“I know what you did!” Peter cried as he threw another right.
“The hell you talking about?”
The phone lying on ground lit up. The caller ID read Hannah.
“My wife!” Peter punctuated this with an elbow to the chest.
“Oh, God,” Riggs wheezed, throwing up his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“You admit it?”
“I’m sorry!”
The ticket taker and his fellow worker from the Scrambler caught Peter under the arms and lifted him squirming off the ground.
“Get security over here!” the ticket taker shouted to the crowd that had gathered, drawn by the commotion and the blood.
“No!” Riggs said, spitting red. “Not necessary.”
“Hell with security. Call the cops,” the Scrambler operator snarled.
Riggs stepped in and wrestled Peter from their grip. “Did he break your nose? No. Did he break mine? Maybe. But you don’t see me crying about it, so mind your own fuckin’ business, all right?”
Before the carnies could answer, Riggs quickly led Peter away from the haunted house, making a beeline for the snow cone stand.
* * *
The blue syrup trickled down the cone and onto Peter’s hand as he sat buckled into the passenger seat.
Riggs pressed his snow cone to his upper lip as he drove. The whole middle of his face was turning deep purple.
“Go ahead. Yell at me. Cuss me out,” Riggs said. He took the embankment at a good clip, rocks scraping the underbelly of the Jeep. “I’m an asshole. I deserve. Don’t just say nothin’. Saying nothin’? That’s the worst.”
Peter remain silent for the duration of the ride. He and Riggs both received calls from Hannah during the drive—both ignored them.
Clouds rolling in across the prairie made good on their threat to ruin the first day of the Fall Festival. By the time Riggs pulled down the gravel drive to the house, large raindrops were hitting the windshield.
Up ahead, Hannah sat in the idling Prius, lights on.
Riggs sniffed, snorting up a clot of blood and snot. “One thing you can say about ole Riggs. When he fucks up, he fucks up good.”
Peter waited in the Jeep until it was clear that Hannah wasn’t going to be the first to leave her vehicle.
“Wait here,” he said to Riggs.
“Good idea,” Riggs replied, happy to comply.
Peter stepped out of the Jeep and walked toward the Prius. The rain was already collecting in the ruts in the drive.
The windows were fogged up—behind the haze sat Hannah. She didn’t look his way until he knocked on the window. She rubbed away a circle of condensation and looked out at him, seemingly content to let him stand in the ever increasing rain.
Finally, she motioned him to the passenger side. Peter looked back to the Jeep and made a downward, jabbing motion with his finger. Stay here. Riggs nodded.
Peter circled the car, taking a quick glance at the house. It sat silent like a hulking audience of one. He could feel the eyes of every denizen of the dark watching him as he opened the passenger door and got into the car.
He looked down at his hands before looking at his wife. The knuckles on his right hand were alternately red and blue—blood and syrup.
The jealousy and hurt that simmered beneath the surface begged for his voice, but he stayed silent, determined to make her speak first. When she did, her words caught him off guard.
“When did you start keeping secrets from me?”
Peter looked up. Hannah had turned toward him, and he could tell that there wasn’t a shred of artifice in her question.
“Me? That’s funny. That’s a laugh riot.”
Hannah didn’t respond. Instead, she searched his face. Her gaze had always unhinged and unmasked him—he’d learned early on in their marriage that he couldn’t keep even the slightest untruth from her once she locked on. And it was this power she used on him now.
“I know what you did,” he said, echoing his words to Riggs before fists flew and blood flowed. “With him.” He thrust an accusatory finger in the direction of the Jeep.
Hannah shook her head. “What did he tell you?”
Nothing! He didn’t have to tell me a goddamn thing. I heard you! Both of you!
“Enough,” Peter said. “He told me enough.”
She squeezed the bridge of her nose and sighed.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“Look at yourself, Peter.” She flipped down the sun visor in front of him and slipped aside the panel covering the mirror. Peter saw his stubbled chin reflected there, an edge of the soaked bandage just in view. “Take a hard look.”
