Mr. Monster

by Dan Wells

  ‘No,’ said Brooke, shaking and crying. ‘No.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  She sat down, and Forman threw me his keys.

  ‘Unlock yourself, and put the chain on her.’

  I opened the lock on the manacle and brought it over to Brooke. She looked at me with vacant eyes, as if she couldn’t understand what was happening.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Not just her ankle,’ said Forman, his breath speeding up. He was feeling the buzz of her emotions - the betrayal she felt with every command I followed, and every evil I went along with. ‘Wrap it around her,’ he said thickly, ‘and loop it through the back of the chair. As many times as it will go around.’

  I wanted to say something - anything - but I didn’t dare. I forced myself to stay calm. Don’t give anything away, even to her.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Brooke. ‘Why are you helping him?’

  ‘It’s easier this way,’ I said. I didn’t want to drag this out any more than I had to, so I tightened the chains firmly to make sure Brooke couldn’t get away. Forman whimpered behind me, and I knew that Brooke felt even more betrayed. Even if we survived this, she’d probably hate me.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Forman, his eyes half-closed. His smile was broad and lecherous, as if he was drunk. He picked up the pliers again. ‘Now, let’s get this party started.’ He holstered his pistol and stepped towards Brooke, working the pliers eagerly.

  I couldn’t just let him hurt her. The idea was to shock him before the torture started, but how many tools would he go through before he got to the knife? I had to think of something.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. Forman stopped. But what could I say? I wanted him to touch the knife, but anything I said to trick him would be false, and he’d detect the lie immediately.

  ‘You want to stop me?’ said Forman. His voice was sharper now; I was feeling anxious and worried, and that meant he was too. I didn’t have much time.

  There was only one thing I could say and mean it - only one thing that would lead him to the knife, and still be totally true. I looked at Brooke, pale and terrified and beautiful.

  ‘I want to do it,’ I said.

  Her face wilted, fear and confusion twisting it into a devastating grimace. Just like Forman, I pushed her emotions away; I pushed mine away. I ignored everything about the present and drew on the past. I remembered my dreams of her, of cutting her, of hurting her, of making her wholly and completely my own. Everything I’d ever tried to ignore and avoid I embraced now, filling myself with thoughts of Brooke’s soft skin, of Brooke’s bright scream, of Brooke’s pale body lying still and motionless.

  ‘Yes,’ said Forman. He was feeling it too - the forbidden anticipation, the pounding need of my desire, the sweet agony of her terror. This was what he’d wanted for days - to feel the emotions of a torturer, not just the victim. ‘Yes,’ said Forman, stepping back. ‘Do it. She’s yours.’

  I moved closer, watching her eyes as they watched me, feeling the electric buzz in the air as our minds connected - more closely and more purely than when we held hands, more completely than I’d ever connected with anyone. The thrill of fear was like a tether between us, a conduit from one mind to another. No, it was deeper than the mind; there were no words, there were no thoughts, there was only us, Brooke and me, together at last.

  I leaned in, smelling her - a hint of perfume, a touch of fruit from her shampoo, a clean, crisp scent of laundry soap. She was mine now. All mine.

  ‘Hand me the knife.’

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed. He stepped behind me, once, twice, and then the lights dimmed and he screamed - a low-pitched grunt through gritted teeth. Brooke screamed with him in high counterpoint, and I savoured the sound like a stream of crystal water.

  There was a smell of burning meat, and Brooke whimpered, ‘Help me, John, please help me.’

  Why did she need help? What was . . .? There was something I was supposed to do. It was Brooke. I was supposed to cut her; she wanted me to cut—No, no that wasn’t it at all. I turned and saw Forman, his body rigid, his hand still on the butcher knife, and I remembered. It was my trap. I didn’t really want to hurt Brooke, right? It was only a trap for Forman.

  I couldn’t touch him or I’d be shocked too. There was a pan in the lower cupboard with a plastic handle - I could use that. I skirted past him carefully, pulled the pan from the cupboard, and raised it up like a club.

  Brooke spoke desperately. ‘John, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m making sure,’ I said, and slammed the pan into his face. It knocked him backwards, pulling his hand away from the knife and sending him tumbling to the floor. Brooke screamed again, and I jumped to follow Forman’s body, standing over him with the pan raised. He looked up at me, his eyes barely open.

  Slowly, painfully, he smiled.

  ‘I beat you,’ I said. ‘You’ve lost.’

  ‘And for the . . .’ he coughed, raspy and painful, his voice charred and black. ‘For the first time in . . . ten thousand years . . .’ he coughed again ‘. . . I feel like I’ve won.’

  I hit him with the pan and knocked him unconscious.

  ‘What’s going on?’ cried Brooke, hysterical. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know how long he’ll stay down,’ I said, dropping the pan. ‘We have to work fast.’

  ‘What?’

  The keys were still on the table, and I ran to unlock her manacle and unwrap the chains. She struggled out of them as if they were living things, tentacles trying to eat her alive.

