The Merciless

by Danielle Vega

  I lift both arms in surrender and try to catch Brooklyn’s eyes. They’re shifty and nervous, like a wild animal’s. But she holds the knife steady.

  “Brooklyn.” I take a step toward her and she jabs the knife at me. This is the moment I’ve been hoping for since Riley first locked us in the basement. The power has shifted. We can finally escape. “Brooklyn, please. I . . .”

  Riley pulls the plastic sheet away from her face and pushes herself to her elbow, kicking Brooklyn’s legs out from under her. Brooklyn falls backward and slams into the wall. She loses her grip on the knife, and it clatters to the floor. Riley leaps to her feet and rushes her, throwing a shoulder into Brooklyn’s gut. Brooklyn regains her footing, and the two girls stumble to the edge of the staircase. Brooklyn starts to fall backward down the stairs and Riley tries to pull away from her, but Brooklyn grabs her by the hair, and they hit the floor together. They teeter at the top of the stairs before rolling over the edge, crashing downward in a tangle of arms and legs.

  I race to the top of the staircase, Alexis right behind me. They hit the landing together, and Riley manages to pull herself away from Brooklyn. Brooklyn tries to stand, but Riley kicks her in the chest, sending her plummeting down the rest of the stairs alone. I race after her, but before I reach the landing, Brooklyn rolls onto the floor. She lays there, unmoving.

  Riley pushes herself onto her elbow, her breathing ragged. Her hair is slicked back with sweat, and there’s a new bruise forming at her jawline. Alexis kneels next to her.

  “Does that hurt?” she asks. She tries to touch Riley’s bruise, but Riley swats her hand away, glaring at her. I move around them and start down the steps.

  Brooklyn’s arm is wrenched behind her, her legs curled beneath her body at strange, unnatural angles. The bottom steps are streaked with blood. I hold on to the railing as I make my way to the first floor. Riley says something, but her words blur before they reach my ears. I’m focused entirely on Brooklyn. I watch her eyes, praying for them to flicker open. But they’re still.

  Halfway down the stairs, I notice Grace hovering next to the wall. It’s so dark that her sweatshirt and blue jeans blend into the shadows, and I can’t quite make out her expression. She must hear me walking down the stairs because she glances up from Brooklyn’s body.

  “I think she’s dead,” Grace says.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “She’s not dead.” Riley pushes herself to her feet and limps across the landing. “Grace, help me carry her.”

  Grace stares at Brooklyn’s body. Her lower lip trembles. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “We should call the police,” I interrupt. “Or an ambulance. She could be . . .” I falter, not wanting to say the word dead out loud. “She could be seriously hurt.”

  Riley winces as she puts weight on her left leg and starts down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. She hesitates next to me and lowers her voice so the other girls don’t hear.

  “What would we tell the police? That the girl we’ve been torturing accidentally fell down the stairs?”

  She says this so bluntly that it takes a moment for her words to sink in. I smell the wine on Riley’s breath, but I don’t meet her eyes.

  “You were here, too, Sofia,” Riley continues. “You think anyone is going to believe you’re innocent just because you tried not hit her when you threw matches on her bare legs?”

  “You saw that?” I ask.

  “I see everything. Go splash some water on your face. Alexis, Grace, and I will get Brooklyn upstairs.”

  The thought of using that sludgy brown water on my face makes my stomach churn, but I head up the stairs anyway. I need to be away from Riley.

  I pass Alexis on my way up the stairs. She tilts her head to the side, like she’s listening to something I can’t hear. There’s a raw red spot behind her ear where she pulled out her hair.

  I creep past her without a word and head for the master bedroom, but when I put a hand on the doorknob, I change my mind. I don’t want to go inside the bathroom where Brooklyn almost drowned. Instead, I make my way farther down the hall, opening doors until I find another bathroom. I slip inside and close the door. Then I lock it, turning the knob as quietly as possible so there’s no chance Riley will hear it on the first floor.