He did. Peter adjusted the visor and found his eyes. One was twitching back at him; both were seething with fire.
“Yes. Riggs tried to kiss me,” Hannah said. “But if you were in my shoes, would you tell the man you’re looking at anything about it?”
“You did more than kiss.”
“We did? Please, Peter, tell me all about it. What’s your buddy saying? That he screwed me? That we got hot and heavy in that filthy Jeep of his? Did the nasty in the back seat with the empty beer cans and burger wrappers?”
“You—”
“Nothing happened!”
The force of the statement cracked his anger, splintering it. Confused but still energized, Peter pounded the dashboard with his fist.
“Yes, it did!”
“Enough!” Hannah said in a tone that brought an abrupt halt to the conversation. She reached into the back seat and pulled the document from her bag. “Here.”
She dropped it in his lap, the discontinuity of the act throwing him.
“What is that?”
“Something you need to see.”
Peter regarded the thing in his lap for a moment before picking it up. It crinkled in his hands.
State of Illinois, Division of Vital Records.
Peter was instantly aware of his heartbeat. The reflexive squeeze of muscle, the rush of blood. It pounded in his ears, each fleshy beat growing louder and farther apart until…
The cry of a baby grabbed his attention.
Peter suddenly realized that he was standing.
Not possible.
He looked left. Hannah was gone. The car was gone. Riggs, the pages he was holding, the rain—all gone.
The wail came again, and this time Peter turned toward the house. The sky was grey, the house in slightly less disrepair than a moment ago. And a green Ford pickup sat parked in the drive. Large swaths of the truck had been eaten away by rust. The payload was filled with junk covered by a paint-spattered tarp.
Peter walked toward the house, passing the truck on the way. Glancing inside, he saw a ratty blanket covering even rattier cushions, and a half-empty bottle of Old Crow peeked out from under the seat.
When the cry came a third time, it was followed by a woman’s scream. Peter ran for the front door and stopped, hand poised over the doorknob.
I could turn around—refuse to go inside.
Even as he thought this, the world stuttered and jumped, and he suddenly found himself standing inside the house at the top of the stairs. The instantaneous leap was disorienting, and Peter’s brain had to take a second to catch up.
The two bedrooms stood before him. The door to the master was closed; the door to the second, wide open. Inside the smaller room sat a crib. Lying about the floor were cloth diapers—once neatly folded, now scattered.
A familiar scent caught him off guard, and he recoiled. It was the heavy musk of cheap cigars. The air practically dripped with it.
“You cheat!” The shout came from behind the door to the master bedroom. “You filthy cheat!” Peter heard the sound of an open-hand slap and a quick exhalation.
“Albert, stop!” A woman. Peter’s guts trembled at the sound, whether in recognition of the voice or the fear that it contained. He wanted to run—either toward the woman or away—but his feet were glued to the fl
oor.
The baby’s cries kicked in again. A pathetic mewling—a sickly sound.
“Shut it up, or I’ll shut it up for you.”
Peter pressed his hand against the door, and it gave a warning creak. He pulled his hand back, not wanting to alert the people within the room of his presence.
He wanted to look inside, to see inside. There was no doubt in his mind that if he threw the door open, he would come face to face with the grey man—now named. Albert.
The woman began cooing, a gentle sound meant to soothe interrupted by hacking sobs. He could see the woman in his mind’s eye, stroking the child’s head, desperate to instill calm.
“Back in my old man’s day, they had a name for women like you. Jezebel! Wonton women who spread their legs for any man who came sniffin’ their way.” He underlined this point with another slap. The woman’s cooing only grew in volume.
“Go downstairs, Albert. I’m begging you.” The plea was pure terror.
“That ain’t begging. I’ll show you begging. I know that child ain’t mine—”
“Yes, he is!”
“Who’d you sleep with? You sleep with the Bear? Is that his cub?”
“No!”
“Man I work beside day in, day out. I hope he made you feel good, Willa.”
“He’s yours. I swear.”
