by Ethan Cross
“Nothing, huh? Of course, you know that little boys who lie get grounded.”
“Okay, we watched Ghostbusters 2. But I wasn’t scared, and I’m not imagining the man I saw.”
Bingo. Sometimes, she could kill Dwight. “So did the man you saw look anything like Vigo, the Carpathian?” Vigo was the bad guy in the movie.
Lucas’s face scrunched up, and he gave her a dirty look. “No, Mom, he didn’t look anything like Vigo. I watched SpongeBob SquarePants too, but he didn’t look anything like Squidward either. He was real.”
She fought back a chuckle and suppressed the urge to smile. She knew that either gesture would draw more harsh looks from her imaginative, young son. “Okay, well, if there was anyone here, they’re gone now. So let’s try to get some—”
A creaking noise filled the room.
At first, she didn’t realize what it was, but then it came to her. It was the door to the bedroom, moving. Did I check behind the door?
Her heart stopped dead and then pounded with such volume that she thought her eardrums might shatter. She didn’t want to see what was behind her, but she saw the fear on the face of her son as his eyes widened and his mouth hung open in a silent scream.
She rotated and saw a dark figure standing in the corner of the room.
18
A cop is like a shepherd.
Those were the exact words that the Sheriff had used. Now, this officer makes the same analogy. It could have been a coincidence, but Marcus didn’t believe in coincidences. They didn’t exist, as far as he was concerned. Everything happened for a reason. Everything was connected—even though, most of the time, that connection and the reasoning behind it was far beyond human comprehension.
He glanced around and took in every detail of the cop car. The seats weren’t like regular car seats. They were plastic, in order to allow the officer to easily clean up whatever surprise might have been left for him. At one time or another, puke, piss, and every other manner of bodily secretion had been found in the back seat of a squad car. Plus, a plastic seat lacked the crevices where a suspect could hide incriminating evidence.
A metal grill and a piece of Lexan plastic a quarter inch in thickness formed the barrier between the front and back seats. He checked the barrier’s frame for any possible flaws but found none—at least none that could be exploited. There were sections of the frame where the foam covering had worn down and cracked or was non-existent. Some of the screws showed through, but he neither had the time nor the tools to unscrew any of them.
It took him only a few seconds to realize his options and formulate a plan. Whether he liked it or not, he was in his element. Under different circumstances, he could have been an impeccable criminal.
He had a plan, as well as the determination and ability to carry it out, but that didn’t make him feel any better about what he was about to do. A plan? Could what he was about to do even be considered a plan? He felt like a football coach whose entire strategy consisted of the plan to score more points than the other team. It seemed to lack the subtle strategic nuances of which an actual plan would consist, but it was the only option that seemed feasible. If he would have thought about it much longer, he may have talked himself out of the idea. There was a real risk of getting himself killed if he carried out his plan, but there was an even greater possibility of getting killed if he waited.
Don’t think, react. Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.
The officer had cuffed his hands behind his back but hadn’t strapped him down with the vehicle’s seatbelt, which made all the difference now. He pulled his hands under himself while bringing his legs up high enough to allow his cuffed hands to slip to the front of his body. All the while, he kept a sharp eye on the man in the front seat, to ensure that the cop wasn’t aware of the maneuver.
He took in one last determined breath to stiffen his resolve, and then he threw himself down in the seat and kicked his feet against the rear driver’s side window.
He knew that although a quarter inch of reinforced plastic composed the partition between the front and back seats, the side windows in many patrol cars were the same windows you would find in an average civilian vehicle and could be broken out. He continued kicking over the screams of the officer in the front seat, until the window shattered and the glass exploded onto the highway.
He leaned out of the car and smashed his cuffed fists against the driver’s window.
The officer rolled down the window, took out his gun, and screamed at Marcus to get back in the car. He fired a warning shot to emphasize his point.
This, combined with the strong winds cutting deep into his skin and the asphalt rushing by at high speed, made Marcus wonder what he was thinking when he decided to kick out a window and hang out of a moving car.
Another shot sailed off into the night. He lunged forward and grabbed hold of the officer’s wrist as a third shot traveled into the darkness. He threw his weight into a hard yank and pulled the officer partially out of the vehicle. The cop’s gun fell to the pavement.
It was as much of an opportunity as he could have hoped for, and he took advantage of it. He wrestled his left arm around the officer’s neck and squeezed. With his right fist, he pounded the man while trying to maintain enough balance to keep from falling out the window.
The vehicle swerved from one set of ditches to the other. He looked up and saw a slight jog in the road ahead. He knew that they wouldn’t make the curve.
He shoved the officer back into the car and then pulled himself inside. The officer’s foot must have pushed down the accelerator because he could feel the car gaining momentum.
He braced himself for impact.
The patrol car struck the ditch at high speed, smashing the right front wheel upward and compacting the front end as if it were made of aluminum foil. The car ramped the ditch and twisted in midair.
