by Rick Hautala
But that didn’t happen, and Martin couldn’t stop wondering who it might be out there. He kept tossing possible scenarios over in his mind until he thought of something that made his pulse skip a beat. He felt suddenly light-headed with anxiety.
What if it was his father, come home after all these years?
Could that be possible?
Martin had lived his entire life in this house with his mother, so if, by some extraordinary circumstance, his father was still alive, he would naturally come back here first, if only to see if his family still lived here.
Martin’s forefinger brushed lightly against the trigger of the shotgun. He grit his teeth so hard he could hear low grinding noises deep inside his head. His vision pulsed and swirled in front of him, creating a vortex of darkness spinning within deeper darkness.
The pounding on the door was so loud now that it seemed to be as much inside his head as outside. Blow after blow rained down against the wood, and each blow resonated inside Martin’s skull until he was trembling like a man wracked with fever.
Go away! He thought but didn’t dare say out loud.
Go away!
Leave me alone!
And still the knocking continued, keeping time with the painful beating of his heart, which thundered in his ears so hard now it was making his neck ache.
Please... For the love of God... Just go away!
But the knocking didn’t let up. It grew louder and louder until—finally—Martin knew he would have to go to the door and confront whoever it was.
His body was rigid and throbbing with pain, numb from the cold as he rose slowly to his feet. He maintained such a tight grip on his shotgun that, for a moment or two, his fingers were paralyzed, unable to move.
Martin told himself to stay in control, that he had to deal with this now, or it would only get worse. He would be in serious danger if he opened the door, and the person—whoever was out there—saw even a hint of fear or hesitation on his part.
His feet dragged heavily on the wooden floor, making loud rasping sounds, but not loud enough to drown out the incessant hammering on the door.
Martin licked his lips and took a deep breath that made his chest feel like it was constricted by thick iron bands. The sour pressure in his stomach grew painfully intense, and he had to concentrate to make his arms move as he raised the shotgun and pointed it at the door.
Go away, now! Before you regret it, he wanted to call out, but horrible images of his dead mother and the father he had never known filled his mind.
Could it be both of them out there on the stoop?
He felt curiously weighed down as he moved toward the door. It was like being trapped in a dream. No matter how many steps he took forward, the front door seemed to withdraw from him, getting farther away rather than closer.
Martin shook his head and slapped himself on the cheek, trying to convince himself that he was awake. This was real. It was really happening. And all the while, the heavy pounding on the door continued without letting up.
Watching like a dissociated observer, Martin raised his hand and reached out for the door lock. The other hand held the shotgun at chest level, his finger on the trigger and already starting to squeeze.
A prickling wave of pain rolled up his arm to his shoulder as he slowly withdrew the metal clasp of the chain lock and let it drop. It made a rough, grating sound as it swung back and forth like a pendulum against the wood, bouncing every time the knocking from the other side vibrated the door.
Holding his breath so long it hurt, Martin grasped the dead bolt and twisted it slowly to the right. Every nerve in his body was sizzling like overloaded wires as he waited for the lock to click open.
He was swept up in a wave of vertigo and was afraid that he would pass out before he could get the door open and confronted whomever was out there on his doorstep. They must have heard him undo the lock, he thought, so they would have plenty of time to run away before he got the door open.
Martin jumped when the lock clicked, sounding as sharp as the snap of a whip. He reached quickly for the doorknob, gave it a savage twist, and pulled back to throw the door open.
But the doorknob slipped from his hand as if it were greased.
Momentarily confused, Martin stood back. He was breathing so heavily his throat made a dull roaring sound. Sweat tickled his ribs as it ran down the inside of his shirt. The sound of the knocking continued so loud now it made his vision jump in time with it.
The shotgun felt suddenly heavy in his hand, and he placed it on the flood, leaning it against the wall within easy reach. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs before taking hold of the doorknob again and giving it another violent turn.
The cylinder mechanism clicked, and this time when he pulled back, he kept his grip. Still, the door wouldn’t open.
Martin cursed under his breath, but he could barely hear his own voice above the constant pounding on the door. He could feel the deep vibration, like a wasp sting in the palm of his hand, but he ignored it as he twisted the doorknob back and forth several times, all the while pulling back with all his strength.
Still, the door wouldn’t open.
It wouldn’t even budge.
This isn’t possible, Martin thought, sure that the person on there on the steps still banging on the door was also holding the door shut with his other hand so Martin couldn’t open it.
Panting heavily, Martin shifted to his left. Bending low, he peered out the side window. The night was dense and black except for the distant orange glow of fire on the horizon. As far as he could see, there was no one out them.
The doorstep was empty.
A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow from the edge of the porch roof. The ice crystals glittered like diamond dust in the flickering orange glow before drifting down into darkness. For just an instant, Martin imagined that the shower of snow had assumed a vague human form. He cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but his voice was locked up inside his chest.
The knocking continued without letup.