“I hope the Big Bear made you feel real good. ‘Cause I’m gonna make you feel bad!”
Peter held his breath. Big Bear? Jesus, it couldn’t be.
“I’ll whup you so hard that ole Bill Larson’ll feel it, by God!”
Peter could stand by no longer.
He threw open the door with a shout. The scene before him froze momentarily. The dark-haired woman in the nightgown with the blood on her lip. The open-mouthed baby in her arms. Him in her arms. The grey man red-faced and full of rage, lording over them both. A quick snapshot before, once again—like an old movie with a bad splice—the world jumped.
The man’s hands were around her neck, and he was shaking her. The baby had fallen off of the bed and lay squalling on the floor.
“Beg me, Willa! Beg me!”
Peter shouted again, but the vision wouldn’t hold still. The woman—Willa, her name was Willa—lay tangled in the bedclothes next to her infant.
The grey man—the Old Man—had his boot pressed against her throat.
“I…I…” The woman clawed at the man’s leg and tried to speak, but this only seemed to encourage the man. He shoved down hard, and Peter heard cartilage crack.
Reality ripped once more, and the man was gone. Peter could hear him downstairs, cursing up and down and trashing the place. Finally, he heard the front door open, and the man stomp out.
Peter knelt before the woman. Her neck swelled, engorged, and he could only image what the force of the boot had done.
Her lips were moving in silent prayer, and with the man gone, the baby had gone silent as well.
The woman ran her thumb across her split lips. And as Peter heard the grey man reenter the house, the woman drew a bloody line across her baby’s forehead.
“Shadow, I draw you forth—you dare not resist. This is your charge. I give my last blood to bind you. You must obey. This is your charge.”
The air went cold, and Peter felt the bloody line burn across his own forehead.
The scene before him blurred. He felt time rush forward around him. The man was suddenly back. He yanked the woman from the bed and dragged her screaming across the floor, her arms outstretched for her baby.
Time leaped again, and Peter heard a crash on the stairs behind him. He rose to find the man glowering down at the broken remains of the banister, the woman entangled in its wooden teeth.
Peter stole a glance back at his infant self, but the baby was gone, swallowed up in shadow. The light was going out of this world, and Peter felt the panicked need to flee.
When he reached the top of the staircase, the man and woman were gone. A bloody trail descended the stairs and turned down the hallway, heading for the back of the house.
He took the stairs two, three at a time, feeling the house being eaten up around him. He dared not slow, dared not look behind him for fear he would be lost in the gaping maw that raged behind him.
Peter dashed down the hallway toward the back of the house. As he passed the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of Hannah and Riggs, naked and writhing on the linoleum floor. Jets of black flame shot from the top of the stove, engulfing the room in obsidian fire.
He ran on, outpacing the dark by mere inches until he hit the back door and burst into the yard.
Before him, the grey man held the woman aloft, wrapped in the truck’s paint-stained tarp. He hurled the still squirming bundle into the pond. Dark water exploded into the air, reaching up for an even darker sky.
Peter couldn’t contain himself—driven by instinct, he rushed toward the water. He shouldered past the grey man who startled at his presence.
“You little shit!”
Without hesitation, Peter dove into the pond—into the swirling, foaming darkness. Down he swam, through water as thick as blood, his lungs screaming for air. Reaching out with each stroke, his hands searching until finally…his fingertips touched cloth. He grabbed hold tight, digging his fingers into the tarp as his cocooned mother drew him down into the depths.
“Get him out of there!”
Riggs plunged into the pond, quickly sinking up to his knees, and grabbed Peter around the waist. Peter’s hand clutched a large clump of moss and muck, and for a moment Riggs was engaged in a tug of war. Finally, the moss ripped free, and Riggs dragged Peter from the murky water.
Lightning cracked overhead. Peter squinted against the thunder, but otherwise, his expression was blank. Dead.
“Why the hell did he jump in?” Riggs shouted.
