by Amy Cross
Today
"Is it true?" asks one of my students, Samantha Briggs, as she catches up to me in the corridor. It's lunchtime, and I was hoping to get some time alone to read over my notes from the talk with Doug earlier. Unfortunately, Samantha's one of my brightest and most tenacious students, and I've known for a while that she's got a kind of morbid interest in the house on Willow Road, and she knows that I've done some research into the place. I guess I just have to play along and fend off any questions.
"Is what true?" I reply, hurrying through the crowd of students as Samantha keeps pace with me.
"That some girl died out at the witch house."
I stop and turn to her. Samantha's a bright, pretty girl, and right now she's grinning at me with the expression of someone who thinks she's uncovered a secret.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I tell her. I had no idea that people were talking about Brenda Baynes' death, but I guess news travels fast around here.
"I read about it online," she continues, "and then I noticed you seemed to be reading about it yesterday. Also, you were away for a few days last week, and I happened to notice that on your car dashboard in the parking lot you had a paper bag from an out-of-state diner that just happens to be close to where Holly Carter lives, so I put it all together and realized that you're up to something." She grins at me, waiting for me to tell her something juicy. "Mr. Lawler, I know you're up to something. You can tell me. I won't blab."
"I'm not up to anything," I tell her, double-checking that no-one's listening to us. "Shouldn't you be studying for the exam tomorrow?"
"I'll get right on that," she replies, "just as soon as I can take my mind off the house. It's the biggest distraction around. So tell me, is it true? That homeless girl. She died right out by the house, didn't she? They keep saying there's no link, but I know there is. It can't just be a coincidence."
"How would I know?" I ask, figuring that I have no choice but to lie. There's no way I can start telling Samantha about my theory. In fact, the last thing I need is for Brenda Baynes' death to start becoming the focus of gossip. This is precisely the kind of thing I've been trying to avoid. What I want is for that house to be knocked down and erased, but it's in danger of becoming a tourist attraction.
"Are you allowed to lie?" she asks. "I mean, you're my Literature teacher. Isn't there, like, some statute or something that says you always have to tell the truth to a student? At least on school property."
"No," I tell her. "You're making that up."
"So tell me anyway," she continues. "People are starting to talk. Apparently this homeless girl was found out there with her throat cut open and her guts ripped out, and there was some kind of message carved into her chest."
"No," I say firmly, slightly taken aback by the graphic false rumor that seems to be doing the rounds. "No, that's definitely not true."
"Then what happened to her?"
"She..." I pause, aware that I need to come up with a believable explanation. "She died of hypothermia, I think. That's what the local paper said. I've just read the same reports that you've read."
"The local paper's full of crap," she replies. "Some people say that weird noises have been heard coming from the house. Like, moans and stuff. I was thinking of writing about it for my Journalism credit. Don't you think it'd make a good story? I mean, no-one's really dug into that place for years, have they? It's just been left totally alone."
"If you write about superstition and unfounded rumors," I tell her, "you'll fail Journalism. Seriously, there's nothing out there except an old house that's waiting to get torn down."
"What about Jolene?" she continues. "Wasn't she out near there as well?"
"She was involved in a traffic incident," I point out.
"Sure," she replies. "She was hit by a car. But whose car? I checked local and state records, and no-one was ever charged with anything. No-one was even investigated. It's like they picked her up, took her to the morgue, and didn't bother looking into it."
"I think you're getting ahead of yourself," I say. "I understand that the story of the house is enticing, and that it's piqued your interest, but you really need to forget about it. It's just a rundown old house. No-one's been there for years." I pause for a moment, as I realize that Samantha's interest could turn out to be more than academic. "You're not going to go out there, are you?" I ask eventually.
"Of course not," she says with a grin that immediately lets me know she's lying.
"I'm serious," I continue. "You cannot go anywhere near that place. It's been abandoned for years. It might be unsafe, there might be wild animals there -"
"Which is why I'd never go out there," she replies. "Honestly, Mr. Lawler, do you think I'd lie to you?"
I look back along the corridor, which is rapidly emptying as students head outside for their lunch break. "I don't know anything about the homeless girl who died," I say eventually, turning back to Samantha. "This really isn't a suitable subject for your Journalism credit, so you need to forget about it. Don't forget, I'm marking half the Journalism assignments this year. If you waste your time covering rumors about the house on Willow Road, I'll have no hesitation in failing you. Have you ever failed an assignment before, Samantha?"
"You can't fail me if I get a scoop," she replies, full of her usual perky enthusiasm. "What if I uncover something? What if I get a story that no-one else realizes is out there?"
"There's no story," I say firmly, although I immediately realize that my continued attempts to get her to drop the story are probably just making things worse. "Fine," I say after a moment, figuring that I should try a different approach. "Write about the rumors. Write a poorly researched, unsubstantiated story and turn it in for your assignment. See how far you get. That's not journalism, Samantha. That's creative writing."
"You have no faith," she says with a smile.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I ask, checking my watch. "I really don't see that there's any point continuing this discussion. I admire your enthusiasm, but you should direct your energies in another direction. The house on Willow Road is just an old ruin, and the girl who died near there was just a homeless girl. It was a coincidence. I'm afraid you've put two and two together and come up with five this time. Remember, proper journalism is about checking your facts and not letting yourself get carried away."