  With a locked door separating me from Riley, I feel safer than I have in hours. I clench my eyes shut and lean my head against the wood, and I have to dig my teeth into my lower lip to keep from sobbing out loud. All the fear and nerves and anxiety bubble up inside me, and I curl my hands into fists. This pulls the mangled skin on my knuckles and makes the torn cuticles around my fingernails sting, reminding me why I’m here in the first place. I lower my hands and take two shaky breaths.

  There isn’t a mirror hanging on the wall over the sink, just empty white space. It’s probably better, I think, as I switch the faucet on and off. I don’t want to know what I look like after spending the night in a bloody, smoky basement. I check over my shoulder again and again to make sure the bathtub behind me stays empty. With my back to it, I find myself picturing Brooklyn sitting inside, blood and muddy water streaming from her hair.

  It takes a while for water to spurt out of the faucet, and this time it’s not muddy and thick, just a little brown. I run the water over my hands, cringing when it hits the skin at my knuckles and around my fingernails.

  There’s a hair tie next to the faucet, a pink one with a strand of brown hair curled around it. I flick it to the floor, wondering if there’s a single room in this house Riley hasn’t been. I put my hands back below the water, and, after a moment, it actually feels good. I close my eyes, keeping my hands below the stream until the cold turns them numb.

  I turn the faucet off and open my eyes again, glancing back down at the sink just as a cicada pokes its head from the drain. I choke down a scream and stumble back so quickly that my feet bang against the tub and I have to grab hold of the wall to keep myself from falling inside. The cicada crawls out of the drain and into the sink, wings spreading.

  Someone bangs on the door. “Sofia! Hurry, we need your help.”

  Straightening, I unlock the door and pull it open, one eye on the cicada inching across the counter as I slip into the hallway. My skin tingles when I pull the door shut behind me.

  “Watch your head,” Alexis says, and I duck out of the way as she slides a ladder from the door in the ceiling. Behind her, Grace and Riley drag Brooklyn down the hallway by her arms. I watch her for signs that she’s starting to wake, but she doesn’t move.

  Riley stops at the foot of the ladder. She lets go of Brooklyn’s arm, and there’s a sick thud as it drops to the floor.

  “Sof, you’ll have to hold her around her chest and go up backward,” Riley says, nodding toward the attic. “Then Grace and I can each take a leg.”

  “You want to take her to the attic?” I ask. The attic is dark—darker than the basement or the hall next to the kitchen. I doubt there are any windows.

  “The basement was getting too smoky,” Riley says, wrinkling her nose. “And the attic has a good lock, so there’s no chance she’ll get away again. Lexie, why don’t you run downstairs and get the candles? It’ll give us some light.”

  Obedient as ever, Alexis nods. Her bare feet slap against the floor as she heads down the hallway. Riley takes one of Brooklyn’s legs and Grace shuffles forward, doing the same.

  “Sof,” Riley says, nodding at Brooklyn’s chest. “We need your help.”

  Reluctantly, I slide my arms around Brooklyn’s torso and lift her off the ground. My hands tighten around her chest, and I feel the faint thump thump of her heartbeat just below her rib cage. Relief floods through me. She’s alive.

  The three of us slowly make our way up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to redistribute Brooklyn’s weight among us. The attic stairs are too steep to go up backward without holding on to
anything, so I keep one arm wrapped around Brooklyn’s chest and the other hooked over the rickety railing attached to the ladder. Brooklyn isn’t heavy, but her body still threatens to slip from my grip.

  Finally, we make it into the attic. Raw wooden beams and pink insulation form the walls, and the ceiling angles sharply upward. Stacks of faded Vogue magazines sit in the corners, next to Ziploc bags filled with nail polish bottles and an old hair straightener. Empty beer and wine bottles line an entire wall of the attic, arranged by height.

  “What is all this?” I ask, panting as we drag Brooklyn off the ladder and onto the unfinished attic floor. Riley glances up and shrugs.

