by Amy Cross
Elizabeth
15 years ago
"Careful," Natalie says, watching as I slip the blade of the scissors through the bag's coarse fabric.
"I know what I'm doing," I reply quietly, trying not to let my hands tremble. "I did the same thing when you arrived down here, remember?"
"No," she says. "I don't remember."
Cutting along the fabric, I start to see a figure inside the bag. She's curled up on her side, in the fetal position, and the first thing I notice is that she's young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen, with her brown hair tied back in two pigtails. She's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but her clothes are badly ripped and there are some traces of blood where she's been cut on the face and arms. Just like Natalie, when she arrived.
"Is she breathing?" Natalie asks.
I reach through the slit in the side of the bag and press two fingers against the side of the girl's neck. Sure enough, her skin is warm and I can feel a faint heartbeat.
"Open the rest," Natalie urges me. "I want to see her properly."
I open the girl's eyelids, but her pupils are dilated and she's clearly unconscious. It's probably for the best that she rests. When she wakes up, she's going to be terrified, and she'll probably feel the effects of whatever drug he used to subdue her. I don't want to be the one to wake her into the nightmare. Not yet, at least.
"Elizabeth!" Natalie says, raising her voice a little. "Come on! Let me see!"
"Have a little patience," I reply, my mind racing as I try to decide what to do. When this happened five years ago with Natalie, I cut the bag open and dragged her clear. I panicked back then, desperately trying to wake her up and hoping against hope that somehow she might help me get out of here. So much has changed in the intervening years, however. For one thing, I'm older and wiser; for another, I've learned from my mistakes with Natalie. I'm starting to think that, given how things turned out last time, maybe I'd be better off trying a different approach with the new girl. I guess there's no harm in letting her stay in the bag until she wakes up, and then she can climb out when she's ready. It's a small difference, but it might have a big psychological impact.
"What are you waiting for?" Natalie asks, almost breathless with enthusiasm. "Get her out. I want to see her face. What does she look like? Is she pretty? Does she look strong?"
"All in good time," I say, setting the scissors down on the ground.
"Why are you waiting?" Natalie hisses, rocking back and forth on her hands and knees. She's like an over-excited child on Christmas morning, being told she can't open her gifts just yet. I guess she's desperate to have someone else to talk to, someone else to help relieve the boredom down here. After five years with just me, plus occasional visits upstairs, she must be desperate for some company.
"I want to let her get out when she's ready," I say calmly.
"What?" Natalie hisses. "Why the hell would you do that?"
"It just seems..." I pause, trying to think of the right word. "It seems nicer," I say eventually. "More welcoming."
Muttering something unintelligible, Natalie gets to her feet and starts pacing around the basement. Full of nervous energy, she seems totally overwhelmed by the arrival of this new girl, as if the foundations of her world have been rocked. It's been just the two of us down here for so long, and now the balance of our life together has been thrown into disarray. Still, I'm quite sure that things will settle after a while. We just need to get to know the new girl and absorb her into our little family. She'll undoubtedly be upset and scared at first, but I'm sure she'll come around eventually. After all, there's no point fighting. It's best just to go with the flow.
"Is she awake yet?" Natalie asks.
"Calm down," I say, watching as the new girl sleeps in her bag.
"Why's he done this?" Natalie continues. "Why's he got another one? Is this some kind of message? Is he telling us we're not good enough? Does he hate us? Is he gonna replace one of us? Does he want us to have a new friend? Does he -"
"I don't know," I say firmly, forcing myself to remain civil despite Natalie's constant stream of questions. "I guess we'll have to wait and see what happens next, won't we?"
"I don't want to wait!" she shouts. "I want to know! If we've done something to upset him, why can't he just tell us?"
Suddenly there's a loud banging sound on the ceiling. Natalie scuttles back into the shadows like a frightened spider, and I look up and wait for the sound to stop. A fine shower of plaster rains down for a moment. Once the banging is over, I take a deep breath.
