World's Scariest Places: Volume Two

by Bates, Jeremy

  “What are you thinking about, Jack?” Elizaveta asked.

  It was the same question Pita had asked me two hours before, while we’d been sitting out on the porch together.

  I felt worse than ever.

  “We can’t—” The rest of the words caught in my throat.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizaveta asked. She looked where I was looking, at the table. She stood quickly. “Another scorpion? Where?”

  I shook my head, standing too. I pointed at the table. “Did you move the doll that was there?”

  “What doll?”

  I remembered it clearly. Black hair that smelled like citrus, painted lips, heavy eyeshadow, the dress that may or may not have been concealing a hole between its legs.

  I said, “There was a doll on this table earlier.”

  “So what?”

  “Where is it?”

  Elizaveta looked around the room. “There are dolls everywhere, Jack.”

  “There was a doll right there. It was special.”

  “Why special?”

  “It just was. It was all dressed up. Solano put makeup on it.”

  “What?”

  I moved to the end of the table, opened the shoebox, and slid it to Elizaveta. “Makeup.”

  “I don’t remember any doll on table, Jack.”

  “When I came here before, when I found Rosa, it was still daytime. It was the first thing I saw. A doll. Right there.” I pointed again. “Did someone move it? Did Jesus or Nitro move it?”

  “No,” Elizaveta said. “Nobody did. There was no doll, Jack. I remember. I lit that candle when we first arrived.” She indicated the half-melted candle on the table. “There was no doll.”

  “What doll?” It was Pita. She stood at the threshold to Pepper’s bedroom. We’d raised our voices, woken her—if she’d ever been sleeping and not eavesdropping on us.

  “Do you remember seeing a doll on the table?” I asked her.

  “No…” She shook her head more decisively. “No.”

  “There was one there earlier, and now it’s gone—

  The front door to the cabin burst open, and Nitro staggered inside, spraying blood everywhere.

  6

  I’d never witnessed anything like the spectacle that unfolded before us, and I found myself rooted to the spot in horror.

  Nitro’s eyes blazed with blustery panic. His mouth was cranked open in a silent scream. His hands clamped his throat, trying to stem the freshet of blood gushing from it.

  He came straight toward me, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me.

  He released his throat and seized my tank top with blood-soaked hands, pulling me forward. Powerful jets of blood shot from his jugular veins straight into my face, into my eyes, my mouth. I tasted it on my tongue, coppery, salty, sweet.

  Nitro slumped to his knees, tugging me down with him. He was like a drowning person, flailing, dangerous.

  I tried to pry his hands from my top, but he wouldn’t let go.

  Pita and Elizaveta were screaming. I wanted to tell them to shut up, but my mouth was full of blood.

  Nitro was surely screaming too, though he could no longer make any sound. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, his vocal cords severed at the same time as the rest of his plumbing. I could see straight into his gaping windpipe.

  Dismayed, disgusted, I shoved him away from me, hard. He released my top and fell onto his back, his arms and legs flopping akimbo. He suffered a paroxysm of agony, as if he were being kicked by an invisible boot. Then his body relaxed, went still. The fountain of blood spurting from his throat shut off.

  His heart had stopped beating.

  He was dead.

  7

  My paralysis broke. I dropped to my knees next to Nitro and attempted CPR. Nevertheless, I knew this was futile. His head was only half attached to his neck.

  Someone was behind me, talking to me, pulling me away. It was Jesus. He’d returned inside. I stared at him blankly, watching his lips move, wondering what he was saying. Elizaveta and Pita were nearby, hugging each other and crying. I couldn’t hear them either. I couldn’t hear anything except for a plaintive drone in my ears.

  I lumbered to my feet and went to a corner, away from them. My balance was skewed. I leaned against the wall, spitting blood from my mouth, waiting to be sick.

  What the hell happened?

  Nitro was dead…

  Solano!

  I whirled toward the cabin’s front door, seeing Solano charging inside, bloody knife swinging, slashing.

  He wasn’t there.

  It was my imagination.

  I returned to Nitro’s body. I rolled it over, which proved oddly difficult, for it was slick with blood and had become a dead weight. I cringed at the feel of the warm flesh beneath my hands.

  Pita was asking me what I was doing in a semi-hysterical voice.

  I unzipped Nitro’s backpack and searched the pocket for the pistol.

  It was missing.

  I panicked before seeing the outline of the gun’s handle poking out the top of his board shorts. I retrieved it and stood, leaving him facedown.

  Better that way. Nobody wanted to look at his sightless eyes or smiling throat.

  I checked the pistol’s magazine. Still several cartridges locked and loaded.

  Flicking off the safety, I went outside.

  8

  I scanned the night, searching for movement—but everything was moving in the near hurricane winds: trees, branches, shrubs, dolls, grass.

  Pistol held close to my chest, muzzle pointed skyward, I followed the trail of blood. It went right along the porch, all the way to the bannister.

  What had Nitro being doing down here? Pita and I had remained huddled near the door our entire watch. Had he heard a noise and come to investigate?

  Then what? When his back was turned, Solano emerged from the night and slit his throat?

