Once Winston rounded the stairwell, he raced down the corridor. He slipped the knife into his belt.
The door opened, unlocked. “Kyra?” he whispered. No answer. A bedside lamp lit the unoccupied room. Blankets twisted in a white pretzel on the bed. He crossed to the bathroom, gave the door a knock and peered inside.
Shit. Where is she?
He sat on the bed, shut everything out, and concentrated.
Christian was accounted for, tending to Calvin’s remains. Domenick couldn’t be far away, but remained unseen and unheard. Which left the Dandys and Carsten. The silence sent a chill down his back. With everything going on tonight, the inn should’ve been alive with chaos.
He stared at the wall next to the bathroom, his eyes blurring at the paisley patterned wallpaper. But something seemed off. A trick of the light perhaps, yet the pattern seemed to move, angled at a slight distortion.
As he approached, his toe kicked into the wall, closer than it looked. A hidden door, wide enough for an ironing board and not much else. The door swung open on silent hinges. Obviously an old servant’s hallway, and by the looks of it, not used in years. Kyra had entered the passageway, irresistible to a child. Maybe the safest place for her. Unless she bumped into Christian.
His cell phone’s battery long dead, he plucked out his lighter; it, too, was on its last legs. Hesitantly, he closed the door behind him. No sense leaving a trail. With the knife in one hand held out in front of him, the lighter in the other, he entered the darkness.
*
Chains jangled at Heather’s back. Her hands strained in the metal cuffs, her arm muscles reaching their limit. Hooked to the wall, the chains unbreakable, no escape. But Heather wouldn’t let it break her spirit. Lord knows the sinners had been trying to break her, a true test of her belief.
After the homosexual had carried her outside into the snow and down through a cellar door, he dropped her in the dank basement. She felt like the devil himself had carried her to hell. While he’d shackled her, she lunged at him, teeth bared. The chains snapped her back against the wall. She managed to spit on him, though, just a taste of what she had planned. Frankly, it surprised her he didn’t retaliate. But he stood alert, head cocked like a dog, as if hearing something. He disappeared through a door, faster than she thought he could move.
She sat on her haunches, not wanting to dirty her dress. Her thigh muscles ached, a good ache, a martyred pain. The key to her freedom hung on the stone wall ten feet in front of her. Literally. That’s where the gay had hung the key. So close, yet so far. Just like her unfinished work here in the House of Satan.
Goose pimples rolled across her arms. It was dark, so very dark, and cold. No lamps, no overhead lights. But a splintered door stood at the opposite end of the cellar. Green light rimmed the door’s outline, unhealthy and hellish; it looked ready to drop at a hearty knock. The same door the Dandys had entered a little while ago. The old man had carried another man in his arms, just like Tommy had carried her over the carriage house’s threshold. A constant thrumming drowned out their hateful voices. A pulsing sensation moved the earth below her feet.
Tum … tum … A generator’s heartbeat? Or the devil coming to collect his due from the bowels of Hell?
The green light didn’t illuminate much, told nothing about her prison. Her chains bound her two feet to the wall, that much was obvious. But just because she couldn’t make out anything in the darkness, didn’t mean Heather couldn’t see.
She saw plenty. Broken souls dissipating, flitting away like bats in a suddenly lit barn. Souls searching for a way out, trapped in an eternity of limbo, suffering. Suffering like her. For the first time, she heard them, too. Anguished howls, mournful moans, disembodied pleas for deliverance. The basement had been a charnel house, a killing room. Yet unlike her good work, the Dandys doomed these souls to an everlasting afterlife of nothing. Sinners. And she’d make them pay, yes she would.
She swiped her hand in the dirt, expecting to feel rough granules sift between her fingers. Instead, she pulled away mud. She pinched a bit, held it in front of her, straining to see the color. But she didn’t need to. She knew it was blood.
More blood would be spilled tonight. Just not hers.
With a growl, she threw her weight forward, the chains again yanking her back. Her chin bit the ground. Her beautiful hair splayed out on the dirt, angel wings attempting to fly. She screamed, not because she feared for her life. Rather, to unleash her anger.