He was thrown around like a garment in a clothes dryer. Despite his earlier attempts to brace himself, he smashed into every hard surface. His head struck the rear passenger window, and a deep gash sliced into his forehead just above the right temple.
When the vehicle touched the earth again, it landed on its roof and skidded another fifty feet, tearing a large groove that resembled the path of a tornado.
As he lay bleeding, a looming sense of dread hovered within his mind like storm clouds rolling over a peaceful valley or an ominous fog blanketing a tranquil sea. To him, the darkness outside seemed to move with a purpose. He felt its weight pressing down against him. He thought for a moment that he was under attack from some dark and ancient entity that had stumbled upon them on its quest to rid the world of all light. Then, he realized that the growing darkness was only in his mind. Although he struggled to keep it from overtaking him, he lost his grip on consciousness and succumbed to the encroaching night.
19
Alice Richards had staked a small place in the world that she could call her own. It wasn’t much, at least not nearly what she had hoped for when she was a young girl, but the cramped little house was still home. And now, her home would no longer be a source of security and fond memories. All of those happy times had been washed away in the blink of an eye.
The sanctity of their home had been violated and forever desecrated by a madman waiting in the shadows.
She stared in disbelief at the very real man that had invaded their home. She didn’t know what to do. Should I run? But what about the kids? Where the hell is Dwight? What does this psycho want? A multitude of questions that she didn’t have time to think flew through her mind.
She had to do something, and she had to do it fast. She knew full well that the man who stood before her had come with far darker intentions than to frighten them.
The man’s eyes burned with an intensity that she had never before seen in her lifetime. She knew that there would be no bargaining or reasoning with the man from the shadows. Evil dwelled behind his eyes.
She clenched her teeth so hard that they began to ache, and
her hands trembled with a fear that she could have never imagined before now.
Only one rational thought could penetrate the wall of fear that had been bricked up within her mind: Dwight’s gun … the pistol that he keeps loaded under our bed.
She and Dwight had argued numerous times over the handgun. She had felt that it would be more of a danger to the family than a means of protection. Guns appalled her, and she felt that nothing good ever came from owning or using one. But now in the grip of fear and face to face with evil, Dwight’s gun was the only thought that consumed her.
If I run for it, I’ll be leaving the kids alone. But if I don’t go, we’re all dead anyway.
She took a deep breath and made a dash for the doorway.
The man reached out and grabbed her by the back of her shirt as she ran past. With a strong push, he sent her flying into the hall.
Her face smashed into a large picture frame across the hall from the doorway. She felt glass razor into her skin. She fell to her knees, and the picture frame and a shelf of knick-knacks below it fell from the wall and onto her back. A few tiny figurines shattered against her neck and shoulders.
Before she could regain her bearings, the man was upon her.
She tried to crawl down the hallway, but he grabbed her belt with his right hand and a fistful of her hair with his left. He lifted her from the floor and slammed her underside into the wall, smashing in the drywall and sending dust into the air. He reared back and tossed her down the hallway like a garbage man tosses a bag into the truck.
She struck the floor with a thump that shook the house and caused more pictures and decorations to fall from the walls. She tasted something metallic in her mouth and realized it was her own blood. Her pain was great, but she had to be strong. More than her life was at stake.
Where’s Dwight?
She was halfway into the kitchen and could see through the entryway into the living room. She could see Dwight asleep in his chair. She called to him in a frail, battered voice, but he showed no sign of movement. Can’t he hear me? She cursed him for not coming to their rescue.
She got to her feet and stumbled into the living room. The space once held such fond memories of Christmas time and presents under the tree, birthday parties, and her children’s first steps. As she stared at her husband, all of those happy memories instantly faded away.
Dwight sat lifeless, soaked in his own blood. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear. His eyes still showed his last moments of terror, and his mouth hung open in a soundless scream.
She felt weak in the knees and almost collapsed from the shock. A sense of utter hopelessness washed over her. She wanted to give up, accept the inevitable, and invite the killer to get it over with. But the thought of her children kept her going. She would stop him. She would kill him. I have to.
Her husband’s killer took his time making his way down the hall. He strolled in much the same way a man without a care in the world would stroll through a park on a summer day. It was as if he wanted to savor every moment of the chase.
She ran to the kitchen and straight to the knife block that rested on the countertop. From it, she pulled the largest knife, the one she never used because she was too afraid that she’d manage to cut off a finger or stab it into her leg. In the current situation, however, it was just right.
She flipped back around to face her attacker.
“Stay back,” she said. She held the knife out toward him and readied herself, but he didn’t even glance at the weapon. The confident look in his eyes added to her dread. He didn’t seem human.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She hesitated.
“Name!” he said with bite.
“Alice.”
“Ah … well, welcome to Wonderland, Alice.” He glanced around the tiny kitchen, nodding his head like an old friend. “You have a lovely place here. Quaint, but quite lovely, nonetheless. It has a very homey feel to it.” He spoke to her as if they were preparing to sit down and have coffee.