  I poked my head over the bannister, looked down the length of the cabin.

  Nobody there. No footprints. Nothing.

  Whoever had killed Nitro, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.

  1957

  1

  Patricia Diaz was putting Salma, her six-month-old newborn, to bed in her crib when there was a knock at the front door. She tucked Salma’s blanket beneath her chubby chin, then left the bedroom. In the foyer she opened the front door and was surprised to find a policeman standing on the little stoop. He had a moon face and a large belly testing the buttons of his uniform. He was holding the hand of a feral looking girl dressed in a ratty nightgown, her hair chopped short—

  “María!” she exclaimed.

  “Mommy?”

  “Baby? Oh my God…Oh my God!” She enfolded her daughter in a great hug. “Oh baby! What’s happened to you?”

  “Officer Rodriguez, ma’am,” the policeman said. “I picked her up earlier not far from here. She was loitering in the park. Actually, she appeared to be living there.”

  “Living?” Patricia released her daughter and frowned at her. “Why were you in the park, sweetheart? Why weren’t you at Saint Agatha’s?”

  “I didn’t like it,” she said simply.

  “The school?”

  “I just left.”

  “You left?”

  “I just left,” she repeated. And she sounded angry. Her voice was shrill, her eyes hard.

  “Why don’t you go inside, honey. You can lie down in my bed. Okay? I’d like to speak with the policeman in private for a moment.”

  When María disappeared inside the house, Patricia looked at the policeman and swallowed tightly. “This is very strange,” she said, feeling suddenly nervous even though she had done nothing wrong. “You see, María has a certain condition. She doesn’t learn well like others her age. Two years ago her school psychologist recommended she enroll in a special boarding school.”

  “Saint Agatha’s?” the policeman said.

  “Saint Agatha’s School for Lost Children. Some of th
e children, their parents have died, or they’re alcoholics, or…there are many reasons why they are placed there. But some are like María. They are mentally deficient in some way.”

  “How long has your daughter been at this school?”

  “Eighteen months or thereabouts.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Well, when we placed here there.” She added quickly, “We tried to visit her early on, but the nuns wouldn’t let us see her. There was always some excuse or another. But they assured us she was doing fine. And then, well, I became pregnant, and that sort of took over my life, and then Salma was born…” Patricia took a deep breath, realizing the hot poker inside her wasn’t nervousness; it was guilt. “Anyway, my husband and I decided if María was happy, perhaps it would be best if we kept our distance. It would be easier for her this way.” She glanced over her shoulder the way María had gone, then returned her attention to the policeman. “What have they done to her? She seemed so…” The word that came to mind was “cold,” but she only shook her head. “How did you know where to bring her, Officer? I didn’t think she knew her address. She could never remember information like that.”

  “She didn’t,” the policeman said. “When I asked her where she lived, she said the park. It took a while until I got her to tell me the name of her school—her old elementary school. I took her there. The principal recognized her. He had your address on file.” He shrugged. “But if she belongs in this school—Saint Agatha’s—I’ll take her back there.”

  “No,” Patricia said. “I mean, no thank you. Not until I know why she left. Something must have happened to her for her to just leave like that, for her to prefer to live in a park, for God’s sake. And surely the nuns would know she was missing. So why haven’t they contacted me?” She shook her head. “I need to talk to María. I need to talk to my husband. But thank you, Officer Rodriguez, thank you for bringing my daughter home.”

  2

  Patricia went to her bedroom, but María wasn’t there, sleeping or otherwise.

  “María?” she called.

  No response.

  Patricia ducked her head into the kitchen, then the dining room. She was on her way to the back door, to check the backyard, when she passed the playroom-turned-nursery. María stood next to the crib, holding Salma in her arms, rocking her gently.

  “María?” Patricia said, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

  “I found Angela.”

  “That’s not Angela, sweetheart. Her name’s Salma. You have to be very, very careful with her.” She started forward, holding out her arms. “Please give her to me.”

  “No.”

  Patricia froze. “What do you mean no?”

  “She’s mine.”

  “She’s your baby sister, yes, but—”

  “She’s mine!”

  “María, pass me your sister.” She steeled her voice. “Right now.”

  María glowered at her, and for a terrifying moment Patricia feared she might throw Salma across the room. But then she held the infant out at arm’s length, gripping her by the wrist as if she were nothing but a doll.

  Salma woke and began to cry.

  Patricia snatched the baby quickly and cradled her tightly against her chest, staring over her head at María with frightened eyes.

  3

  Patricia didn’t know what those nuns did to María, but the eight-year-old girl who had been living in her home for the last three days was not her daughter—or at least not the daughter she had once been. She was a stranger. A violent, angry stranger. Patricia felt she was walking on eggshells whenever she was in the same room with her, worried about saying something or doing something that would set her off. María had already had several temper tantrums. The worst occurred earlier that morning when Patricia found her in the kitchen, carving up a heel of cheese. Afterward she placed the dirty knife back in the knife block. Patricia explained she had to wash the knife otherwise someone could get sick. María responded by throwing the knife block against the floor and going around the house shouting and slamming doors. Patricia had been so terrified—for both herself and Salma—she quickly collected the baby and went down the street to her girlfriends’, remaining there until her husband Diego returned from work. By then María had calmed down and was curled up in her bed (they had left her bedroom untouched in her absence), staring at the wall.

