The Girl in the Darkness

by John Triptych

  Tom walked over and stood beside her. “What’s going on?”

  She gestured at the sitting cat. “Tigger seems pretty attached to this little room.”

  Tom knelt down and examined the flooring. When he glanced over at it the first time, he hadn’t noticed the almost invisible gap in between the checkered designs of the printed material. Now that he was looking at it more closely, there was a definite gap that one could use to move part of the floor. He was a twenty-two year veteran of the force, and he sensed something hidden underneath it. Using both hands he wedged his fingers in between the lining and became surprised when it quickly gave way. The floor was nothing more than a removable cover as he lifted half the section back up before placing it aside. The cat daintily moved out of the way and stood on tiptoes as it made it onto an adjoining lower shelf.

  Brenda gasped. Underneath the linoleum top was a six-inch gap, and at the bottom was another trap door. It was a slightly larger hatch than what she had found underneath the burnt down tool shed beside her house. A bolt was held in place by a chain and padlock; the key was still sticking in it for easy use.

  Tom twisted the key, freeing the padlock. He pulled the chain away until the trapdoor was clear. When he pulled it open, a foul odor emanated from the gaping hole underneath. “What in the hell?”

  Brenda’s heart was pounding. She was ready to scream, but she kept her composure. Kneeling down beside Tom, she couldn’t help but sense that there was someone down there. The cat jumped down from the shelf and sat down beside them, making another high-pitched cry.

  Tom leaned out to check on how deep the hole was. He could see an attached ladder beside the top of the trapdoor. He cupped his hands again and started shouting, hoping that someone would hear. “Is there anyone down there?”

  A faint voice was heard in the darkness. “Help … me.”

  Brenda’s eyes nearly popped out of her sockets. It sounded like a young woman. The voice had matured, but it seemed very familiar to her. “I’m Brenda DeVoe, who’s down there?”

  “Mom?”

  Brenda screamed. “Oh my god, Sam? Sam! Is that you?”

  Samantha’s voice was weak. “Mom … I’m sorry.”

  Tom got up and ran back to the kitchen, going through cupboards and drawers, looking desperately for a flashlight. The cat was somewhat startled as it followed him into the larger area.

  Brenda was tearing up. She reached out and grabbed the rungs of the ladder. “Sam, hang on! I’m coming!”

  “No,” Samantha whispered. “Don’t … come down. He’ll … keep you here… too.”

  After going through the sixth drawer, Tom found a black handheld LED flashlight. He turned it on to make sure the device was working before dashing back over to the pantry area. Brenda had already placed her feet onto the ladder and was about to climb down. Tom held out the flashlight to her. His knee had been giving him fits, and he was unsure whether it could take the strain of going down there. “Here, take this.”

  Brenda nodded as she held onto the flashlight with one hand. Twisting her head down below, she shined the flashlight into the pit. The subterranean chamber was nearly twenty feet high, with smooth concrete walls and flooring. The foul stink was intense, but her adrenaline and concern for Samantha made her hardly notice it. The beam of light traced its way through the darkness, illuminating an embedded toilet and sink along the walls, before finally shining its light on a frail young woman lying in a filthy mattress. Brenda’s hands shook as she barely maintained her composure. For a brief moment she nearly lost her balance, but her grip tightened on the rungs to stop her from falling off at the last minute.

  “Easy does it,” Tom said.

  Brenda gritted her teeth as she concentrated on getting down the ladder first. Just one step at a time, she thought. It felt like an eternity as she slowly made her way down, and there was a slight feeling of relief as her canvas shoes made it onto the hard concrete floor. Turning, she quickly ran over to her daughter. Samantha held her hands over her eyes as Brenda knelt down and examined her with the flashlight.

  The moment Brenda was close enough to touch her, Sam sat up slowly and wrapped her arms around her mother. “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  Brenda could hardly contain herself. She was crying uncontrollably, the almost liquid mucous running down her nose, the salty tears fogging her vision. “Don’t apologize … it’s my fault for slapping you. Can you ever forgive me, Sam?”