  “I come here on my own sometimes,” she says. “Just to get away from home.”

  From the look of things, she comes here all the time. I keep my head ducked until we get Brooklyn to the center of the room, where a thick wooden beam juts up from the floor. Then I lean against another wooden beam, exhausted from my climb up the stairs. The tiny circular window on the far wall looks out over the main street.

  I steal a glance out the window, still hoping Josh got my text message and he’s on his way now. But the street is empty, and steely black clouds cover the moon, bathing everything in darkness.

  “Grace, get me that rope,” Riley says, pointing to a metal toolbox next to the wall. Next to the toolbox is the bright yellow nail gun she used to nail the bathroom window shut earlier. I stare down at it, wondering when she brought it up here.

  Riley positions Brooklyn against the beam, and when Grace hands her the rope, she begins winding it around Brooklyn’s body until there’s a thick layer of rope binding Brooklyn in place. Her head lolls forward, and her chin rests against her chest.

  “There,” Riley says, knotting the rope behind Brooklyn. “That should hold her.”

  “We left the backpack downstairs,” Grace says. She hovers near the ladder, one hand still gripping the wooden railing. “I’ll get it.”

  Grace climbs down the ladder. Once her head is out of view, Riley turns to me, but before she can say a word, a sharp, clear ringing cuts through the house. The doorbell. Riley’s face hardens. My heart jumps in my chest—Josh.

  Riley races to the ladder and starts to the second floor, going so fast the rickety wood creaks and groans beneath her weight. I head for the ladder to follow her, but Riley jumps the rest of the way down. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and starts sliding it back into place.

  “Watch her,” she yells up at me.

  “Wait!” I cry out as Riley pushes the ladder up. The door closes, and there’s a clicking sound as it locks into place. “Riley!” I shout, banging on the floor. I work the lever to get the ladder to release, but it holds, tight. The doorbell rings again. Heavy footsteps race down the stairs.

  Shit, I think to myself. She did this on purpose. I push myself to my feet and run across the attic to the window. I press my face up to the glass and squint out onto the street. A bright red pickup is parked by the side of the road. Someone’s in the front seat, his arm resting on the open window.

  I recognize the rumpled shirt immediately.

  “Charlie!” I slam my hand against the window hard, hoping the glass will shatter. “Charlie!” My voice starts to go hoarse, but I don’t care—I shout anyway. “Look up! Look up!”

  The front door swings open downstairs, and low voices sound just below me. If Charlie hears me at all he doesn’t show it. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, then motions impatiently to Josh at the front door. The voices downstairs get louder—it sounds like he and Riley are arguing. I curl my hand into a fist and bang it against the window. The glass shudders, but it doesn’t break.

  “Sofia?” The voice is weak and raspy. I stop pounding on the glass and turn around. Brooklyn lifts her head and her eyelids flutter open.

  “You’re awake!” I crouch next to Brooklyn, studying her face. She cringes and tries to move her arm, but the rope holds her tight.

  “Fuck,” she says, pulling against the rope. “Where am I?”

  “Attic.” I crawl over to her and try to pull the ropes away with my hands, but they’re knotted, tightly, behind her back. “We’re locked up here together.” Outside, a car engine roars to life.

  “No.” I stand and turn around to face the window. A flash of white cuts across the street as the truck lights turn on. I press my face to the glass just in time to watch the pickup pull away from the house.

  “No!” I slam my fist against the wall. Desperate, frustrated tears sting my eyes. “No!” I shout again. “Come back!”

  “Sofia?” Brooklyn shifts on the floor, making the rope binding her groan. Too numb to answer her, I slide to the ground, choking back tears.

  “Josh and Charlie were here,” I explain. “But they’re gone now.”

  Brooklyn turns her head to the side. Her eyes sweep across the room, studying the old bottles and dog-eared magazines. She wrinkles her nose. “And Riley and the others? Where are they?”

  “Downstairs.”

  Brooklyn’s eyes widen. “So we’re alone?”

