The Twisted Ones

by Scott Cawthon

  When they reached the campus, Clay let her out where he’d found her. She’d only taken a few steps from the car, however, when he called to her from the car window. “I feel like I need to tell you one more thing,” he said. “We found blood at the scene, in the main dining room where Dave …” He looked around cautiously. There was something unseemly, talking about gruesome things on the sheltered grounds of the campus. “It wasn’t real blood, Charlie.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charlie took a step back toward the car.

  “It was, like, costume blood, or movie blood. It was pretty convincing, though. We didn’t realize it was fake until the crime lab looked at it under a microscope.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Charlie asked, although she knew the answer. The terrible possibility was pounding in her mind like a headache.

  “He survived once,” Clay said plainly.

  “Well, he didn’t survive the second time.” Charlie turned to walk away.

  “I’m sorry you have to be involved in this,” Clay called.

  Charlie didn’t answer. She looked down at the pavement and clenched her teeth. Clay raised the window without another word and drove away.

  Charlie checked her watch: she was on time to meet John, even early. She passed under a streetlight and looked down at herself, checking her clothes. Oh no. The knees of her jeans were wet with mud, and there was a dark stain where she had wiped her fingers clean of the dead man’s blood. I can’t show up covered in blood. He’s seen me like this too many times already. She sighed and turned around.

  Thankfully, Jessica was gone when she got back to the room. Charlie didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. Clay hadn’t explicitly told her to keep it a secret, but she was fairly sure she shouldn’t broadcast her private visit to a crime scene. Charlie cast a glance at the faces under their pillowcase cover, but didn’t go to them. She wanted to show her project to John, but, like Jessica, he might not understand.

  She opened a dresser drawer and stared down at the contents without registering them. In her mind, she saw the body again, its limbs splayed out as if it had been thrown down where it lay. She covered her face with her hands, taking deep breaths. She had seen the scars, but she’d never seen the wounds of the spring locks fresh. Now Dave’s eyes came to her, the look of shock just before he fell. Charlie could feel the locks in her hands, feel them resist, then give way and snap. That’s what happened. That’s what I did. She swallowed, and slid her hands down to her throat.

  Charlie shook her head like a dog shaking off a wet coat. She looked at the open drawer again, concentrating. I need to change. What is all this? The drawer was filled with brightly colored shirts, all unfamiliar. Charlie startled, a dim panic seizing her. What is all this? She picked up a T-shirt and dropped it again, then forced herself to take a deep breath. Jessica. They’re Jessica’s. She’d opened the wrong drawer.

  Get it together, Charlie, she told herself sternly, and somehow it sounded like Aunt Jen’s voice in her head. Despite everything that lay between her and her aunt, just imagining her cold, authoritative voice made Charlie a little calmer. She nodded to herself, then grabbed what she needed: a clean T-shirt and jeans. She dressed hurriedly, then left to meet John, her stomach fluttering, half-excited, half-sick. A date, she thought. What if it doesn’t go well? Worse, what if it does?

  As she neared the Thai restaurant, she saw that John was already there. He was waiting outside, but he didn’t look impatient. He didn’t spot her right away, and Charlie slowed her pace for a moment, watching him. He seemed at ease, gazing into the middle distance with a vague, pleasant expression. He had an air of confidence he hadn’t possessed a year ago. It wasn’t that he’d been unsure of himself then, but now he looked … adult. Maybe it was because he’d gone straight to work after high school. Maybe it was what happened last year at Freddy’s, Charlie thought with an unexpected sense of envy. Although she’d moved out on her own, to a new home and a new college, she felt as if the experience had left her more a child, not less. Not a cared-for or protected child, but one who was vulnerable and unmoored. A child who had looked under the bed and seen the monsters.

  John noticed her and waved. Charlie waved back and smiled, the expression unforced. Date or not, it was good to see him.

  “How was your last class?” he said by way of greeting, and Charlie shrugged.

  “I don’t know. It was class. How was the rest of work?”

  He grinned. “It was work. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” Charlie said decisively. They headed inside and were motioned to a table.

