Dead Of Winter (The Rift Book II) (23 page)

Chapter 11

Ghosts in the Attic

Despite the coolness of his room Corky Ludlow found himself covered with a thick film of sweat. He tossed and turned in his bed, its frame creaking as he did so. The sound echoed in his ears. He moaned, kicked the covers off, and slapped at the sheets.

He was being tortured. That had to be the case seeing as every night since arriving at the Mount Clinton Resort he ended up performing this sweaty, rolling tango. He’d be on the verge of sleep, with darkness creeping over his eyeballs, and then a shiver would race from his legs to his spine, shattering the reverie of his coming slumber. There had been one time before where he felt like this; six years ago, after breaking his hip in a motorcycle accident. He’d been prescribed a potent, morphine-based pain reliever after surgery and took five a day through the six months of rehab. Then, when his doctor deemed him fully recovered, the douche took them away. Just like that and his crutch was gone. For the next two weeks he only slept a total of twenty-four hours before another doctor, a nicer one, gave him a solid dose of sleeping pills.

Now it was happening again.

He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth when yet another spasm caused his thighs to quake. The feeling gradually passed and he relaxed his tense shoulders. He breathed deep and performed the duty
Lorraine
, his ex, had taught him long ago;

Focus on your body
, she’d said.
Start with your toes, tell them to relax, and work your way up until you reach your head. You’ll be asleep in no time.
He did as instructed and felt his legs, torso, and arms go limp. Finally he arrived at his head.
Empty all
thoughts
, he told his overactive brain,
and just drift away.

It worked. He was almost there. Blackness again circled him and his heart rate slowed. Suddenly, without warning, he saw that cherubic face. His calf muscles shuddered once more and his eyes shot open. All that work for nothing.

Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.
It’s useless
, he thought. He slumped there and whistled quietly for a few moments before deciding to get up. He reached his arms above his head – his fingers brushed the ceiling – and cracked his back.

Better to be active than torture myself like this
, he thought.

With stiff legs and a mind bleary from exhaustion, Corky exited his room and stumbled down the hallway. The candles set upon the tables on either side of the hall flickered, nearly exhausted of life. He passed the rest of the staff quarters, where most of his friends were probably off in la-la land, crossed the front lobby, and started down the corridor that led to the convention hall. The vaporous glow of the evening shone through the skylights, making the surrounding emptiness appear dusky and haunted. He took a left, pushed through a pair of swinging doors, and entered the resort’s huge kitchen.

The lights were on – real lights, not candles. It was the only section of the hotel attached to the generator that fed the furnace, to keep the perishables in the large, walk-in refrigerator from spoiling. He covered his eyes.

“C’mon, guys,” he whispered as he flicked off most of the switches, leaving a single light on, the one over the garnish station. He cursed his friends for being so irresponsible. With the amount of fuel they had at their disposal they couldn’t afford to waste any. The environment dimmed. He racked his brain, trying to guess who’d done the deed.
Must’ve been Hector
, he assumed. That pudgy Mexican was always sneaking downstairs for a late-night snack, after all.

He stepped to the counter where the lone light bulb hummed and opened the cabinets above. Whereas most would have to stand on their tiptoes to see inside, Corky was eye level with the shelf. He scanned the contents in search of a specific something to ease his troubled mind. He found coffee, crackers, marmalade, chocolate syrup, and jar after jar of cooking spices, but the object of his affection kept avoiding him.

“Where the
fuck are
they?” he grumbled, sticking his hands inside and rearranging the stacks of goods. He was searching for his Oreos, the ones he’d lifted for himself during their trip to the convenience store they day before they trekked to this goddamn place. He’d grabbed six packages and this had been his last one. They were always disappearing, but no one would ever admit to being the culprit.
If I find out who’s been eating my shit
, he thought,
I’ll kill ‘
em
.

After one more sweep and still no Oreos he slammed the cabinet door, lifted his fists to his head, and tugged at his hair. He grunted at the pain as his follicles pulled taut. It was a decent enough sensation – at least he wasn’t thinking about not being able to sleep any more.

When his tirade ended he dropped his arms to his sides and sighed. He licked the backside of his teeth. A sticky film covered them. He strolled over to the sink, snatched an empty glass from the wash station, turned on the faucet, and filled it.

He downed the water in one huge gulp while he walked back to the counter. When he placed the empty glass on the counter he caught a glimpse of something in his periphery. He glanced down the long countertop. At the far end, on the fringe of where the soft overhead light could reach, were his Oreos. He hurried over to the package and pulled the tray from its wrapping. There were still a few cookies left in there. Not many, but enough to satisfy his cravings. He smiled, thankful for the discovery of his crutch yet still thinking about how much holy hell he’d raise in the morning. He took a cookie from the tray.

Just as he was about to toss it into his mouth he paused. There was a shadow behind the package, something that shouldn’t have been there. He put the cookie down, moved the container aside, and grabbed the strange object. It was soft and velvety. He pinched the material between his fingers and brought it out of the darkness.