"He doesn't like it when you're too loud," I say, turning to look over at the shadows. "Remember to keep your voice down, Natalie."
"Open the bag," she whimpers from the darkness. "I want to talk to her. Maybe she knows what I should do now that I'm pregnant."
Sighing, I look back down into the bag. The new girl seems to be fast asleep, and I doubt she'll be awake for hours. I don't know what he uses when he grabs someone, but whatever it is, it seems to knock people out for a few hours. When she wakes up, the girl will likely have a terrible headache, and she might be groggy for a few days. There could be other complications, too; when she arrived five years ago, Natalie suffered a series of nosebleeds that were very difficult to stop, and her first menstrual cycle down here was extremely bloody and painful. It probably took a good two or three weeks before the drugs, whatever they were, left her system entirely. Even now, I sometimes wonder whether permanent damage was done to her body, or perhaps to her mind.
"Is she awake now?" Natalie asks tentatively.
"No," I say, carefully reaching through the slit and examining a small red spot on the girl's left elbow. Smiling sadly, I realize that it's the same spot I found on Natalie's arm all those years ago. Some things never change.
"Is she pretty?" Natalie calls out to me.
Closing the slit, I stand up and walk over to the sink, where I carefully wash my hands. I can hear Natalie shuffling around in the darkness, full of nervous energy and determined to speak to the new arrival. I know, though, that she's far too timid to actually go and poke the bag herself. She prefers to hold back and goad me, to beg me to do the things that scare her. The truth is, Natalie's years down here have left her in a state of constant hyper-vigilance, and she can barely stay calm at the best of times. Right now, curiosity about the new arrival must be burning her soul.
"You mustn't hurt her," Natalie says after a moment.
"Of course I'm not going to hurt her," I reply, glancing back over at the shadows. I can just about make out Natalie's frightened face in the gloom. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"
"You hurt me," she says.
"When?"
"When you pulled me out of my bag, back when I came. You were rough with me."
"I didn't mean to be," I reply, a little shocked that Natalie has such bad memories of our first encounter. "I was just trying to help you. Anyway, I have no intention of pulling this girl out of her bag. We'll let her wake up and come out when she's ready. Be prepared for it to take quite some time, though. If she's been drugged, she might not be up and about for a day or two."
"That's too long," Natalie says.
"I'm afraid it's beyond our control," I tell her. "Sometimes things just have to run their course. Besides, are you really in such a hurry? Be patient, Natalie. There's no virtue in rushing all the time. She'll wake up when she wakes up, and not a moment sooner."
"But what if he comes for me tonight?" she asks. "What if he comes for me before I get a chance to meet the new girl?"
"He won't," I say firmly, wishing that she'd leave the subject alone. "Besides, you know that if he comes for anyone, it'll be me. It's my turn. It was you last time, and the time before that."
"Yeah, but you're getting old," she replies. "Maybe he's getting tired of you. Maybe he looks at you and he realizes he wants someone younger."
"That's simply not true," I say, walking over to the table and pulling the damp, dirty apron up from where
I hid it earlier. I'll need to wash it again, and this time there'll hopefully be no interruptions. Still, as I make my way back over to the sink, I can't help but glance at the bag on the floor. Is it true? Am I getting too old? If that's the case, what will he do with me? Will he just leave me down here and never call for me, or will he decide that I'm more trouble than I'm worth? As I fill the sink with water, I can't help but look back over at the bag and wonder if the new girl is an addition to our little group, or perhaps my replacement.
Ben Lawler
Today
"We get about two trespassers a month" the security guard says as he escorts me down the steps and away from the building. "People who want to talk to Ms. Carter. Fans who want her to sign autographs. Some of them even propose to her. It's a real mixed bag of freaks and weirdos." He leads me across the car park and finally we come to a halt next to my car. "You look pretty normal, Mr. Lawler, and in my experience it's the normal-looking ones who are the most dangerous. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt this time, but if I see you within one hundred meters of this school ever again, I will restrain you and call the police. Is that clear?"