  “Have you been here before?” John asked, and Charlie shook her head.

  “I don’t get out much,” she said. “I don’t even come out to town that often. The college is sort of its own little world, you know?”

  “I can imagine,” John said cheerfully. Now that the secret was out that he wasn’t in school, he’d apparently shed his earlier discomfort. “Isn’t it a little bit … ?” he searched for words. “Doesn’t it feel a little isolated?”

  “Not really,” Charlie said. “If it’s a prison, it’s not one of the worst.”

  “I didn’t mean to compare it to a prison!” John said. “So, come on, what are you studying?”

  Charlie hesitated. There was no reason not to tell John, but it seemed too soon, too risky to announce that she was eagerly following in her father’s footsteps. She didn’t want to tell him she was studying robotics until she had some idea of how he would respond. Just like with her project.

  “Most colleges make you do a set of classes your first year: English, math, everything like that,” she said, hoping it would sound like a response. Suddenly Charlie didn’t want to talk about school; she wasn’t sure she could keep up a conversation about anything, really. She looked at John, and for a moment imagined the spring-lock wounds in his neck. Her eyes widened and she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to ground herself.

  “Tell me about your job,” she said, and saw her own hesitation mirrored on his face.

  “I mean, I like the work,” he said. “More than I thought I would, actually. There’s something about doing physical labor that kind of frees my mind. It’s like meditation. It’s hard, though, really hard. Construction workers always make it look so easy, but it turns out it takes a while to build up that kind of muscle.” He stretched his arms comically over his head, and Charlie laughed, but couldn’t help noticing that he was clearly well on his way to that kind of muscle. John leaned to his left and gave his armpit a quick sniff, then made a look of mock-embarrassment. Charlie looked down at her menu and giggled.

  “Do you already know what you want?” she said. Then the waitress appeared out of nowhere, as if she’d been listening nearby.

  John ordered, and Charlie froze. She’d said it just to say something, but she didn’t know what to get. Suddenly she noticed all the prices. Everything on the menu was impossibly expensive. She hadn’t even thought about money when she accepted John’s invitation, but now her mind jumped to her wallet, and her nearly empty bank account.

  Misreading her expression, John leaped in. “If you’ve never had Thai food, Pad Thai is good,” he suggested. “I should have asked,” he said awkwardly. “If I’m buying a lady dinner, I should make sure she likes the food!” He looked embarrassed, but Charlie was flooded with relief. Buying a lady dinner.

  “No, I’m sure I’ll like it,” she said. “Pad Thai, thanks,” she told the waitress, then gave John a mock-glare. “Who are you calling a lady?” she said playfully, and he laughed.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It just sounds weird, you calling me a lady,” Charlie said. “So anyway, what do you all day besides meditate?”

  “Well, the days are long, and like I said, I’m still writing, so there’s that. It’s strange being in Hurricane again, though. I didn’t mean to put down roots.”

  “Put down roots?”

  “Like, join a bo
wling team or something. Ties to the community, things like that.”

  Charlie nodded. She of all people understood the need to remain apart. “Why did you take the job here, then?” she asked. “I know they needed people because of the storm, but you didn’t have to come, right? People are still building things in other places.”

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “To be honest, it was more about getting away from where I was.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Charlie muttered, too softly for him to hear.

  The waitress returned with their food. Charlie took a quick bite of rice noodles and immediately burned her mouth. She grabbed her water glass and drank. “Yikes, that’s hot!” she said. “So what were you getting away from?” She asked the question casually, as if the answer would be simple. Do you have nightmares, too? She held back the words, waiting for him to speak.

  John hesitated. “A … girl, actually,” he said. He paused, searching for a reaction. Charlie stopped chewing; that wasn’t at all the answer she’d been expecting. She swallowed, nodding with self-conscious enthusiasm. After an excruciating silence, John went on.

  “We started dating the summer after … after Freddy’s. I told her I wasn’t looking for anything serious, she said she wasn’t, either. Then suddenly it was six months later, and we were serious. I had just started working. I’d moved out on my own, and had this grown-up relationship. It was a shock, but a good one, I guess.” He stopped, not sure whether he should continue. Charlie wasn’t sure she wanted to give him permission.