He looked deep into her eyes and continued in a serious yet soothing tone. “The concept of home is one that has been pondered and sought after from the time of man’s earliest existence, a place that we can call our own, a place where we belong. It’s more of a state of mind than a place, even though most merely associate home with a tangible location rather than an abstract concept. Home is somewhere that we all search for and many will never truly find. I envy the fact that you’ve made a home for yourself. That’s something that I’ve never had, and I suppose that I never will.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” Her voice trembled, but she forced out the words.
He seemed to consider her questions carefully. “Pardon my manners. My name is Francis Ackerman. And I want the world to make sense. I’ve always believed that there are no answers. No meaning. No point to our existence. But I’m not so sure anymore. I sometimes wonder if we are all just wandering through the darkness alone. But other times, I think that maybe I’m the only one in the dark.”
He paused a moment and then continued. “Though I am certain about what I am going to do. I’m going to release you from the pain of living in mediocrity and obscurity. I’m going to set you free.”
She sobbed. “Oh, God, please—”
“God?” he said. “There is no God. I’m your god now. I giveth … and I taketh away.”
Her eyes hardened with anger, and her hands ceased their trembling. It was gut-check time. “There is a God,” she said, “and I’m going to prove it to you.”
On the final word, she thrust the knife at him, hoping to ram it deep into his belly.
He dodged her advance, seized her outstretched arm, and back-handed her across the face.
She dropped the knife and fell into the wall. But she did not go down. She regained her faculties and made a dash from the kitchen and back down the hall. Her only hope of salvation rested in the master bedroom, hidden under the mattress.
She moved faster than she thought possible. She turned the corner into her bedroom, slid to the ground, and stuck her hand under the mattress to retrieve the revolver.
She groped blindly, found the gun, and pulled it from its resting place. It was kill or be killed now, and she harbored no reservations concerning what she was about to do.
She whirled around, gun in hand.
He was almost on top of her.
She aimed the weapon at his chest, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
She expected to hear a loud bang echo through the house as she ended the life of her attacker and saved her own. She expected to hear a deafening pop and crackle like on television. But she heard nothing—only silence.
She opened her tightly clenched eyes and looked up at the killer’s smiling face. Astonished, she glanced at her own hand and saw that he had grabbed the gun as she fired and blocked the hammer from contacting the bullet.
“I told you there was no God,” he said. “Sweet dreams … little lamb.”
He ripped the gun from her hand and struck her across the face with it. The blow was too much for her to withstand, and she succumbed to darkness.
20
He was back in the Big Apple. He was a cop again. The time that had lapsed between past and present seemed to have sifted away like sands in an hour glass. The events between his last night as a cop and the present day seemed to be a fleeting memory of another life that he had lived in a dream.
Marcus had been a young homicide detective investigating a bizarre string of murders. Evidence had come up missing, and his superiors had told him to drop the investigation. But he was never one to let things go. He discovered a pattern among the killer’s madness and followed his lead to that street on that night.
A scream shattered the air.
His heart froze in his chest for a moment and then erupted with blood pumping fire, as if it were a snowball thrown into the fires of Hell. Everything seemed so real. And yet, it wasn’t. The street transformed before his eyes. The
buildings bent and distorted into wild, incongruent shapes. The walls mutated into what looked like black tar—except that they possessed sharp edges like a billion tiny razor blades. The street became a river of blood, and the sidewalk fissured and cracked, as if an earthquake had struck but forgot to quake. It seemed like the entire landscape was alive and wished to devour him. Again, the scream beckoned him to an alley that looked like a gateway into some dark and ominous new dimension.
He had been here before. He remembered now. None of this was real. It wasn’t live. It was like a re-run of the past. Only in this re-run, the scenery in which the events had taken place assumed the dark characteristics of the events themselves.
Still trapped within the dream, he summoned all of his inner strength and let out a scream that was silent to the world of the waking but loud enough to break the trance of his sleep.
He awoke to a pounding in his brain that felt like a thousand tiny workers laying railroad tracks inside his head. For a moment, he forgot where he was and what had happened. He gained a moment’s worth of comfort in blissful ignorance. Then, it all came rushing back.
He was bruised and battered, running from a conspiracy that possessed a depth he could not fathom and incorporated players reaching far and wide. He had no way to know who he could trust or what he was going to do next. The only thing that he knew for certain was that he had to keep moving. He had to find somewhere safe, and he had to do it fast.
Bringing himself up on unsteady knees, he retrieved the handcuff keys from the slumbering officer. He uncuffed himself before smashing the cruiser’s radio. He searched the cop and found a cell phone in his pocket. He checked it, but the battery was dead. He smashed it as well. Leaving the crash behind, he walked toward a farmhouse that rested on a hill about a mile down the road.
He couldn’t make out the exact details of the house, except for the pole light that shone like a beacon in the night and the outline of some structures. He hoped to find a vehicle on the property that he could borrow and commence with the only plan he had: to get as far away from Asherton as possible.
