The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  “Or have my eyes scratched out by Sharon.”

  “Ah, Sharon. Hey, what was she wearing? A black halter top? Maybe some stilettos to go with her mourning veil?”

  “Man, that’s cold. Can’t we at least pretend to have some sympathy for her?”

  Copeland’s face betrayed no emotion. “She wanted sympathy, she should’ve raised her daughter better. Turned Angie into something respectable rather than a clone of herself.”

  Joe fell silent.

  Copeland looked at him quizzically. “You know, you wanna drink some more, I can drive you home. Your wife can bring you back tomorrow to get your truck.”

  Joe pushed his mostly-full bottle toward the center of the table. He shivered.

  “It isn’t just guilt, is it?” Copeland said.

  Joe shrugged, looking everywhere but at Copeland’s eyes. There were a couple of unoccupied pool tables across the room, but he didn’t feel like shooting pool either.

  “What are you afraid of?” Copeland asked.

  Joe did glance at Copeland then. “What makes you think that?”

  Copeland only watched him.

  Joe sighed, ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Don’t you get the feeling this isn’t over? Like there’s another shoe to drop?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Joe shook his head. “Sharon’s not.”

  Copeland’s eyebrows rose. “Sharon is treading an extremely perilous path. She’s already got aggravated assault charges to answer to. There were drugs in a house she owns. The court date’s coming up, which means she better not do anything to make her situation worse.”

  “Maybe she’s incapable of behaving herself.”

  Copeland gave a derisive snort and stared down at his bottle of Budweiser. His expression grew thoughtful. “You wanna know what we found over there the night Angie beat the shit out of Little Stevie?”

  Joe wasn’t sure he wanted to, but he said, “Something bad?”

  Copeland nodded. “If you consider all kinds of occult shit bad.”

  Joe felt a chill. “Occult?”

  “Strange books, all sorts of weird knives and chalices, some of them with dried blood crusted on them.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “How the hell should I know? All that crap was bagged and sent away. I haven’t heard a thing about it since.”

  “You saying they used this stuff on Stevie?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Joe’s throat was dry, but the thought of downing more beer made him slightly ill. “But you were there when they examined him. You saw the welts.”

  Copeland sat forward, spoke in a harsh whisper. “I was in the room, sure, but it’s not like I wanted to sit there and stare at that poor kid’s bare chest…all those goddamn burn marks—”

  “Burn marks?”

  “I told you these women were bad.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about—”

  “Listen to me,” Copeland said, “I don’t know whether they cut on the kid or not, but they sure as hell did things to him no kid should have to suffer through.”

  Joe was about to follow up, but Copeland made a pained face and sighed. He said, “I already told you most of it. Hell, I might as well tell you the rest.”

  Joe waited, a curious thrumming in the flesh of his arms and neck.

  Copeland said, “I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my years on the job, but I’ve never seen anything like that house. There were black rugs on the most of the walls. Kind with designs on ‘em?”

  “Tapestries?”

  “Yeah, tapestries. There were faces on some, but not the kind of faces you’d wanna see unless you were buying tickets to a theme park haunted house. Others had scenes displayed…people being roasted…what I assume were the souls floating above the bodies and screaming in agony. These blood red demons…goblins…some sort of menacing creatures were capering about the victims. Big cauldrons with babies being lowered into ’em. Men and women asleep with demons visiting them in bed. Big male demons with horns curling on the sides of their heads. Dicks as big as rolling pins. The women screaming underneath ’em, though some of ’em were clearly enjoying it. Men getting taken advantage of too, the she-demons all attractive and big-breasted, and looking at the expressions on the men beneath ’em you could have no doubt as to whether or not they were enjoyin’ it.”

  “Wait a minute. All these things were displayed in the main room?”

  “Main room? You kiddin’, Joe? Damned things were all over the house. Living room, basement. The nursery.”

  Joe felt like he’d been slugged in the belly. “You’re not serious.”

  Copeland smiled mirthlessly. “You think that’s bad? Try this one. The ones in the nursery, they weren’t tapestries. Looked like oil paintings instead. Those things were scenes from some black mass or something. Figures in black-hooded robes. Some kind of satanic looking church. More cauldrons, more scenes of torture, sacrifice. People rutting right there on the altar.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus had nothing to do with what went on in that house. And if you ask me, it’s a good thing it burnt down. Angie did everybody a favor.”

  Joe said, “Look, Darrell, I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but something funny was up at the funeral today.”

  “Big fucking surprise.”

  “No really. I felt like some kid of sicko, but I snuck up on the ceremony.”

  “That’s not sick, it’s stupid. You’re lucky they didn’t find you.”

  “Someone might have seen me,” Joe said. “I couldn’t tell for sure.”

  “That’s great. Get all her weird psychotic friends after you.”

  “I thought you said they were druggies.”

  “Sorry. Weird psychotic druggie friends.”

