Terrorscape (Horrorscape)

by Campbell, Nenia

  “This is where the ego comes in. The ego has the toughest job of the three; the ego acts as a moderator between id and superego. You may have heard the phrase 'happy medium' at some point in your lives. Perhaps in the book, A Wrinkle in Time. The concept here is very much the same.”

  “He doesn't look very happy,” someone pointed out. “Yes, well.” Professor Hendricks smiled slightly. “It is difficult to strike a balance between two such opposing forces.”

  Two opposing forces—just like chess.

  “The ego's abilities ensure the well-being of the individual. Going back to our doughnut dilemma:

  your ego might decide that instead of getting a jelly doughnut, you might instead try the equally refreshing but significantly lower calorie poppy-seed banana bread.”

  Val, still thinking of chessboards suspended in space, frowned. She had missed his example, only catching the tail end of it. Banana bread?

  At least hers wasn't the only glazed-expression in the room. Fifty-eight people were taking the afternoon-evening MWF Abnormal Psychology lecture and less than half of them looked awake, let alone alert.

  Professor Hendricks was looking increasingly frustrated. Finally, he dismissed them all with a wave and a sigh. “I hope you are getting more out of this than you are letting on,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the shuffling papers and zipping backpacks. “Mind your egos.”

  The sun was close to setting when Val stepped outside. The sky was a flickering gold that reminded her of a lightbulb about to go out.

  Thoughts of the letter raided her mind.

  The address was Lisa's and the writing was Lisa's, but the words—they were all his.

  Is it him? That night was branded into her memory and try as she might to forget—how desperately she wanted to forget—she didn't think she ever would.

  If it was him, he must have gotten to Lisa. There was only one reason he would do that. Only one reason he would have taken such a risk. He knew she was still alive.

  “Well, hello there, Val.”

  Val clutched at the front of her Henley. “Jade. Oh my God, you scared me.”

  “You almost walked right into me. You didn't see me?” He was right; she had nearly done a faceplant right into his chest. She colored. “Sorry—I was just remembering something. I'm a bit spacey right now.”

  “Must have been pretty intense, your thoughts.” “I guess.”

  His eyes went to her wrists. “Nice collection you have going on there.”

  She followed his gaze and realized he was referring to the bracelets. “Oh, these? They're from the ravers. Picked out from the mess in our dorm.”

  You are such an idiot.

  “Can I have one?”

  She shrugged and held out an arm that trembled only slightly. “Go for it.” Jade took her lightly by the wrist and selected a blue and green bracelet. His fingers were rough against the tissue-thin skin. Something buzzed in her ears and she felt her pulse accelerate when he looked her in the eyes.

  He doesn't want you. “I wanted to tell you—and Mary—that I had a lot of fun last night.” He stretched the bracelet to fit around his hand with a click. “Your dorm was definitely the best out of all of them.”

  “Thanks,” said Val, “but Mary did all the decorating and stuff. I didn't really do all that much.” “You were there,” he said. “You danced with me.” Heat coursed down her throat. “Yeah.”

  “You're blushing.”

  She studied her sneakers. “I know.”

  “Listen, I know this might seem a little sudden— and if you're weirded out, I totally get it, but—you wanna grab a cuppa Joe sometime?”

  “Huh?”

  “Coffee. Nowhere too fancy, don't worry. I was thinking the Student Union. There's is pretty good.” Mary's words from earlier floated back to her: These things can happen pretty fast if you let them. Had Jade talked to her? Had she talked to Jade? Did it matter?

  She had been single for a long time. It was entirely possible that she had forgotten how fast these things happened. James had asked her out after only a few conversations, though she had known him for years so maybe that didn't count. And Gavin—

  Gavin made her heart feel sick.

  “Yes,” she said, breathing out slowly.

  “Yes?” Jade raised an eyebrow. “Yes what?” “Yes, I'll have coffee with you. I'd like that.”

