Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection)

by McCray, Carolyn

  The sound of the metal duct groaning must have gotten through to Evan, as he used his Swiss Army knife to pry the control panel off the wall.

  “He’d better hurry,” Paxton said from inside the duct.

  With one last look of reassurance, Ruth ducked her head back inside. A burning beam had broken through the tunnel farther up, and flames licked at Sixtus’ boots. She could hear Cecilia urging Evan on.

  “Evan, cut them!” Ruth ordered, as the tunnel crumpled like a child’s toy under the heat.

  Even above the roar of the flames, she heard a loud clunk. The swords retracted into the wall.

  “Pull!” Paxton yelled.

  As flames whooshed down the duct, Ruth was way ahead of him.

  Throwing her weight back, they pulled Sixtus from the shaft.

  * * *

  All Cecilia could see was smoke as Paxton and Ruth tumbled from the shaft. Fire followed, engulfing Sixtus. Michael was there, though, with the fire extinguisher. A cloud of white poured over the red and black.

  Paxton choked as Ruth sputtered.

  “Mom!” Evan said, as he ran up and hugged her.

  Cecilia waved her hands in front of her, trying to see how badly injured Sixtus was. His arms were barely burned, but his torso looked downright singed. But what about his legs?

  Where were his legs?

  It took a moment for the scene to fully register. They had only pulled out half of Sixtus. Intestinal loops slid from his abdomen, spreading across the floor. Michael tried to pull her away from the sight, but Cecilia’s feet were planted. The scene was so incomprehensible that she could not look away.

  “Crap. I thought he felt a little light,” Paxton said.

  “Light?” Dahmer said, incredulous. “Light? He is missing his legs. His legs!”

  “Thanks for pointing that out, devil-guy,” Paxton shot back.

  “We have got to get out of here!” Rage shouted, pointing to the Exit sign.

  Cecilia broke from her stupor to yell, “No!”

  Everyone looked at her, and even Rage stopped in his tracks.

  “Think about it,” Cecilia said, trying to bring the panicked thought to full form. “The killer has forced us to this point—right to an apparently awesome way to exit. I just… I don’t think we should take the bait.”

  Before anyone could respond, a pounding came from the ceiling. A muffled cry followed. “Help! Help!”

  The same look crossed everyone’s face. Was that a real cry for help, or just another trap?

  Paxton pulled his gun. “I’ll go check it out.”

  “Screw that!” Dahmer exclaimed, following Rage to the Exit sign. “Every man for himself.”

  Pancreas pointed at Paxton. “I’m with him. I’m staying with the guns.”

  “Your loss, man,” Dahmer sneered.

  “Don’t!” Cecilia yelled, as the Exit sign flickered an ominous red.

  But Rage hit the release bar on the door. For a second, they could see the storm whipping rain against the trees outside.

  “Peace out!” Rage yelled as he stepped over the threshold. Something clicked. Rage tried to move his foot. “What the hell?”

  Dahmer retreated as Rage begged for help. “Get me out of this, man!”

  Cecilia wanted to turn away as something sprang from the ground and flew up to block the entrance, but she couldn’t. Long, steel spikes attached to an old mattress frame hurled upward, impaling Rage through the face, chest, and gut.

  He sputtered once, and then sagged against the spikes.

  Michael pulled her into his arms, forcing her away from the sight.

  The pounding continued overhead.

  “Help! Anybody! Help!” the muffled voice cried.

  * * *

  “Damn it!” Paxton cursed. There was nothing they could do for Rage or Sixtus, but whoever it was in the attic seemed to need them. “Stay here,” he instructed the group, although he doubted that Dahmer heard him as he puked in the corner.

  “I think this might be a two-gun situation,” Ruth stated, as she guided Evan to Cecilia. “Everyone stay put. We will be right back.”

  “No freaking way!” Pancreas said. “You guys are supposed to serve and protect, man. I mean to take full advantage of that!”

  Michael took Cecilia’s hand. “I agree. We’ve got to stick together.”

  Damned twice over. There was nothing worse than having to protect civilians while going into an unknown situation. And hadn’t they noticed? Ruth and Paxton didn’t exactly have a great track record so far—two dead civilians in the last two minutes.

