Will caught the jacket and found himself thrust back in time. He held it up and stared at it, his mind unable to accept what his heart already knew. “You found it,” he croaked.
“What?” Jenn said, removing herself from the closet. She held up a tacky bowling shirt that looked like it came straight out of Charlie Sheen’s personal stock. “This?” Then she saw Will studying the leather motorcycle jacket. “It’s your dad’s isn’t it?”
Will could hardly breathe. “Yeah, it is. It still has the Deuel County Harley tag inside. That’s the place back home that Dad bought all of his gear. This is his. No doubt.”
“Shit … maybe he gave it to him.” The words left Jennifer’s mouth but even she didn’t believe them. She was just trying to make some sense of this.
Will shook his head vehemently. “No way.”
“So what does this mean? He has something of your dad’s—so what? Does this mean he has something to do with his disappearance? What are we thinking here? What are we saying?”
Will didn’t want to think about the answer to that question, although he already feared the worst. He collapsed onto the edge of Peter Taylor’s bed, clasping his father’s jacket. Will put the jacket over his shoulder and felt something strange in one of the large, inside pockets. He pulled out a rolled up notebook and thumbed through it, finding each page full of handwritten text. He flipped to page one and, in giant pencil-lead darkened letters, it read: Mr. Bleaker.
That was the heating vent monster that my Dad used to warn me about. Not Mr. Dark. Not Mr. Black … Mr. Bleaker.
“Did you hear that?” Jenn asked, her green eyes wide, darting, searching.
Will barely heard her. He mumbled something in response but it was Jenn’s turn to ignore him. She left the room and headed for the hallway that led back to the kitchen and living room. From there, she peaked out the front window, half-expecting to see Peter walking up the sidewalk. Her heart only settled when the sidewalk proved empty. She sighed theatrically without even realizing it. There was no car and no Peter, but something was wrong. She didn’t know exactly what sparked that feeling but it was there and she couldn’t deny it. “Will, we’ve got to go.” Her words were little more than whispers for fear that the wrong man would hear. It was time to end this game. It wasn’t fun or exciting anymore (if it ever was). As she released the curtain, she took one look towards the hallway and screamed. It was a mirror, and in it, she saw her own reflection. Her shriek turned to nervous laughter.
“Jesus, Jennifer, are you okay?” Will’s frantic voice came from the back bedroom.
She exhaled in a burst, her pulse pounding. “Yeah … holy shit. I’m sorry about that. It was nothing—just my own stupid reflection in the mirror.”
Will mumbled a response that she couldn’t hear. When she stopped shaking, Jenn wandered into the kitchen to scan the backyard through the window over the sink. The dead grass and neglected garden wasn’t what caught her eye, instead, it was the water tower at the top of the hill; or more specifically, the patch of cement where she and Will had sat during their surveillance of this very spot. It had somehow seemed further away when they were up there. Much further away.
This had been a dumb idea. She understood that now in a way she couldn’t have known even ten minutes ago. It was a plan destined to fail.
“Time to go, Will,” she said, turning from the window, “Like, right now …”
Her mouth hung open but the words dried up. Forgotten. Unimportant. The only thing that mattered was the man standing behind her. It was Peter. She saw he held a hammer in one hand—no, not a hammer—it was some kind of kitchen utensil. With his other hand, he put a finger to his lips, suggesting she stay quiet. But Jennifer didn’t follow his suggestion—she screamed. Again.
She wanted to tell Will to run but she only managed to scream his name before the kitchen ‘hammer’ came crashing down.
Will heard Jenn scream the first time and nearly fainted in fear. When she told him it was only because she saw her reflection in a mirror, he couldn’t help but laugh. At least a little bit. But that second scream … that was the real deal. And the way it died. Simply disappearing like it was never there at all—that was the worst part.
Maybe it wasn’t there. Please let this be a dream.
“You found my book,” Peter said, entering the room with the meat tenderizer in his hand.
Will looked at the kitchen utensil dripping blood onto the floor, and then into Peter’s eyes. “Where’s Jenn?”
“She’s in the kitchen. I don’t think she’s feeling well.”
Will shook his head, a look of confused shock on his face. “You killed my Dad. You were best friends … you said so … why?” Will rambled and he couldn’t help it.
Peter pointed at the book, “Didn’t you read it? It’s all there in black and white. I had to.”
“Jesus Christ … you’re a psycho.”
“And you are just like your dad. Never thinking before you speak. You shouldn’t do that to a man of my mental capacity. You said so yourself: I’m a psycho.”
Will’s heart was pounding so hard beneath his ribcage that he thought he was going to pass out. Despite this, he spoke, “Jenn was my friend. She was helping me.” His words became nearly inaudible as he started to cry. “You didn’t have to kill her. This was my idea.”
Peter pointed over his shoulder, “Her? She might not be dead … not yet anyway. Probably won’t be so pretty anymore, though.”
Will stopped blubbering and stood up. Knees wobbly. Fists clenched. Peter stepped towards him, now fully inside his bedroom.
“You’re gonna pay for this … for everything.”