  “I forgave you a long time ago, Mom,” Samantha whispered.

  Putting aside all her other thoughts, Brenda focused on the situation at hand. “Who … did this to you, Sam?”

  Her daughter’s whisper carried a hint of resentment in it. “Daddy.”

  “Oh god,” Brenda said. “Can you walk?”

  “I-I’ll try. He stopped … sending me food awhile back. I just … finished all the cat food days ago … I think.”

  Brenda helped her over to the sink. She held her daughter by her shoulders as Samantha drank a few handfuls of water. Her daughter was weak and scrawny, but she was alive. Brenda remembered watching an old World War II documentary years ago. Images of prisoners in Nazi concentration camps flooded her mind. Samantha was so thin, her skin a deathly pale hue.

  Tom had found a bundle of climbing rope. Remembering his days as a boy scout, he tied a climbing knot at one of the kitchen posts and threw the rest into the hole before kneeling down and observing them again. “Brenda, tie the rope around her waist so I can help you both back up here.”

  It took some work, but they were able to bring Samantha up into the kitchen. Her only clothes were a dirt encrusted nightdress and panties. Her long, matted hair was uneven and her nails were cracked. Samantha continued to shield her eyes from the glare of the lights as Brenda helped her over to the sofa in the living room. As they passed by the dining table, Samantha picked up a steak knife that was lying beside a dinner plate and held onto it. Brenda ran over to the bathroom, then came right back out with a wet towel to help her clean up.

  Tom opened the refrigerator and took out plastic bottles of orange juice and milk. He walked over to Samantha and offered it to her. The young woman’s eyes were squinting as she looked at him with a slight suspicion. He smiled at her. “It’s okay, my name is Tom Breen and I’m a retired detective. I was handling this case for a long time and that’s how I met your mother.”

  Brenda took a leather hunting jacket from a clothes hanger by the door, placed it around her newfound daughter’s shoulders, and then sat down beside her. Her mind was still in shock over seeing how much she’d grown. A part of her wanted to keep crying, but she fought hard to keep her emotions in check. Even the smell and her daughter’s appearance couldn’t dampen her bliss. There was so much she wanted to say, Brenda didn't know where to begin. “You’ve grown, Sam.”

  Samantha alternately drank the milk and the sweet citrus juice. She filled her stomach just enough until she felt like vomiting. As the contents of her belly began to settle, she placed the steak knife into the side pocket of the leather coat she wore. Letting go of the blade, she felt something small and metallic in the hollow of the jacket, probably a lighter of some kind. “Could someone turn down the lights? It hurts my eyes.”

  Tom noticed a pair of sunglasses on a nearby shelf. He took them and handed the item over to her. “Try these instead.”

  Samantha put on the shades. Her eyes were still half-blinded by the light, but it made things more tolerable. “Thanks.”

  Tom pulled out his cell phone again. There was still no call signal. “Damn. I think we need to get going. Let’s get to the car.”

  The sound of a gunshot suddenly rang through the lodge. The .308 Winchester bullet rifled through the air at nearly three thousand feet per second before penetrating the glass window. The slug tumbled for a bit before hitting Tom at the back of his hip, shattering the bone and pushing right through his flesh, continuing onwards until finally embedding its fragments just underneath one of the shelv
es lining the far wall of the living room.

  Tom fell sideways into the carpeted floor, just as Brenda and her daughter began screaming.

  Twenty Four

  Jeff DeVoe cycled the bolt on his Remington 700 rifle, ejecting the spent shell while replacing it with a fresh round. The screams coming from the house were loud, but he knew that nobody would hear them. The lodge was just too isolated for any of his distant neighbors to realize anything out of the ordinary. Walking past Tom Breen’s car, he opened the driver’s side door and peered into the vehicle. Sure enough the car keys were still in the ignition, and he took them from the sedan before placing the item into his shirt pocket.

