by Amy Cross
"I'm sorry for bothering you," I say eventually. "You won't hear from me again."
"Good." There's a pause, and finally I hear footsteps hurrying away as she disappears into the night.
Turning and heading to my door, I can't shake the feeling that I've failed in a major way today. I came all this distance and ended up with nothing. Now I have to go back to Montgomery Town and hope that I was wrong all along. Maybe those two deaths were just coincidences. Somehow, though, I doubt it. I'm pretty sure that sooner or later, someone else is going to end up dying at the house on Willow Road. The man who kidnapped those women might be long dead, but something's still lurking in the house. Whatever it is, it's been dormant for the past fifteen years, but it's starting to wake up again. I don't know exactly what's going on out there, but I know one thing: if I can't find some way to get Holly to help, more people are going to die.
Part Two:
Womb
Holly Carter
15 years ago
"Help!" I scream for the thousandth time, banging on the little perspex window. My voice is so hoarse I can taste blood, and I've pounded with my fists until they're bruised. Still, someone has to hear me eventually; someone has to come and save me. "Help! I'm down here! Help!"
"Perhaps you should come down from there," says Elizabeth, standing behind me. "Perhaps -"
"Help!" I scream even louder. "Someone help us!"
"Holly -"
"Help!" I shout, but this time my throat seems to seize up. I must have been shouting for at least an hour, and the situation feels hopeless. Still, there's nothing else to do. Staring out the letterbox-shaped window at the top of the wall, all I can see is overgrown grass and the distant sky. It's hard to tell where we are, but it looks kind of rural. We're probably miles from anywhere. Still, there has to be someone out there, someone who can help us. There has to be. "Help!" I shout again, but the word catches in my throat and I start coughing. "Help!" I splutter.
"Holly, please -"
"Fuck," I say quietly, trying to make sense of the jumble of thoughts in my mind. "Fuck, please... fuck. This isn't real. This is not fucking real."
"Come and talk to us, Holly," Elizabeth continues. "Come and let us help you."
"Help!" I scream again, pounding my fists on the window again. "Somebody help us! Somebody! We're trapped down here!"
"This isn't doing any good," Elizabeth says. "You're just wasting energy, and you're upsetting Natalie."
"Upsetting Natalie?" I ask croakily, as I turn to look back at the others. "Upsetting her? What the fuck? I don't care, I just want to get out of here. We have to, we have to..." I pause, as another wave of panic floods my body. This whole situation is so insane, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I just know that I have to get out of here, and right now this little window is my best chance. I know that screaming for help isn't going to do much, but I don't have any other options. This basement isn't particularly small, but I swear I can feel its walls closing in. I've never been claustrophobic before, but the thought of being trapped down here is making me short of breath.
"Shouting won't help," Elizabeth replies calmly.
"What will help?" I ask, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm down.
"Come down from that chair," she says, "and we'll talk about -"
"Talking won't open this window," I say, giving the perspex another slam with my fists. "It must be soundproof. That must be what he did. He soundproofed the whole fucking room." Stepping down from the chair, I glance across the room and spot a broom leaning against one of the walls. Hurrying over, I grab the broom and carry it back up onto the chair, before slamming the end of the handle into the perspex. It doesn't work, of course; this house might look like a rundown old place, but it's held together properly where it counts. I try again and again, but I don't even make a mark.
"Please -" Elizabeth says, putting a hand on my waist.
"Get off me!" I shout, swinging the broom at her and only just missing the top of her head as she ducks out of the way. "Get the fuck away from me!" I'm trembling with rage now. There has to be a way out of this place. I just need to be smart and work it out. I've seen movies where people get trapped, and I always feel like I'm smarter than the person in the movie. There has to be a chance to escape, if only I can focus.
