Ryan just swallowed, staring down at his dead cousin.
“How many more?” Uncle Howard asked, looking off into the distance. “How many more will you claim?”
“Is it over?” Ryan asked. “Have they killed everybody else?”
“I don’t know,” Uncle Howard replied. With difficulty he moved away toward the desk that sat at the far end of the room. Bracing himself against it, he let out a long sigh. “I took refuge in the library when I heard the screaming begin. When the house grew silent, I came in here and found Dean. Someone had left his body here. I don’t know what we will find in the rest of the house.”
“We’ve got to get out,” Ryan said.
The old man just shook his head. “If we’re meant to die, there’s nowhere we could run. You’re too young to remember your Uncle Ernest. But surely you’ve heard the stories. He ran all the way to Wisconsin, but they found him. No, I’m staying right here. If they come for me, there’s nothing I can do.” He leveled his old eyes at Ryan. “And the same holds for you.”
Once again Ryan felt the old man’s imputation of cowardice and betrayal. He looked away.
Uncle Howard took a deep breath. “The house has been quiet for a while now. But I doubt the killing is complete.”
“Who’s doing it?” Ryan asked. “It’s not the guy with the pitchfork. I saw another guy in the foyer. He was attacking Douglas.” He rather enjoyed telling his uncle that his favorite nephew had been assaulted.
“Douglas?” the old man asked. “Oh, dear God.”
“It was a guy I’d never heard about before,” Ryan told him. “A man with a scar on his face.”
“Scar?” Howard Young seemed puzzled. “I can’t imagine who that might be. There was no man with a scar on his face….” He seemed to think of something. “But that man Carolyn was involved with…what was his name? David Cooke. The reports I obtained on him revealed that he had a scar on his face. Could it be the same?”
Ryan looked at him strangely. “But why would some guy Carolyn was involved with be attacking this family?”
“The powers of that room are great,” Uncle Howard said. “They can get in your mind…. They can cause you to do things.” He shuddered. “If it is the same, then it means we are in greater danger than ever before.”
They heard a sound. A steady, rhythmic beat. A thud, repeated over and over.
“It sounds as if someone’s knocking on the walls,” Ryan said.
“No, listen closely.” Uncle Howard was straining to hear. “It is the sound of a knife…repeatedly stabbing the wall. Close the doors, Ryan.”
Ryan obeyed.
“As he walks,” Uncle Howard whispered, “he is stabbing the wall. The knife goes in, the knife comes out, and he takes another step toward us.”
“No,” Ryan said. He began to cry.
“He is coming for us,” the old man said.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound grew ever closer.
In his mind, Ryan could see the knife cutting into the plaster of the wall. He could see the brute’s hand gripping the handle.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He was getting closer.
“No!” Ryan cried, running behind the desk and cowering, covering his face.
Thud. Thud.
The sound stopped.
Ryan peered around the desk from between his fingers. Uncle Howard stood in front of the desk, facing the doors.
Suddenly the doors flew open.
And standing there was the man with the scarred face, knife held over his head.
Ryan screamed.
The man walked into the room, directly toward Uncle Howard.
“Go ahead,” Howard Young said. “Kill me. Be done with it.”
But the man just stood there in front of him, studying his face.
Still peering through his fingers, Ryan saw the maniac’s eyes move. They left Uncle Howard’s face and found his own. With a snarl, the beast took a step around the desk.
“No, please!” Ryan begged. “Please don’t kill me!”
The man simply sneered, raising the knife up over his head, ready to bring it down onto Ryan.
But then—
A gunshot.
Ryan watched in stunned horror and disbelief as the man staggered. Then came another shot. And another. The man swayed on his feet, though none of the shots produced any blood. They simply tore holes in his body. The man seemed bewildered by the bullets rather than pained. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Then he collapsed, crumpling to the floor.
Ryan leapt up from behind the desk. He saw Carolyn standing in the doorframe, the rifle in her hands still smoking.
“David Cooke had that coming from me for a long time,” she said.
Her words made no sense to Ryan. But no matter. He was on his feet and running. He wasted no time asking any more questions or thanking Carolyn for saving his life. He just wanted out of the house. There might be no place that was safe, but at the moment, all Ryan could do was run.
He bolted out of the study and down the hall, his footsteps echoing across the marble.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Come with me,” Carolyn said to Howard Young. “He’ll soon be back on his feet. The bullets can knock him down, but they can’t kill him.”
“He’s not a ghost?” the old man asked.
Carolyn had stooped down beside the body of the man she had once loved. She had slept beside this creature. She had let him make love to her. She had trusted him.
“No,” she said. “He’s a zombie.”
She pried the knife from his cold hands.
“Might as well disarm him while we have the chance,” she said.
Standing, she motioned to Mr. Young to leave the room.
“There’s nowhere we can hide,” he told her.
“I’m aware of that. That’s why we need to have a little talk, you and me. Take advantage of David being out cold for a while.” Her eyes hardened. “It’s time you told me everything you know, Mr. Young.”
He looked away. “Who is still alive?”
“The only ones killed have been Dean and Philip. Everyone else is safe for the moment in the parlor.” She glanced out the door. “With the possible exception of Ryan.”