Peter looked down at the edge of rotting fabric gripped in his hand. The bulk of the thing sat half in, half out of the water. And through a rip in the grimy cloth, Peter spied the toothy grin of a yellowed skull.
Willa.
“Is he breathing?” Hannah was frantic. She dropped to the ground next to Peter.
“Yes,” Riggs said.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s breathing. He’s okay.”
Hannah glared at Riggs. “He is not okay. Jesus Christ, look at him.”
“I just meant—”
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That. In his hand.”
“Just weeds.” Riggs lied, prying open Peter’s fingers. Lying, for he too had seen the gruesome, smiling skull.
“Help me get him in the car.”
“Yours or—”
“Mine!”
The two of them lifted Peter from the muddy ground and hauled him back to the Prius. Hannah opened the back door and got in first.
“Careful.”
Riggs maneuvered Peter in behind Hannah, making sure his legs were clear before slamming the door shut. He ran around the car and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?” Riggs asked, wiping water from his face. “I’m thinking hospital. Right? The hospital?”
“Give me a second.”
Hannah took Peter’s face in her hands. He opened his eyes and stared—there was no spark.
Riggs turned the key in the ignition. “Damn. How do you know if this thing’s on?”
“Riggs!” Hannah’s voice kept his hand off the throttle. She leaned in and spoke straight into Peter’s ear. “Wake up, Peter. You’ve got to wake up, honey. I love you. Now, just…wake up!”
A light at the end of the drive drew Riggs’ attention. “You expecting company?”
Hannah felt Peter’s jaw move, felt his breath against her neck. She pulled back. “What was that, sweetheart?”
“I had her.”
“What, Peter?”
“The grey…” he whispered. “Grey man. I know. I know now.”
“What man? Who are you talking ab
out, Peter?”
Riggs reached back and tapped the back of the seat. “Guys?”
“He killed her.”
“Guys?”
“Hush, now,” Hannah said. She ran her fingers through his wet hair, all of her suspicion and resentment washed away with the rain. “Let’s get you out of here. Don’t talk. Jesus, Peter, I thought I lost you. Just hush.”
Headlights lit up the interior of the car, which had the effect of rousing Peter even further from his stupor.
“What…what is that?” Peter rubbed his jaw.
“I tried to tell you,” Riggs said.
The silhouette of a person appeared, framed in the passenger side window. A rapid series of knocks sounded, and before Riggs could reach over to roll down the window, the door opened and a rain-soaked person hopped into the car.
“It wasn’t supposed to rain for another two hours,” Ellen Marx said, wiping her glasses. “I need a new weather app. Mine was not accurate.”
“Excuse me,” said Riggs. “Who are you?”
Ellen pulled out her phone and typed out a quick memo. “I’ll need to do some research—find the best one.”
It was Hannah’s turn. “Who the hell are you?”
“Ellen,” Peter said, almost smiling. “What are you doing here?”
The young woman in black furrowed her brow. “I told you we’d talk again soon.”
Peter straightened up, hearing his back pop in the process. He felt like he’d been run over by a train.
“Hannah, this is Ellen Marx—Ellen, this is my wife.”
“I read Saunder’s book on malevolent forces,” Ellen said, speaking to Peter and Peter alone. “But his conclusions are shaky, and his Catholic faith tends to inhibit him. Brodinger, on the other hand—”
“Cool your jets a sec,” Peter said. “I need to bring my wife up to speed.”
Riggs held a hand up. “Hospital? Yes or no?”
Peter waved him off. He looked Hannah in the eye. “I’ve got to tell you something.”
“No shit,” Hannah said, but there was no malice in—just an eagerness to understand. And he loved her for it.
As the storm ebbed and flowed, and the rain drummed on the rooftop, Peter made his confession to the people in the Prius. Every incident he could remember, every thought that had consumed him from the moment he’d stepped into the house not thirty feet away. The details he couldn’t remember he worked around. He didn’t shy away from a word of it, and by the time he had finished, he felt much more firmly grounded in the world.
The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1) Page 15