Martin jumped and let out a startled yelp when he saw an alley cat leap from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But even if the sound had stopped, he knew that the cat couldn’t have been the one doing it.
Shivering wildly, he moved back to the door. After making sure the dead bolt and chain lock were unlocked, he grasped the doorknob with both hands. The muscles in his wrists and forearms knotted like twisted wire as shivering vibrations from the knocking ran up his arms to his shoulders and neck.
A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he ratcheted the doorknob quickly back and forth. The door couldn’t have been shut tighter if he’d had it nailed shut. Bracing one foot against the doorjamb, he leaned back and pulled with everything he had. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.
Who’s out there? Why are you doing this? Martin wanted to call out, but his throat felt flayed and raw.
He could hardly breathe, and his heart was thudding heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder, rolling like booms of thunder through the dark house and keeping time with his hammering pulse.
Every muscle in Martin’s body tensed as he pulled, leaning back as far as he could, struggling to open the door. He suck in shallow gulps of air that felt like he was sipping fire. Finally, in a high, broken voice, he forced out a whisper.
“Mother?“
The instant those words left his mouth, the knocking ceased. Leaden silence merged with the darkness and filled the air.
The silence stretched out in a horrible vacuum.
Then, from every door in the house, from the hall closet, from the basement and attic, from the kitchen pantry and bathroom closet, came knocking.
Martin screamed until his voice choked off. Blind panic swept over him. He made a fist and raised it high above his head, and then brought it down hard against the door.
“Let me out!“ he shrieked.
Tears stung his eyes like acid as he brought
his fist down, time and again, against the door. He knocked so hard it wasn’t long before his fist was bruised and bloodied.
“Let...me...out!“ he cried, gasping between breaths. “Let...me...out!“
He was sobbing and mumbling incoherently as he collapsed forward and pressed his head against the cold, unyielding wood of the door while continuing to pound the door with both fists. His body convulsed, burning with exhaustion and the horrible terror of being trapped.
The only sound inside the house was the steadily weakening blows he made against the door as he slid slowly down to the floor. He couldn’t even hear himself as, as he continued to hammer on the door, “Who’s ...out...there...?
Only silence.
A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow into Martin’s face. The ice crystals glittered like blue diamond dust in the glow of the distant fires before drifting away into the darkness at his feet.
Martin cleared his throat, preparing to call out, but the cold night air froze his throat and lungs, making it impossible for him to utter a sound.
He jumped when an alley cat suddenly leaped from the trash cans to the top of the fence that bordered his property. But Martin knew that the cat couldn’t have been the one knocking.
Shivering wildly, he surveyed the front steps and walkway one last time, then, shivering, ducked back into the house and slammed the door shut. He made sure he locked both the deadbolt and the chain lock, and was just about to turn around when he heard a muffled sound close behind him.
Nearly paralyzed with fear, he turned around slowly as the soft knocking sound filled the entryway. It took him a moment or two to realize that the sound was coming from inside the closet in the hallway.
A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he stared in terror at the closed door. It looked like a block of solid , black marble in the dense darkness, but there was no mistaking.
The knocking was coming from inside the closet! Martin was too frightened to remember that he was holding the shotgun in his hands. Churning nausea filled him when he realized that, only a few moments ago, he had been sitting on the floor, leaning against that same door.
No! No! His mind screamed, but he was unable to utter a sound.
His heart was pounding heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder.
More insistent.
Keeping time with his hammering pulse.
He would have screamed then, but his throat closed off as if powerful, unseen fingers were wrapped around it and squeezing...squeezing tighter...
Martin lost all sense of time as he stood there trembling with his back pressed hard against the front door and stared at the blank, black closet door.
The knocking grew steadily louder...and louder...until it thundered through the house like the echoes of distant cannon shot.
Martin sucked in a shallow breath that felt like he was sipping fire. Then, in a faint, broken voice, he softly whispered, “Who...who’s there?“
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the knocking abruptly stopped, and leaden silence filled the house.
It was then and only then in the sudden void of total silence that Martin began to scream.
Hotel Hell
“Would you please stop talking?“ Phil Vernon turned and glared at the two detectives. Their incessant chatter was breaking his concentration, and he needed to focus his entire attention on the small circle of yellow light that was hovering in the darkness about two feet above the unmade bed.
“I must have absolute silence if I’m going to pick up anything,“ he whispered.
Barely aware of his own breathing, he stared at the wavering circle of light, willing it to brighten and resolve. Without even looking at him, the two detectives strode over to the single bed in the hotel room and looked down at it. The grimy sheets lay in a tangle on the floor, and the ratty mattress cover and wall behind the bed were stained with wide splotches of blood that had dried a deep brick red. The largest splash on the wall looked a little like a distorted image of the continent of Africa. Shriveled chunks of flesh also stuck to the wall and pillow, looking like shriveled husks of dead insects. Both detectives wrinkled their noses at the stench of death that still lingered in the room. The body had been removed earlier that morning after festering in the August heat for three days.
