by Ania Ahlborn
Praise for bestselling author
ANIA AHLBORN and WITHIN THESE WALLS
“Terrifyingly sad. . . . Within These Walls creeps under your skin, and stays there. It’s insidious. . . . The book’s atmosphere is distinctly damp, clammy, overcast, and it isn’t all the Washington weather: its characters’ souls are gray, dimmed by failure. Ahlborn is awfully good on the insecurities that plague both aging writers . . . and oversensitive young girls . . . which leave them vulnerable to those who . . . know how to get into their heads. So grim.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Cruel, bone-chilling, and destined to become a classic, Within These Walls is worth the sleep it will cost you. Some of the most promising horror I’ve encountered in years.”
—Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author
“A monstrous Russian nesting doll of a book, holding secrets within secrets; the plot barrels headlong towards one of the most shocking climaxes you’re ever likely to read. This one’s going to wreck you.”
—Nick Cutter, national bestselling author of The Troop and The Deep
“Ania Ahlborn is a great storyteller who spins an atmosphere of dread literally from the first page, increasing the mental pressure all the way through to the terrifying, chilling ending.”
—Jeff Somers, acclaimed author of The Electric Church and We Are Not Good People
“Ever-mounting terror and a foreboding setting make for pure storytelling alchemy. . . . Ania Ahlborn goes for the gut with surprise twists that will stay with you for days. Not a book, or an author, that you’ll soon forget.”
—Vicki Pettersson, New York Times bestselling author
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Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
—Oscar Wilde
1
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MICHAEL TWISTED IN his bed, the threadbare blanket he’d used all his life tangled around his legs. A girl was screaming bloody murder outside.
People used that saying all the time, bloody murder, despite never having heard anyone being murdered before. Reb called it an analogy. When Michael asked what that was, Reb said they were things people used when they didn’t know what they were talking about. Nobody in town had ever heard someone scream bloody murder before, at least not really, but they kept on saying it like they had. That baby’s yellin’ its head off, screamin’ bloody murder in the cereal aisle. Reb said that if they wanted to hear a baby scream bloody murder, all they had to do was ask.
Michael craned his neck and cast a glance toward his bedroom window. The glass was dirty from years of sideways dirt and rain. The glow of the porch light below his room shined like a flashlight through a cloud of dust. Those girls usually went quiet fast. They’d yell so hard they ended up making themselves hoarse. Them’s the perks of livin’ out in the wilderness, Momma had once said. You scream and scream and ain’t nobody around to hear.
Michael stared up at his bedroom ceiling, old wood boards warped from various leaks the farmhouse had taken on over the years. He waited for the girl to lose her voice. That screaming bothered him, though he’d never admit it. It gave him nightmares, but he never complained. He only wished Momma would kill them while the sun was shining rather than waiting ’til dark. If it didn’t matter how hard they screamed, Michael didn’t get what the difference would be. Day or night, dead was dead. At least during the day he wasn’t trying to sleep.
The girl eventually went silent and Michael let himself relax. Each muscle uncoiled, limb by limb, and he imagined himself on a beach he assumed was real, though he couldn’t be sure. He had a picture postcard from a place called Honolulu. He didn’t know where that was, only that the sand was white and the water was impossibly blue. In that postcard, people lounged beneath colorful umbrellas while a cotton candy–pink hotel stood in the background. He had found it in a backpack belonging to one of Momma’s girls. Reb said it wasn’t stealing if they weren’t alive anymore.
The comfortable silence was short lived. Another blood-curdling shriek crashed over him. It pierced the still-dark hours of the morning, forcing Michael back into the present. There was commotion beyond his window. Shadows cut across his bedroom wall as figures moved on the back lawn. Michael rolled onto his side, let his bare feet sweep the rough planks of the floor. He pushed the ragged window curtain aside, his free hand trapping his hair in a circle of fingers at the nape of his neck. It was long now, sweeping his back a good three inches below the shoulder. His sister, Misty Dawn, was enamored with the likes of Jim Morrison. She had encouraged him to grow it out; Reb was thrilled when Michael took her advice.
You know why Jim Morrison killed himself, don’t you? Because he got tired of looking like a chick.
Misty Dawn always came to Michael’s defense with a jab at Reb’s high-waisted jeans and green leather jacket. She liked to insist that he was as handsome as the guys from one of her favorite bands—one that Reb loathed with all his might. Misty Dawn comparing Reb to Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus was usually enough to have him jumping into his Delta 88 and spraying the side of the house with gravel.
The screaming girl stumbled across the backyard.
On cue, the muffled chords of an ABBA song sounded through the wall separating Michael’s room from Misty Dawn’s. Misty didn’t like the screaming either, but she absolutely loved Swedish pop.
On the lawn, strips of silver tape clung to the girl’s ankles just above her bare feet, but her hands were still secured in front of her by the wrists. She was shaking her head, her mouth working on words Michael couldn’t make out. It almost looked like she was trying to sing along with Misty’s music, the upbeat tempo a striking contrast to the horrified expression she wore on her face.