Corky’s heart sank. He couldn’t breathe. It was a little girl’s hair tie, the
scrunchy
kind. It was pink and yellow and flopped in his hand like a dead snake. He let go and it dropped to the counter. He backed away and covered his ears.

“No,” he whimpered.

It was a sign. He shambled in reverse until his backside hit the far wall. He then slid down and drew his knees to his chest. His ribcage quaked as sorrow and guilt squeezed his heart. Tears flowed from his eyes. He shoved his head between his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

The haunting image of that cherubic face again entered his mind’s eye. Her curly brown hair, her chipmunk cheeks, her jack-o-lantern grin. She’d been five years old, full of life and a future, and he was the monster that took it all away. His body convulsed. He kicked out his legs and screamed at the ceiling.

“I’M SORRY!”

After a short time his anguish declined. He leaned his head against the wall and rocked back and forth. The memory of that day wouldn’t leave him alone. He went with it, no matter the repercussions. It was the only form of penance he could offer.

Her name was Shelly Robinson, and she was beautiful. She was the daughter of Steve and Nancy, sister of Audrey, and a student at
Barcroft
Elementary in
Arlington
. Her two loves were stuffed unicorns and jumping rope on the sidewalk in front of her house. It was this second love that proved her undoing.

That, along with Charles
Ludlow’s
lack of good judgment.

He’d been
amped
on that September day, truly in another world. The day before he’d returned from yet another road trip, this time to
Santa Cruz
with a
boxload
of oranges. It was the highest paying shipment he ever completed – nearly five thousand dollars to drop the trailer and drive back with an empty. So excited was he with his bounty that he did what came natural once he arrived home. He jumped in his pickup, drove to the bar, spun the tires in the parking lot, and greeted the regulars, his best friends in the world, when they scampered outside.

Charles Ludlow was the king of the party. He drank and drank, celebrating his haul with a fifth of Jack and too many beers to count. Then, very early in the evening, things got rowdy. A couple of his friends, too plastered for lucid thought, started swinging. Corky stepped in to break it up. He was struck in the jaw and retaliated. A single fist knocked out the one who’d hit him.

The bartender was nice enough to not call the police, but Corky and the other two were booted for the day. He stepped outside and loosened his collar. The air was thick and stagnant as summer tried to hold onto its influence. He cursed his stupidity for not taking his motorcycle instead of the rusty old Ram. Sweating, he climbed back into his pickup, gunned the engine, and took off.

The clock read seven-thirty in the evening and there weren’t many people around. On numerous occasions during the drive he would think of his booty, that he might be able to fix his bike’s cracked gas tank, and start to drift. He always caught himself, however, before his tires hopped the curb. Always, that is, until he felt the urge for a cigarette.

All went well at first. His knees held the wheel while his fingers fumbled with the pack, yanked out a cig, and stuck it between his lips. Then he reached for the lighter and knocked it off the dashboard. It fell between his knees. He took his eyes off the road and leaned over, searching blindly like a coal miner lost in a cave-in.

When he finally grasped the lighter and sat up he found the truck careening across the sidewalk. Everything went in slow motion. He saw the little girl, hopping towards him while swinging a yellow jump rope. Her eyes were pointed at the still-bright sky, her lips curled in a smile. She grew larger and larger in his windshield with each passing millisecond but he couldn’t turn the wheel. His body froze. Her eyes then came down and spotted him. Her smile disappeared. Corky snapped to it. He jerked the wheel. The truck went sideways. He felt a pair of sickening thumps.

He slammed on the brakes, leapt from the cab, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him. The girl’s body lay half on the sidewalk, half in the street. A woman screamed in the background. Sirens blared. A moment later he stood over her.

She wore a green blouse, sparkly jeans, and pigtails in her hair. Her arms and legs were positioned at angles impossible for a human body.
 
Blood bubbled from her mouth, her nose,
her
eyes. She turned her head and looked up at him, and those eyes were brimmed with tears. He knelt down beside her. His stomach cramped and he felt like he might throw up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. He started to cry.

The girl stopped breathing seconds later.

That was the first and last time he laid eyes on Shelly Robinson. Corky had never seen anyone die before, let alone someone whose life he’d been responsible for ending. She was all he could think about in his cell, where he festered for days, unwilling to speak with a public defender. When the judge sent him home on bond to await trial he still only thought of her. Never once did he answer the doorbell. Never once did he pick up the phone. Never once did he turn on the television or take a shower. He simply stewed in his recliner, staring at nothing, and wept.

He isolated himself so completely that he didn’t know about the dreadfulness slithering its way into the world. He found out about it first-hand that day at the diner – his first excursion from the house in weeks – when he met his new friends after surviving the dreadful attack. It was thirteen days before his trial date and he’d already decided to plead
no contest
and forgo any pleas for leniency, for he was indeed a monster and he ought to pay dearly.

And yet he survived in the diner when so many perished and now found
himself
playing the part of the same irresponsible oaf he’d always been. To add insult to injury he’d almost forgotten about her, almost shoved the memory of Shelly Robinson from his decrepit brain. Or at least he tried to. For this, he surmised, he
should
be haunted.
It’s what I deserve.