  “Great. What's your number? I'll call you with a date and time.”

  She reeled it off, feeling dizzy. Was this infatuation? Or was it fear?

  Was there any difference between the two?

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪ One week had passed since Blake had received the letter. Or The Letter, as he thought of it, capitalized, and self-referential.

  The manila envelope bore Lisa's name and address but when he opened up the flaps there was another envelope inside, just like one of those Russian nesting dolls. The cream colored paper was soggy with brick-red paint that dripped on and stained the light brown carpet of his dorm room floor.

  From the damp confines of the envelope he had produced a single black pawn. The top half of it was cut off, rolling around at the bottom like a severed head. There was only one person Blake knew of who would resort to something so sick.

  This isn't good. He paced his dorm room. It was clean—cleaner than usual, anyway—because his roommate was out. Friday nights meant parties, and Tom was participating in every Rush event his schedule permitted. Usually Blake welcomed these absences as they meant he could call Lisa or study or play World of Warcraft in peace, but now…he felt uneasy. Alone.

  Terrified.

  A sitting duck.

  For several weeks he had felt as if he were being watched. Blake had done his best to look at the situation logically, to compensate for this seemingly irrational fear. After what had happened last year some paranoia was understandable. Between the nightmares and his father's decline in health, it was a wonder he wasn't locked up somewhere.

  The letter had changed things. It was solid evidence in the face of previously abstract fears; it meant that there was something there to be feared.

  Blake picked up the phone to call Lisa. Just the sound of her voice was usually enough to lift his spirits, cliché as that was. Lately his conversations with her had been subdued, though. He'd asked several times if she was upset or worried about something, but she rebuffed that line of questioning so quickly that he was beginning to wonder if the fault lay with him.

  He still couldn't believe they were going out. Lisa had seen something in him that night, he supposed. Something that had given her courage and forced her to look beyond the surface, and all its superficial trimmings. What they had—it was real.

  Or so he liked to think. Blake was halfway through the familiar string of digits when he heard the creak. The floorboards in the dorm were scratched and weathered from years of abuse. His dorm, Wordsworth Hall, was set to be decommissioned the following summer because the foundation was simply getting too old.

  They were going to tear it down, rebuild it from the ground up, and pack the incoming freshmen into it like sardines in a tin. The wood was cracked and warped and water-stained from the constant deluge of the winter rains, and traces of asbestos still lingered menacingly in the popcorn ceilings.

  All the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. It was a little drafty tonight—had it been so cold a moment ago? He walked over to investigate, picking his way across the floor carefully to minimize the noise, and sighed when he discovered that Tom had left the outer door open a crack—again.

  Cursing softly, phone still in hand, he shut and locked the door, making a mental note to lecture Tom about safety and break-ins. Not that he'd listen. Oh, he'd smile and nod, but it would all go in one ear and out the other. In that way, he was rather like James.

  Now that was a box he did not want to open. Especially not tonight.

  The creak must have been the hinges . He felt nearly sick with relief. The door blowing in the wind.<
br />
  His relief lasted as long as his next breath, which cut off abruptly as a night-chilled blade sliced through his jugular vein. There was pain, giving way to startled wonder as warm liquid spattered and sprayed, and his legs gave out, and his mind succumbed to warm velvety darkness that reminded him, strangely enough, of sex.

  He had just enough time to think, “What—” before falling into the void.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Two weeks went by with no word from Jade. Val continued to go through the motions of college life, attending classes and social events when Mary asked her—which was becoming less and less often—but apart from that, Val found herself spending an awful lot of time alone.

  When the dulcet strains of “A House Is not a Home” began to play from her cell phone's tiny speakers, Val experienced a wave of apprehension and longing. That was her parents' ring tone.

  But why were they calling her? Was something wrong?

  No, she consoled herself. Nothing's wrong. They probably just want to see how I'm settling in. But the feeling of dread did not dissipate and the curious letter she'd received from Lisa rose to mind. Val took a steadying breath. “Hello? Mom?”

