The Torment of Rachel Ames

by Jeff Gunhus

  “No thanks, I’m fine right here,” she says. “You’re the quirky one, remember?”

  John shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll just climb back in.”

  “Wait… you’re going to…”

  The canoe tips from his weight and she falls into the water. The shock of the cold wakes up every sense in her body. There’s someone screaming under the water. It’s not even muffled, but shrill and heartrending. But then it’s gone, replaced by the sound of quiet sobbing, so personal and deep that she feels embarrassed to hear it. Then that too is gone. And there’s silence. Wrapping around her like a blanket. So pure that she wants to stay there and just be part of it.

  Then a strong hand grabs her arm and pulls her upward. When she breaks the surface, she blinks back the water and squints at the sun. John has one hand on the canoe and the other holding her.

  “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” he says.

  She gently pulls away from him and treads water. “I’m fine.” She takes stock of herself, surprised to find she’s telling the truth. Whatever had happened seconds earlier under water has passed through her and left her untouched. She feels a warm contentment spread through her. Like the cathartic afterglow of a good cry. “I feel good, actually.”

  “You scared me to death. I thought you’d forgotten how to swim.”

  She turns on her back and executes a perfect backstroke. “Serves you right,” she says. Her clothes cling to her skin and she’s getting colder so she knows she can’t stay in long. But she can’t tell what she’s enjoying more, the impromptu swim or watching him squirm. She decides to let him off the hook and gives him a wide smile. “Dangerously close to being dorky instead of quirky though. Just saying.”

  John laughs. He manages to turn the capsized canoe right side up and swims toward the shore, towing it with the bowline rope in his hand. He appears not to be in any hurry and she notices him watching her swim. She looks up and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

  Chapter Eleven

  A couple of hours later, the sun has set and they’re back at the cabin, sitting opposite one another around a campfire. Rachel’s changed out of her wet clothes and she’s wrapped in a bulky sweater, relishing the warmth. The cup of whiskey with a splash of coffee in it doesn’t hurt either.

  John’s across from her, hazy in the rising heat from the fire, accented by periodic bursts of sparks. She stares into the flames, lost in their dance.

  “Is the fire all right with you?” he asks.

  She nods. “Feels good.”

  A long pause, perfectly empty except for the gentle sounds of the fire.

  “When’s the last time you did it?” John asks.

  She nearly spits her drink into the fire. “What?”

  John laughs. “Enjoying your time with your mind in the gutter over there?”

  “That’s where my mind is most comfortable,” she says, masking her embarrassment.

  “I was talking about writing.”

  She takes a drink. “Well, either way, it’s been a while.”

  “Since you’ve done it, or done it well?”

  There’s a pause and then they both burst out laughing.

  “Writing,” he says. “C’mon now.”

  “You said it,” she says. God, it feels good to laugh. To feel normal. He seems to give up the line of questioning and they sit quietly, as patient as the stars inching across the sky.

  “How about you?” she finally asks, realizing it’s more than small talk. She really wants to know the answer. “How’d you end up out here?”

  “Nothing complicated. Fell for a girl. A really great girl.”

  “Ah, the downfall of all men.”

  John’s voice is distant, like he didn’t hear her. “She always wanted a place like this. Even before we found this spot, she could describe it to me perfectly. Like she’d been here before and just couldn’t remember how to get back.”

  “So where’s this girl?”

  John stares into the fire and shakes his head. There are no details in the action, only the unmistakable look of heartbreak.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  He nods. “Part of her is still here, you know. As long as that’s true, I’ll be here too.”

  A chorus of howls rises up in the distance. Her head jerks up at the sound.

  “Maybe we should head inside,” she says, her mouth suddenly dry. She has no interest in facing another wolf, especially outside where she’s exposed.

  “They shouldn’t bother us,” John says. “Not this close to the house.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” She stands up and John follows her lead back to the deck and the sliding door. As they approach the door, she realizes she has to get rid of him. If he comes inside, her demolition project will be discovered. It’s been a terrible mistake allowing herself to get too comfortable with him and now she’s going to pay the price unless she can send him on his way. She turns and blocks him from coming in. “Thanks for a great afternoon. I really needed that.”

  John looks past her. The cabin inside is completely dark. “Do you have a lantern close by? Do you want me to…” He turns on a flashlight and shines it inside. He has it trained on the sheet covering the wall she destroyed earlier that day. “What’s that?”

  Her stomach sinks at the idea of him seeing the hole, but there’s no stopping him now. As he gently but firmly edges past her and enters the cabin, she’s already in full excuse-making mode.

  “I can explain,” she says.

  He’s at the sheet, looking behind it with the flashlight.

  “I’ll pay for the repairs,” she says.

  He yanks on the sheet and it falls to the ground. The wall is intact. The hole gone. The floor clean of debris.

  Like nothing ever happened.

  “Pay to repair what?” John asks.

