8 Souls

by Rachel Rust

  Blue.

  A blue dress.

  Grandma stares at the bottle of water at my feet. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I grab the water bottle and shove the newspaper under my arm, then disappear upstairs. In my room, I place the food and water bottles on the bed and throw the newspaper on David’s chest. “Look!”

  He straightens the paper out, and I give him a moment to read and comprehend. “Another girl?”

  “Yes and read what she was wearing.”

  “A blue dress.”

  “Blue! Like last night on the computer and the recording Mateo had!”

  “What does that have to do with the missing girl? I thought blue was about Lena and the downstairs bedroom.”

  “Maybe we were wrong. What if there really is a connection between the axe murder victims and the girls who are missing now? I’ve had interaction with both Amelia and an entity from across the street. So maybe they’re together, trying to contact me for help.”

  “Why?”

  I chew the inside of my lip, sorting through an endless array of thoughts, feelings, and memories—some of them my own, some belonging to past generations of Carpenters. Absolutely nothing makes sense. The axe murders. The missing girls. There’s no link between them. No link except…an image comes into my head. It’s blurry because it’s so old. It’s not my memory; it’s from my great-great-grandpa. It’s his memory of a man he once knew. A short, stout man with a large chest and biceps. There’s a thick, crescent-shaped scar on his forehead. He has a big smile and a hearty laugh, but when he looks at me there’s darkness in his eyes. His laughter isn’t from happiness, it’s from evil. He likes to win. No matter what.

  “Tommy had a scar over his right eyebrow.” It isn’t a question.

  David sits up. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s Tommy,” I say.

  The image in my head is Tommy, the original version. And the new twenty-first century version of him is roaming around, evil as ever, and wreaking havoc on the town again.

  “Tommy is the one taking the girls.”

  “How do you figure?” David asks.

  “He has to be the connection between the current missing girls and the axe murder victims. Tommy killed the people across the street, and Tommy is the one taking the little girls. His victims are all linked.”

  David gives me a doubtful look. I take a deep breath and sit on the bed. “Don’t you see? We asked for help last night. At first, we didn’t think they would help us, but then they typed the word blue on the computer. The same color as the dress of the missing girl. That’s their way of helping us. They’re telling us they know about the missing girls. So they might know where the girls are, too.”

  “How would they know that?”

  “Because wherever those missing girls are being kept, Amelia was probably kept there, too. She knows.”

  “And?”

  “If we can find the missing girls, you can save them. One of them could be your eighth save!”

  David sits up and takes a sip of water, looking hopeful for the first time in two days. “But the lock on the closet won’t budge. I’m not sure your ghostly friends want to help us right now.”

  I reach under the bed and grab my computer. It comes to life as I lift the screen. I leave the Google screen up with the cursor in the search box. David and I eat bacon and toast while staring at the little blank box, waiting for ghost fingers to tell us where to go.

  But they don’t.

  The plate of food is long gone when David shuts the computer. “This is ridiculous. They’re not cooperating.”

  “But they have to,” I half yell, standing up and walking to the door. I speak directly to the wood door. “Do you hear that, you little jerks? You have to help or you’re just as bad as the person taking the girls!”

  “Chessie, don’t.”

  But I’m not about to back down. He now has only fifteen hours to live, and whatever’s behind the door has the answers that can help him save one more person—answers that can end his reincarnation hell. I bang a fist on the door. “Help us, dammit!” I yell in a whisper because the last thing I need is for Grandma to hear me and freak out. I bang again. “Help us now or those girls are going to die.”

  David latches gently onto my arms, pulling me away from the door. “Chessie.” His voice is soft, and he turns me around. Tears pour down my cheeks, and I pound on his chest like I did the door. He pulls me to him and hugs me tight. I sob into his T-shirt until its wet.

  “It’s not fair,” I whisper against him. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you tonight.”

  His face presses into my neck. “I’ll remember you. Don’t forget that.”

  If his words are meant for comfort, they don’t comfort me. “I don’t want you to remember me, I want you to stay with me.” He lifts my face with a finger hooked under my chin and wipes away my tears.

  “I’m here with you now.”

  “Stay.”

  Pain etches across his face. “I can’t.”

  “Please.” I don’t know what else to say in the face of absolute hopelessness.

  His hands glide to the sides of my face, and he presses his lips to mine. But a sudden rumble in the closet makes us both jerk back, ripping our lips from one another.

  The bolt unlatches itself and the closet door flies open. I jump back just before the door can slam against my face. David pulls me onto the bed next to him. Wind from the closet rushes into the room, swirling into a vortex over us, thickening into a gray mass. In the whirling mist, I make out the same face from several nights ago…sunken circles for eyes and a sliced open, ragged line for a mouth.

  I latch on tight to David but cannot take my eyes off the face. It peers down at me, its mouth moving in inhuman ways. The whirling screeches in my head, like nails on a chalkboard. I let go of David and press my hands against my ears, but it does no good. It’s inside my head, shrieking and spinning. David next to me asks what’s wrong and if I’m okay, but his voice is muffled, as though he’s in another room, not holding me tight against him.

