by Amy Cross
Whereas it felt normal to be in the main part of the building with no lights, the abandoned ward feels a little odd in the dark. For some reason that I never quite understood, the lights in the abandoned section were always left on, so the place was lit up brightly. In the dark, it feels a little strange to be here, but I don't have time to be creeped out. I haul Mr. Taylor across to one of the storage cupboards, pulling open the door to reveal Lizzie McGuigan's rotting, bloated corpse. I'm immediately hit by the foul stench of decay, but I force myself to get on with the job, and it doesn't take much effort to push Mr. Taylor on top of her and finally shut the door. I pause for a moment, surprised by how well this whole operation is going, and then I head off to grab my father's bones from the car. Once that final job is complete, and the bones are laid neatly with Piotr Cymbalista's corpse, I stand back and admire my handiwork. I've done it. I've actually, finally done it. And then it hits me -
No more deaths.
I killed these people for a reason. Lizzie McGuigan was a cruel tyrant who was abusing the patients. Piotr Cymbalista was causing trouble. Stephen Larson made my life hell when I was a child. Charles Taylor ruined everything by stealing from Crestview and forcing the place to be closed down. And the list of my father's cruelties is just too long to detail. Still, I feel as if this chapter of my life is closed. I killed the people who needed to be killed, and now I don't need to kill anyone else. It's not as if I'm some kind of bloodthirsty monster who has to satisfy an appetite for blood. I'm totally comfortable with every decision I've made, and I feel as if I've taken the evil in my heart and used it for good. It's not my fault that I was born like this, but at least I've used my talents to make the world a better place.
"Jennifer?" I call out, hoping that she might come to join me at this moment of victory. To be honest, Jennifer Mathis is the one part of this whole situation that still worries me. I feel as if she's inextricably linked to Crestview, and I'm scared of losing her when the building is pulled down. She's been so useful to me, and she's become my only real friend. If she goes away, I'll be all alone.
Wandering through the corridors of the abandoned ward, I keep expecting to find Jennifer waiting for me, but there's no sign of her. Eventually I reach the bathroom, where I carefully remove the grating at the far end and take out Jennifer's mobile phone. It's been so long since my first night shift, when I found this phone ringing behind the grate and realized that Jennifer wasn't alive. I still don't know exactly who or what she is, or where she came from, and I guess maybe I'll never know the truth. Figuring that the phone might be my only chance to keep in touch with her, I slip it into my pocket before heading back through to the main part of the building. There's a part of me that's going to miss this place. I've always had a tendency to be nostalgic about buildings rather than people; I walk through the red ward, and then the blue and green wards, and finally I come to the reception area and realize that it's time to leave. This place has been good to me, and I would have happily stayed for the rest of my life. But those days are over now, and at least I have somewhere else to go. I have a life to live.
"Bye," I say quietly. I wait a moment, just in case Jennifer Mathis decides to appear, but the whole building seems to be empty. Finally, I place my key on the coffee table, before turning and heading out the door. It's weird to think that this morning, I was desperately trying to find a way to save Crestview, and now I'm happy to leave the place forever. I guess I'm adaptable and resourceful. As I get into my car and pull away, I realize that I'm a survivor. No matter what life throws at me, I can make it through. I thought I was this weak, scared little creature, but now I know that I'm resilient. I've spent long enough living in the shadow of my father's ghost, dreaming up insult after insult, allowing his memory to push me around. I'm finally free, although...
As I drive through the streets of the town, I realize there's one final thing that I've forgotten. One person I still need to visit. There's a part of me that thinks I should leave it well alone, and just forget about things that happened a long, long time ago. Still, I've been building up to this moment for quite a while, and I need to at least say goodbye properly. Perhaps I won't reveal the whole truth, but I still have to pay my respects and acknowledge the past. As I finally pull up outside Robert Hopkins' house, I think back to the day many years ago when I used the jack-in-the-box to kill Martina. Even before that moment, I always knew I was a bad person, but it was Martina's death that proved to me that I'm evil. If I hadn't killed her, I'd never have had the courage to kill my father or the other people. Sitting in the car, I stare out at Robert's house and see that the lights are still on. This is crazy. Everything is perfect. I've solved every problem and tidied away every loose end. I should just drive away and forget all about Robert and his long-dead sister, but I feel this irresistible urge to pay one last visit to a symbol of the past. Taking a deep breath, I get out of the car and walk along his driveway; I pause again, and then I ring the bell.
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
Mr. Harriman's house is surprisingly hot; so hot, in fact, that I can't help wondering how he and his wife can manage to sleep. Then again, I suppose old people like to be warm at night. As I walk quietly through the darkened hallway, I glance up at a nearby clock and see that it's just after 1am. So far, everything's working out perfectly. I can even hear two sets of snores coming from upstairs, which means I can be certain they're both asleep. I just need a couple more minutes, and then I can get out of here and wait for the explosion. My heart is racing as I think about what's going to happen if my plan comes together.
