by Jeff Gunhus
She darts back to the small space in front of the closet just as the door to Granger’s office opens. John strides out followed by Granger, only he looks nothing like the man she has come to know. He wears a coat and tie and his grey hair is neatly combed back against his scalp. He chases after John. If either of them turn, they’ll see her halfway into the hallway. Neither of them do.
“Rachel!” John calls out, running down the hallway now.
“She’s too fragile,” Granger calls after him. “We have to move slowly. It could be dangerous.”
They turn the corner and their voices fade. She runs into Granger’s office and closes the door behind her, breathing hard, her head spinning. The office is immaculate with furniture placed in perfect symmetry for the space. There’s an oiled hardwood desk with three pens lined up next to a blank pad of paper. A deer head hangs on one wall and the other has two stuffed pheasants made to look like they are in midflight.
She runs to the window, the urge to escape her prison almost overwhelming her. Even the prospect of seeing John doesn’t slow her down. They’re holding her against her will. She needs to get away. Nothing else matters.
She sees that she’s on the first floor of the building. Right outside is a patch of grass that slopes down to a parking lot. It’s her chance. She turns and yanks open Granger’s desk drawers one by one, rummaging through the neatly organized contents. Nothing. She searches the surface of the desk but still no sign of what she’s looking for.
She glances up and sees a porcelain dish on the table right by the door to the office. A set of keys rests on top of a pile of change. Jackpot. She runs over and grabs the key fob attached with an Audi insignia on it. That will make it easier to find the car.
She runs to the window, flips the locks and jerks it open. She crawls up on the windowsill and swings her feet over until they dangle next to the red brick wall. The fall down to the grass looks father than she expected and she hesitates.
The office door flies open behind her. John and Granger run in.
“Rachel!” John says. “Stop. Wait.”
She wants to wait. She wants to swing her legs back over and feel his arms around her. But she knows that if she stays they’ll put her back in the room with the drawings on the wall and the restraints on the bed. She can’t do that.
Just as a hand grabs her, she pushes off the window and drops to the ground. She hits hard and shoulder rolls forward. She doesn’t risk looking back because she knows they will come after her. She runs as hard as she can to the parking lot, clicking the key fob as she runs. A car chirps. Not an Audi, but a red Honda. She doesn’t care. It’s just a way for her to escape what’s chasing her and that’s all that matters.
She climbs in, starts the car and punches the gas. The tires squeal as she races out of the parking lot and onto the main road. She’s filled with a sense of victory at her escape and excitement at her new freedom. But then she looks in the rearview mirror and screams at the sight of her own face.
She’s bald, a jagged scar showing the spot she’d destroyed with her suicide attempt. But that isn’t the worst of it. Her face is gone. No nose or mouth. Not even ears on the sides of her head. Just the slick shine of a burn victim’s skin stretched tight across her skull and her eyes staring back in the mirror from inside the monster’s face.
With a cry, she slaps the rearview mirror away with the back of her hand. The car swerves and she nearly loses control. She corrects and the car swings back onto the road before she slams on the brakes. The car skids to a stop in the center of the empty street. She gasps for air, in a full anxiety attack, her eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the image from the mirror.
Slowly, she settles down and catches her breath. It can’t be true. The image couldn’t have been her. Carefully, she reaches to touch her face. It feels like normal skin to her now. She feels eyebrows. And then her nose. She turns the mirror back to her.
It’s her face. The one she knows is really her. Without burns. Without parts missing. She touches the long brown hair that falls to her shoulders and pulls it back into a ponytail. She readjusts the rearview mirror so she can see the road behind her, long and straight, bordered on either side by tall pines. She notices black clouds churning in the air behind her. Ahead of her, the road looks identical, only without the dark clouds.
A faint clink-clink sounds next to her. Underwood and Jack, her two eternal companions, are strapped together in the passenger seat, ready for anything. She smiles, thinking that buckling them together might have been overdoing it, but it makes her laugh, so she forgives herself the indulgence. This is her journey, her time, so acting odd is her prerogative.
She knows she’s making a terrible mistake, but that’s never stopped her before. Even as she speeds down the empty highway, she’s certain nothing good will come of this trip. She can’t say why she has this belief, only that it’s deeply rooted, part of a visceral animal instinct clawing away at her insides. Call it intuition. Or call it common sense, doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s the truth.
She refuses to change her destination, even if her rising sense of dread causes her heart to beat right out of her chest. She’s committed, this much is a fact, so she pushes aside all thought of turning around and focuses on the road ahead.
Before long, she pulls into the driveway of the cabin. There’s a bull’s skull standing guard, bleached white by the sun. She knocks on the door to no answer so she walks along the side of the house toward the water.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice says to her left.
She’s so taken by the view that she doesn’t even turn.
“I don’t think you can,” she whispers.
“Will you let me try?”
She turns to the man walking toward her and meets his eyes.
“Yes,” she says. “Please.”
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you three times.
First, thank you for supporting a fellow human being’s passion. I think it makes you a good person and makes up for that one thing you did in high school (you know what I’m talking about).
Second, thank you for being part of the community of readers. Each time you write a review, recommend a book to a friend or share a new novel through social media, you help keep the fire for books alive. Those of us who scribble stories late into the night are completely in your debt. If you can write even a short review right now when the book is fresh in your mind, it would be greatly appreciated.
Lastly, thank you for your time. As a father of five and an avid reader (labels that can seem mutually exclusive at times), I recognize every book you open represents a hard choice among thousands of options. I’m awed and humbled that you chose to spend your valuable time within these pages. I hope that I proved to be worthy of your trust.
Readers have asked me more often about my inspiration for RACHEL AMES than for any other book. Many wonder if I’m trying to process a personal tragedy in my own life through these pages. Fortunately, that is not the case.
However, readers may notice the recurrence of children-in-jeopardy throughout my books. This was not intentional but just how my mind works. As a dad, I can think of nothing more devastating or irrecoverable as the loss of a child. I’m so protective and so fearful for my five kids that if I didn’t exorcise some of my demons on these pages, I don’t think I could bear it.
For those readers who have experienced the pain of losing a child, some of who have written to me that they can relate the madness on the pages here, my entire heart goes out to you. It’s said time heals all wounds. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I like to think that it is and that even the grieving father or mother can somehow find calm and peace in their world again. That is my hope and prayer.
With appreciation,
Jeff Gunhus
About The Author
Jeff Gunhus is the author of the Amazon bestselling supernatural thrillers, Night Chill and Night
Terror and the thriller Killer Within. He also writes the middle grade/YA series, The Templar Chronicles. The first book of the series, Jack Templar Monster Hunter, was written in an effort to get his reluctant reader eleven-year-old son excited about reading. It worked and a new series was born. His book Reaching Your Reluctant Reader has helped hundreds of parents create avid readers. As a father of five, he and his wife Nicole spend most of their time chasing kids and taking advantage of living in the great state of Maryland. In rare moments of quiet, he can be found in the back of the City Dock Cafe in Annapolis working on his next novel. If you see him there, sit down and have a cup of coffee with him. You just might end up in his next book.
Come say hello at:
@jeffgunhus
jeffgunhusauthor
www.jeffgunhus.com
[email protected]