  ‘I know you’re freaked out but you’ve got to trust me,’ I said. ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘You were going to—’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was just a trap for Forman. Now listen.’ I dragged the chain over to Forman and started wrapping him up, looping it through itself and under his arms and around his legs, doing my best to make sure that even if he woke up he’d stay completely immobilised. His hand was a blackened lump of cooked meat. ‘Everything I said about this house was true,’ I told Brooke. ‘There’s four women downstairs, and Lauren’s boyfriend is tied up in the back. We need a knife.’

  I locked the manacle around Forman’s leg and stood up, walking to the counter. Brooke was staring at the butcher knife in wonder, her hand half-extended. I knocked the block over carefully and pointed at the cord in the bottom.

  ‘Don’t touch.’

  I pulled a steak knife from the sink and led Brooke into the back room where Curt hung from the ceiling. He was awake, but only barely; whatever Forman had drugged him with was powerful. I handed Brooke the keys and pointed at the handcuffs on Curt’s feet; she dropped to her knees and fumbled with the key ring, still terrified, while I started sawing on the ropes.

  ‘Wake up, Curt,’ I said, shaking his shoulder as I worked on the ropes. ‘We’re cutting you loose, and we need you to stand up. Can you stand up?’

  He didn’t nod, but he pulled his feet closer and raised them up, bracing himself against the sudden loss of support when the ropes gave way. I cut through the first rope and he dropped his arm like it weighed a ton, but he didn’t fall. I cut through the other just as Brooke finished unlocking the handcuffs. Curt reached for the duct tape around his mouth. He was waking up.

  ‘Let’s get outside first,’ I said, pulling his arm over my shoulder. He was a huge man, and he leaned on me heavily, but I staggered with him through the door and down the hall. He stumbled, in the kitchen, tripping over Forman’s chained-up body, and a few steps later doubled back to kick him solidly in the gut. I pulled him away.

  ‘Let’s get outside,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how much time we have.’ There was more room here, and Brooke grabbed Curt’s other arm to help guide him to the front door. I let her take him and stepped away. ‘Take him outside,’ I said. ‘I’m going for the women.’

  Brooke nodded. I took the keys from her hand and went to the basement door. Forman was still unconscious. I opened t
he padlock and started to throw it away, then thought better of it and locked it through two links of Forman’s chain, keeping him that much tighter.

  ‘Get up!’ I shouted, throwing open the basement door and flipping on the lights. ‘We’re leaving, and we’re leaving right now. Can everybody walk?’

  The four women looked at me in shock, climbing painfully to their feet. None of them had shoes, and their clothes hung thin and ragged on their emaciated bodies. Stephanie was healthier, but her wounds were more recent and she took the longest to stand.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Carly. I unlocked her first.

  ‘Forman’s unconscious,’ I said, moving on to Jess, ‘and he’s tied up. He might be down for good, or he might be back up any second; I don’t know how he works.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, unlocking Melinda. ‘Just get upstairs and get out. We can take his car to town, and get you to the police and to the hospital. Go!’ I unlocked Stephanie’s chain and helped her to the stairs.

  ‘Do you know why he did this?’ she whispered.

  I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  I followed the women upstairs and met Brooke in the kitchen.

  ‘Take them outside,’ I said, ‘I need to rescue one more.’

  ‘We need a phone for the police,’ said Brooke. ‘I don’t have mine, and I can’t find one here.’

  ‘Forman has a cell,’ I said, and dropped to the floor by his body. I reached in past the chains, struggling to reach his jacket pocket, and finally managed to fish out his phone. I handed it to Brooke along with the keys. ‘Start the car,’ I said. ‘Even after we call the police, we need to get out of here as fast as we can.’

  I started to head back to the torture room, but a distinct scent caught my attention. I’d smelled it before, several times, and I’d never forget it - acrid and thick, like an invisible caustic cloud. I turned around.

  Forman was melting.

  His body seemed to collapse inside the chains, hissing and sinking and curling in on itself like paper in a fire. In seconds the flesh was gone, leaving a blackened suit wrapped in chains and stained by greasy ash.

  ‘Exactly like Crowley.’

  I hesitated, half-reaching out to touch it, then stepped back. I needed to rescue the woman in the wall. I started towards the back room again when another scent stopped me - a mixture of woodsmoke and gasoline. Something was burning. I heard muffled shouts from outside, and suddenly the kitchen window shattered in a hail of splintered glass. The smell of gas was overwhelming, and I heard Brooke scream.

  ‘John’s still in there! You’ll kill him!’

  I raced to the front door and stumbled down the steps. The women were huddled together, crying and wailing as if they were more scared now than they’d ever been in the dungeon. I ran towards them but something hit me from behind, knocking me down.

  ‘John!’ cried Brooke.

  ‘He’s part of this!’ roared a deep voice. Curt. ‘He’s working with him - they’ re partners!’

  I tried to stand up but Curt hit me again, with something hard and metal. A gas canister.

  ‘He’s trying to help!’ shouted Brooke. ‘He’s the one who got us all out of there!’