  Rachel’s arms cross her stomach on reflex. The shock of seeing the wall leaves her nauseous and unsteady on her feet. It’s impossible. She steps up to the wall and touches it. She expects it to be soft like the repaired bullet holes. Or have some indication that someone had been there to patch the hole while John distracted her. But there’s no evidence of that. The drywall looks aged. Stained from old water leaks. Chipped and worn.

  “Are you all right?” John asks.

  “No,” she replies. “I don’t think I am. It’s just… just… I need to be alone.”

  “If you tell me what it is, maybe I can help you,” John says, taking her hand in his. “Tell me what you see.”

  She shakes her head and pulls her hand back. “Please. Just leave me alone. I need some time to think.”

  “What if I—”

  “Please.”

  “Just let me—”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yells. “I need to be alone. What’s so goddamn hard to understand about that?”

  John holds his hands up and backs away. “Okay. You’re right. My fault.” His voice is soothing and it makes her feel like she’s a wild animal he’s trying to calm down. “I’m leaving. I’m sorry.”

  She takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

  “You don’t need to explain anything,” he says. “It’s fine.” He goes to the sliding door and then pauses. “Can I check on you tomorrow?”

  She smiles and nods. “That would be nice.”

  He hesitates like he has more to say, but thinks better of it. He leaves and closes the sliding door behind him.

  She walks across to the other side of the cabin and peers out the window in the kitchen that gives her a view of where her own car is parked. Next to it, she sees a white pickup truck. John comes into view from her left, flashlight bobbing along as he walks. But when he gets to the pickup, he goes to the passenger side and opens the door. The dome light comes on and the driver jerks up like he’s been asleep.

  It’s Ollie.

  What the hell was he doing there?

  She turns, feeling her g
rasp on reality turning to sand between her fingers. The claw hammer is on the kitchen counter next to her. She grabs it and, holding the lantern in the other hand, goes into the living room. She stands in front of the wall, the swaying lantern sending her shadow around the room.

  “I’m not going crazy,” she says.

  She looks at her reflection staring back at her in the sliding glass door.

  “Right?”

  Her reflection has nothing to say. So she turns to the wall and, with a yell, digs the claw into the drywall.

  The excavation goes quicker this time, and once she uncovers a section of the door beneath, she’s certain she’s done this before. The drywall comes off in large chunks as she powers through it. It’s not long before she can step back and stand in front of the exposed door once again.

  Only now there’s no handle.

  And she’s sure there was one before.

  She brushes off the area where the door handle should be and finds two holes filled with soft plaster. She feels all around the perimeter of the door, digging in her fingers, trying to grip the edge to pull it open. When that doesn’t work, she drops to her knees, ignoring the pain of the chunks of drywall digging into her skin. She holds the lantern close and inspects the gap under the door. It’s too narrow to see anything on the other side, but as she watches a draft comes from under the door and pushes the dust from the drywall forward. There’s a pause and then the draft reverses direction, sucking air under the door. Then back out. In. Out.

  Like it’s breathing.

  She levers the claw end of the hammer under the door and yanks on it. The door doesn’t budge. She hits the door with the hammer. Standing up, she kicks it, punches it with her fist. Losing control.

  “Open up, you son-of-a-bitch,” she screams. “Open the door. Let me out of here.”

  She drops the hammer to the floor and staggers backward.

  “To hell with this,” she says under her breath.

  Kicking drywall debris out of her way, she goes to the kitchen and opens the cupboard door. There, lined up four across and three deep, are bottles of Jack Daniels. Way more than she brought with her. Whoever is messing with her, fixing walls, cleaning up debris, must have planted these too. At least they had the decency to have her brand. She pulls a bottle out, twists off the top and guzzles it down. It pours out faster than she can handle so it drips from her mouth and down her front. She turns as she drinks, wondering if the wall will be back in place again and she’ll really have lost her mind.

  She drops the bottle and it shatters on the floor.

  The door is wide open.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel walks slowly to the door, glancing nervously around the room in case something had opened it from the other side and crept out into the room, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce. But the room looks undisturbed. Underwood is still there and she puts a reassuring hand on him as she walks past. Despite their recent failure to see eye-to-eye, he’s still her oldest friend and the cool touch of his steel frame steadies her.

  She puts the lantern on the table to make the shadows in the room stand still. She’s already creeped out enough without the extra atmospherics. There’s a stone landing on the other side of the door that extends about ten feet before plunging down into a curved staircase. A red glow comes up from below, pulsing in the unmistakable cadence of a heartbeat. A hot wind blows out from the passageway, sending her hair billowing out behind her. It smells of charred and burnt things.

  She considers trying to find her gun, but something tells her that a weapon like that would be pointless. The smart thing to do is close the door, repair the wall and forget this whole thing ever happened. Probably best to get in her car and get the hell out of Dodge while she was at it. But she couldn’t, not when she was so close. She had to know what was in there.

  “On a whim, out on a limb,” she says out loud to the empty room, wondering just how far out on the limb she’ll go before it breaks off and she falls forever downward.