When she heard voices coming her way, she silenced. And prayed.
*
Harold kept three fingers lightly perched on Kyra’s shoulder, afraid to touch her too much (one can never be too cautious in today’s litigious society), yet just enough to maintain his lifeline through the dark corridor. As they scooted down the narrow hall, the brat wouldn’t let up on her running commentary. Every time Harold shushed her, admonishing her to use an inside voice. She complied at first, but one minute later would raise her voice to the rafters again.
“This door goes into Christian’s room. Then out to his desk. That’s where I went last time.” She placed a hand against the wall to the left, a welcome scrap of light living beneath an unseen door. A passageway, no doubt, leading right to Domenick.
“Yeah, no, we’re not going out there. And please be quiet.”
He’d had about enough of the girl. But like a rat in a maze, he was stuck for now. The walls closed in, suffocating in the worst kind of sense, the air still and musty. It concerned him he no longer felt the draft. There had to be a way outside, just had to. Slave owners didn’t want the hired help tramping through their mansion.
He presumed the corridor led across the complete backside of the huge inn. But it felt twice as long, tepidly stepping toe to toe through the blackness. Occasionally his hand slipped onto web-covered glass, windows presumably shuttered on the outside, capturing them inside and keeping any light from entering.
“Keep going.” With a little shove, he redirected the brat along their straight path. She seemed unfazed by the blind maze, enjoying it almost. A web entrapped Harold’s face, tight and sticky. With a yelp, he clawed at it. Something crawled over his scalp, small legs skittering at a clip. “Get it off, get it off!” He bent, offering his head toward the girl.
“There’s nothing there,” she said with a giggle. Her clammy hands patted down his dome. His comb over unraveled, a long strand falling beside his cheek.
“Let’s just get out of here.” Embarrassed, Harold straightened. He tossed back his shoulders, attempting to man up. Just keep remembering the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He gave the briefcase a shake for extra reinforcement.
“Where do you think my mommy is?” Again, she said it too loudly.
“Probably looking for you, little girl.” He knew she hated being called “little girl.” Too bad. His sadistic side enjoyed the small pleasure. Call it punishment for her bratty behavior.
Harold shuffled through the darkness, too afraid to lift a foot. His shoes slid across the dirt-covered planks, every squeak threatening to drop him through the boards. Sweat slipped down his spine, his temples, his thighs. Then cool air enveloped him like someone had just tossed open a window. But something stank, bitter and full of decay. Harold lurched, his gag reflex drawing in his stomach.
“What’s that smell?” When the girl pinched her nose, her voice raised higher.
“Shhh!” Harold followed the draft. His foot tapped into something hollow sounding, a throaty chunk. Startled, he fell back, flailing his arms for balance. He dug a toe in, ensuring solid footing. His phone went back up. The light flashed on rising wooden steps, even narrower than the passage. Another very thin passageway ran alongside it. He lowered his head and leaned in. More stairs going down, directly beneath the ascending steps.
Clearly excited, the girl hopped up and down. Harold wondered how thrilled she’d be if she knew a happily-ever-after wasn’t guaranteed. “Stairwells,” she exclaimed. “We shouldn’t go u
p. That’s what people in scary movies do.”
While Harold hadn’t seen a “scary movie” in years, he had to admit the girl had a point. And their way out of this nightmare certainly wouldn’t be upstairs. “Fine. Lead the way.”
On the top step, he pinched her shoulder. “Slow down. We don’t want to fall.” We, of course, meaning Harold. “One step at a time.”
Splintered and rough, the handrail vanished after a foot. Harold teetered, his hand flattening against the stone wall to the left. Something adhered to his fingers. Afraid to look at it, he wiped his hand against his slacks. The gummy substance remained, worse than if he’d stuck his fingers into a honey pot.
As they descended, the phone’s light played with their shadows, bobbing and dipping like cartoons. The darkness surrendered into a color beyond black. When Kyra stopped at the foot of the stairs, Harold bumped into her. Now the draft drew rushing air by them, a constant stream. He stepped onto blessed solid dirt, no unsteady planks to walk, the space opening up. Only one way to go, down another long hallway. But this one appeared wider, even scarier than the tight confines of the servant’s corridor. The dim light couldn’t hold the width of the underground tunnel. Anything could be lurking at the sides. Harold gulped, fears sneaking up behind, crushing from the sides.