Peter laughed. A chuckle at first and then a hand over the belly guffaw. In between breaths, Peter said, “You’re fucking hilarious.”
Will—still clutching Peter’s bound, handwritten manuscript—screamed and threw the book. Its pages fluttered through the air as it flew, and Peter instinctively raised his hands and stumbled backwards.
As Peter knocked away the flying book, William charged. He drove his shoulder into Peter’s midsection and they both stumbled into the hallway. Drywall cratered as they crashed. Will could hear the air escape Peter’s lungs in a rush.
I’m gonna win, he thought stupidly as they slid down the wall to the floor.
Will straddled the older man, who was on his butt with his back against the wall, like a mixed martial artist grappling against the cage. Will drew back his fist and that was when he first noticed Jennifer at the end of the hall, laying prone on the white kitchen floor. Only the floor was no longer white. Some of it was red. Too much of it.
Will’s fist hung in the air a second too long, allowing Peter to regain his composure. He drove an elbow into Will’s solar plexus. The young man choked on his own oxygen and his fist fell open.
Peter bucked his hips wildly. Will tried to fend him off and keep his balance but Peter was bigger and stronger. In seconds, Peter was dragging both of them to their feet. Will could still see Jennifer lying motionless on the cold floor. In a panic, he flailed his fists wildly, but they rarely found their mark. Peter deflected most of them, and when he found his opening, he pounced.
He ducked underneath a wild right hand and drove his knee into Will’s stomach. Will doubled over and Peter sent another knee to the same location. This one found his rib cage and the unmistakable sound of a breaking bone echoed in Will’s head. He dropped to the floor, and this time Peter straddled him. Will’s broken rib shot white-hot flairs of pain through his body, blinding him. He screamed in agony, which only made it worse. Will fought against the bigger man’s weight, but on his back, with both arms pinned down by Peter’s knees, his strength was waning, and Peter knew it.
“Please …” William gasped.
Peter ignored him and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat. “This is almost how your dad died. He was always bigger and stronger than I was, but when it mattered most, he was weak. Just like you.”
> Will used the rage to fuel one last burst of energy, but it was too late and too little. His vision was blurry, and he noticed almost absently that Peter—the man who was strangling the life out of him—no longer looked like Peter. In his last few moments, William found only sadness that this monster was the last thing he would ever see. But he still refused to close his eyes.
Not until it was over.
Not until they were closed for him.
A screeching siren exploded in his head.
Death siren? Is that a thing?
But the siren wasn’t in his head because Peter heard it too. He knew this because the vice like grip around his throat loosened a fraction and he could see the fear in his would-be-murderer’s eyes. Suddenly, his right hand was free, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached between Peter’s legs and squeezed—hard—with all the strength he had left.
Peter’s confused look turned to one of great pain. His mouth opened wide, and he screamed a high-pitched shriek that sounded remarkably like the strange siren that seemed to be coming from all around him. Spittle peppered Will’s face, and he increased his grip on the man’s ruined genitals.
Peter instinctively pitched himself backwards to remove his testicles from the unimaginable pain, but Will didn’t let go. Instead, he forced a war cry from his damaged throat and redoubled his efforts. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Jennifer moving from her spot on the kitchen floor, and suddenly, he understood the lifesaving siren.
He released his death grip on Peter’s balls—who fell screaming to a heap on the floor. Will noticed that his hand was wet and squelchy, and he shuddered at the thought of what that meant. Still whimpering, Peter immediately scrambled for the meat tenderizer that lay in the doorway of his bedroom.
Will knew he couldn’t let him reach it. Despite his broken rib screaming its protest, William dove on the man’s back, knocking him flat on his stomach. Peter’s fingers stretched out for the tenderizer but they came up inches short. Will grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair and yanked his head backwards. Both men screamed—Peter in pain; Will screaming the name of his dead father. With the sound of his dad’s name echoing around in his head, he slammed the man’s face into the floor until the pain from his own injuries became too much to bear.
Still straddling the motionless man underneath, William glanced towards the kitchen. “Jennifer!” he roared, gritting his teeth at the pain in his throat. She didn’t move. He wanted to go to her. He needed to. There was so much blood, but she had to be alive. She had to …
… the siren …
Will slid off Peter’s still form and crawled towards the kitchen—towards Jennifer. The beautiful red hair spilled out on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. “Jennifer!” he screamed, dragging himself closer. Just as he was convincing himself that she was dead, her head raised an inch from the floor. Although blood ran down her face and across both eyes, she smiled at him. With considerable effort, she shakily held up one hand and showed Will the car keys that dangled from her fingers. The key fob, streaked in blood, dangled just above the floor.
Finally, she managed to press a button and the grating alarm stopped. The sheer depth of the sudden silence was so complete that for a few seconds, the only thing Will could hear was the sound of the siren echoing in his head.
Jenn let the keys drop to the floor and couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up her throat.
William pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled 911. “Send help,” he muttered when the operator answered. He sat the phone down on the floor without waiting for a response and scooted his way to the beautiful girl lying on the kitchen floor.
