Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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“Mason,” I whispered, completely confused. This wasn’t an abandoned warehouse. It was someone’s home. The only sound was my breath.
I searched around, looking for a phone. A TV hung on the wall. Curtains covered the windows. Dirty dishes collected on a table.
My head spun. My body twitched. Should I look outside to try to see where I am?
Or check the doors.
Or search for a tunnel.
Or continue to look for a phone.
I moved down the hallway and opened the door on the right. A small bathroom. I recognized the storage cabinet; it was just like the one in my room. I tried the knob of the next room down, but it was locked, as was the next door I tried.
“Hello?” I knocked.
No one answered.
Where was Mason?
And what about the others?
I took a deep breath and tried a door on the left—a bedroom, much like mine. I flicked on the light. A single bed sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a dresser and a wooden desk. Was this Samantha’s room? Was her absence the reason it’d been left unlocked?
The next room down was another bedroom. There were bright white walls and white bed linens, plus an adjoining bathroom, and a table with a chair. It looked almost like an exact replica of my room, except for one major difference: a window on the far wall. Were those steel bars, peeking through the window blinds?
Was this the window that Mason had been talking about? Except this wasn’t the third floor.
Or was it?
Maybe all the windows had bars?
I wanted to check it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to step into the room for fear the door would close, that I’d get locked up again. The thought of someone watching made my insides writhe.
“Hello?” I called, louder this time. I continued down the hall, beating on locked doors, yanking on knobs. I could always go back downstairs, retrieve the concrete block, and use it to crack these rooms right open.
“Mason?”
Where was he? Trapped in the vents? I slapped my palms against the wall—to check for hollow spaces or hidden doors, suddenly realizing my bandaging was gone; my cut was totally exposed, bleeding down my fingers.
My bandage lay crumpled on the floor. I scurried to pick it up, looking into the kitchen, unable to help noticing the window above the sink.
No bars.
A shade hung down, slicing the glass in half.
I took a few steps closer. My heart pounded at the sight of it all: the exposed branches, without leaves; the thin layer of snow that blanketed the ground; and at least a cord of wood stacked up in a corner. I touched the glass. The chill rippled through my body.
I wanted to get out.
I needed to breathe fresh air.
The sky glowed a rich melon color. It painted the snow pink. I wanted to jump through the glass.
A door off the kitchen appeared to lead onto a back deck, but I couldn’t leave yet—not without Mason.
Where could he be?
What should I do?
I moved back toward the hallway, noticing the handle of the fridge. It’d been colored blue, as though by markers. A photo stuck to the surface, held in place with a strawberry magnet.
A picture of me.
Wearing a blue crewneck sweater.
I remembered the day the photo was taken because it’d been the one and only day I’d worn that sweater; it’d itched me all through school, and so I gave it to Goodwill.
The photo shows me crossing the street, by the post office. It was mid-autumn; all the leaves had turned orange and red.
Beside my photo was a poem I’d written a couple of years before: “Love for Sale.” It’d been published in the school’s literary magazine that following spring.
What did it mean now—here, on this fridge? Had I known my abductor from school? Was this a random poem he’d picked? Or had it been chosen for the theme of unrequited love?
My insides shaking, I continued to search the house—the living room, two closets, the entryway, and a pantry—finally uncovering the missing piece. A pocket door at the end of the hallway.
It was barely visible; the metal had been painted over—white, just like the walls. The handle was no more than a sliver in the wood, barely able to fit a couple of fingers. I tugged the handle. It didn’t budge. I pounded my fist against the panel. “Mason!” I shouted, convinced he was on the other side. I needed something sharp to try to pick the lock open.
I stumbled back to the kitchen and started yanking open drawers. At last, I found the utensils and fished out a knife—one with a pointed tip.
Back in front of the door, I jammed the tip into the lock. To my complete and utter shock, it went in. I tried to turn it. The lock moved at least a millimeter, but it didn’t click. I pulled the knife out and flipped it over, pointing the tip the other way.
At the same moment, I heard a click.
But it wasn’t from the pocket door.
It was someplace else, inside the house—like a key in a lock, like some kind of release. The sound penetrated my ears, sawed through the bones of my skull.
I took a step back. My whole body shook.
This was really happening.
I wasn’t just dreaming.
Was that the creaking of wood? Were those footsteps I just heard? Where was the main entrance? Had I even seen it? Was that the whining of door hinges?
I turned to look. The hallway appeared clear. I took tiny steps toward the kitchen. A ball of tension formed inside my chest, knocked on all my ribs, pounded against my spine.
My legs felt hollow, as though with one wrong step they could snap in two. Still, I continued forward, noticing a set of stairs to my left. It led to an entryway. Was that the one he used? Did he go downstairs? Or maybe there was something I wasn’t seeing.
Another hidden door?
One that would bring me to a tunnel?
A banging noise sounded—like planks of wood. A door squealed open. It was followed by shuffling, like someone digging through boxes, sifting through bins.
I took another step, my foot singeing. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The knife slipped from my grip and clamored to the floor.
The shuffling noise stopped.