  It felt like everything was crashing down on him, but he was confident that he could still get out of this predicament. The night before, he took Addison Draper’s car with her plastic wrapped body in the trunk over to the new construction site just outside of the Beltway. The workers had gone home for the weekend, so there was no one around to observe what he did. For several hours, he alternated between operating the hydraulic excavator and the bulldozer to remove several tons of dirt from the open foundation, before driving the deceased detective’s car into the pit. As soon as he did that, he covered it all up with soil and packed it down until nothing was obvious. The construction crew was scheduled to pour concrete over the foundation the very next day, so his handy work would be concealed forever. He caught a bus ride home in the wee hours of the morning, and took a long rest before cleaning up the house. Jeff had only gotten back to the lodge late that afternoon, but he realized that he had forgotten a few supplies he needed, and drove back into town for some last minute shopping at the local hardware store. When he made it back to his sanctuary, he noticed the other car in front of the house just as he maneuvered into the driveway. Turning his vehicle lights off, he cruised slowly until he realized that Tom Breen and his ex-wife had come to pay him a visit. Floyd had fingered Caleb for Zoe’s death, and he was home free on that. Now he had one more mess to take care of.

  Jeff sensed movement inside the living room so he held up the rifle again, ready to fire. The former detective he shot was no doubt lying on the floor as he could still hear his groans, but the two women must have retreated further inside since he couldn’t listen to their pathetic crying anymore. Jeff walked over to the front door and kicked it open. Sure enough, he saw Tom Breen lying sideways on the carpet, one hand putting pressure on his hip, wheezing painfully. Splotches of blood were all over the floor.

  The short-barreled .38 caliber revolver was sticking out from Tom’s exposed ankle holster and he tried to reach for the weapon, but Jeff was too fast as he leaned over and grabbed the gun away before the wounded old man could take it. Tom twisted his head and looked up at him with a pained but silent defiance.

  Jeff smiled as he opened the revolver’s cylinder and ejected all the bullets from Tom’s gun. Six unspent slugs fell to the floor with multiple thuds. He then tossed the weapon across the room. “Sorry, detective. I guess I’m just too fast for you.”

  Tom’s voice was a whisper. He was bleeding out. “Why?”

  Jeff scratched the side of his face, just below the bandaged ear. The cuts on his face would take a few days to heal. Jeff liked to tell his secrets before killing them, for his victims were the only audience he could relate to, but never his associates. “That’s a good question. I guess I just felt bored by it all.”

  “Your own … daughter.”

  “Let me tell you something about my life,” Jeff said. “When I was six, my older brother locked me in a tool shed. My parents weren’t around and it was so dark in there. I screamed and cried, must’ve been for hours. Then my brother brought his friends over and they took me and did things to me. Afterwards, he told me never to tell anyone. If I did he said he would kill me, so I kept quiet about it. That’s when I learned to hate people, especially my own family.”

  “Zoe … Owen.”

  “I was driving near Quantico Station one night and saw her just standing there,” Jeff said. “She and I knew each other you see. My foreman Caleb introduced us awhile back at a party. She said she was running away so I gave her a ride. I bought her some whisky and she passed out drunk in my car after drinking half the bottle. I already had built a cell for somebody you know, and she just happened to fall in my lap. First time I ever did it and it felt like nothing I’ve ever done before. It felt so good, so satisfying.”

  “You’re … a goddamned … sick bastard.”

  Jeff stood there and aimed the rifle. “Maybe I am. Does anybody else know you’re up here?”

  Tom grimaced from the pain. He was starting to black out. “Sheriff … is on their way.”

  Jeff laughed. “That’s bull. There ain’t no cell coverage up here, and I’m sure you know it by now. So long, detective. You’ll be joining Detective Draper by the way.”

  Tom gave him the finger. “Up yours, asshole.”

  Jeff fired. The sound of the gunshot reverberated across the room, nearly deafening him. The slug had gone through Tom’s forehead and had fragmented into the wooden flooring. The ringing noise in his ears continued for a long minute, echoing into his senses before slowly dissipating.

  He felt a sudden breeze wafting through the lodge. Walking into the kitchen he could see that the back door was swinging open. A pair of sneakers he had placed in the storeroom was gone. It looked like his ex-wife and daughter were out in the woods, making a run for it. He saw a glimpse of the cat before it disappeared into the bushes.