  “So, tell me about her,” she said calmly, avoiding eye contact.

  “She was—is, I mean. I’m not dating her, but it’s not like she’s dead. Her name is Rebecca. She’s pretty, I guess. Smart. She’s a year older than me, a college student studying English; has a dog. So yeah, she was all right.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Really,” Charlie said drily, and he smiled.

  “No. I felt … on guard around her. Like there were things I couldn’t tell her, things she’d just never understand. It wasn’t because of her. She was great. But she knew I was holding something back; she just didn’t know what it was.”

  “I wonder what it could have been?” Charlie asked quietly. The question was rhetorical; they both knew the answer.

  John smiled. “Well, anyway, she broke up with me, and I was devastated, blah, blah, blah. Actually, I don’t think I was that devastated.” John looked down, focusing on his food but not touching it.

  “Have you ever tried to tell anyone about Freddy’s?” John glanced back up and pointed his fork at Charlie. She shook her head. “It wasn’t just what happened,” he went on. “I can’t imagine telling that story and having her believe me, but it wasn’t only that. I wanted her to know the facts of it, but more, I wanted to tell her what it did to me. How it changed me.”

  “It changed all of us,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, and not just last year. From the beginning. I didn’t realize it until after we’d all gone back, how much that place had just … followed me.” He glanced at Charlie. “Sorry, it must be even weirder for you.”

  Charlie shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe. I think it’s just different.”

  Her hand was resting on the table beside her water glass, and now John reached out to touch it. She stiffened, and he drew back.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not you,” Charlie said quickly. His dead face, the dead skin of his throat. She had barely noticed it at the time, overwhelmed by the whole experience, but now the feeling of the dead man’s neck came back to her. It was as if she were touching him right now. She could feel his skin, slack and cold, and slick with blood; she could feel the blood on her fingers. She rubbed her hands together. They were clean—she knew they were clean—but still she could feel the blood. You’re being dramatic.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and got up before John could respond. She made her way around the tables to the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant. It was a three-stall bathroom; thankfully it was empty. Charlie went straight to the sink and turned the hot water on full-blast. She pumped soap onto her hands and scrubbed them for a long time. She closed her eyes and focused on the feeling of hot water and soap, and slowly the memory of blood faded. As she dried her hands she looked at herself in the mirror: her reflection looked wrong somehow, off, as if it wasn’t herself she saw, but a copy. Someone else dressed as her. Get it together, Charlie, she thought, trying to hear the words in Aunt Jen’s voice, as she had before. She closed her eyes. Get it together. When she opened them again she was back in the mirror. Her reflection was her own.

  Charlie smoothed her hair, and went back out to the table, where John was waiting for her with a concerned expression.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked nervously. “Did I do something?”

  Charlie shook her head. “No, of course not. It’s been a long day, that’s all.” There’s an understatement. She glanced at her watch. “Do we still have time for a movie?” she asked. “It’s almost eight thirty.”

  “Yeah, we should go,” John said. “Are you done?”

  “Yeah, it was really good, thank you.” She smiled at him. “The ‘lady’ liked it.” John smiled back, visibly relaxing. He went to the counter to pay, and Charlie went outside, waiting for him on the sidewalk. Dark had fallen, and there was a chill in the air. Charlie wished briefly that she’d thought to bring a sweatshirt. John joined her after a moment.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “Where is it?”

  He looked at her for a moment and shook his head. “The movie was your idea, remember?” He laughed.

  “Like I said, I don’t get out much.” Charlie looked down at her feet.

  “The theater’s only a few blocks away.”

  They walked in silence for a while.

  “I found out what happened to Freddy’s,” she said without thinking, and John looked at her, surprised.

  “Really? What happened?”