"Look -" I start to say.
"Is that clear?"
I nod.
"Is this your vehicle?" he asks, using his phone to take a photo of my license plate.
"Yes, but -"
"Then I suggest you get inside, start the engine and drive away," he continues, taking a photo of my face.
Sighing, I look back at the school. I expected today to be difficult, but I didn't expect Holly Carter to literally have me removed from the premises. I thought she'd be willing to talk to me. Instead, she called security and had me unceremoniously marched away. I tried every possible angle, hoping to grab her interest, but it was as if she put up an invisible barrier to prevent me from getting any traction. She wouldn't listen to a word I said.
I failed.
After all this effort, I failed. Damn it, I should have tried another angle. I should have been smarter.
"Sir," the guard continues. "I can't help but notice that you're still here. Leave!"
"Fine," I say, fishing around in my pockets for my keys. "Can you just do me one favor?"
"No."
"Can you just give her a message for me?"
"No."
"Just - "
"No," he says firmly, and I can see from the look in his eyes that this discussion is over. The guard is a few inches taller than me, and he's built like some kind of maniac wrestler. I have no doubt that he could pound me into the sidewalk without even breaking a sweat.
"Okay," I say, unlocking my car door and getting inside. "Look. See? I'm leaving."
"And tell your friends to keep away too," the guard adds, leaning down to stare at me through the window. "We don't want any more journalists hanging around. Ms. Carter isn't a fucking side-show attraction. Now get the fuck out of here."
Starting the engine, I drive away while the guard stays rooted to the spot, watching to make sure I'm gone. Once I'm around the corner, I continue for a few hundred meters before pulling over and switching the engine off. Today was a bust. A total and absolute bust. In fact, I don't see how it could have gone worse. I traveled hundreds of miles to see a woman who spoke to me for five minutes and then had me thrown out. For the past couple of months, I've had it in the back of my mind that as a last resort, I could come and persuade Holly Carter to help me. I believed in my ability to persuade her. I was wrong. Now I'm back to square one.
Grabbing my phone, I bring up a number and hit the Dial button. As it rings, I rub my tired eyes and contemplate the long drive home tomorrow morning. There's also the matter of the house on Willow Road. Regardless of my lack of success with Holly Carter, that house is still standing, and it's still a problem. Getting Holly to help was a long shot, but dealing with the situation without Holly's help is more than a long shot. It's a suicide mission. I don't know what to do next. I have no ideas, no plans. Nothing.
"Did you get her?" asks a familiar voice suddenly, answering the call.
"No," I say, unable to hide the frustration and tiredness in my voice. "Of course I didn't get her. You were right."
"What happened?"
"She had me thrown out."
"Seriously?" There's a brief giggle on the other end of the line. "What did you say to her?"
"Not much," I reply. "I told her who I am, and why I'm here, and then she just seemed to clam up. She barely let me explain, and then she called for security. Some asshole dragged me out of the building and told me he'd break my legs if I ever went back. I believe him. Short of camping outside her house, I don't think I can get to her."
"I thought you were the diplomatic one," she says.
"Thomas Jefferson himself couldn't have changed her mind," I reply bitterly. "Trust me, she's made of granite these days. There's no way she's gonna listen to us. I could just tell from the way she looked at me. It's time to come up with another plan."
"No other plan. We either get her help, or the whole thing's off."
"Don't be hasty," I reply. "Let's just think about this for a moment."
"She'll change her mind."
"You didn't see the look in her eyes just now," I say.
"And you didn't see the look in her eyes fifteen years ago. Trust me, she'll change her mind. The more she kicks and screams right now, the more she'll swing the other way later, when she's realized what she needs to do."
"I admire your optimism," I tell her.
"You'll admire a lot more than that before this is over. Trust me, she'll come. She'll complain all the way, but she'll come."