When I reach the kitchen, I head straight for the stove. As I'd hoped, it's hooked up to gas, which means I don't even have to bother with my back-up plan; I swear, it feels as if someone is watching over me, helping me to get everything done. After pausing for a moment, I turn all four dials on the front of the hob, and I hear the gas start to hiss; turning, I hurry back through to the hallway and out the front door, which I carefully pull shut after myself. I almost forget to remove the wire that I used to pick the lock. I guess I'm lucky that there was no alarm system, and that the lock was as easy to open as the website had suggested. Once again, it's as if someone is watching over me.
Heading back to my house, I carefully lock the door and go straight to bed. I need to make sure that everything seems totally normal, and I have to avoid waking my father up. I can't sleep, though: I'm too excited. As time passes, I start to wonder if maybe the plan has gone wrong. What if Mr. Harriman woke up and smelled the gas? What if in some way the gas wasn't flammable? What if someone saw me going into the house, and warned them? A million possibilities pass through my mind as I stare up at the dark ceiling. Eventually I start to worry; after all, if this plan doesn't work, I'll need to come up with something else, and I won't have much time to spare. I was so certain that I'd be able to make Mr. Harrison's house explode, but now I realize I might have made a mistake.
Suddenly there's a huge boom, followed by a crashing sound. The whole house shakes, and for a moment I start to wonder if I've gone too far. What if the explosion damages not only Mr. Harriman's house, but also mine? After what feels like a couple of seconds, however, everything calms down, but I can already hear people in the street outside. Climbing out of bed, I go through to the bathroom and look out the window; I immediately see that most of Mr. Harriman's house has been completely destroyed, with the top floor having apparently collapsed into the rear and the garden. The destruction is much more expansive than I'd anticipated, but fortunately there's enough of a gap between the buildings that my house doesn't seem to have suffered so much as a broken window.
"What the hell was that?" my father asks, standing behind me.
"Mr. Harriman's house exploded," I say, watching as people continue to run out of their homes to see the damage. Car alarms are blaring, and debris has been scattered hundreds of feet in every direction.
"Huh," my father replies. "Why do you think that happened?"
"I don't know. Do you think anyone would have survived?"
He stares out the window for a moment. "I suppose it's possible, but to be honest the place looks wrecked. Look at the way the top floor has collapsed right down into the rest of the house. It looks like some of it's even gone through to the basement." He stares a little longer. "No," he adds eventually. "It'd be a miracle if anyone got out of there alive."
"That's what I thought," I say, before pausing for a moment. "Should we go out and see if we can help?"
"I'll go," he says. "You should stay here."
"Can't I come?"
"No, Juliet. It's cold, and it's chaotic out there. You have to stay in the house. Do you promise you won't follow me?"
I nod.
"Okay. Good girl."
I hear him heading downstairs, and after a moment I spot him emerging into the darkened street. Sirens are getting closer, and soon there are fire engines and police cars screeching to a halt nearby. I figure they'll be so focused on the damaged house, they won't bother knocking on our door too much; anyway, my father's already out there, wandering among the other neighbors as they stare at the wrecked house. Fascinated by the carnage, I spend the rest of the night at the bathroom window, watching as fire-fighters enter the rubble. It seems like nothing much happens for quite a while; eventually, however, I see a stretcher being taken to the back of the house, and a covered body is removed, followed by another. As an ambulance drives slowly away, I realize that my plan worked perfectly. Mr. Harriman and his wife are both dead, and I'm pretty sure there won't be any next-door neighbors for a while; not on the side of the house next to the woodshed, anyway.
By the time I have to go to school in the morning, the street is still crawling with emergency teams, and there's even a news crew reporting on the explosion. Pausing for a moment, I listen as the reporter explains to viewers at home that two people died in what seems to have been a tragic accident; the gas stove is already being blamed, but at the moment it looks as if the gas was left on, and eventually it built up to such an extent that even the tiniest of sparks would have been enough to cause a massive explosion. I walk across the front garden, finding that there are pieces of rubble strewn all over the grass; I guess I'll have to clean up a little when I get home tonight, but for now I have to act as normal as possible. With my backpack over my shoulders, I just look like a girl who's on her way to school.
"This is why I don't have gas," says a woman nearby as I cross the road. "We switched to an electric hob a long time ago."
No-one really notices me as I make my way through the crowd, dressed in my school uniform. I can't help feeling that in some way I'm special; after all, there must be close to a hundred people standing around in the street, but I'm the only one who knows the truth about what happened. I guess there'll be a proper investigation, but I know what they'll conclude: they'll decide there was a tragic accident involving the gas stove, and they won't even think about the possibility that the Harrimans were killed on purpose. I mean, who would want to kill a quiet, retired couple? And even if somehow the possibility was raised, who would think that the girl living next door could be responsible? Reaching the end of the street, I turn and look back at the scene. My heart is racing with excitement as I realize that my plan worked perfectly. Still, I can't shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, is watching over me and helping me do these things. It just seems a little too easy; a little too convenient.