"I know I'm right," she replies.
"Fine," I say. "Go write your story. Just promise me that you won't actually go out there."
"I promise," she says with a smile.
"I'm serious, Samantha -"
"So am I," she says, interrupting me. "To be honest, Mr. Lawler, I'm shocked that you doubt me."
"I'm just worried. That house is best left alone."
"We'll see," she replies, smiling as she turns and walks away.
I open my mouth to call after her, but then I realize there's no point. The more I protest, the more she's going to keep digging, and I made a total hash of that attempt to defuse her suspicions. I guess she thinks she can prove herself by taking on an impossible story. All I can do is hope that she gets bored eventually. Whatever happens, I'm always going to be a few steps ahead, but I can't shake the feeling that perhaps she's going to try doing something stupid. Samantha Briggs is a smart girl, but smart people can sometimes do very stupid things, and I wouldn't put it past her to try something drastic. She can dig around in the files all she likes, but I have to make sure she doesn't go out to the house.
Holly Carter
15 years ago
"It'll just be something small," Elizabeth says as she continues to dab at Natalie's leg. Now that she's stopped shivering, Natalie seems to be sleeping soundly, and her skin is starting to feel a little warmer.
"Something small?" I ask, sitting on the floor and feeling completely helpless. "Like what?"
"A piece of bone, probably," Elizabeth replies. "Just a small sliver, cut away with a chisel. Sometimes even less than that. He uses a grater sometimes to shave
the bone and pull away a thin slice. He never takes much."
"So he's done this before?" I reply.
She nods. "We've both had it happen occasionally. Not every time, but sometimes. I don't know why, but it just seems to be something that he likes to do. Before you ask, I have no idea what he does with them, or why he wants to do this to us. It just is what it is. Lately he seems to have focused on our legs. I don't know why."
"Why was she so cold?" I ask.
"He likes to do the operation while we're in an ice bath," she explains. "I suppose he thinks it's sterile, or it stops the bleeding, or something like that. I don't know. It's some kind of ritual. I don't think he has any medical training, though. When it started, he was very sloppy, but he's improved his technique a lot over the years."
Suddenly there's a small murmuring sound from Natalie, and she rolls onto her back. Opening her eyes, she stares at the ceiling for a moment, as if she's in total shock.
"Can you hear me?" Elizabeth asks, reaching out and brushing the hair from over her face. "Natalie, we found it. It's your leg, but I've fixed it." She places the blankets over Natalie's chest, and for a moment I'm struck by the tenderness of Elizabeth's attention. She seems to have a very caring and motherly approach to Natalie, and I can see how the two of them have managed to find a way to live together over the years. They've developed a kind of double-act, each with a specific role, and it works for them.
"How often does this happen?" I ask.
"Every few weeks," Elizabeth replies. "Sometimes once a week."
"So he's done it to you too?"
She nods, but she seems more concerned with making sure that Natalie's comfortable.
"And he'll do it to me, won't he?"
"I imagine so," she says. "Natalie, tell me about the pain. Does it hurt?" She waits for an answer. "Natalie, I need to know if it hurts. I need to know if it might be infected."
"Do you have any drugs down here?" I ask.
"No," she replies. "There are certain things we can do to make it better, though. Hopefully the cold has managed to keep things under control. We'll just have to wait and see."
"What does he do with them?" I ask.
"With what?"
"With the pieces of bone?"
"I told you," she replies tersely. "I don't know."
"But he must do something with them," I continue. "This can't just be random. There's got to be some reason for him to do all of this."
"It's not our place to know," Elizabeth says as she examines the staples in Natalie's leg. "It doesn't matter what he does with them. Even if we knew, it wouldn't change anything."
"Aren't you curious?" I ask.
Ignoring my question, she leans closer to the leg and examines each staple in turn. "This one's a little loose," she says after a moment, indicating the lowest staple. "It's not going to hold. She's going to end up with a weeping wound, and the risk of infection is going to be significant."
"So tell him to fix it," I reply.
"It doesn't work like that," she says. "He must have been in a hurry when he did this, or maybe she was squirming too much. It's more like his older, earlier work from before he learned what he was doing. He's never this sloppy, not now." She takes a pair of tweezers from her pocket and uses them to gently tease the loose staple, eventually managing to get it to hook more fully into the holes on either side of the wound. "That might do the job," she says after a moment. "It's not perfect, but I think it might just be okay. Just let me know if you see any flies down here. If they start laying eggs in the cut, she could be in serious trouble."
"He wouldn't let her die, would he?" I ask.
"I don't know," she says quietly, before getting up and heading over to the sink. As she washes her hands, she remains quiet for a moment, before finally turning to look back at me. "You've seen this at its worst, Holly. He's done this fifteen or twenty times to each of us, and usually there are no problems."
"He's not doing it to me," I reply. Elizabeth and Natalie might be willing to let this pervert try out his little experiments, but there's no way I'm going to let him put a finger on me. I just need to find some kind of weapon, so I can defend myself.