"Believe me," Elizabeth says, "we've tried all of this. It's impossible to even make a dent in that window. The door is secured at all times, the floor is made of stone, and there's no way out. The sooner you realize this and accept it, the sooner we can get on with helping you adjust to the situation." She pauses for a moment. "Believe me, Natalie and I both went through the exact same emotions that you're feeling right now. We tried to force our way out, and it didn't work. We really tried. Didn't we, Natalie?"
"We did," Natalie mutters quietly.
I stare at them, unable to believe what I'm hearing. Are they seriously suggesting that I'm supposed to just accept what's happened to me and try to make the best of it? With my heart still racing, I make my way over to the stone steps and hurry up to the door. It's locked, of course, and on closer inspection I find that it's made entirely of steel. I swear to God, it's like something you'd find in a bank. Realizing that it's pointless to try busting the damn thing open, I head back down the steps and after a moment I stop in the middle of the floor, filled with rage and fear but with no idea what I should do next. Finally, I feel tears starting to well up behind my eyes.
"It's going to be okay," Elizabeth says. "I know it seems dark right now, but we'll help you find a way through this. I promise, you'll realize that this is going to be fine. You've experienced anger. The next stage is denial."
I turn to her, feeling a wave of hatred rise through my body. "Did anybody ever tell you that you're really bad at helping in this kind of situation?"
Over in the corner, Natalie tries to stifle a laugh.
"Someone's going to come," I say, sitting on the floor and tucking my knees up under my chin, staring at the shadows. "Someone's going to come and find us." I take a deep breath, before turning to Elizabeth and Natalie. Suddenly, I feel completely numb, as if all my fear has been sucked out of me and there's nothing left inside but ice. I've tried forcing my way out of this basement, so now I need to try a more subtle approach: I'm just going to sit here and wait until I've come up with an escape plan. "Someone's going to find us," I continue. "We just have to be patient and wait."
"I'm not sure -" Elizabeth starts to say.
"Someone's going to find us!" I reply, raising my voice. "Seriously. Maybe in a minute, or an hour, maybe even a day, but someone's going to track us down! There's no way we can just disappear like this!"
Elizabeth and Natalie exchange a concerned glance.
"What?" I ask. "What are you thinking?" I wait for an answer, but they just seem dumbstruck. "You're thinking I'm wrong? You're thinking that no-one's going to come, and we're going to be left down here forever to just rot away? Bullshit."
"No," Elizabeth says slowly, "but -"
"They're going to come!" I insist. "I don't care who this guy is, he can't hide us forever! He's just some fucking country yokel! There's no way he can cover his tracks properly. I guarantee it, there are cop cars heading toward this place right now. We'll hear their sirens soon, unless their coming in stealthily, in which case..." I pause as I see the look in Elizabeth's eyes. It's almost as if she's pitying me. "My phone," I say, searching through my pockets. "They'll track my phone." After a moment, I realize that my phone is missing. He must have taken it.
"Holly -" Elizabeth starts to say.
"Do you realize how many people are going to be looking for me?" I say, trying unsuccessfully to hide the fact that I'm starting to cry. "There's, like, my parents, and my family, and my friends. There'll be news stories, and stuff on the internet. People are going to know that I'm missing. They're going to look for me, and they're going to find clues. They're going to work out where I am and they're going to come and rescue me." I s
top speaking as I realize that my voice has become a kind of pathetic whine. With tears flowing down my cheeks, I close my eyes and try to stay calm.
"I know a way to stop crying," Natalie says a moment. "If you press your chin against the tip of your chest and swallow a few times, the tears can't reach your eyes."
I look over at her.
"It's true," she says meekly.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. It's been about an hour since I woke up down here in a cloth bag, and so far Elizabeth and Natalie seem to be like characters in a dream, floating serenely through the situation and telling me that I have to be calm. It's as if they don't see anything unusual in the fact that we're trapped down here. I guess they've been here so long, they've become used to it. They're probably scared of getting out, but I'm not going to let myself become like them. The best time to strike is right now.
"You must have a lot of questions," Elizabeth says.