  “He’s right, isn’t he, Mom?” Evan asked Ruth.

  Cecilia stepped forward. “Uncle Pax, it’s no safer here. Nowhere is safe. There’s just together.”

  Out of everything that had happened, his niece’s quiet words nearly made Paxton crack. How had he lost sight of the importance of keeping a bond alive and strong, even under these dire circumstances? Perhaps it was even more important now.

  Paxton could only nod. He feared that if he said anything, it would come out sounding all mushy. Now was not the time to lose it.

  Instead, Paxton headed toward the handle dangling from the ceiling. Ruth set up on the other side of the attic entrance, pointing her weapon upward.

  “Everyone stay far enough back…”

  “For the splatter?” Dahmer said, as he wiped bile from his mouth.

  “Or fire tumbling down,” Pancreas added.

  Great. Now the band decided to be helpful.

  Paxton looked at Ruth. She nodded her readiness. Taking in a sharp breath, Paxton tugged on the handle, pulling the attic stairs down. Shockingly, nothing happened. No flames burst out. No swords flew through the air.

  He could get used to this.

  Step by step, Paxton made his way up the wooden stairs. He noticed that Pancreas was right behind him. Like on his ass right behind him. If the band member could have climbed into his pants, Paxton was pretty sure the guy would have. Within moments, Paxton reached the top of the stairs. He flashed his light around the hazy attic. Dust and smoke made it hard to see past a few feet.

  Carefully, he mounted the last step and fully entered the attic. Paxton paused for a moment to make sure that his legs weren’t cut off or anything before he waved for the rest to join him. He could hear the crackle of the fire down below. If they didn’t hurry, the flames would overtake them.

  Once everyone was on the landing, Paxton inched forward. Sweeping his light quickly in front of him, he tried to catch any sign of movement.

  “Wait,” Cecilia whispered harshly, “Back over there.”

  Paxton brought the light back to the right. Was there a glint of metal? He swallowed hard. Glints of metal had not served them very well tonight. And was someone standing over that glint?

  “Stop!” Paxton bellowed. “Hands up!”

  But the figure scurried away… glint of metal and all.

  Trotting, Paxton crossed the distance, but lost the figure in the haze. Plus, there were like a hundred old boxes and dressers cluttering the floor. It was like an old lady’s furniture maze up here.

  He crossed back to the object on the floor. Sure enough, it was a body. Facedown. He stood guard as Ruth checked for vitals. Frowning, she shook her head.

  “Who is he?”

  Ruth carefully turned the body over. At first, Paxton was relieved that it wasn’t Jeremy, but then Cecilia pointed at it.

  “Oh, no!” Cecilia cried. “It’s John!”

  Paxton looked over, confused. “Who’s John?”

  Michael pointed down. “That’s the altar boy.”

  “The one you thought was the killer?”

  Cecilia cried into Michael’s shoulder as he answered, “Yeah.”

  Crap.

  Paxton liked it way better when they had an actual suspect.

  Now they were back to flying blind.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cecilia pressed up against Michael’s shirt, trying to crush th
e tears away. John. Rage. Sixtus. Helen. All dead. More than likely Quentin, too. And who knew how Frannie, Connor, and Paula fared?

  John’s death hit her hard, though. How poorly had she thought of him? Yes, he was a jerk, and yes, he probably had done some inappropriate things with that girl, but he did not deserve to be flailed open the way he was. What if they hadn’t run from him? What if they had convinced him of the danger? Would he be alive right now? Or would he have died just as horribly as Rage and Sixtus?

  Paxton and his partner spoke amongst themselves about whether to follow the figure deeper into the attic or to find an escape route down from the roof. But the way the rain was pounding against the small windows, that option seemed as dangerous as the fire from below. Only this attic—this attic, where they found poor John, separated the sound of each natural threat. His mother was going to lose her mind. She lived for him.

  Choking back a sob, Cecilia turned her head so that her cheek rested on Michael’s chest. His heartbeat no longer soothed her. Now she wondered how many more minutes it would be beating. Did she truly have three days of torture ahead of her?