  There were flames behind Curt - the house was on fire. He stepped towards me and raised the canister over his head.

  ‘He was going to cut me,’ said Curt. ‘He was going to torture me, both of them together. It was the same for you, too - I heard everything.’

  Brooke opened her mouth, but paused. I had been about to attack her, and she knew it. Her eyes were dark, and I knew that she was remembering: even if she knew it had been a trick she also knew, in that moment, that she wasn’t sure if I was good or evil. Curt took advantage of her hesitation and slammed the gas can down on my head, making it ring with pain. My vision went black and I fell to the ground.

  ‘You want to make sure that bastard’s dead?’ he said, his voice a thousand miles away. ‘Burn the damn place down.’ There was a crash and a new roar of flame.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said, too weak to move. ‘There’s a woman in the wall . . .’

  And then the sound went dead, and the world spun around, and everything was gone.

  Chapter 22

  This time, I dreamed of nothing. It was just me, floating, surrounded by endless stretches of . . . well, nothing. I guess it was black, if that counts as something, but in the dream that didn’t occur to me. I knew it was nothing, and the strange thing was, I was fine with that. I wasn’t scared or nervous or sad, I was content. And something else. I was excited.

  I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that just because there was nothing at the moment, that didn’t mean there would never be anything at all. It just meant that I got to choose.

  I woke up in a hospital room, sometime in the middle of the night. It was dark and quiet. Lights were blinking behind me, reflected in the blank TV screen on the opposite wall. Soft voices drifted in from the hallway, hushed and distant. The curtains were open, and the moon shone faintly in the sky. Everything was still.

  My mom was asleep on the chair next to me, curled up under a light hospital blanket that rose and fell softly as she breathed. Her hand was stretched out, bridging the gap between the chair and the bed, holding the side rail protectively. Her hair was pulled back, with a few loose strands that hung over her face like wisps of dark cloud. Her hair seemed greyer in the moonlight, and her face more lined and sad; her body small and fragile.

  I wished, just for a moment, that I was like Forman - that I could reach out and feel what she was feeling. Was she sad? Happy? Did it matter? She was here. No matter what I did, no matter what anyone did, she would love me. She would never leave me.

  I drifted back to sleep.

  When I woke again the next morning, Mom was still there, picking at a plate of hospital breakfast. There were other people in the room as well: a doctor and a policeman, conferring quietly in the corner.

  ‘He’s awake!’

  I turned my head and saw Lauren, standing up from another chair and walking to the bed. Mom practically leaped out of her chair and grabbed my hand.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘can you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I croaked. My throat was dry and raw, and it hurt to speak.

  ‘Look who’s up,’ said the doctor, coming over quickly. He shone a penlight into each of my eyes, holding each one open with his thumb. I blinked when he let go, and he nodded. ‘Good. Now I want you to say your name.’

  ‘John—’ I swallowed and coughed. ‘John Wayne Cleaver.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the doctor, and pointed at my mom. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’

  ‘That’s my mom.’

  ‘You’re checking his memory?’ asked Mom.

  ‘His speech, mostly,’ said the doctor. ‘His memory seems to be good though.’

  ‘What happened?’ I rasped.

  The policeman - it was Officer Jensen, Marci’s father - glanced at my mother, then at Lauren, then back at me.

  ‘Curt Halsey is in custody,’ he said, ‘for assaulting you, among other things. Clark Forman is, as near as we can tell, deceased.’

  ‘Not them,’ I said. ‘What happened to the girl?’

  ‘Brooke’s fine,’ said Mom, putting her hand on mine.

  ‘No,’ I said, closing my eyes. I was getting too anxious, and I was starting to feel weak again. ‘There was another woman, trapped in the wall. What happened to her?’

  ‘Remains were recovered from the ashes of the house,’ Officer Jensen said, ‘but we haven’t identified them yet. One of them did appear to be imprisoned in a wall.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I hadn’t saved her. I opened my eyes again. ‘Is everyone else okay?’

  ‘The women you rescued are here in the hospital,’ said the doctor, ‘though most of them will be transferred today. We’re not a very big facility, unfortunately, and they can be cared for much better in the city
.’

  ‘We’re keeping you here,’ said Mom, patting my hand. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Technically,’ said Officer Jensen, ‘we’re keeping you here in protective custody. We haven’t confirmed that your kidnapper is dead, so it’s partly for your own safety, but . . .’ he glanced at my mom again and she frowned at him. ‘I’m afraid that you have been accused of a number of crimes yourself, including,’ he paused, ‘the murder of Radha Behar.’

  ‘You can’t possibly—’ Mom said, but Officer Jensen cut her off.

  ‘I’ve told your mother several times,’ he said, ‘and I’m telling you now, not to worry about this. The women you rescued have provided overwhelming testimony in your favour. We have a couple of things we’re still looking at, but it’s mostly just paperwork at this point. You’re a hero, John. You should be proud.’ He smiled. ‘Now get some rest.’ He pulled the doctor aside again and they stepped into the hall, speaking in low voices.