I shake my head. I don't want to get involved in a conversation with them. A conversation would imply permanence, and all I care about is getting out of here. Whoever kidnapped me, and whatever he wants, I'm determined to get away before he has a chance to come down here for me. I don't know why a guy would kidnap a bunch of women and hold them in his basement, but whatever he wants, he's not going to get it.
"Who is he?" I ask eventually. I'm still trembling, still terrified, but I'm determined to come up with a plan. For that to happen, I need facts. Solid, reliable facts.
"It's okay," Elizabeth continues. "You're not in danger. He's not going to kill you."
"What's he going to do to me, then?" I ask. At that moment, there's the sound of footsteps up above. Looking up, I realize that someone's walking across the floor of the room directly over this one. "That's him, isn't it?" I ask, with my eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Yes," Elizabeth says calmly. "That's him."
"Is it just him?" I ask.
"Yes, he lives alone."
"So there's three of us and one of him?" I look over at her. "Is he like some kind of bodybuilder type? Has he got guns?"
"He's not a bodybuilder type," she replies, "and I don't know if he has guns, but I've never seen him use one. He has knives, though."
"Still," I continue, starting to feel a faint stirring of hope in my panicked, tightened chest, "those odds aren't bad. Three of us against one guy with a knife. We can take him."
"It's not that simple," she says.
"Why's it not that simple?" I ask. All of a sudden, from the depths of despair, I'm starting to see a way out of here. "Why's it not that simple?" I ask again. "How does he get you to stay down here?"
"It's all very complicated," Elizabeth says.
"How does he do it?" I continue. "Is it, like, mind control? I mean, fuck, how does he do it? You two could have taken him, couldn't you? Why are you still down here? Did he hypnotize you?" Above, there are more footsteps.
"It's -" Elizabeth starts to say, before there's a banging sound nearby. She and Natalie turn and stare in horror at the stone steps. "He's coming," she says after a moment, her voice filled with shock... or is it awe? Judging by the look on her face, you'd think God Himself was about to come down here.
There's a creaking sound as the door at the top of the steps opens. For a moment, I prepare myself to rush him, but as I wait, I realize that he doesn't seem to be coming down. After a few seconds, a small, rectangular piece of wood is thrown down the steps, clattering loudly against the stone floor.
"What's that?" I ask.
"He wants one of us to go up," Elizabeth says, staring at the piece of wood.
"What do you mean?" I ask. "Isn't he going to come down?"
"He never comes down," she continues, obviously terrified. "He always sends for one of us." She steps forward and picks up the piece of wood, before turning and showing us that there are two heavy scratches on the surface. "Number two," she says, turning to Natalie. "That's you."
"Again?" Natalie asks, looking nervous. She takes the piece of wood from Elizabeth, and then she glances over at the steps. The door at the top is still open, but there's no sign of anyone standing up there.
"Wait," I say. "So this guy throws down a piece of wood to tell you which of you has to go up there?"
Elizabeth nods. "I'm number one and Natalie is number two. I suppose you'll be number three."
Behind her, Natalie starts shuffling toward the steps.
"You're not seriously going to go, are you?" I ask, shocked at the way they both seem to just acquiesce to this man's demands.
"It's best like this," Elizabeth says, maintaining her calm tone of voice but with obvious fear in her eyes. "She'll be back shortly."
"But what if she just doesn't go?" I continue. "Why can't she just refuse to go?"
"We need food," Elizabeth continues, as Natalie starts walking slowly up the steps. "And water. If we deny him, if we're even slow to respond, he'll cut us off for days, maybe even a week."
"But the door's open," I say. "We can all go up right now."
Elizabeth shakes her head. "Do you really think that's possible?"
"Of course," I continue, looking up at the door as Natalie gets closer and closer to the top of the steps. "I mean, it's open, so we can all just go through."