  Grinning wildly, he opened a locked drawer and took out his thermal goggles. Past and present were all the same to him. Jeff fondly remembered the first time he stalked Samantha in the dark. The little girl was so terrified, she couldn’t stop crying as she fumbled around in the sightless abyss, unable to see. Being in control over his prisoners filled him with an intense pleasure. Lording over these helpless creatures; to be able to do whatever you wanted with them. It was like being God- the ultimate arbiter of life and death.

  Brenda still had the flashlight, but she kept it inside her jacket as she continued to pull Samantha with her. She didn’t want Jeff to see the light. The night sky was clear, and it gave them some illumination as they dodged their way around the seemingly endless trees that were around them. Her daughter could barely keep up in her weakened state, and Brenda had to almost carry her. They had no idea where they were going, but she figured that if they kept running downhill, it would eventually lead to another house or something. She had wanted to stay in the lodge with Tom when he got shot, but the wounded detective gestured at them to run away and find help. Taking Samantha with her, Brenda found one of Jeff’s sneakers in the kitchen, so she helped her daughter put it on before running out the backdoor with her.

  It seemed that Samantha was hyperventilating. She kept stumbling forward with an awkward gait, and Brenda had to hold onto her elbow to keep her from falling down. The shoes she wore over her feet were loose, and her tender soles and ankles had rubbed themselves raw. Each step was painful, and she could no longer keep up.

  The cold air brought chills, even though Brenda was sweating profusely. She kept tugging at her daughter’s arm to keep Samantha moving, but the young woman continued to slow down. “Sam,” she said. “Please, we have to keep going.”

  Samantha heaved great gulps of air, but it wasn’t enough to fuel her sickly lungs. Her shins were in agony, as if someone splintered them into small fragments before putting them back together again, and every time she put her foot down on the ground, there was an equal buckshot of pain shooting up her leg. “I can’t … keep going,” she whispered.

  Brenda made a painful grimace. “If we don’t keep going, he’ll catch up with us, Sam. Please!”

  Samantha put her head down as she placed her hands on her knees. “He’ll catch us anyway … you don’t know … him like I do … he … won’t stop.”

  Brenda was crying again, even though she couldn’t shed anymore tears. “We can’t give up now,
Sam. I won’t ever lose you again.”

  Samantha shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Mom. Please … just leave me. Go and get help.”

  Brenda gritted her teeth. “No! I’m staying with you no matter what happens!”

  “One of us … has to tell the cops. I can’t run … anymore.”

  “Then I’ll stay here with you,” Brenda said. “He can’t find us if we hide.”

  “He will. He can see in the dark,” Samantha whispered.

  “What?”

  “He has these special goggles. He can see in the night.”

  “Oh my god.”

  The distant gunshot was loud enough for them to freeze in place for a few seconds. Brenda realized that Tom must be dead. Now all she had was Samantha. She had been in silent grief all these years, and there was no way she would ever leave her daughter again. Figuring that it didn’t matter anymore, she pulled the flashlight out from her jacket and activated it. She shined the light beam down to the direction they were going before looking over to the sides. When she pivoted to her left and shined the flashlight in that direction, she noticed the outline of some sort of structure less than a hundred yards from them.

  She grabbed Zoe by arm. “Come on, this way.”

  Jeff resisted the urge to chuckle out loud as he started moving into the forest. The new thermal goggles he wore were infinitely superior to the old night vision gear he first used. The previous equipment made everything look in shades of green, but the new thermal instrument he had on showed everything in black and white now. The contrast was striking, for the heat signatures could be clearly seen, unlike the now discarded night vision goggles that made it hard to differentiate between trees and people at a distance.

  Looking down at the forest floor, he could clearly see the oval heat signatures of their footsteps. This was too easy. All he had to do was to follow the obvious trail, and he would have them in no time. It was times like these when he felt the greatest thrill. The pleasure of the hunt was when the prey you were stalking knew you were coming, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it. He could taste their fear, and he drank it down like fine wine, enjoying every drop.