  Her body shuddered, even though she tried to stop it. She needed to be strong at least for Evan, who looked ghostly pale and drawn.

  “He’s really dead?” Evan asked. “The football captain? I mean, if he couldn’t fight the killer off…”

  Cecilia watched as Ruth hugged her son. “John was just a kid, too. We’ve got guns. Paxton and I know how to fight.”

  The boy nodded, wiping tears away. But Cecilia could only think of Rage and Sixtus. Look at how much guns and experience helped them. But she couldn’t give up. Cecilia had to believe they would survive. Somehow. Even going home and finding her mom passed out drunk in the bathroom would be a welcome sight. Well, almost.

  “Cec?”

  Cecilia jerked her head toward Paxton. “Yes? I’m sorry.”

  Her uncle’s tone was low. “We’ve decided to break one of the windows and take our chances outside,” he warned.

  She could only bob her head like a doll. Outside in the storm, with no walls to protect them, didn’t sound like it increased their chances. But there was no arguing that inside was safer. The house was going to burn to the ground. But where was the killer going to flee to, then? Outside with them?

  Paxton gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then moved to the far side of the room. He picked up an old wooden chair and used the legs to shatter a small stained glass window. Everyone but she rushed over to look outside. Cecilia could tell by their body language that their descent was not going to be easy. The roof had looked super-steep on their way up the hill. She could only imagine what it looked like from way up here.

  Movement from deeper inside the attic caught her attention.

  Was that the flap of a cape?

  Cecilia screamed as she moved away from the hideous hawk mask, a bloody knife raised against her.

  “Drop it!” Ruth yelled from across the room.

  “Cecilia?” the masked figure asked.

  She stumbled over a rug and caught herself on a dresser.

  “Police!” Paxton announced. “Drop the weapon, or we will shoot!”

  The knife-wielding maniac seemed happy, though. “Uncle Pax!”

  “Last warning!” Ruth barked.

  “No,” the figure said, as he lifted the mask to reveal his face. “It’s me!”

  Cecilia gripped the dresser even tighter. “Jeremy?”

  “Yes. We’ve got to go! Someone killed John!”

  Michael was at her side, holding her up. “Yes, someone did.”

  He tried to coax her back, away from Jeremy, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to understand. Her brother was dressed in the exact same costume that the killer used to lure Helen and Quentin away. How could her brother be wearing the exact same costume?

  Paxton stepped forward. “Jeremy, I need you to drop the knife. Nice and slow.”

  “No! I need it.” Jeremy pointed to John’s body. “Did you see what he did to him? Let’s get out of here!” her brother implored.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia spotted Ruth urging her son behind a dresser. He resisted, and then disappeared behind the large armoire. Cecilia glanced around for Dahmer and Pancreas, but they had melted into the shadows as well. She guessed Pancreas wasn’t too keen on staying with the guns, now that the killer had shown up.

  But it couldn’t be Jeremy. It just couldn’t. The longer, though, that she saw him in that blood-splattered cloak—the cloak drenched in Helen’s blood—the harder the time she was having denying the fact it could very well have been Jeremy. Evan had said they were separated early in the evening.

  “Go!” Paxton harshly whispered to Cecilia. When she didn’t budge, Paxton urged Michael, “Get her out of here.”

  “Yes! Let’s all go!” Jeremy insisted, and took a step forward.

  Paxton’s gun snapped up again. “Jer, we can’t go anywhere until you drop that knife.”

  Michael tugged her toward the attic stairs, but Cecilia couldn’t leave her brother, killer or not.

  “Are you crazy, Uncle Pax? We need every freakin’ weapon we can get our hands on!”

  “Is that the costume the killer wore?” Ruth asked.

  Cecilia gulped. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to seal his fate.

  Michael, though, nodded. “Yes, that’s the outfit.”

  Cecilia screamed, “No!” as her uncle leveled his gun at her brother.

  * * *

  Paxton’s finger tightened around the trigger. “This is your last chance, Jeremy.”

  Dear God! Would he really have to shoot his only nephew?

  But Jeremy rolled his eyes, like teenagers do, and then dropped the knife.