  “They were tearing it down, then the storm came and everyone got called away. Now it’s just standing there, half collapsed. All the stuff is gone, though,” she added, seeing the question in John’s eyes. “I don’t know what they did with … them.” It was a lie; Charlie couldn’t tell him what had really happened without telling him how she knew. All those questions led back to the same place: the dead man in the field. Who were you?

  “What about your father’s house?” John asked. “Did you ask your aunt Jen about it? What’s she going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “I haven’t talked to her since August.” She fell silent, not looking at John as they walked.

  They reached their destination, a shabby, one-screen movie theater named the Grand Palace. Its name was either ironic or wishful thinking. Emblazoned on the marquee was their current showing: Zombies vs. Zombies!

  “I think it’s about zombies,” John joked as they went inside.

  The movie had already started. Someone onscreen was screaming, as what were apparently zombies came at her from all sides. She was surrounded. The creatures crouched like wild dogs, ready to spring and devour her. They moved to attack—and a man grabbed her arm, pulling her to safety.

  “Charlie.” John touched her arm, whispering. “Over there.” He gestured to the back row. The place was half-full, but the back row was empty, and they made their way furtively to the middle. They sat, and Charlie turned her attention to the screen. Thank goodness, she thought. Maybe we can finally relax.

  She settled back in her seat, letting the images on the screen blur past her. Shrieks, gunfire, and thrumming music filled the silence between them. From the corner of her eye she saw John glance at her nervously. Charlie focused her attention on the movie. The main characters, a man and woman with the generic, angular good looks of the big screen, were shooting automatic weapons into a crowd of zombies. As the fi
rst ranks were killed—not killed, stopped; though severed in half by the guns, they still twitched on the ground—the ones behind climbed over their fallen cohorts. The camera switched back to the man and woman, who jumped a fence and took off running. Behind them the zombies kept coming, struggling forward, oblivious to the undead bodies they waded through. The music was urgent, the baseline pounding like an artificial heartbeat, and Charlie relaxed against the seat, letting herself be absorbed into it all.

  What was he doing there? The image of the dead man returned to her. Something about the wounds bothered her, but she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. I recognized those wounds. They all matched what I remembered, but something was different. What was it?

  She sensed movement next to her, and saw John trying to stretch an arm toward her. Really? she thought.

  “Do you have enough room?” she asked him, and scooted away without waiting for a response. He looked embarrassed, but she glanced away, planting her elbow on the other armrest and staring fixedly at the screen.

  Enough room, that’s it. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the image in her head. The wounds were slightly larger and more spaced out. The suit he was wearing was bigger than the suits from Freddy’s. The man was probably five foot ten or five foot eleven, which means the suits must have been at least seven feet tall.

  Onscreen, there was quiet again, but it was short lived. Charlie watched, mesmerized, as the dirt spilled away of its own volition, moving like magic as the zombie rose. It wouldn’t be like that, Charlie thought definitively. It’s not that easy to get out of a grave. By now the zombie onscreen was halfway out, crawling to the surface and looking around with its glassy, mindless eyes. You can’t get out that fast. Charlie blinked and shook her head, trying to stay focused.

  Zombies. Lifeless things. The closet was full of costumes, lifeless yet ever-watching, with plastic eyes and dead, hanging limbs. Somehow their corpselike stares had never bothered her, or Sammy. They liked to touch the fur, sometimes put it in their mouths and giggle at the funny way it felt. Some was old and matted; some new and soft. The closet was their place, just for the two of them. Sometimes they babbled together in words that had meaning only to them; sometimes they played side by side, lost in separate worlds of make-believe. But they were always together. Sammy was playing with a truck when the shadow came. He ran it back and forth on the floor, not noticing that their ribbon of light had been cut off. Charlie turned and saw the shadow, so still he could be an illusion, just another costume out of place. Then the sudden movement, the chaos of fabric and eyes. The truck clanked as it fell to the floor, and then: loneliness. A dark so complete that she began to believe she’d never seen at all. The memories of sight had only been a dream, a trick of the utter blackness. She tried to call his name—she could feel him nearby—but all around her were solid walls. “Can you hear me? Sammy? Let me out! Sammy!” But he was gone, and he was never there again.