My breath formed a dagger and jammed inside my chest, stabbing through my lungs. I covered my mouth, trying to hold in a wheeze, and scurried through the kitchen, taking giant strides to avoid the impact of extra steps.
I reached the sliding glass door and gripped the handle. Fresh blood from my hand dripped onto the glass. I tried to open the door.
No go.
I turned the latch.
Still nothing.
The dagger in my chest plunged deeper. A gasping-sucking sound erupted from my throat. I whipped my head to look over my shoulder. The sudden motion tilted the room, shot a spray of white lights in front of my eyes.
A kitchen stool sat within reach, tucked beneath the counter. I went to grab it, desperate to bust through the glass door. But at the same moment, I spotted it; a butter knife was wedged into the space, on the door track, between the floor and the bottom of the door, like a makeshift doorstop, keeping it closed. I plucked the knife out and slid the door open.
A screen separated me. I placed my fingers into the slot for the handle, expecting another barrier.
But the door opened.
I stepped outside.
The chill in the air seeped into my pores, crawled beneath my skin, made me tremble all over. I hobbled toward a gate, still trying to catch my breath, spotting a ceramic frog planter and an old hibachi grill.
A stick broke somewhere—a splitting-cracking sound that cut through my core. But I kept moving forward, never stopping to look back.
THEN
47
I ran as best I could through the gate, up a short set of stairs, and down a long dirt driveway. Where was this place?
I headed for the street, struggling for breath. The woods bordered it on
both sides. There were no other houses or buildings in sight, not one other person I could call on for help.
Gravel shifted behind me. A high-pitched humming noise blared inside my ear. I focused on a cluster of trees, just as my ankle wrenched. A loud popping sound. My knees buckled forward, and I collapsed to the ground. I turned to look, anticipating the monster.
But he wasn’t there.
I shot back up.
Limping now, I kept aiming for the trees, still several yards away. I entered through a couple of tall, barren trees. The sun sank low. Rays of orangey gold melted down tree trunks, shining onto the icy ground. Night would be here soon. It was already freezing.
I scurried among limbs, hating the swish of my body as it brushed with branches and the trampling of my feet over twigs and fallen snow. Most of the trees were barren, but there were evergreen and pine trees too—clusters of them, towering over me, creating a maze of sorts.
I paused a moment to catch my breath. Was I being followed? Had I truly gotten away? I continued to stagger forward, swiping branches and brush from in front of my face. Where was the street? Why couldn’t I find it now? The sound of my panting cut through the sudden stillness. Could he hear it too? Was he hunting me like an animal?
I squatted down, imagining myself like a squirrel—an animal that had the ability to blend into its surroundings—and waited to hear his next move. But instead I heard another sound: the swoosh of a car as it sped by on the street. I looked up, catching a glimpse of red taillights. How much time had passed?
My hand throbbed. I tightened the bandage once more. On my knees, I crawled in the direction of the taillights, grappling over gravel-laden snow. What month was it? When had winter come? The gravel burrowed into my palm. Just twenty more yards, I told myself. Just fifteen more, just over that log …
My palm met something sharp; a wincing pain radiated to my shoulder. I turned my hand to look. A chunk of glass stuck out from my skin—a sideways slit, right through the flesh. Blood trailed down my wrist.
I grabbed a corner of the glass and tried to pluck it out with my bandaged hand, but the wrenching motion made my insides coil. I needed to pull harder; the chunk was in too deep, cutting off nerves. My fingertips started to tingle. Maybe it was best to leave the glass in place. Maybe pulling it out would cause too much damage.
I began forward again, clenching my teeth to the pain, supporting my weight with my fingertips, cautious not to bear down on the glass chunk.
Just five more yards.
Just two feet away.
At last, I reached asphalt. I lay with my cheek pressed against the pavement and rested my hands on a patch of snow, like an ice pack of sorts; my body shivered from the cold. Was my hand turning blue? Had an animal gotten hurt here? Or were my wounds the cause of the bloodstained snow?
I looked up at the stars. Were they really, truly spinning? Was the street slightly tilted? Would I roll down the hill?
I closed my eyes and tried to control my breath—until I heard it: the hum of an oncoming car. I opened my eyes. Headlights shone in the distance: bright white beams, reflecting off the road, lighting up the asphalt.
What do you think you’re doing? Shelley’s voice was back inside my head. Get up. Get up. This may very well be your last chance.
I did as she said, struggling to my feet, stumbling onto the pavement. The stars remained spinning. The bones inside my ears ached.
I stood, facing the headlights, waiting for the car to stop. It was still a good distance away. But it wasn’t slowing down. My clothes were too dark, too camouflaged by the night. I tried to flag down the driver, but a lightning-rod sensation jolted my muscles, stopped me from extending my arms above my shoulders.
Meanwhile, the car was getting too close. Had it actually sped up? I jumped back, toppling down, landing on my side.
The car came to a screeching halt. A blue pickup truck. The driver—a guy with shaggy brown hair, a matching goatee, and almond-shaped eyes—rolled down his window. His mouth was moving; he was saying something.