He reclaimed the girl’s shoulder and said, “Okay, let’s go faster.”
The girl nodded, her eyes sunken into darkness. As if she owned the damn place, she marched along the corridor. Harold struggled to keep up. The cold draft increased, an active breeze, the rancid smell riding it.
The phone’s light weakened. Within a small radius, Harold could see only mold-layered walls, dirt at his feet. It felt like miles, although he knew it couldn’t be. He noticed other footprints, scattered heel indentations as if someone had hopped through the corridor. A troubling thought. Surely Domenick wouldn’t come down here, not with his germ phobia. The airflow slowed, but a sound grew. Humming machinery.
Kyra stopped. “It’s a door.” Stating the obvious, something the girl excelled at. Harold held the phone high, examining the entryway. Rust coated the doorknob. Green mold — possibly black, but everything looked green beneath the phone’s emerald ray — crept up the door like vines. Something else stained the door, small droplets spattered from the center blob. Harold didn’t want to think about it.
“Whaddaya waiting for, little girl? Go on in.”
The only possible way out. Suddenly the exit by the host’s room appealed more.
The door opened at the girl’s touch, surprisingly silent given its condition. Chains rankled. Harold jumped, expecting a leaping dog to rip out his throat. Kyra backed into him, one hand snatching his pant leg. At the end of the room, green light blurred. Together they shambled forward, a slow three-legged race.
A whisper nearly burst open Harold’s heart.
“Who’s there? Please … help me.”
With the phone shaking in his grasp, Harold inched toward the voice. The phone’s beam fell on the mousy blonde he’d met that morning. Chained to the wall, looking like she’d seen better days. At first, Harold thought he’d stumbled upon the post swinger’s party, an S&M jamboree. Something that didn’t appeal to him at all. Why mix pain with pleasure?
“Get me out of here. Oh, thank God, praise him …”
As they crept closer, Harold changed his mind. Definitely not a sex party. Shadows peeled back from the girl’s face, revealing eyes like a cat’s, jade colored and reflecting fear. And like a cat, her back hunched up as she hissed through clenched teeth. “Let me go now. The key’s over there. You’ve got to …”
Kyra, still afraid and clinging tightly to the back of Harold’s shirt (something he oddly didn’t mind; almost a little comforting), hesitantly approached the woman. With one hand on her knee, she bent over, staying well outside of the girl’s range. “What’re you doing down here?”
The woman jumped, her arms swinging toward Kyra. The chains jerked her back. She landed on her feet, stumbling like a drunk. “Shut up. They’re in the next room.” She rattled a chain toward the green light. “Just get me out of here.”
Harold felt Kyra looking up at him, searching for answers. The only certainty Harold knew was he had to get the hell out of here. Now. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. He didn’t consider the implications, had no idea who’d chained the woman, didn’t know who “they” in the green room were. Didn’t care, either, thank you very much. Survival came first. And the Caribbean.
He hurried through the cellar, sweeping his phone along the walls. Beside the woman, he stumbled upon another door. If his generally unerring sense of direction hadn’t failed him, it was the most likely way outside. The back of the inn, southern facing. The woman threw herself after him, the chains again choking her back. She just didn’t learn. With his palms placed on the door, he felt wonderfully frigid temperatures.
“No! Don’t go! Please! Don’t leave me here! Don’t …” A wave of sobs rolled over her, obliterating her words into mush.
Harold debated with his conscience, something he hadn’t done in years. “Sorry …” He thought about saying more, perhaps telling her he’d call the police. Nope, no police involvement. His conscience, having atrophied after so many years of nonuse, lapsed back into a coma. Harold twisted the knob, icy in his hand.
“Mister, we can’t leave her here! She might die!”
