hawke's desk. He studied Scott's haggard, dreadful face.

  "Evan Walker did this to my face with a tire iron. Just before he smashed the bones in my passing hand. Crushed them. I'll never play football again.

  "See these?" Scott held what appeared to be several letters in his hand. "That's over, too. My girlfriend, Alicia. Beautiful girl. Never again. She could never deal with this face."

  Alicia? Chip remembered the letter jacket she had worn — probably Scott's.

  Scott's eyes glinted madly. Then he spun around in the examination chair and tossed the letters into the fire. Flames shot from the boiler, nearly licking his fingers. "There's something evil in this house," he rasped.

  "What?" Chip asked.

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Scott said. His speech sounded odd through his ragged, misshapen lips. "I'm not sure I believe it myself."

  "Try us," Al said impatiently.

  Scott took a deep breath. "I was here the night of the murders. Sitting in a parked car outside the house. I saw Alicia go inside with Evan. She was still blind, then…"

  "Blind?" Al interrupted. "Alicia was blind?"

  "She was blinded in the same car accident I was in," Scott said. He half turned in the chair. His profile was terribly abnormal.

  "Evan Walker's uncle was a retired eye doctor, and Alicia thought he could cure her blindness." Scott's expression darkened. "And I guess he must have — since she's no longer blind. The only thing is, it wasn't Dr. Hawke that helped her. It was…"

  A tongue of fire jumped out of the furnace.

  "…an evil spirit," Scott finished.

  "You wanna tell us about this evil spirit?" Al asked, obviously not buying into what Scott was telling them.

  But Chip was ready to believe anything. Maybe evil spirits would explain his nightmares. He leaned on the desk and his hand accidentally brushed against the handle of the butcher knife. The blade swung around to point at Scott.

  "I've spent a lot of time thinking about this," Scott rasped. "A lot of time. Trying to piece together the puzzle. That's why I came here tonight. The answer's here. And I have to know."

  "That's what Alicia said last night," Chip said. "She was looking for an answer."

  Scott's one good eye seemed to flash at the mention of Alicia's name.

  "Dr. Hawke had died weeks before the murders," Scott continued. "His heart stopped beating for several minutes, but he was revived. And then all the weird things started to happen."

  "What weird things?" Al asked.

  "A hit-and-run driver killed Alicia's neighbor, Tiffany Clark, and ran over my friend Boomer's legs. Ellen Sawyer was murdered, and then there was the accident… that happened to me and Alicia." Scott paused for a moment, gathering his strength to continue. "After I got Alicia out of here and they discovered the bodies in the furnace, the police found Dr. Hawke dead in his bed, like he had died in his sleep or something, but I think he had been dead all along." Scott's voice was so low Chip and Al had to lean closer to hear him. "I think Dr. Hawke died that night when his heart stopped. That's when the evil spirit took over his body," Scott said in a harsh whisper.

  Chip felt a wave of fear sweep through his body.

  "And now it's moved on," Scott continued in his pain-filled voice. "Moved into a living body. At least… I think she's still alive."

  Chapter 21

  "Whoa!" Chip exclaimed, holding his hands up in protest. "You don't mean… Alicia?" Chip swallowed hard. "Do you?"

  Scott turned to face Chip and nodded grimly.

  Chip shook his head with disbelief. Not Alicia. Not the girl he had kissed.

  "How did you come up with this… theory?" Chip asked.

  "I was parked outside this house that night when I heard her scream. I ran in and heard another scream. Coming from the basement. I ran down here and found Alicia strapped to this chair. The walls… there was blood all over…" Scott's voice trailed off.

  Chip looked at Al, who was staring at Scott as if spellbound.

  Alicia was here the night of the murders. Why hadn't she said anything about that? Was it too horrible to mention? Or maybe she had been in shock and didn't remember.

  Chip ran his eyes along the cold basement wall that had been part of Dr. Hawke's office. Strange shadows were being tossed about by the burning boiler fire. As Chip watched the shadows dance over the scarlet splatters, the blood turned liquid again and started to run down the walls, first in trickles, then more and more until it was like a crimson waterfall cascading down the wall and across the floor. It was coming toward him. Coming with such force it would surely knock him down and he would drown…

  Chip gasped and closed his eyes, but nothing happened. It was quiet suddenly, the only sound the fire crackling inside the old furnace.

  Chip slowly opened his eyes again.
There was no waterfall of blood. The room was as it had been before. Al and Scott were still talking about the murders as if nothing had just happened — as if they had not seen or heard the torrent of blood.

  Scott was staring into the fire. "When I charged in, Alicia was screaming. The door to the furnace was wide open. I could see Tiffany and Ellen, the two murdered girls, inside. They had been stuffed in so savagely, their arms and legs were broken and tangled up. I saw their faces. They had no eyes. Just empty sockets. Then, as I watched, their flesh melted away." Scott's gaze turned upward. "Evan had hanged himself from those pipes. Or someone had hanged him. His eye sockets were also empty." Scott looked back at the fire. His mouth was a bitter gash. "Alicia was strapped in the chair. In the middle of a nightmare. Talking to someone. Only she wasn't blind anymore."

  "So how did she get her eyesight back?" Al asked with a puzzled frown.

  Scott drew in a deep, ragged breath. "Don't you get it? She was making a deal with the evil spirit to get her eyesight back!"

  "What deal?" Chip asked.

  "She let the evil spirit enter her!" Scott exclaimed. "It lives in her now!"

  Chapter 22

  The fire whooshed inside the furnace as a cold draft slipped in through the shattered basement window.

  "No offense, Scott." Chip still felt a bit dazed. "You've obviously been through a lot and all, but I think what you just told me is a lot of crap."

  Suddenly the boiler fire spat out a burning piece of paper. It floated lazily in the air for a moment before landing at Chip's sneakers. Chip looked down at it. He saw the words:

  I'll always love you, Scotty,

  Alicia

  Chip watched, hypnotized, until the charred piece of letter burned away to nothing.

  He was surprised by the strong pang of jealousy he felt.

  And the powerful feeling of fear.

  "She's evil…" Chip heard Scott say in a voice that seemed a thousand miles away.

  "Look, Scott," Chip began, "maybe you'd better go home and get some rest." And stop breaking into my house, he added silently.