  “Honey?” Her mother's voice was thin, strained. Hearing it made Val want to weep. “How are you? How's school?”

  “I—” Something kept her from mentioning the letter. Her mother's voice was so anxious already. Now wasn't the time. “I'm okay. School's been…okay. Mom, is something wrong?”

  Say no, she pleaded. Say no.

  “Well…” Pause. “Your friend Lisa called here. I thought that was strange.” “Lisa?”

  “She was asking for you. She said it was urgent.”

  Again, Val thought of the letter. It was beginning to look as if the two of them were connected. Val swallowed the building dryness in her throat. “About what? What did she want to talk about?”

  “She wouldn't say. All she said was that it was urgent.” That word again. Urgent.

  Oh no.

  “Do you want me to give you her number?” Mrs.

  Kimble's voice sounded as if it were coming from the end of a wind tunnel. “I took it down, just in case.” Part of her wanted to say no, and to hell with Lisa. Part of her wanted to burst into the piercing screams of the mindless, until someone called the cops or the paramedics or both, and they locked her away—far away—in a padded ivory tower where she wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “read it to me. Please.” Her mother reeled off the numbers, making her repeat them back. Worry was present in her voice but Val doubted that her mother would press her on these concerns unless Val herself brought up what was bothering her in the first place.

  And I don't know; I'm afraid to know; I'm afraid it might be worse than I imagined.

  “Are you getting enough sleep, Val? You sound like you're coming down with a cold.”

  Funny, how homesickness could make you long for the silliest things. Things you took completely for granted. Safety, security, and unconditional love.

  “I'm fine. I…I love you.” “I love you, too, Baby. Take care of yourself, okay? Get plenty of sleep—and if you are getting sick, take some extra vitamin D.”

  Val hung up gently on her mother. She stared down at the numbers inscribed on the memo pad in red ink. They seemed permanent, as if they had always been there and always would be.

  Val had the sudden, violent urge to tear the paper to shreds, just to prove to herself that she could. She picked up the phone instead, holding it carefully in her hands as if it were something fragile that could be broken in a single squeeze like an egg. The numbers were a new set she didn't recognize; like her, it seemed that Lisa had also elected to change her number.

  The other line picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” a female voice said, “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  A thrill went through her. Lisa's voice sounded exactly the same. But suspicious, wary. She probably has caller ID. It occurred to her that she ought to have dialed *67 and blocked her number, but that hardly mattered now. “It's me…Val. My mom said you called.”

  There was a long pause. For a moment, Val wondered if she had hung up, but then Lisa said dully, “Oh. Val. I didn't really think you'd call me back.”

  “You said it was an emergency, urgent. Why wouldn’t I?” Lisa didn't respond, as if the reasons why Val wouldn't call back were so great in number that she didn't have time to list them all. “What happened?”

  Another silence, longer still.

  “Blake's dead.”

  “He's what?”

  “Dead, Val. D-E-A-D. Dead.”

  “H-how—?”

  “His roommate found him in the shower. Murdered. His throat had been slit. Like he was a fucking animal.” Lisa tried, unsuccessfully, to hold in her sob.

  Val's own throat ached in sympathy. Poor Blake. He didn't deserve that. A bubble of hysteric, bitter laughter escaped her. As if anybody did!

  “You think that's funny?”

  “No, I was just—I'm so sorry.”

  “It was him, Val. Your whacked-out lover-boy. He killed Blake. He murdered him.”

  The vitriol in Lisa's voice stung as effectively as acid. “Wait…he's not—”

  “Don't you dare defend him!” “I wasn't—”

  “He wrote on the wall in Blake's fucking blood!”

  Val flinched as Lisa's voice, which had started out at normal volume, rose suddenly to a scream. All the saliva in her mouth evaporated. 'What did he write?”