Wade stood not more than ten feet from her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his dirty jeans. He tipped his chin up toward the second-story windows, his attention drawn by Misty’s music. Wade and Michael locked eyes through the grimy glass. They held each other’s attention for two bass beats before Wade looked back to the girl, who was begging for her life. Wade had been an army man, a Vietnam volunteer in the early sixties, years before college kids marched into DC wielding crudely painted protest signs. He wore his standard brooding expression, as though the girl’s screams were transporting him back to the rice paddies, to a hail of gunfire and the thwap-thwap-thwap of helicopter blades.
Rebel was down in the yard as well. He circled the girl like a hungry wolf, poking at her with a long tree branch the way a mean-spirited kid would tease an insect. Reb’s name was actually Ray, but Michael never called him that. Ray had asked the family to call him Rebel years before, back when he was eleven or twelve, but all he got was a few chuckles and multiple eye-rolls. Michael had been the only one to comply with Reb’s request, partly because he wanted to make his brother happy, and also because Michael was scared of what would be done to him if he ignored the demand.
Momma was outside too, though all Michael could see of her was the long shadow that drew across the ground from the back porch. He imagined her cast in silhouette, the porch light shining bright behind her head like a halo, her tall, slender frame giving her a praying mantis look.
Only Michael and Misty Dawn remained inside—Michael standing at the window, Misty more than likely twirling in the center of her room, the frilly bottom of her nightgown riding light upon the air as her bare feet danced across
the floor. Michael transferred the rubber band he wore around his wrist to his hair, pulling unruly brown waves from his face. Putting the window to his back, he slid down the wall and reached for his boots—a sock stuffed into each one. It wouldn’t be long now. Maybe a few more minutes of screaming before the yelling would become nothing but a wet choking sound. After that, it would be Michael’s turn. Time to go to work.
The creak of floorboards pulled his attention to the door. The music grew louder as it gently swung inward, and Misty wavered just beyond the threshold. Her hair was a soft tangle of strawberry blond, the exact same hue as Reb’s and Momma’s. It was the same color Wade’s had been too, before it had faded to a muted shadow of its former self. Misty was twenty-one—two years older than Michael—but her meekness lent her a strange sort of youth. Standing there in her pale pink nightgown, her cheeks ruddy with a post-dancing flush, she now looked fifteen or sixteen at best. She raised a single shoulder to her ear and stared at him with doleful eyes.
Misty kept as much distance between herself and Momma’s “hobby” as she could, but it didn’t keep her from partaking in the spoils. She hated the screaming and all the blood, but she loved the shiny things the girls left behind—rings and bracelets, necklaces and earrings. She had a whole collection of artifacts hoarded in her top dresser drawer. Michael smuggled the jewelry into Misty Dawn’s pockets when Momma wasn’t watching, and in exchange, Misty let him use her record player whenever he wanted.
“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna forget,” Michael told her. He put on his socks, shoved his feet into his boots, and pulled the laces tight—ribbons of worn cotton cord that were stiff and black where they looped into bows.
“Thanks,” she said, flashing him a wide smile despite the screaming coming from outside. She was ready to pivot on the balls of her feet and pad back to her room when she stopped short. They stared at each other as Momma’s voice cut through the crisp morning air.
“Michael!”
His name coiled through the farmhouse’s framework and glass with an undeniable sense of urgency. It tainted the upbeat melody that had filled the upstairs hallway. Momma wasn’t one for emoting, but this time she punctuated her call with what sounded like panic.
Michael bolted up from the floor, stood to his full six-foot-two height, and shoved the drapery aside. Momma, who Reb called Claudine, had descended the porch stairs. She was looking up at Michael’s window, searching for his face, waiting for it to appear. Michael’s gaze darted from Momma to Reb, who was running across the backyard toward the trees.
It took Michael half a second to process what was happening.
It took even less time to conclude that his brother would never catch the girl.
Michael rushed out of his room before Misty could move. She staggered backward and caught herself on the hallway wall as he launched down the stairs. He raced through a kitchen that held little more than a stove and a scar-topped table and sprang off the covered back porch. A flying leap propelled him off the steps and onto the ground. He blew past Reb within seconds.
Michael was fast. His height gave him a distinct advantage over his brother. Rebel was only five foot eight and had stopped to catch his breath at the mouth of the woods, either because he was winded or because he didn’t feel like continuing the chase. Rebel wasn’t exactly known for making an effort when Michael was there to do the work.
The girl was a decent runner. Michael caught a glimpse of her dirty white T-shirt as she weaved through the trees. She held her bound arms out in front of her, her bare feet stomping a forest floor blanketed in last year’s leaves. She veered left. Michael broke away from her, going right instead. He knew these woods as well as the interior of the house; right was faster than left. He’d cut her off at Misty’s favorite spot—a hill that overlooked the Great Appalachian Valley, trees as far as the eye could see. He splashed across a small creek and circled around to where he knew she’d end up. Left would take her to a steep embankment covered in birch and aspen trees. Right would take Michael around the hill to a gentler grade, allowing him to outrun her and wait for her at the crest of the slope.