  I nod toward the door behind her. “Yeah, but we’re locked in.”

  “Attic doors like that lock automatically, but there’s a trick to get them to release.” Brooklyn motions to the ropes with her chin. “Untie me and I’ll show you.”

  I study Riley’s old things as I cross the attic toward Brooklyn. Riley’s porcelain doll sits next to an ancient pink plastic CD player. A new crack cuts between the doll’s eyes, like a scar. I shiver, thoroughly creeped out.

  I crouch next to Brooklyn and start working on the knots binding her to the pillar. Behind me, something clicks.

  “Shout to the . . . Shout to the . . . Shout to the . . .” The words fill each nook and cranny of the attic, echoing off the exposed beams.

  I stand and stumble backward. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s that CD player.” Brooklyn says, studying something behind me. “You must have kicked it.”

  “Shout . . . shout . . . shout—”

  I turn and grab the CD player, hitting the power button. As soon as the music cuts off I hear something else—scratching. It’s coming from the corner.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask, moving toward the noise. It goes silent.

  “It’s probably just rats,” Brooklyn says, shifting on the floor. “Sof, come on, you have to untie me.”

  “Right.” I shake my head and hurry back over to Brooklyn. “Downstairs,” I say as I pull at her ropes. “In the basement, you said you pushed that teacher off a ladder.”

  “Lies,” Brooklyn insists. “Everything I ‘confessed’ was a lie. I thought Riley would let me go if I played her game.”

  “I knew it,” I say, and a wave of relief washes over me. I work my fingers around the knot, but I can’t manage to pull it free. Frustrated, I sit back on my heels.

  “I need scissors or a knife or . . .” I spot the toolbox under the window and get an idea. I race over to it, and dig around inside for one of the long, slightly crooked nails. “This might work.”

  I crouch next to Brooklyn again and try to work the nail through the knot. I manage to loosen it a little before the sweaty nail slips from my fingers. I swear under my breath and fumble along the floor with my fingers.

  The scratching sounds in the corner. They’re louder this time. Brooklyn tenses beneath her ropes.

  “Pretty big rat,” she whispers. The shuffling cuts off, and the attic goes silent.

  I find the nail and stand, inching toward the noise. It came from the far corner of the attic, directly above the empty room where Alexis pulled out her own hair. The floor over there is bare, empty. It’s kind of strange—Riley’s magazines and cosmetics pack every corner of the attic. Except that one.

  I kneel on the floor next to the wall.

  “Is something there?” Brookl
yn hisses. I hold a finger to my lips, quieting her. There is something, but it’s quiet enough that I couldn’t hear it across the room. The noise sounds familiar now. It’s a low, rasping sound that I can’t quite place.

  I lean into the wall and press my ear against the wood. I recognize the noise now.

  Breathing.

  I yank my face away from the wall and dart back, an animalistic survival instinct kicking in. My entire body tenses to run.

  Then my brain catches up. Someone’s hiding back there, watching us. I narrow my eyes, and I lift a hand to the wall. It’s too dark up here to see, but I feel a shift in the wood. A door.

  “Sofia, what the hell?” Brooklyn hisses. I wedge the crooked nail into the narrow opening. The door creaks open, revealing a shadowy, cramped crawl space. Two eyes blink in the darkness. I startle as Grace moves into the dim attic light, her skin ashen. Sweat gathers beneath her hairline.

  “Grace, you scared me half to death!” I say.

  “Riley made me,” she whispers before I get the chance to ask her what she’s doing. “She wanted to see what you would do when you were alone.”

  My throat goes dry. “Why?” I ask. The sound of the attic door falling open interrupts us, and Riley appears at the top of the ladder. She glances at Brooklyn’s ropes and the crooked nail in my hands.

  “Why do you think?” Riley says.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I back away from Grace’s crawl space, dropping the nail. It hits the floor with a soft ping, then rolls to a stop next to Brooklyn’s knee. Riley follows it with her eyes.