“Your head,” Will said, staring wide-eyed at the bleeding gash in her hairline. He pulled his shirt over his head, biting his lip at the scorching pain radiating from his broken rib and held it tight to her wound. She reached for his hand and squeezed it tight.
“I love that car,” Jenn said.
Will laughed and winced at the same time. “Ouch. Shit. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry, it’s just so easy.” She laughed, and despite Will’s attempt to avoid it, he joined in.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Darkest Light
“I can’t,” Peter said.
His words were barely audible in the deathly quiet hallway. The pain spewing from between his legs—his torn testicles—screamed and demanded attention, but he knew it was pointless. Focusing on anything but what It demanded of him was pointless. “Okay, I’m trying … but it’s so hard.”
He crawled to his feet and attempted to dismiss whatever was running down his left leg and pooling in his shoe. The voice continued to demand his attention and he continued to do his best to comply. “I’m up … I’m up …” he said through gritted teeth.
He shambled down the hallway; barely registering the two bodies slumped together on his kitchen floor. They could be dead or just unconscious. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.
He staggered through the red-haired girl’s blood, mixing it with his own on the bottom of his boots. One bloody footprint marked his wobbly trek across the living room carpet.
He shouldered the front door open and stared at the woods across the street. A police or ambulance siren was going off in the distance, but he understood this too no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered now was crossing the road and making one last trek into the woods. Following the voice that had at one time terrified and tormented him, Peter let the door of his boyhood home swing shut behind him for the last time.
“I’m coming,” he said, and he was. The siren was getting louder, and Peter knew they were coming for him. A small part of him wished they would arrive now and save him the trouble, but he knew that wasn’t how this was going to end. Before he knew it was happening, his feet carried him across the yard and into the street. As soon as he broke into the woods, the tree cover provided a sense of comfort that he hadn’t expected. Even the remarkable, otherworldly pain between his legs seemed to subside a notch.
The voice urged him forward and Peter obliged, following the old, weed-overgrown path from his youth. A few minutes later, the tree that had been his boyhood tree house—and now held the extravagant version built by the now dead property owner—stood before him. The picket fence still surrounded it, but the gate was lying in weeds twenty feet away. Peter limped through the gateway and approached the staircase that led into the tree. He climbed it with the voice still in his head screaming for him to continue. It was unnecessary because Peter was incapable of turning back now.
He stumbled through the doorway and fell to the tree house floor. A cry of pain burst from his throat, but underneath it all, Peter could hear the voice in his head laughing. With what he thought was the last of his strength; he crawled into the corner and leaned against the wall. “I made it … what do I do now?”
Silence in his head.
“I did it … I’m here. What do you want me to do?”
Silence. Nothing but maddening silence.
“Please!” he screamed. “Make this go away!”
Make what go away?
“The Pain! Jesus Christ! The Pain!”
The voice in his head could only laugh.
After all of this, you think the pain will go away?
“Please! God, it has to!”
Pain is forever. Through the fury and calm, it’s the dark light that shines our way …
“No!” Peter cried. “Make it stop or kill me! Please!”
I don’t end pain, Peter. After everything you’ve done and everything we’ve been through, how do you not know this?
Peter could hear the sirens just outside the woods, and he knew they were at his house. Was it the police or the ambulance? He couldn’t be sure. He tried to climb to his feet but his body wouldn’t answer the call.
Did I say you could stand before me?
“Before you? I don’t see you! I don’t see anything! Maybe you were never here to begin with! Maybe I’m just
a crazy sonofabitch who deserves to die!”
See me? Is that what you want? Do you want to lay your stupid, crying eyes on me?
“I just want this to end! How many times do I have to tell—”
SEE ME NOW, YOU FOOL!
Peter’s eyes went wide and he screamed a throat-tearing shriek. Forgetting the pain from between his legs, he tried to crawl away from the swirling darkness before him but it was no use. Against his will, Peter’s body began to rise until his feet hovered just over the tree house floor. A grotesque mix of blood and pus dripped from his feet onto the dusty wood slats. His mouth froze open mid-scream, but if there was a noise, it disappeared into the swirling vacuum in front of him. Suddenly, his body jerked hard to the left and something snapped. Peter thought it was his back, but it could have been his ribs.
Before he could contemplate further, his body jerked to the right and more bones succumbed to the force. His body flailed back and forth across the room, until streaks of red from his bloodshot eyes dotted the fading wood. Finally, the sound of Peter’s breaking neck rang out in the madness like a branch snapping from an overused lynching tree. His limp body fell to the floor in a lump. Streaks of white ran through Peter’s once expertly manicured black hair, and his bleeding, dead eyes stared up into nothing. One last wheeze of breath expelled a fine, pink mist into the air, mixing with the dust to swirl madly in the rays of light breaking through the windows.
Happy to have any excuse to exit that house, Deputy York followed the bloody footprints through the house, across the street, and into the woods. With the Sheriff on the way, and the paramedics tending to the wounded kids, the deputy followed his first lead. Some kind of noise (those were the exact words Deputy York would use in his report) led the officer into the woods where he stumbled upon the tree house.
The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set Page 20