“Take me there then,” Howard Young said. “I would see my family.”
Carolyn shook her head. “Nope. You and I are heading over to the library. Where we can talk privately.”
He glared at her.
“Now move,” she said, nudging him with the rifle. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
She led him out of the room and down the corridor. Once inside the library, she locked the door behind them, even though she felt certain David Cooke could break it down if he wanted to. In life he’d been a very strong man. In death, he was even stronger.
“Sit,” she ordered Howard Young.
The old man took a seat in a high-backed chair. He looked so small and frail. Carolyn stood over him.
“What happened the night Beatrice was killed? Who else was involved? Who is the power in that room? Who is using David Cooke to try to kill us?”
“I don’t know,” Howard Young said.
“You’re lying. Dr. Fifer found out something, and for that, you fired him. What did he find out?”
The old man just covered his face in his gnarled, veiny hands.
“You claim to want to end all these deaths!” Carolyn said, her voice rising. “But you withhold information! I need to know everything! We may have only a few minutes! But if I could discover who was behind this, maybe we could make some kind of appeal—”
“It doesn’t understand logic,” Howard Young murmured into his hands. “It cannot be reasoned with.”
“Listen to me!” Carolyn shouted. She stooped down beside the chair so that her eyes were level with Howard Young’s. “You must tell me everything! Or else we all will die here in this house. One by one. Including you.”
“I welcome death,” the
old man said. “But it will save for me for last. It will make me watch everyone I love die before me. That’s the way it has been for eighty years.”
“We can end it!” Carolyn insisted. “But first you must tell me everything you know!”
Their eyes held.
Then came the banging on the door.
Chapter Thirty-three
Paula stood at the door of the parlor, listening. The house had once again fallen silent. When the screams had come from the direction of the study, Douglas had rushed out, assuming Carolyn was in danger. His passion to help the woman he loved was understandable—but his departure had left them without a rifle. Paula knew that bullets wouldn’t do much to defend them from an undead man. She’d seen that firsthand in the kitchen. But still she wished she were holding that shiny metal in her hands. It provided some comfort, at least.
Karen came up beside her.
“Baby, maybe you ought to come away from the doors,” she said, placing her hand on Paula’s shoulder.
Paula turned to her. In just the last couple of hours, their world had turned upside down, not once, but several times. She had woken up this morning not knowing what had happened in the room. Then she had learned that Douglas and Carolyn had survived, and for a few blessed moments she had thought them free of the terrors that had ruled their lives for so long. Then, wonder of wonders, Karen had shown up—and everything had indeed seemed right and good and hopeful in Paula’s world.
Then all hell had broken loose. Dean was dead. His children were traumatized. And a maniac was trying to kill them all.
“Karen,” Paula said. “You might have a chance to survive. End it with me again. Renounce what you said earlier. Take it all back. Then walk out of this house. It won’t touch you if you aren’t connected to the family.”
She smiled wryly. “I’m still adjusting to finding out about this madness. But from what I sense, it—whatever it is—would know I didn’t mean it. It would know I still loved you. Sorry, Paula. We’re in this together.” She took her hand. “As we should have been from the beginning.”
Paula took her in her arms. It was painful to move; the wound in her side was terribly sore, though she thought they’d stanched the bleeding. Her eyes moved across the room and caught Linda’s. Her sister-in-law gave her a small smile. Paula’s heart broke. She still had Karen, but Linda had lost her love and her soul mate.
The children remained clinging to their mother. Their tears had stopped for the moment, and they were silent. Paula thought if they were all to die, they should at least try to save Zac and Callie.
But another part of her felt hopeless. What would they save them for? They would inherit the curse.
Unless they could somehow end it this day.
Was it possible? Carolyn seemed to still think it was. She seemed to believe that Uncle Howard possessed some information that could be key. Paula wanted to believe she was right. But right now, hope was a fragile option.
Her eyes moved over to Chelsea. The girl was sitting on the sofa with her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself. She was still wearing her flimsy pink nightgown, and she was barefoot. Paula’s heart broke for her, too, even if she’d been party to a monstrous hoax the night before. She’d found her father’s mutilated body. The whereabouts of her brother were unknown. Chelsea was terrified. Alone among the people in the room, she had no one to console her.
From the foyer came a footstep.
“Douglas?” Paula whispered.
It had to be Douglas.
She and Karen took a step backward from the door. It was locked. If it was Douglas, he’d call to them to open it.
But the doorknob just turned. Whoever turned it grew angry when discovering it was locked. The doorknob began to rattle.
It wasn’t Douglas.
Suddenly fists were beating against the door.
“Oh God!” Chelsea cried out. The children, too, were crying again.
“Paula,” Karen said. “Look! The window!”
Paula turned. A window at the far side of the parlor was open. The frame had opened out. It would be easy to step through it and out onto the backyard.
“It might be a trick,” Paula said.
The banging continued against the parlor door.
“No,” Linda cried, suddenly. “It’s no trick! Look!”
Just beyond the window, standing in the bright sunshine on the grassy lawn, was Beatrice. Her long dark hair and filmy white dress blew in the wind. She was beckoning to them.