I got up. My head continued to spin, but I was determined to stay focused. The car I was taken in … was that a pickup too? No, it’d had a trunk. It’d been a sedan. But maybe he’d traded that car in, sometime after he took me. Maybe he’d bought a pickup truck like this one—blue with a dented fender …
“Well?” the guy asked.
Well?
“Do you speak English? I asked if everything was okay.”
I looked toward his arms—to see if they were covered in tree-limb tattoos—but he was wearing a heavy coat, plus a wrinkled leather watch.
“Do you want a ride or don’t you?” he asked.
“Don’t I?” I asked, trying to process his words and assess the situation.
“I can take you to the nearest bus station. You really shouldn’t be…” He stopped talking. His gaze met my arm—the makeshift bandage, the blood soaked into the cotton fabric.
Was that a shovel in the back of his truck?
Were those rubber gloves on the passenger seat?
And the scratch marks on his neck … Were they from jagged fingernails—from victims trying to break free?
“Hey, did you have an accident?” He was looking toward my other hand now—the piece of glass, sticking up from my skin. “You should really get that tended to.”
I studied his face. His mouth was still moving; his pale, thin lips sloped downward.
A loud, piercing wail tore through the silence. It sounded like a wildcat, which is what I’d thought it was. It took me a beat to realize that the cry had come from me—a primal instinct, a visceral reaction.
Something inside me had crossed over. And so, I darted back into the woods: the huntress, not the prey.
THEN
48
I cut through the woods, dodging trees, boulders, and brush as though I’d been living a lifetime in the wild. The faint glow of the waxing gibbous moon cast a light over my path, enabling me to see just enough to maneuver forward.
My breath left my lips in puffy white bursts. What was the temperature? No more than thirty degrees at most; I imagined a snow squall inside my bones, pushing against my ears.
At one point, I thought I heard the hum of an approaching vehicle. I stopped to search for headlights or taillights, listening for the inevitable swish as a car passed.
But nothing happened. I didn’t see anyone.
Maybe the sound was in my head, just like Shelley’s voice: You need to get some water, she told me—as if I didn’t already know. My throat stung with thirst.
I squatted down and raked my fingertips over a mound of snow, then fed the snow into my mouth as best I could. It melted against my tongue. Gravel collected in my teeth. I spat it all out and continued to rake. The ground was frozen solid. Still, I dug my fingernails in, using my bandaged hand, managing to scrape a layer of soil. I smeared my face with the dirt. I also tucked my hair into my sweatshirt and pulled up on my hood, hoping for insulation from the chill. I moved forward again—into a darker patch of forest, cautious of each step.
Finally, when I felt as though I’d gotten far enough away, I began toward the street, crossed it, and entered the woods on the other side. Here, I found a clearing lined with silvery-white birch trees that stretched up toward the sky. The moon shone down over the space, allowing me to see: a dirt-paved pathway that tunneled through the woods, beyond the clearing.
I followed the path, imagining people using it to walk their dogs or take a shortcut. Where would it lead? It was too dark to tell; the nighttime had swallowed me whole. Still, I kept a steady pace, no longer even able to see my breath. Time was ticking. Mason was still missing.
The path stopped. My foot hit something hard. I reached down to feel what it was. A stone wall, about three feet high. Should I turn back around? Or try to climb over?
I sat on the wall and let me feet dangle over the side, then turned slowly, supported by my elbows. I lowered myself down, reaching out
with my foot, searching for stable ground. But it wasn’t there. Meanwhile, my muscles quivered, and both of my hands throbbed.
Please, I screamed inside my head. My teeth clenched, I could feel myself slipping, could hear myself whimpering. Just hold on for a couple of more inches, just a few more seconds.
But my arms gave out. My feet hit the ground, and I folded forward, landing on my face, unable to protect myself with my arms. A twig dug in just below my eye, stabbed the skin like a needle. I plucked it out. My eye teared up. Blood came away on my fingertips.
I rose from the ground, and my knee gave way. Luckily, I was able to catch myself from falling once again. I meandered forward, still unable to see. It didn’t seem there were any trees or brush around me. Had I reached another clearing?
I proceeded in a forward direction, able to hear something behind me again—branches breaking, twigs snapping. I quickened my pace. At the same moment, a light turned on, and I was able to see.
A farmhouse.
With an attached barn.
I was standing in someone’s front yard. Spotlights gleamed over a wraparound porch and a side driveway. Had I tripped a motion detector light? Or maybe the lights were on a timer?
I headed for the porch and climbed the front steps, two at a time, nearly tripping en route. My ankle still ached. The top of my foot throbbed.
Standing in front of the door, I could still hear a humming in my ears. I lifted my foot to kick the door, but stopped just shy of hitting the wood.
Because what if the monster lived here? What if this was his main house, if where I was being held captive was his best-kept secret?
A crackling sound made me jump. I turned toward the woods, squinting to see. What if I was walking right into a trap?
I waited a moment for something to happen or for someone to reveal himself. When neither did, I turned to peek into the window that ran alongside the door. It was dark inside the house, despite the outside lights. Was no one home?
Except a Jeep sat in the driveway.