"And if she doesn't?"
"She will. Simple as that. Remember, I know her better than you do. I know her better than anyone. Right now, she'll be sitting in her office, trying to ignore everything you told her, but it'll be slowly eating into her. She'll spend the whole afternoon wishing she could forget it, and then finally she'll decide that there's only one thing to do. She'll come and find you. She won't be able to leave it alone."
"Well, I did my best," I reply. "I tried to explain it to her."
"Don't worry about it. She was always going to be the hardest one to crack. Just come and meet us for a drink. I promise, she'll come and find you eventually."
"Sure," I say with a sigh. "I guess even a failed mission needs a debrief, right?"
Once the call is over, I pause to sit and take stock. It was probably extremely cruel of me to just go barging in and asking Holly Carter all those questions; after all, she's probably spent the past decade trying to forget what happened to her and piece together some kind of normal life. I'm certain that if I'd been in her position, I'd have tried to insulate myself from the real world and forget all about the house on Willow Road. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures, and contacting her was the only option left open to me. Without her, we might never be able to deal with the evil that still lives in that house.
Elizabeth
15 years ago
"He's having dinner," Natalie says, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. "Right on schedule."
Above us, there are a few telltale creaks and groans from the floorboards, and occasionally there's the sound of him walking from one side of the kitchen to the other. I'm not certain, but I think I can even hear him groaning occasionally. I could be wrong, but sometimes I wonder if maybe his joints are getting stiff as he gets older. He seems to be putting more weight on his left leg. Not a lot, but enough for me to notice. I notice so many things about him. In some strange way, I feel I've come to know him rather well.
"What do you think he's having?" Natalie asks.
"Instead of listening to him prepare his food," I say, sliding a plate of porridge over to her, "why don't you eat your own?"
"I'm not hungry," she replies, still staring at the ceiling.
"It'll go cold," I point out, "and then you'll complain."
"I bet it's something amazing, like roast ch
icken with vegetables and sauce, and maybe a bottle of wine on the side."
"Yes," I say ruefully, as I eat a spoonful of porridge. "Let's hope he's drinking. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Is he on the phone?" she asks suddenly.
Looking up, I realize there's a distant murmur. With the floorboards having been insulated with foam, it's impossible for us to make out the detail of any conversation that takes place up there, but it definitely sounds like he's talking to someone. I can't imagine why he'd call someone so late. He's always struck me as such a solitary, private man, and it's hard to believe that he might have friends.
"Wait!" Natalie says excitedly, scurrying over to the wall and pressing her ear to the water pipes.
"Natalie -" I start to say.
"Quiet!" she hisses. "Sometimes the phone signal gets trapped in the metal and you can hear it."
"What are you talking about?"
"It does!"
Sighing, I decide to focus on my porridge. Natalie's flights of fancy can take hours to work through her system, and she's able to work herself up into fits of incredible enthusiasm. Usually, these are followed by troughs of despair that can stretch out for days on end. Whatever happens, I'm guaranteed a tiring time as I try to deal with her mood swings. Sometimes I wonder if I'm having any luck at all with the girl's mind, or whether I'm merely delaying the inevitable mental collapse. I'm lucky that I've got the mental strength to deal with this situation, but Natalie seems much more fragile. I don't know if I can keep her safe forever.
"Nothing so far," she says, with her ear still pressed against the pipes. "Must be atmospheric conditions."
"Must be," I say, licking my bowl clean. I'm still hungry, but there won't be any more food for twenty-four hours. He likes to keep us lean down here. Over the years, I've worked hard to slow my metabolism, to the extent that I'm not nearly as thin as Natalie. Still, the pangs of hunger are hard to resist, and the only respite on the horizon is the meat that he usually throws down for us on Sundays. Even uncooked, it tastes like the greatest meal anyone could ever eat. Unfortunately, today is Monday, which means it's nothing but porridge and water for six solid days. We didn't get meat yesterday. I guess he forgot.