“Can we trust her?” Karen asked.
Paula wasn’t sure. Carolyn had seemed to think her spirit was benevolent. But she couldn’t know for sure.
Just then the banging on the door grew in greater intensity, and at last a fist came smashing through the heavy wood. Chelsea let out a scream.
There was no more time for delay. “Take the children out the window,” Paula shouted to Linda. “Go with Beatrice!”
Immediately Linda was pushing the children across the room. Chelsea ran in that direction, too.
“Let the children go first, Chelsea!” Paula commanded.
The girl relented, shaking her hands in frustration. Paula watched as first Callie and then Zac stepped over the windowsill and out onto the lawn. Linda followed, just as the great oak door buckled inward, broken off its hinges, crashing onto the floor.
And standing there was David Cooke, his chest and neck riddled with gaping dry holes made from gunshots. In his hands he held a length of rope.
“Go!” Paula shouted, backing up herself toward the window.
Chelsea was scrambling to get out, but in her terror, she slipped, falling backward on her butt. In that second, David Cooke lunged, grabbing hold of Karen by her right arm. He tackled her onto the ground, quickly and easily wrapping the rope around her neck. He began to strangle her. Karen’s eyes bulged, her mouth open as she tried to breathe. Her small hands clutched at the rope around her neck but to no avail.
Paula jumped onto the maniac’s back and began pummeling him with her fists.
“Help me!” she called over to Chelsea, who was once again attempting to step out of the window.
“Help me get him off of her!” Paula screamed. “Please!”
Chelsea looked back. For a second she hesitated. One foot was outside the window.
Paula was struggling now to push David Cooke off Karen. Her girlfriend’s face was turning blue.
“Help me!” she called again to Chelsea.
The girl lifted her leg back over the sill and ran to her cousin. Both of them shoved. Paula willed every muscle in her body to come to her aid. She let loose with a primal scream and pushed as hard as she could. With Chelsea pushing beside her, they were able to move the brute. It was just the slightest movement, but it was enough for his grip to loosen on the rope, enabling Karen to gulp down some air.
“Once more!” Paula shouted, and they pushed the creature again. This time he moved a fraction of an inch more, and Karen, small and agile, was able to wiggle out from under him.
“Get out of here!” Paula yelled. Karen, though woozy, managed to get to her feet and stumble over to the window.
Paula and Chelsea were fast on her heels. Paula practically threw Karen out on to the lawn, then turned to do the same to Chelsea. But by now David Cooke was on his feet—and on them. Paula felt his cold fingers brush her neck. With his other hand he was reaching for Chelsea. But Paula was just a little quicker than her cousin. She was able to pull away from the brute.
No such luck for Chelsea.
Paula watched in horror as David Cooke, enraged now, grabbed Chelsea in his dead hands and lifted her up over his head. With speed and strength that Paula didn’t believe possible, he tore Chelsea’s right arm off her shoulder, then her left. The girl screamed as blood spurted everywhere. Then the madman let out a loud roar and tore Chelsea in half, splitting her just above the waist. He tossed the bottom half of her body to the floor and raised the armless top half
at Paula.
He was tossing the bloody stump at her when she leapt from the window. Out on the lawn Paula heard the sickening thud of her cousin’s remains hitting the glass.
Chapter Thirty-four
Douglas peered out of the door of the library into the corridor.
“I’m sure I heard something,” he said.
Carolyn looked from him back to Uncle Howie, who sat in his chair with his hands folded in his lap.
“David has probably revived,” she said to the old man. “He may be terrifying them in the parlor even as we speak. You must tell us what you know.”
“Yes, Uncle Howie,” Douglas said, closing the door and turning to face his uncle. “For God’s sake, no more stonewalling.”
He had finally admitted to himself that his uncle knew more than he was saying, that maybe in fact Uncle Howie had been suppressing information all along. Information that might have saved so many of the people who had died from this long curse. People like his father.
At the moment, his biggest worry was for the people he had left behind in the parlor, especially Zac and Callie. Douglas had taken the rifle with him. He knew bullets couldn’t stop David Cooke, but they could slow him down. The people in the parlor were therefore defenseless. He had seen the madman’s body sprawled on the floor of the study before he’d found Carolyn and Uncle Howie here in the library, and he saw that Carolyn had taken the knife. But Douglas knew it wouldn’t be long before the zombie was on its feet again, and finding another weapon wouldn’t be difficult for it. Even its bare hands were surely weapon enough. Douglas feared that the sounds he’d heard a moment ago had come from the direction of the parlor. Who else, he wondered, was going to die?
“You’ve got to speak,” Douglas shouted at his uncle. “How many more deaths? How many more deaths before you tell us what you know?”
“Are you somehow prevented from telling us?” Carolyn asked. “Is the force of that room so great?”
“It doesn’t matter what I know,” Uncle Howie said. “Even if I told you everything, we couldn’t prevent the killings. My hope was always to find a force greater than it was, something that could overpower it. That was the only way we could end the power of that room. Because there is no appealing to it. It is irrational. It is fueled by instinct and the simplest of emotions, like anger and fear and rage and hunger.”
The Killing Room Page 26