  The noises increase and my head pounds. “What do you want?” I scream. “Stop!” But it doesn’t stop and the face in the vortex zooms closer, hovering right above us. David lurches back, taking me with him, but the face follows us. Its ragged mouth opens, and I can’t take it anymore, I close my eyes, assuming this is it. Death by ghost.

  “Hell spot,” it hisses into my ear—or rather directly into my brain. “Go now!”

  The screeching noise rips itself out of my head, out through my mouth, and I gag in response. It swirls back into the closet. The door slams shut and locks itself.

  It’s once again bright and sunny in my bedroom. Both David and I are shaking, or maybe it’s just me shaking bad enough that I’m vibrating into him. He grabs both my arms and jostles me a bit. “Chessie! Are you okay?”

  “Hell spot,” I say, not even knowing what it means.

  David stares back at me, eyes intense. “What did you say?”

  “Hell spot. That’s what the voice said. ‘Hell spot. Go now.’”

  David’s jaw clenches and he leaps up from the bed. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What?” I ask, scrambling off the bed after him. “What is hell spot?”

  “Hell’s Pot,” he says, enunciating the words. He looks out the window at the old house across the street. “You were right. Tommy’s the one taking the missing girls.” He grabs my hand. “We gotta go.”

  “Where?”

  “Hell’s Pot.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  We’re halfway to my bedroom door when someone pounds on the other side. David and I both jump back.

  “Chessie?” Grandma asks. “Are you okay? I heard you scream.”

  David looks back at me with a get rid of her stare.

  “I’m fine, Grandma,” I say in what I hope sounds like a normal voice. “I was just video chatting with my friend about…boys.”

  David rolls his e
yes and I shrug my shoulders. What else was I supposed to say to her?

  There’s a long pause before Grandma finally replies. “Okay, well, I’m downstairs if you need me.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  We stand, unmoving, unwilling to even risk a squeaky floorboard, before I finally open the door an inch and peer out. I lead David down the stairs. Grandma’s in the kitchen. The pots and pans are clinking and the water’s running. I swat away a momentary sense of guilt over having left my plate upstairs. There are bigger issues at hand.

  Once outside, David and I pick up the pace and head to the sidewalk.

  “Let’s go to my house and get my truck,” he says.

  From around the corner, a little white fluffy dog appears. Shit. A few feet behind it walks Samantha. She smiles at both of us. “Spending the night together already?” She feigns shock. “What would Grandma think of that?”

  I glare at her and my body flushes with heat. I’m sick of her and her stupid hair and her awful attitude-filled smirk. “Shut the hell up, Samantha.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Go back to Chicago, Francesca.”

  She stares me down, and I wish more than ever that I wasn’t so damn short. I wait for another snotty remark or a threat, but instead she turns to David with a sudden smile. “You look cute in the morning. Messy hair suits you.”

  David grabs my hand and pulls me past her. She continues talking as we walk away, and I ignore her. I’m not that same girl who she messed with five years ago—and I have far more important things in my life to deal with.

  David and I cross the next two streets, and we’re almost to the park now.

  “Are you going to tell me what Hell’s Pot is?” I ask.

  “It’s a place I never thought I’d have to go back to.”

  “And…”

  “It was an old blacksmith-barn-turned-bar back in the early 1900s. A real seedy place, and not many people in town would ever go to it. Most of its clientele were the…less than savory type.”

  “Is that why you’re convinced that Tommy took those girls? Because he was the seedy kind of customer who would go there?”

  “No, I know it’s Tommy because only he and I ever called it Hell’s Pot. Its actual name was The Whiskey Pot. But the whiskey tasted like hell there, so we nicknamed it Hell’s Pot.”

  It’s funny to even think of David drinking whiskey. At least not the David of today. But then again, he may be in an almost-eighteen-year-old body, but he’s lived more than a hundred years. He’s seen decades of things…politics, wars, progress, setbacks. He’s far from being an immature boy. Yet something in his eyes hints that he hasn’t lost his youthfulness. The young David—the original David—is inside him. He’s still a kid, despite all the years.

  “Do you remember where Hell’s Pot is?” I ask.

  “Yep. I can even remember what it smelled like.” His nose crinkles. “Wish I didn’t though.”

  “The girls have to be there,” I say, tugging on his hand. “Let’s go! Hurry up.”

  For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, my spirits lift. We have an actual location. We’re going to find the girls and David is going to save them and stay here with me.

  “I have a plan,” he says. “When we get to Hell’s Pot—”

  We turn the next corner and come face-to-face with Mateo. Relief crosses his face.

  “Good god, I have been looking for you all over,” he says, then notices our entwined hands. “Your dad said you haven’t been home all night.”

  David doesn’t reply. A silent affirmation.

  Mateo looks at me. “Where’d you say you’re going? Hell’s Pot? What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” I say too quickly. It’s a dumb answer. Nothing always means something. It’s one of the most obvious lies.