"Go on, then," Elizabeth says sadly. "If you really believe that you can just go up and walk through that door and escape, and if you really believe that we haven't thought of that before, then go and try. We'll all go without food and water for a week if you do, but maybe you have to learn the hard way."
I stare at the door. It seems so easy, and yet I know that Elizabeth must be right. There must be something stopping us from going out that way. I watch as Natalie reaches the top of the steps, and then she turns and glances back at us for a moment before making her way through the door. Moments later, there's another creaking sound and the door swings shut with a heavy thud.
Ben Lawler
Today
"Okay," Doug Moyes says, glancing over his shoulder to check that we're not being overheard, "you didn't hear this from me. Got it? Not a word. If anyone finds out that I'm giving you this stuff, I'll be fired and probably brought up on charges."
"My lips are sealed," I reply. It's a little before 8am, and I've taken a pre-work detour to a small coffeehouse on the edge of town. Doug Moyes works at the local coroner's office, and he's agreed to give me a little off-the-record information about the death of a girl named Brenda Baynes, whose body was found close to the old house on Willow Road. I've already tried getting hold of the autopsy results by going straight to the coroner, but I've been blocked at every turn. People around here don't want to talk about the house, even after all these years, and I get the feeling that there's some unseen hand gently rebuffing my attempts to learn more.
"The basic stuff you know already," Doug continues. "Brenda Baynes, twenty-one years old, originally from around Chicago but she'd been living rough for a couple of years. No-one knows why she drifted over to this neck of the woods, but I guess that part of the story's not important. Local police found a makeshift camp not too far out, and they reckon she must have holed up there about two weeks ago. There was drug paraphernalia, needles, that sort of thing. Not a healthy girl, by any means."
"I guess the house must have seemed pretty enticing," I say. "Once she realized it was empty and abandoned, she must have felt like she'd hit the jackpot."
"There's no evidence to suggest that she actually went inside the building," he says. "The house is boarded up, and state troopers took a quick look and reported no sign of a disturbance. Obviously they didn't want to go too close to the place, but..." He pauses for a moment. "Brenda's body was found about fifty yards from the building, by the side of the road. No obvious signs of trauma, and the initial assumption was that it was just a case of exposure, aggravated by the extreme coincidence of her happening to drop dead in that particular area, next to that particular house."
"That's what the loca
l paper's reporting," I point out.
"It's the line that's being fed direct from the Mayor's office. No-one, and I mean no-one, wants that girl's death being linked in any way to the house. As far as official sources are concerned, the house is to be kept out of reports wherever possible. Of course, the local hacks are willing to go along with this line. They know not to bite the hand that feeds them. Most people probably have no more than a vague suspicion that the dead girl was anywhere near the house, and even if they have questions, they're not going to say anything. They're scared."
"So is that it?" I ask. "She died of exposure?"
After checking once again that we're not being observed, Doug reaches into his bag and pulls out a file. He quickly opens it and scans the first page. "She died of hypothermia," he says after a moment. "Well, hypothermia and blood loss. There was a wound on her left shoulder, about five inches long."
"Hypothermia's not so unusual, is it?" I ask. "If she was sleeping rough."
"Her body was cold to the touch, even several hours after the point of death." He turns to the next page. "Like I said, she was found out on the road. She'd been in direct sunlight for several hours before a passing motorist happened to spot her. The coroner was called, she was taken to the office, and she was still cold. So cold, in fact, that there were ice crystals in her hair." He pauses. "If you have a dead body left out in the sun, you don't expect ice crystals in her hair. Her general condition was more consistent with being submerged in cold water, rather than simply being exposed to the elements."
"There are no lakes or ponds out there, are there?"
"Not for a few miles," he replies, "and certainly nothing that could have caused her to get so cold."
"What about the wound?" I ask.
"The edges were clean and neat, suggesting a sharp, man-made object such as a scalpel." He turns to the last page of the report. "The coroner, somewhat unbelievably, decided that a wild animal must have been responsible."