  Presently Patricia sat in the living room, rocking Salma in her arms. Diego sat in a chair across from her, still in his construction clothes, a beer in his hand.

  “Saint Agatha’s was supposed to help her,” she said softly.

  “It didn’t help her,” Diego grumbled. He sipped his beer and wiped foam from his mustache with the back of his hand.

  “At least before she would listen. Now…now nothing gets through to her.”

  “She doesn’t listen,” he agreed.

  “When she threw the knives, all I could think was…”

  “What if Salma was in the kitchen, playing on the floor?”

  Patricia nodded. “I’m scared, Diego,” she admitted. “When María was younger, when she had her temper tantrums, they were almost cute. But they’re not cute anymore. And what of when she’s older? When she’s fifteen, or twenty, or thirty? Will she still be having temper tantrums? What will people think? They won’t understand.”

  “That’s a long way away, dear.”

  “But it’s inevitable. She’s not going to get better. She’s not. I know that now. Not even a little bit.” Patricia adjusted Salma and wiped a tear from her eye. “She’s never going to fall in love. Never get married. Never have children of her own. Never…” More tears leaked from her eyes. “And I should be there for her. I’m her mother. I should be there for her. But I don’t think I can be, Diego. I don’t think I can. I’m…I’m scared of her. I’m scared of my own daughter.”

  He hushed her, getting off his chair, kneeling beside her, stroking her back.

  “We never should have given her away,” she went on. “She was our daughter. We should have loved her. We should have taken care of her. Now look what’s happened to her. Look what’s happened to our daughter.”

  “We’ll take her back. I’ll take her back. Tomorrow—”

  “To Saint Agatha’s?” she said, shocked. “Look what’s happened to her there!”

  “We’ll be better this time. We’ll visit her. We’ll make sure they treat her right.”

  “No, Diego.” She was shaking her head. “She can’t go back there.”

  His face hardened. “She can’t stay here, dear. Not with Salma. I won’t allow it.”

  “No, she can’t stay here,” she agreed.

  “I’ll start looking for another school then—”

  “Who’s to say another school will be any more kind to her? And what of when she’s too old for school? She will have to go to one of those institutions. Do you know what those places are like? And she’s pretty, Diego. She’s still so pretty. That’s the worst part. She will be a victim, taken advantage of. I don’t think I could live with myself knowing she was locked away in one of those places, getting beaten and raped and—” She took a deep breath and held her husband’s eyes. “I know this is a terrible thing to say. I pray for my soul. God, I pray for my soul. But this world wasn’t meant for her. There is nothing in it for her except suffering and pain.”

  “What are you getting at, dear?”

  “I’m saying…” But she found she couldn’t form the words. She couldn’t bear to hear them coming from her lips. Yet in the end it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to say anything.

  Diego understood.

  Jack

  1

  I returned inside the cabin. Pita and Elizaveta still embraced, their heads buried in each other’s shoulders. Jesus hovered next to them, speaking softly. And…aw shit. Rosa stood at the threshold to the bedroom, her eyes sullen, her hands clamped over her mouth. She seemed to be staring at everything and nothing.

 
; Sticking the pistol into the waistband of my shorts against the small of my back, I went to her, knelt so we were the same height. She tried to hug me. I held her at bay; I was covered with blood. In fact, my face must have been painted red.

  “It’s okay, Rosa,” I said absurdly, the empty reassurance something only a child would find comforting. “It’s okay.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, yet she didn’t say anything.

  “Go back in the bedroom. You’ll be safe there.”

  She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  I stood, turning her around, nudging her into the room. She went obediently.

  Pepper was propped on his elbows, staring at us with dusty eyes.

  “Hop back in bed,” I told her.

  Instead of climbing back into the bed, however, she crawled beneath it, her hiding spot where I’d found her earlier.

  “What happened…?” Pepper asked me. He couldn’t see out the door from his position, but he certainly heard all the shouting.

  “Nitro was attacked.”

  “Who…?”

  “Solano.”

  “Solano?”

  I explained my theory to him.

  “We need to leave,” he said, lying back down.

  “We will. In the morning.”

  “Keep watch…” He closed his eyes.

  He didn’t say anything more, and I figured he’d sunk back into sleep. I left the room, closing the door behind me.

  I confronted Jesus. “What the hell happened?” I was tingling everywhere—arms, thighs, balls, the nape of my neck—but I kept my voice controlled.

  “I—I don’t know.” He shook his head.

  “Don’t know? You were out there with him, man!”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Fuck, Jesus…”

  “He said I could sleep. He said he would keep watch. All I saw, when I woke up, all I saw was him pushing open the door and disappearing inside. I didn’t even know he was injured—until you guys started screaming.” He almost seemed like he might cry. “What the hell’s happening, Jack?”