“Wanna know what I think?“ Fred, the older of the two detectives said. “I think we’re wastin’ our fuckin’ time on this. It’s so friggin’ obvious the whack-job suicided.“ He folded his arms across his wide chest and leaned against the wall. His eyes reflected his impatience as he grit his teeth and shook his head with frustration.
Jack, the other detective, much younger and less experienced, got down on his hands and knees, and shined his flashlight under the bed. Wide puddles of dried blood had mixed with gray clots of dust. Wrinkling his nose, Jack looked back over his shoulder at his partner and said, “This isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time, either, you know, but there’s something about this whole thing that really stinks.“
“Yeah,“ Fred said, laughing as he waved his hand in front of his face, “but they already carted it down to the morgue.“
“You’re a laugh riot, you know that?“ Jack said. “But as long as Fisher says this obvious suicide case isn’t air tight, then it’s our ball game.“
The entire time the detectives were talking, ignoring his request for quiet, Vernon watched as the hazy circle of yellow light slowly dimmed and then finally winked out. He had the unnerving feeling that he had seen that circle of light before, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Was it on another case similar to this, or was it sometime from further back in the past? Maybe he’d had a premonition of this hotel room and the murder—not suicide—that had taken place here.
Whatever it was, the idle chatter of the detectives irked him. He knew it had contributed to making the illusion disappear, irked him.
Sighing with frustration, Vernon shifted over to the window and peeked out around the edge of curtain at the heat-hazed skyline of Bangor, Maine. The direct sunlight stung his eyes, so he shifted back toward the closet door. All the while, he was trying to contact the murderer and his victim telepathically. By his own admission, if no one else’s, Philip Vernon was the best psychic detective in the United States...possibly the best in the world. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the misguided conversation of the detectives.
As if this was a suicide, he thought bitterly, shaking his head.
The instant he had entered this room in the seedy hotel on Union Street, even with his eyes wide open and his mind unfocused, he could sense the sharp panic and pain of the victim. He knew immediately that her name was Estelle Phillips, no matter what name was on the obviously phony Ids in her purse. He also knew exactly how she had died. She had picked up her third “john“ of the evening shortly before ten o’clock on Friday evening. After making fierce, violent love on this now blood-soaked bed, still naked and bathed with sweat, her customer had reached down to the floor beside the bed and picked up her fishnet stockings. Covering her mouth with one hand, he had looped the thin fabric around her neck twice and then pulled back slowly, inexorably, silently enjoying the terrified glaze that ignited in her eyes and then slowly faded as the air in her lungs went stale, and the life seeped out of her. In the close silence of the room—at least whenever those two blabbering detectives would shut up—Vernon could still hear the faint echo of her choking gasps as her windpipe closed off and her lungs collapsed inward.
But then, he had to wonder why there was so much blood and pieces of desiccated flesh on the wall, mattress, and floor? Vernon studied the back of the young detective who was down on his hands and knees, looking under the bed. Vernon wasn’t entirely clear on what had happened once Estelle was dead.
Had the “john“ abused her lifeless body? Maybe he had taken out a knife and carved her up. Maybe he had done something even worse...
“It’s incredible how we piss away our time on low-life creeps like this
,“ Fred said. He hawked deep in his throat but refrained from spitting onto the hotel floor. “That fuck-head did the world a favor when he blew his brains out. One less hemorrhoid on society’s ass, as far as I can see.“
Jack ignored his partner’s comment as he swung his flashlight back and forth under the bed, scanning the floor. He didn’t expect to find anything that might have been missed earlier. The lab techs and crime scene investigators were pretty damned meticulous. Still, he might notice a scuff mark on the floor from a shoe heel, a fingernail clipping, or something else that would help him get rid of the feeling he had that they had missed something. The stench of dried blood—and worse—was starting to get to him, so he pulled back, got to his feet, and took a deep breath to clear his head.
Vernon cleared his throat before speaking, but neither detective turned to look at him.
“The only fuck-head here,“ Vernon said, “as you so elegantly put it, is you for not seeing what’s so bleeding obvious! This was no suicide, and the dead person sure as hell was not a man! The girl was a hooker, and she was murdered—strangled, all right? Can I state it any clearer than that?“ He shook his head with absolute disgust. “Damn, it’s a wonder you boys can find your ass without a roadmap.“
“I say we head on back to the station,“ Fred said. “This place has been photographed and dusted and raked over with the proverbial fine-toothed comb. There ain’t nothing more to find.“
“Yeah... I suppose so,“ Jack said, still gagging from the stench that lingered in the room. He covered his nose with his hand and took a deep breath as he looked around. From the blood splotch on the wall, his gaze swung over the bed, past the bureau to the exit, then to the closet door, the bathroom door, to the drawn window shade, and back to the bloodstain on the floor. Not even for an instant did he make eye contact with Vernon, who was standing in the center of the room, watching both of them in utter amazement.