  “There! Are you happy now?”

  No. No, Paxton wasn’t. “Kick it over here.”

  “Uncle Pax!” Jeremy protested.

  “Do it!”

  Paxton’s eyes flickered over to his partner. She had a steady bead on Jeremy as well, but he could see her hand shake just the tiniest bit. After the near miss the day before, he knew she was praying that neither of them had to fire—especially on family. But he couldn’t think about family. Not until the weapon was secured.

  Finally, Jeremy clicked his tongue in that I-am-so-annoyed teen way and kicked the knife, but it glanced off a truck and skittered under an armoire.

  “Great job! Now I’m defenseless.”

  Paxton rushed forward, gun still out and ready to use. He couldn’t treat Jeremy as his nephew, only as a suspect caught red-handed. “On the floor. Facedown.”

  “Uncle Pax!” Jeremy complained. “I only put on the costume because I had eaten all of Dahmer’s caviar, and security was after me.”

  Paxton ignored his nephew’s rambling and grabbed him by the arm, forcing Jeremy to the ground. “You have the right to remain silent.” He pulled out the handcuffs as his nephew squirmed beneath him. To say that this was the worst night of Paxton’s life was an understatement. “Anything you say—”

  Mechanized laughter filled the attic.

  “What’s that?” he asked Jeremy.

  “How should I know?” his nephew answered with a lisp, as his face was shoved against the floor.

  “You’re not very smart, are you?” the tinny voice asked.

  Paxton’s head whipped around, trying to track the source of the voice.

  “I gave you every clue. Every chance.”

  He grabbed Jeremy’s cloak and ripped it from the teen. Rapidly, he checked the teen for a wire or mic.

  “I told you! It’s not me!” Jeremy insisted, as Paxton hauled him to his feet.

  Ruth tapped her shoe against a box, and then tilted the wood up. A speaker sat inside. Paxton gripped his nephew tightly. That voice was not coming from Jeremy. But if not Jeremy, then whom?

  “I really thought more highly of you,” the voice taunted.

  “Yes, well, that was your first mistake,” Paxton grumb
led.

  He hated these freaks and their mind games.

  * * *

  Cecilia reached back for Michael. The voice, with its inhuman pitch and mechanized cadence, chilled her to the marrow. And the terror in Jeremy’s eyes could not be faked. That voice was the voice of the killer. Not Jeremy.

  Relief should have flooded through her that her brother was not a psychopathic murderer, but it didn’t. They still had a psychopathic murderer in the room with them.

  Finally, her fingers found Michael’s. Only they squeezed so tight that they hurt her. She looked over her shoulder to find Michael crumpled on the ground. She went to cry out, but found the cool edge of a steel blade suddenly at her neck. Cecilia’s eyes slid over. It was no great surprise that the hooked beak of the hawk mask covered the face of the person holding her hostage.

  “Drop the weapon!” Paxton demanded as he swung around, aiming his gun.

  Laughter again filled the attic.

  “I am not as easily swayed as Jeremy.”

  Cecilia felt the sting as the knife bit into her skin. Warm blood dribbled down her neck. At least it was only a dribble. She tried to keep her breathing slow and shallow, but panic threatened to undo her efforts.

  Stay calm, she tried to tell herself. Stay calm. Uncle Paxton will get you out of this.

  He will.

  She fought screaming. She fought begging for her life. Cecilia was certain that Helen had tried all of that. Look where that had gotten her friend.

  “So,” the figure said, slowly and calmly, “I suggest you both lower your weapons.”

  She blocked out the killer and his words as she looked down again to find Michael crouched down, waiting like a snake to strike. She willed him to stop, but he leapt up, knocking into Cecilia and the killer. The knife sliced through the air as she tumbled to the ground. Bodies fell on top of her. She couldn’t tell which as she scrambled out of the way.

  Michael and the killer wrestled for the knife, their fight carrying them to the top of a stack of boxes. The killer raised the metal blade, pinning Michael against the crate.

  “No!” Cecilia screamed, as she ignored her own survival instincts and jumped onto the killer’s back. She was thrown off, but not before she grabbed the mask and ripped it off.