Chapter Five
Today
"Juliet!" Robert says as he answers the door. He looks a little surprised to see me, which I guess makes sense; after all, we've only met twice before, and it's getting close to 9pm. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just driving past," I say, figuring that I can't just blurt out the truth. "I thought I'd drop by and say hello."
"Okay," he says, frowning. "Well... Hello!"
"Hello!"
He steps back. "Would you like to come in?"
"Sure," I say, stepping through the door. It's pretty clear that he's confused by my presence, and the whole situation seems kind of awkward. He's got the TV running, and there's a plate of crumbs next to the sofa; I guess he's a solitary kind of guy who spends his nights sitting around by himself.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks, heading over to the kitchen. "Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea, thanks," I say. As soon as he's gone into the next room, I walk across the lounge. It's so weird to be in here; it's as if I'm invading someone else's space. Five minutes ago, he was happily enjoying his own company, and now suddenly he's been interrupted. He's at least thirty years older than me, which makes it particularly strange that I'd just turn up and come to visit him, and there's a part of me that wants to just turn around and get out of here. Still, I feel as if I have to say something to him about his sister. I've been planning to confess the truth to him, to tell him that I'm the one who caused Martina's death in that car crash, but now I'm starting to wonder if I should just let the past stay buried. Why give myself more problems? I mean, he might get angry and threaten to tell the police, in which case I might have to kill him and -
Suddenly it hits me. I know exactly why I'm here. I want him to get angry. I want him to threaten me. I want to be forced to kill him. Earlier, I told myself that my killing days were over, but now I realize I'm deliberately trying to engineer a situation where I'll have no choice but to murder Robert Hopkins. A cold chill passes through my body as I realize that perhaps I've got an appetite for blood after all. I should turn around and get out of here. There's no need for any of this to happen; I could just make an excuse and leave, but something's still holding me here. I guess maybe I'm feeling nostalgic; after all, Martina Hopkins is where this whole thing began. If I hadn't killed her, I wouldn't be the person I am today. I wouldn't be so strong. I wouldn't be me.
"Here you go," says Robert, coming through with two cups of tea. "Please, sit down." He sets the cups on the table, before moving some magazines from one of the chairs. "You'll have to forgive the state of the place," he says, seeming a little nervous. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors. To be honest, I never expect visitors. The life of the aging bachelor, huh?"
I smile. It's fun seeing how nervous he seems; in most social situations, I'm the one who's awkward and a little out of place, but I feel as if this time the tables have been turned. As I sit down, I realize that I'm actually the more comfortable of the two of us right now. It's hard to believe I could have reached this point, but I feel as if I'm far more confident now that I know my father is dead. In fact, my mind is racing with ideas and plans, and all I want to do is get started on this new part of my life. First, though, I feel as if I have to confront the one final, unresolved part of my past; I have to make everything neat, and that's why I have to tell Robert Hopkins the truth about his sister.
"It's strange," Robert says after taking a sip from his tea, "but after you were here the other day, I started going through some old boxes of photos. It's odd to think Martina's been gone for so many years. It feels like only yesterday that we were standing around in that old funeral home, arguing about some long-forgotten part of the business." He pauses for a moment. "I've never been one for family ties. Always been a bit too happy without all the complications, but somehow it seems more important these days." He takes a deep breath. "I probably never would have started thinking about her again if you hadn't shown up looking for a photo."
We sit in silence for a moment. "When she died -" I start to say.
"That was all so long ago," he says, interrupting me. "There's no point getting angry. What happened, happened. If I could go back and change it, maybe it'd be worth obsessing over it." He pauses for a moment. "I don't know if I'm religious, Juliet, but sometimes I think there's a kind of steadying influence behind all the chaos. Someone or something that knows the plan." He smiles. "Listen to me, getting all nostalgic and spiritual. Ignore me. Why don't you tell me why you're really here? I'm pretty sure a pretty young woman
like you has better things to do than drop in to see an old man on a Saturday night."
"Your sister," I say, feeling my chest start to tighten. "Don't you ever get angry? What would you do if you came face to face with the person who killed her? What would you say?"
"I don't know," he says. "I've thought about it, obviously. He's only thirty miles away in the prison on Cedar Street, so I guess I could request a visit, but I don't see the point. It'd just be a negative experience for both of us. I've moved on."
I stare at him. "What are you talking about?"
"The drunk driver," he continues. "I've kept an eye on him over the years. He's been in and out of jail for various things. The guy's clearly an alcoholic. I feel more sorry for him than anything -"
"What drunk driver?" My heart is racing; something doesn't make sense here.
"Gareth Lockley. The guy who hit Martina's car."
I stare at him. "No," I say after a moment, my hands starting to tremble as I place my cup of tea on the table. "There was no drunk driver..."
"Of course there was," he says. "Martina was parked at a stop-light. The light went green, but Lockley was coming across the intersection and he didn't stop. Plowed straight into her car. They said it was instant and she never stood a chance, but I've always wondered if they told me that just so I'd feel better and not worry about her suffering. Lockley was a trucker. One of those big rigs, and he used to drive drunk half the time. They say he was so wasted, he passed out just after the crash."