  “'Are you frightened?'”

  Val forgot how to breathe.

  Over the sound of her choking gasps, Lisa said, “Ring any bells? It should. It's the same thing he made me write in that letter I sent to you.”

  Oh God, it was him.

  And Lisa—

  “That's what you called to tell me?”

  “That, and—I-I think I'm next. Before he died, Blake got a letter. It had a pawn—with the head hacked off. The entire envelope was spattered with red paint. He called to…tell me about it. I was so frightened. I told him to go straight to the police…”

  Val heard a whimper.

  “The next day, he was killed. And now…I got one, too.”

  “You did?”

  “It was all slashed.” Lisa's voice broke. “The pawn. With a knife. Completely mutilated. He's going to cut me, Val. He's going to fucking cut me.” He's lost it . Panic was overtaking her at alarming speed. I knew he would come back—but not like this. Never like this. “C-calm down. It's going to be okay.”

  “ Don't tell me it's going to be fucking okay!” “I'm just trying to—”

  “No, you're not trying. You're not trying shit. Fuck you, Val. Fuck you and your trying, too! I am not okay with being that fucker's piñata!”

  “Lisa, please—”

  “I warned you. I warned you to stay away from him. And now look. Look where we are now.” “Just give me one second. Please. I can explain—” “We're all dead.”

  “It's not my fault! It's not my fault that he's psychotic. That he killed those people. I didn't make him do it. I didn't want him to do it.”

  “You played his game. You let him make the rules.” “So did you! We all did.” But blaming each other wasn't going to get them anywhere. Val pinched the bridge of her nose. “What am I supposed to do, Lisa? Stop him? I tried that—he almost killed me.”

  “And now Blake is dead. And James. Did you forget about James?”

  Never.

  “This whole game was always about you. You're the one he wants. The one he's after. We're just the pawns. Meanwhile, you hide out wherever the hell it is you are, sitting pretty on the sideines. You want to know what I want you to do? I want you to stop hiding out like a coward while all my friends die.”

  “So you think I should let him kill me? Is that what you're saying? That I should offer myself up to him like some sort of sacrifice?” Lisa's silence said more than words ever could. “Are you
insane?” Val spluttered. “Do you know what he'll do to me if he catches me?”

  “You're living on borrowed time, anyway. It's just a matter of how many of us you're going to take down with you before it gets to be too much.”

  The wall blurred before her eyes. Val lowered the phone, warm tears coursing down clammy cheeks.

  Lisa's tinny voice, distant now, said, “How many have to die before you assume responsibility?”

  It's not my fault. “And it's not just us. Look up the Redhead Murders, Val. Then you'll see. If you have any conscience left at all, you'll see.”

  The phone went dead. So, too, did any lingering hopes that she wouldn't have to relive this nightmare. Chapter Seven

  Moschatel

  Val tossed and turned well into the night. At one point she slipped out of the room to pace in the courtyard under the orange glow of the lampposts. The wind was cold, damp; it turned the beads of sweat peppering her skin into drops of ice.

  She barely noticed.

  Look up the Redhead Murders. Then you'll see.

  What was that even supposed to mean? Val shook herself, and the movement turned into a full-body shiver. Her skin felt clammy, like the meat of raw oysters. She rubbed her hands on her nightshirt as if she had touched something dirty.

  Obviously Lisa was referring to a series of murders. Murders was plural, which meant more than one. And the redhead part—well, that was easy. Someone with red hair was involved, either as the murdered or the murderer.

  With deduction skills like these, it was no wonder she'd gotten a full scholarship.

  Like that's helping.

  But she couldn't find out any more unless she looked them up, as Lisa had said, and Val was unwilling to give her the satisfaction. Because she knew Lisa, and Lisa wouldn't have brought it up unless she thought Gavin, and to a lesser degree, Val, were responsible for them.

  Looking up those murders would practically be an admission of guilt.