"Holly -" Elizabeth starts to say.
"I mean it," I continue. "There's no way I'm letting him fucking touch me. If he wants to cut into me and steal a piece of bone, he's going to have to kill me first." I look up at the ceiling. There's a part of me that wants to shout at to him, to tell him that I won't let him touch me. At the same time, I'm not sure that I'm ready to face him just yet, and I'd rather take some time to come up with a better plan. There has to be a way out of here.
"I didn't scream," Natalie says suddenly, her voice frail and quiet.
"Of course you didn't," Elizabeth says, hurrying back over and kneeling next to her. "You were very cold, though."
"There was so much ice," she whispers. "More than usual. I was sinking."
"You're okay now," Elizabeth says, giving her a hug. "I've taken a look at your staples, and they're not too bad. It's quite a big cut, but it'll heal."
"He took more than last time," Natalie replies. "He went in three times with the scraper and -"
"Be quiet," Elizabeth continues, stroking her forehead. "There's no need to think about it. Remember what we agreed. Just put it out of your mind and focus on the positives."
"Wait," I say. "I thought you told me you can't remember what happens up there?"
"No," Elizabeth replies, "I told you we don't remember. We choose to not think about it, and after a while it just fades from our minds. What would you rather we do? Sit around all day, going over and over the details? The wounds fade faster if we just get on with the other things in our lives."
"What other things?" I ask. "You don't have anything in your lives. You just wait down here for some guy to call you up so he can scrape pieces of your bones away. Are you seriously telling me that you're okay with this? Don't you want to get the fuck out of here?"
"We've been through this," Elizabeth says. "I've told you how we feel about the whole thing, and I don't think there's anything to be gained from going over the same ground again. I'm sorry, Holly, but I'd prefer it if you could try to be less disruptive when you -"
"Disruptive?" I ask, raising my voice. "Are you kidding? We're trapped here and you're worried about me being disruptive?"
"Calm down," Elizabeth says sternly.
"Or what?" I reply. "Seriously, what the fuck is going on here? There are three of us. We need to start fighting back against this guy. I'm not going to sit here and wait for him to decide he feels like hacking a piece out of me." I pause for a moment, hoping against hope that they might start to see things from my point of view. So far, however, Elizabeth is just staring at me as if I'm insane, while Natalie's barely conscious. "Look," I continue, "I'm going to fight back against him. If you help me, I've got a much better chance, and we can get out of here. Think about it. This time tomorrow, we can be free, if we just work together."
"It wouldn't work," Elizabeth says wearily.
"Of course it'd work! We can take on one guy. I remember roughly what he looked like. He wasn't exactly the meaty type. We can rush him, or we can take him down some other way. Next time he opens the door, we can be waiting for him. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but we can do it!"
"No," Elizabeth says.
"What about you, Natalie?" I ask, deciding to try bypassing Elizabeth for a moment.
"What?" Natalie whispers, barely even able to open her eyes.
"Are you with me?" I continue. "I mean, when you're feeling better. Are you ready to get the fuck out of this place?"
"I want to get out," she whispers. "Elizabeth, can we get out?"
"It's not possible," Elizabeth replies firmly.
"Are you scared?" I ask. "Are you scared he might hurt you? He's already hurting you. He's already doing things to you. Or are you secretly enjoying this? Do you like having this god-like asshole cutting into your body?"
/> "Don't be ridiculous," she replies. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"
"Then help me," I say. "There's no reason to hold back. The three of us, working together, can force our way out of here. There's no way he can hold us all back. He's relying on the fact that he thinks he can break us mentally. It's obviously worked with you two, but not with me. Not yet. There's no way I'm going to sit around and wait for him to decide what he wants to do with us. We're going to take him on. Tonight. We're going to lure him down here and then we're going to jump him."
"No," Elizabeth says, "we're not. We're not even going to entertain such a ridiculous idea. We're going to refrain from doing something so dangerous. We're going to stick to what we've always done, and we're going to make sure we don't bring any more suffering down on our heads. The most important thing is that we survive. Please, Holly, if you persist with these delusions, you risk angering him. He might withhold our food and water. He might decide to punish us in some other way."
"Good," I reply. "Let's make him angry. Let's push him so he makes a mistake."
"No!" she shouts, having finally lost her temper. "We've survived down here for ten years, and we're not going to let you come down here and cause problems!"
"That's not -" I start to say.
Suddenly, there's a screeching sound from nearby. Elizabeth and I turn to see that Natalie has sat up. She's holding her hands to her ears, and she's screaming so loud, it's almost as if the whole room is shaking.
Ben Lawler
Today
It's so quiet out here. The house on Willow Road is barely visible from the road these days. In the low early evening light, as I sit a few hundred yards away in my car, I can barely even see the place. For the best part of fifteen years, the house has been completely dormant, deliberately forgotten by the local community. There are no other occupied houses for a couple of miles, and this end of Willow Road is effectively a backwater. Still, the house lurks beneath the trees, just about visible as the fading sun reflects from the metal plates that were long ago fastened over its windows. The whole scene looks still and peaceful, almost harmless, and it's hard to believe that such a horrific crime once happened here.