Why’d the damn brat have to say something? He’d almost made it out the door, his conscience clear. But the brat, the damned whiny, insufferable brat. Obviously, the woman’s crying got to Kyra, something she knew a lot about. Sisterhood in tears. Yet, he hated to admit it; something about the little girl affected him. Downright embarrassing. Dammit. He didn’t need an entourage. A loner all his life by choice (maybe a little by necessity, if he was absolutely honest), he didn’t see things changing anytime soon. Whatever, set the woman free, get the kid outside, then adios, it’s been real.
Harold’s shoulders sagged, the briefcase weighing more than it should. “Fine, get the key, little girl. And free her. Make it fast. And be quiet.”
The little girl scurried across the room. Harold attempted to provide her a pinch of light. On tiptoes, she stretched up against the wall, reaching for a ring of keys on a hook. Unable to snare them, she looked around. With an annoying “a-ha” face, she raced toward a workbench and picked up what looked like a stick. After several jumps, the stick loosened the keys. They hit the dirt with a jangle, much too loud for Harold’s taste. He flicked a nervous look toward the green door.
Kyra’s enthusiasm fizzled once she approached the captive blonde. She looked nervous, a wary child feeding an animal.
“Please! Just unlock me … please …”
Kyra knelt. Key after key slipped into the lock until a loud click jolted Kyra back onto her bottom. The blonde dropped one of the cuffs, then snagged the keys to free her other hand.
Despite his brief lapse into humanity, Harold had kept one hand on the door knob, ready to make a fast getaway. He’d done his good deed. From here on out, every man for himself.
He couldn’t hear the clock upstairs ticking, not really, but in his mind, it ticked off every wasted second detaining him from his early retirement. Pounding and echoing like the gunfire he’d heard earlier.
But the footfalls of someone racing down the corridor sounded all too real.
*
Brad lay in the middle of the street, unmoving, arms and legs out like a dead snow angel.
I shot him.
Splotches of his blood spoiled the snow’s white blanket.
I shot my husband. I killed him.
Rebecca had pulled the trigger first. Terror had filled Brad’s eyes, something she’d never seen from him before. As he fell back, his gun fired into the sky, a rocket declaring Rebecca’s independence.
Blew him away. He’s dead. At my hand.
Rebecca left the car. Her coat fell open. Stunned, the freezing conditions didn’t both
er her. In fact, she felt downright warm. It didn’t bother her she took her husband’s life. Quite the contrary; it felt good. He deserved it. Especially when he’d made it clear he meant to kill her and Kyra. Self-defense. The shock came in acknowledging her nightmare had ended. Finally, forever, once and for all. Truly Independence Day.
While she stood over his body, she remembered everything he’d done to her. The memories scorched like burning lava. Tears dropped down her cheeks, freezing like her feelings. The tears weren’t meant for Brad, but rather Kyra and herself.
But her other nightmare, the new one, awakened her.
Kyra.
She could look for the car keys, but it’d be a colossal waste of time in the snow. No telling where the bastard pitched them. And she had no desire to pat down Brad’s pockets for his keys, the thought turning her stomach.
Down the street, the mansion loomed, its dark windows hiding whatever was going on inside.
With gun in hand — fitting quite comfortably, too — she hurried down the street toward the Dandy Drop Inn.
*
Winston stumbled through the dark, feeling his way by hands and tenuous footsteps. Occasionally he fired up his lighter until the flame dipped and lapped at his finger. Hardly enough light to navigate, even an inch at a time. He passed a door that he presumed led into the house. Doubtful Kyra went through there. Particularly if she’d heard the gunfire. And he imagined he would’ve heard the commotion if something had happened. The walls appeared as thin as paper.
A stairwell nearly pitched him forward. His hand caught on the railing. Upstairs or down? Voices from below answered his question, so frantically strained they may as well’ve been yelling. And he thought he heard Kyra’s high-pitched voice.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, honing in on the hushed echoes of the conversation. A cavernous tunnel led to a door, the source of the voices. Never go through a closed door without listening first. Winston counted three voices. Chains shook and dropped.
After extinguishing the lighter, an afterimage of the flame flickered before it, too, snuffed out. He opened the door and stepped into a cool room. Wider than the corridor based on the airflow. He opened his mouth so as not to breathe in the terrible stench.
Dread and Breakfast Page 15