When he got to the top of the hill, he could already hear her strangled, struggling breaths. She scrambled up to what she hoped was escape, crying and trying to pray while she gasped for air, muttering something about “God” and “help.” Ducking behind the trunk of an oak, he watched her climb the hill. She spun around and looked down at the valley below her, empty of any pursuer, but also devoid of any roads or houses or clues of which way she should run. But that didn’t seem to matter. The terror on her face blossomed into hope. She had outrun her attackers; she had saved herself. Soon, she’d be a face on the news, giving interviews about how some charming guy in a brown Oldsmobile had picked her up while she’d been hitching along State Road 10. That was when her abductor had grabbed her by the back of the head and slammed her face into the dash. The car was a ’68 coupe; the dashboard was a solid slab of steel. It was a wonder Reb hadn’t killed her. When she had fallen back against the passenger seat, unconscious, Michael was surprised her nose hadn’t been shoved right up into her brain.
Michael hated chasing down the ones who managed to break away, hated how he extinguished the flash of dogged optimism that sparked in their eyes. He couldn’t stand the way they looked at him, as though he’d walked in on a private moment. He despised the way their eyes grew to twice their original size and their mouths worked the air, as though chewing invisible food. He liked it better when they died in the yard, where all he had to deal with was an unblinking stare and a slashed throat. People were much easier to deal with when they were dead.
He gritted his teeth and stepped out from behind the tree.
The girl saw him, her reaction just as he had predicted—terror, disbelief. Her eyes bulged out of her head, the skin beneath them purple half-moons of blood. When her mouth fell open, Michael saw that Reb’s little move in the car had broken one of her front teeth in half. She began to gobble the air, backing away, struggling for breath, her bound hands held out in front of her to fend him off.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut and moved in.
Once upon a time, he had convinced himself that chasing girls would get easier, that he’d get used to it and these moments wouldn’t affect him. He was waiting for autopilot, a way to disconnect himself from his emotions, a way to make his eyes glaze over like Wade’s seemed to. He was tired of seeing the shock, the fear, the dread. But it had been years at this point. Autopilot had yet to come.
His eyes snapped open when he heard her run again. But instead of bolting after her, Michael wondered whether the Morrows really would disown him if he returned empty-handed. For a good five seconds, he considered letting her go. The girl staggered away from him, her bare feet bloody, dead leaves clinging to the sticky bottoms like makeshift shoes. But the sixth second brought clarity. If he let her escape, he was sealing his own fate. She’d come back with the police. The cops would arrest the Morrows like they had those guys Rebel had read about in the paper and idolized so much—Mr. Bundy and that Gacy fellow, John Wayne.
He fell into a sprint.
She screamed.
He caught her by the right shoulder and spun her around in mid-run, her legs folding beneath her. She hit the ground hard, crying out in pain. But she didn’t give up—she kicked her legs to propel herself away from him, performing an armless crabwalk across the forest floor. Michael reached down to catch her by the wrists, but she coiled up and shoved her feet hard against his chest. He stumbled, surprised by the force of her kick. He reached for her again, but she pulled the same move, leaving him stunned as she shrieked for help that both of them knew wouldn’t come.
“Get away from me! ” she wailed. “Get away, you fucking freak! ”
She rolled onto her side and scrambled to her feet, but she was in agony. As soon as she stood, Michael noticed her right arm hanging limp at her side, looking broken. Whimpering with every step, which was now
little more than a desperate jog, she looked like a runner at the twentieth mile of a marathon. She was exhausted but determined to keep going, pulled forward by the promise of a finish line. Except this finish line was at the foot of the Morrow’s back porch steps.
Michael followed her easily, walking behind her as though the two of them were taking an early morning stroll. She shot a glance at him over her shoulder, looked away, and began to sob. It was a distinct cry, hopeless and empty, torn from the chest of the walking dead.
He wanted to place his hand on her shoulder, to tell her that it would be okay, that Momma usually made it quick. But he doubted the girl wanted such reassurance. Lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed when she slowed, paid no mind to the fact that he had cut the distance between them in half. She swung around to face him, threw her bound arms over his head, and opened her mouth as wide as she could, ready to tear his throat out with her teeth. Michael jumped back, but she moved with him. He grabbed her by the elbows and gave her a shove, feeling the duct tape pull hard against the back of his neck before tearing free. The girl fell, stared at her now-free arms, and, despite her dislocated shoulder, began to scramble again. Michael jumped on top of her, no longer in the mood to draw things out. The girl released a garbled scream, whipping her good arm in his face, her fingers bent into a claw. She slashed his cheek with her nails. Kicked her legs beneath him as hard as she could. Michael managed to pin down the girl’s arms and render her helpless, fascinated by how much fight she still had.
There was no way to get her back to the house like this, not with her thrashing around the way she was. He moved his knees one at a time, crushing her fighting hand into the damp earth, and caught sight of a stone within arm’s reach. He grabbed for it, sunk his fingers into the ground, and unearthed a three-pound monster, grubs and worms squirming in the pale indigo light of the morning.