  Mateo hesitates before speaking, as though hopeful that we’ll let him in on our secret. When we don’t reply, he says, “I was up early this morning, couldn’t sleep, thinking about that damn color blue and I had a thought. If we think it might be one of the Stillinger girls talking about that bedroom, we should go to the bedroom and try to contact them.” He pauses for a comment from either David or me, but we don’t say anything. What could we say? There’s no time for séances, and blue has nothing to do with the bedroom. Another little girl is missing, and we finally know how to find them. If we don’t succeed, there will be no more David to go ghost hunting with. “Séances work better if there’s someone specific to call out to,” Mateo adds.

  I look up at David, encouraging him to say something nice to his friend, but also hoping he can get rid of him.

  David exhales. “Um, yeah, that sounds like a good idea. But we can’t right now we’re, ah…” He glances at me. “We’re on a date.”

  My cheeks blush.

  Mateo chuckles a little and backs up with hands raised. “Sorry, I didn’t realize, but that’s cool.” He steps out of the way. “Is that what Hell’s Pot is? Some new restaurant? Hot wings or something? Man, we need some new places to eat around here. I wonder if there’s—”

  “Mateo,” David says firmly. “We really gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  The look on his face when he says this is painful. Maybe he really will get a chance to call Mateo later, or maybe there won’t be enough time and his best friend will be staring down at him in a casket soon. The thought nearly crushes my heart. I cling tight to David’s hand in both support and in urging him to hurry up. Time is not on our side.

  Mateo nods in understanding and David and I move past him.

  “Have fun,” Mateo says with a slight laugh. “Remember, bad decisions are fun decisions.”

  My feet stop. An ice-cold shot of fear hits me.

  I turn to face Mateo and the corner of his mouth hooks up into a crooked grin.

  “What’d you say?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.

  But Mateo doesn’t have a chance to reply before David drops my hand, spins around, and punches him clean across the cheek.

  Mateo is splayed out on the grass, hand to his cheek, moaning, eyes barely open. David leans down, grabs him by the shirt, yanks him up a few inches and punches him again, harder this time. Mateo collapses down. Knocked out cold.

  David curls his fingers around my wrist and looks at me with wide eyes. “Run!”

  He yanks on my hand and drags me along with him as we race down the block to his house. On the front porch sits his dad. He looks more pissed than he had when David skipped out on work.

  “We need to talk,” his dad says.

  David doesn’t stop running. “I don’t have time, Dad.”

  “Like hell, boy. You’re not eighteen till tomorrow, so when I say we need to talk, you say ‘yes sir.’ And we’re gonna start with you explaining where you’ve been all night.”

  David still doesn’t stop, and we run toward the open garage where David’s green pickup is waiting.

  His dad shouts. “Get your ass over here right now!”

  “Get in!” David yells to me. I dive into the passenger seat, and he launches himself into the driver’s seat. He starts the truck up and barely has his foot on the brake when he shoves it into reverse. His dad jumps out of the way as the vehicle flies backward down the driveway. He’s still yelling at his son.

  But David pays him no mind, and as soon we’re on the street, the tires squeal to stop, and then we race down the street. I can barely catch my breath, from both the running and the adrenaline rush of leaving his dad screaming at us, and Mateo passed out on someone’s lawn.

  I look straight at David. “Holy shit. Bad decisions are fun decisions. Is Mateo really…?”

  His jaw muscles clench. “Yes.”

  “My god. How can that be? He’s your best friend!”

  “Like I said, Tommy could be anyone.”

  “Evil can show up anywhere. Mateo himself told me that. God I’m such an idiot for not realizing he was messing with me! And now, he knows that we’re headed to Hell’s Pot. He knows w
e know where the girls are.”

  “Yep,” David says. “Which means we have even less time.”

  We drive out of town, to the Nodaway River. After a few miles, David takes a left and we cross a narrow, rickety bridge over the water. It’s wide here and the river is flowing at a pretty good rate over some rocks. Past the bridge, David parks alongside the road.

  “Are we here?” There aren’t any buildings in sight.

  David nods out the driver’s side window. “There used to be a little road right there, but it’s all grown in. We’re gonna have to walk it.”

  “Walk?” I exhale as many nerves as I can.

  David extends his hand to me. “C’mon, trust me.”

  There’s no evidence of the old road, but I place my hand in his. “Okay, let’s go.”

  He leads me into the trees, and the sun’s warmth gives way to shadows and cooler temps. My mind grapples with the idea that he’s been here before—over a hundred years ago. Walked this very route. And at the end of this so-called road was bad whiskey. But even bad whiskey would be better than what we’re hoping to find today—missing children. Hopefully still alive.

  “Mateo’s going to come out here after us.”

  “Probably,” David says. “But if he does, we’ll just have to deal with him. There’s nothing else we can do. There’s no time to sit and concoct a better plan.”

  David’s answer does not make me feel better. I take my phone from my pocket. “Great, no service.” No phones. No calling for help. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the company of a boy on the verge of death, and a madman is on our trail. Not exactly how I had pictured my summer going.

  We walk what must be a mile or more through bumpy, weed-filled woods before David finally stops. I’m grateful for the pause. My legs sting, scratched to hell by long weeds and small trees.