  “I’m not sure they spotted me.” And Joe told him the story of the graveyard, this time leaving nothing out. He even included the part about nearly fainting when he first arrived there. Copeland listened patiently, only occasionally asking questions. When he was done, Joe asked, “What do you make of it?”

  Copeland took a long swig of Budweiser, sat back. “I don’t know, Joe. I hope they didn’t see you.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “You asked me, and I’m tellin’ you. I’d say you stirred up a hornet’s nest, but that doesn’t really cover it. It’s like you knocked down the nest, stomped on it, then stood there and waited for them to sting you.”

  Joe glared at Copeland. “I felt bad that a girl died and decided to go to her funeral. You act like that’s a crime or something.”

  “You didn’t go to her funeral, Joe. You spied on it from behind a marble angel. There’s a serious difference there.”

  Joe slouched in his seat, enervated. “I better get home.”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today.”

  Joe scooted toward the edge of the booth.

  “You gonna stick me with the bill?”

  Standing, Joe reached into his back pocket, retrieved his billfold, and dropped a ten on the table.

  “That’s too much,” Copeland said, digging into his own pocket.

  “It’s fine,” Joe said. “You have any more advice for me?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Lock your doors tonight.”

  Joe left without saying goodbye.

  “You smell like beer,” Michelle said as they kissed.

  Standing next to Michelle’s dresser, a few feet from the bed, Joe let his hands roam over the rump of her jeans. “That’s because I drank a beer a little while ago.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Darrell,” Joe said, pressing his midsection into her.

 
She pulled away from him, gave him a quizzical look. “Darrell Copeland?”

  “Yeah. Down at Easter’s.”

  Joe leaned in to resume their kissing, but Michelle resisted. “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I figured he’s been in on it since the beginning…”

  “He wasn’t there when those women attacked you—I was.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “You could’ve talked to me about it.”

  “I was wrong not to. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It was just a long day, wondering where you were. And we haven’t exactly been getting along like usual lately.”

  He was nodding. “I know. That’s my fault too.”

  She shook her head, rested her forehead against his chin. “You’re just apologizing because you want sex.”

  “There a problem with that?” He kissed her hair, breathed deeply of it. Her shampoo always smelled to him like wildflowers.

  She put a hand on his chest, her touch feathery on the thin fabric of his white dress shirt. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something, but I keep forgetting to.”

  “You’ve decided to get a sex change.”

  “Joe.”

  “You want me to get a sex change.”

  She punched him lightly on the chest. “Would you be serious for once?”

  “Okay, okay. Go ahead.”

  “What I’ve been wanting to tell you is…how proud of you I am.”

  “For what? Bein’ such a good-looking guy?”

  She traced a line along his jaw. “You’re a damned good-looking guy, but that’s not why I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s because I’m hung like a grizzly bear, isn’t it?”

  “It’s because,” she said, clutching the front of his shirt with both hands and giving him a little tug, “of what you did last week.”

  “Oh.”

  She bit her lip, sighed. “I’m sorry for getting on you about that bid.”

  “Michelle…”

  “It was selfish of me, and you didn’t deserve it. And in all the confusion of the past week, I never even told you how proud of you I was for how you stuck up for that toddler.”

  He shook his head faintly. “I still can’t believe it happened.”

  “At least it’s over now.”

  “Is it?”

  Her face clouded, but then, staring up at him, she said, “Kiss me.”

  He did. Her lips pushed against his, her tongue insistent this time. He kissed her with more energy, and then their hands were on each other, stroking, kneading. He slipped a hand inside her underwear, let his fingers rove over the contours of her sex. They moved toward the bed, her hands plunging inside the waistband of his dress pants and squeezing his buttocks.

  “What about Lily?” he whispered through their kisses.

  She clawed at his back, her tongue licking his lips. “She won’t bother us.”

  “How much longer”—he kissed her—“will her show last?”

  “Shut up,” she said, her voice throaty with longing. She fumbled open his belt buckle, the button on his khaki pants. She yanked his zipper down, her fingers squeezing his cock through his underwear.

  Joe moaned, moved down to suck on her breasts.

  The doorbell rang.

  “They’ll go away,” Joe said and proceeded to push down one cup of her bra.

  “Who is it?” Michelle said.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He licked her nipple. “Probably selling magazines.”

  “What if it’s a client?”

  “They can wait.”

  The doorbell rang again, followed by a loud knocking.

  “Joe?”

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “Language, honey.”

  Joe slumped on Michelle’s bare chest. “I know, but every time I’m about to make love to my wife, somebody interrupts us.”

  Michelle’s hands on his shoulders were firm. “Check on it, honey. Before Lily goes to the door to see who it is.”

  That got him moving. They’d told Lily not to answer the door under any circumstances, but she usually did anyway. Zipping up his pants as fast as he could without getting his junk caught in the zipper, Joe shrugged his shirt back on and set about buttoning a few of the buttons. Coming down the steps to the front room he could see that Lily hadn’t left her post in front of the den television. That was good. Maybe she wouldn’t hear him telling whatever salesman or Jehovah’s Witness this was to get the hell off his property.