  Leaving the lantern behind, she walks through the door, feeling the heat grow more intense when she crosses the threshold.

  The second she’s through, the door slams shut behind her.

  She’s gone…

  …and the cabin’s silent. The lantern burns, casting its stark light. Slowly the flame in the lantern shrinks, like someone is turning a dial toward the off position. The shadows deepen and darkness fills the corners of the room.

  A muffled scream comes from far away, somehow below the floor. Then the cabin vibrates like it’s sitting on top of an enormous engine that just started up. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling. Underwood shudders, its keys clacking in place. There’s a jolt and the cabin lurches to the side like in an earthquake.

  The sudden sound of footsteps and screaming…

  …and the door bursts open. Rachel tumbles to the floor, clothes shredded, face bloodied. She turns and pushes back from the now open door.

  Up the stairs comes the black wolf, the same one that attacked her before. Its hackles are up. Teeth bared. Strands of drool drip from its mouth.

  It snarls, claws grating against the stone floor. It crouches down, ready to spring.

  She yells and flies at the door, slamming it shut just as the wolf lunges.

  The wolf smashes against the door. Snarling, barking. Claws digging into the wood. But the door holds.

  She turns and braces against the attack with all her strength. She’ll do anything to keep the door shut. Anything to lock the monster inside.

  She sags to the ground, her back pressed as hard as she can against the door. Sobbing. The same words tumbling from her lips over and over.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day.

  Rachel turns to the window, surprised to see the sun’s already past its zenith and settling low in the sky. Surprised because she can’t remember it coming up. She’s still on the floor, still braced against the door even though it’s been hours since she’s heard the wolf. Her eyes are red from crying and lack of sleep. She feels like a shell, a thin husk of herself capable of being destroyed by nothing more than a breeze.

  Moving carefully, every muscle and joint screaming in pain, she stands up while keeping her body pressed against the wall. Slowly, she turns and can’t help but laugh at what she sees.

  The wall has been repaired.

  And there’s no sign of the door.

  She laughs harder and she worries that she might never be able to stop unless she gets out of the cabin. Unless she gets as far from this place as possible.

  But even as she has the thought, she knows she’s not going anywhere. Something has clicked inside of her, a part of her that needs to understand what’s going on. Somehow she senses it’s important that she uncovers the truth, that it’s essential. And she knows exactly where she needs to go to get answers.

  She tries to run outside but has to settle for a jog instead because her sore body slows her down. She doesn’t even want to imagine what her bruised skin must look like under her clothes.

  She manhandles the canoe back to the water, climbs in and paddles hard toward Granger’s cabin. She makes the trip across the lake in good time, fired up by her rising anger. Granger knows what’s going on, might even be responsible for it somehow. By the time the canoe beaches on the far shore, her arms and back are tired but her anger hasn’t slacked at all.

  Granger’s place looks like a log cabin from a distance, but up close it’s an amalgamation of found objects. Logs, bark, rocks, rusted sheets of corrugated metal, the seams packed with mud and moss. The roof sags and looks about to fall in. Chickens hunt and peck around the burn piles of trash that litter the property. Ropes strung between trees hold the drying pelts of raccoon, rabbit, squirrel and fox. A thin tendril of smoke rises from an old campfire.

  “Granger!” she calls out. “Are you here?”

  She passes the campf
ire with its two chairs and scattering of chicken bones and goes to the cabin’s front door.

  “Hello?” she calls as she knocks on the door.

  The door edges open when she touches it. “Granger? Are you in here?” She pushes it open all the way.

  It’s dark inside and, knowing how odd the old bastard is, she’s not excited by the idea of going in uninvited. But her anger gives way to her good nature as she pictures Granger on the floor of the cabin clutching his chest from a heart attack. Or even lying there with a broken hip. She has a flash image of Professor McNeely sprawled on her college classroom floor, feet kicking, stain spreading out from his crotch, his body fighting all the way to the end.

  “Hello?” she calls out again as she steps inside. The single room cabin is in shambles, the den of a pack rat. Old machine parts, tools, animal traps, stacks of animal pelts. Hundreds of animal antlers cover the walls, many with the skull of the animal attached, vacant eye sockets staring into the room. Suspended from string, a flock of stuffed birds hangs from the ceiling. Crows, ravens, finches, all covered with dust, some with feathers eaten away by mold. Death everywhere but no sign of the old man.

  “Granger,” she says, about ready to give up the search.

  Then something grabs her from behind. She screams and turns around, knowing it’s the black wolf, ready to strike her down.

  But it’s not the wolf, it’s Granger. “Got you again. Never seen someone jump so high.” He’s bent over, laughing.

  “Damn it,” she says. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Jus’ havin’ a little fun, is all,” Granger says, laying the New England accent on heavy. “’Sides, you’re the one pokin’ ‘round up in ‘ere.”

  “I thought you might be in trouble, asshole,” she says.

  “What? Dead of a heart attack or something?” Granger says. “Wouldn’t that be something?”