  Joe tore open the door, ready to snap at whoever it was that had interrupted his long overdue session of lovemaking, but sight of the couple staring back at him pleasantly from the other side of the glass door so stunned him that the truculent words died on his lips. They were in their thirties, well-dressed but not haughty looking. The woman had a Burberry coat on, the man an Armani suit. Could they be prospective clients?

  Joe ran a hand through his hair, buttoned another button on his untucked dress shirt. He opened the glass door. “Can I help you two?”

  “We’re the Martins,” the woman said, offering a gloved hand. “Bridget and Mitch.”

  When Joe went to shake, Bridget Martin looked down, saw the glove covering her hand, uttered an embarrassed little laugh, and peeled it off. Joe shook her hand, which was very warm and soft.

  The man extended his hand and said, “I’m the Mitch.”

  Joe nodded. “I sort of guessed that.”

  Mitch Martin laughed, gave Joe’s hand a squeeze. Bridget bent at the knees and made an apologetic face. “We’re so sorry to bother you like this, but we were wondering if you know who owns that beautiful old house next door.”

  Joe had been just about ready to tell these people to get lost despite their fancy clothes, but the woman calling the Baxter house beautiful stopped him.

  “I know the guy,” Joe said. “I actually offered to buy it from him a couple years ago, but he wanted too much.”

  “How much?” Mitch asked. When Joe hesitated, he said, “Only if you’re comfortable telling us, of course.”

  Joe scratched the back of his neck and wondered if Michelle was still half-naked and waiting for him. He said, “I can’t promise the price is the same as it was then, but he told me he wouldn’t part with it for less than three-seventy-five.”

  Mitch whistled. “That’s an awful lot for a place that needs that much work.”

  Joe nodded. “It’s salty, but the house has a ton of potential.”

  Mitch didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know.”

  His wife gave him a pleading look.

  Joe thought of Michelle in the bedroom, waiting. “Well, that’s all I know. I was working on a project when you guys rang, so I need to—”

  “You’re a contractor, aren’t you?” Bridget said.

  Joe paused and regarded the Martins warily. “How do you know that?”

  Bridget gave him a sheepish grin. “I saw your truck at the top of the driveway. It says Joe Crawford Construction on the door.”

  Joe opened his mouth, uttered a soundless little laugh. “I guess that would give me away, huh?”

  “Would you mind,” Mitch said and hooked a thumb at the house next door, “you know, walking through it with us?”

  Joe’s erection had sunk to half-mast, but he knew once he saw Michelle’s nude body again, he’d recover in a millisecond.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said. “But I promised my wife I’d finish this project right away.”

  “What’s going on?” Michelle’s voice called.

  Joe turned to see her making her way toward the door, fully dressed and looking completely normal. Only the slight blush around her cheekbones suggested she’d been aroused, but he figured only he would notice that.

 
“Hello, Mrs. Crawford,” Bridget said and introduced herself and her husband.

  Dourly, Joe introduced Michelle.

  “Are you two thinking of moving to Shadeland?” Michelle asked.

  “We’re up from Indianapolis,” Bridget said. “Actually, we were just seeing if we could borrow your husband for a minute.”

  “Of course you can,” Michelle said. “Go on over there, Joe.”

  Joe gave her a strained, closed-lipped smile. “Thanks, honey. I guess you and I are gonna reschedule, huh?”

  He could see from her expression she was enjoying his frustration.

  “Take your time, honey,” she said and winked.

  A half hour later, Joe came back inside. Michelle was giving Lily a bath.

  “How’d it go?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Fine,” he said. “I would’ve rather been in bed wrestling with you, though.”

  “Joe,” she said and nodded at Lily, who was making raspberry sounds on the surface of the water.

  He came in, knelt beside his wife and immediately felt water drench his knees. Lily was like a hurricane in the tub. It was a wonder all the floorboards under the bathroom hadn’t rotted through.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Lily said.

  “Hey, sweetie.” He rubbed a scrim of shampoo suds off her forehead before it got in her eyes.

  “Watch my boat,” she said and made her raspberry sound as she pushed an empty shampoo container around the bath. Water lapped over the edge and doused both his and Michelle’s knees.

  “So what were they like?” Michelle asked.

  “Rich.”

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “Just a hunch. New Mercedes. A Rolex for him, a heck of a big rock on her finger.”

  Michelle began the job of rinsing Lily’s hair. For a two-year-old, she had a lot of it. “Maybe they just like to look affluent,” she said. “Plenty of people are that way.”

  “Could be,” he said noncommittally. The truth was, he was almost certain the Martins did have money, but he didn’t want to get Michelle’s hopes up.

  She said, “Did they like the house?”

  “Yep.” He stood, took a pair of towels off the door hooks, one for Lily to stand on, the other to dry her off with.