The Ghost Files (21 page)

No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. Had the killer nabbed
me
? Please not that. Not
me
. I try again to move, but can’t. I rotate my arms a little and feel the abrasive texture of a thick rope around my wrists. I’m literally helpless.

Don’t panic, Mattie, I tell myself. Calm down, focus. You will get out of this.

But how? A bitter laugh bubbles up. I try taking a few deep breaths and gag. The smell of mildew and stagnant water invades my mouth. Don’t throw up! For just a moment I am back in that New Orleans apartment with my Mom, fending off water and the occasional rat that floated in. I hated that place. You’re not there, I reassure myself and shove that memory to the back of my mind. I have worse things to concentrate on right now.

“Hello?” I call out, grateful that my mouth hasn’t been taped shut. I am not sure why, but then the killer hadn’t taped up Mary’s mouth either. It was only Sally I saw with tape over her mouth now that I think about it. He hadn’t taped up any of the other kid’s mouths. Strange.

Silence greets me. I expect that anyway. Psycho killers tend to play with their victims. At least they do in the TV shows I love to watch. I listen instead, but the only thing I hear is the sound of my own breathing. There’s a slight shuffling off to the right of me and I flinch. It’s a sound I know well.

Rats. I hate rats. When I was seven, my foster family decided that I needed to learn to do as I was told. They locked me in the basement for two days with no shoes or socks. It was dark, cold, and infested with those little beady-eyed monsters. For two days, I fought them off, felt them make a meal of me, crawl all over me. I’d had nightmares for years, still do sometimes. The scars on my feet are a constant reminder of them and it’s a fear I’ve never been able to shake. I can hear them now, scuttling back and forth. I can’t fight them this time if they decide I’m supper. I’m tied down to a chair and no one knows I’m here. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life.

No. You are not helpless, Mathilda Louise Hathaway. You are stronger than this. I tell myself this over and over, making myself breathe in and out slowly. I calm down and take stock of my situation. Okay, my hands and legs are tied to the chair. I lean forward and much to my amazement, find that I
can
lean forward. While I might have my appendages tied up, my attacker didn’t see fit to strap a rope around my upper chest. This could be good. He’d tied a rope around my chest right at elbow level only to keep my hands and arms from moving. I lean forward as far as possible. Almost! I can almost reach the ropes around my wrists. If I can get to them, I can pull at the ropes around my wrists hard enough with my teeth to loosen them –
and
pull one of my hands loose.

I’m mere inches away from the ropes when I hear the footsteps. They are heavy and loud, coming toward me. I sit up, not wanting him to realize what I’m up to. A door creaks open somewhere near my left and he’s in the room moving about, not saying anything and then he stops. The utter silence is deafening. I can’t even hear him breathing. Where is he? I strain my ears, trying to pick up any sound, but there is nothing. Why did he stop moving? Is he behind me? In front of me? I can’t see and I can’t hear anything. It’s driving me a little mad the longer I sit here trying to hear any sort of sound.

A thump sounds directly to my right and I jump, trying to shift in that direction. The ropes prevent me from moving very much, but I try. The silence is driving me a little insane. It’s the not knowing.
That
is what is terrifying me. I can’t see him or hear him. I don’t know what he is doing, or what he’s planning. Why isn’t he talking to me? Shouldn’t he be laughing or taunting me? This isn’t like the shows I watch on TV. This is scary and he’s not behaving like the psychotics on those shows I watch. He’s silent and this is a torture all its own, not knowing what he is going to do or when he’s going to do it.

“Mr. Olson?”

Maybe if I talk to him, he’ll talk to me. Anything is better than this silence.

“I know it’s you, Mr. Olson. I heard… I heard the message your friend left you on the answering machine.”

I can hear the message playing over and over in my head…

“Hey, Henry, it’s me. I need you to do me a favor. Clock in for me tomorrow like I did for you a couple weeks back. Lynn wants to meet up and the wife can’t know. Thanks, buddy.”

I hadn’t been able to get that message out of my head the entire time I followed Sally. I still can’t quite believe it. Sure, Mr. Olson is quiet, and has a temper sometimes when the kids don’t pick up their toys, but this? A cold-blooded killer? I never suspected. Then again, it’s
always
the quiet ones you have to worry about.

I hear something scrape across the floor behind me. What is he doing?

“Mr. Olson? Please talk to me. You’re really scaring me.”

I strain my ears and that is when I hear it. It’s so soft I would have missed it had I not been listening so hard. Just behind me and to my left, I hear a soft whimper. Mary? Could she still be alive? I hear a heavy thud and the soft whimper turns into a low muted scream. Her voice is hoarse and barely above a whisper but I can hear it. Dear God, what is he doing to her? Footsteps walk away from the whimpers and then I can hear him rifling through metal. I know its metal because I can hear the clanging. He has to be looking through his torture tools. They always have torture tools. Remembering all the dead kids that came to me the last few weeks and their mangled states, I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Images of broken, bloody body parts keep flashing through my mind. Mirror Boy’s mangled unrecognizable face has a starring role. Is he doing that to Mary? Is he going to do that to
me
?

I have to get out of here. I pull futilely at the restraints holding me. They are tied very tight. He knows how to tie a knot.

More screams assault my ears and I cringe. I yank harder, but to no avail. I can’t take the screams anymore. She won’t stop. What is he doing to her?

“Stop it!” I yell. “Leave her alone!”

But it doesn’t stop. I can’t block it out. All I want to do is put my hands over my ears and cry. Her screaming is hoarse, low, and barely recognizable, but I can hear it. My ears are picking up the smallest sounds now that my eyes can’t see. I can smell the tinny fragrance of blood as well. How much more can she take? I scream in sheer rage. There is nothing I can do and it makes me furious.

“You are nothing but a coward!” I shout, anger and bitterness dripping from my voice. “Why don’t you hurt someone who can hurt you back?”

Silence.  Dead silence. It’s as if all the sound has been sucked out and I’m left in a vacuum. Even Mary’s whimpers have ceased. Guess he didn’t like hearing the truth. Then he moves, his footsteps carrying him behind me. I can hear the metal clanking of tools being sorted through. My throat tightens. I think I made him really, really mad. At least he stopped hurting Mary.

I feel it then, the icy cold that accompanies a ghost, only this time its magnified, the cold so deep it seeps into my bones, filing me up. I can feel them around me, whispering softly, but I can’t make it out. The temperature in the room has to have dropped a good twenty degrees or more. It’s freezing. I wonder if Mr. Olson can feel it or if it’s just me? I hope to God he can feel it and he knows it’s the ghosts of everyone he’s murdered.

He’s moving again, coming closer to me.

I tense and the cold intensifies. They can see what he’s doing and I can’t. It’s almost like they are trying to help me, to comfort me. Oh, God, what is he going to do to me?

He stops next to me and I cringe. Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? I can smell the bitter scent of his sweat mingled with Mary’s blood. It makes me nauseous and I try to control my gag reflex. He runs a gloved finger down my arm and I flinch. The leather is warm against my cold flesh. The finger retraces its path back up my arm, my neck, and finally coming to rest against my lips. I move my head away, but he grabs my hair and yanks it hard, holding my head still. I can’t turn away from the exploration of his fingers against my face.

“Don’t touch me you filthy, nasty pedophile!” I scream. I can hear the fear in my voice and I hate it. I can’t stop him and I hate it.

“Shut up,”
I hear the whisper.
“Don’t make it worse
.
”

Mirror Boy? He’s here? “Eric?” I whisper.

Mr. Olson’s hands still at my whisper. His hand in my hair tightens, his grip beyond brutal.

“Hush, Mattie. Just stay still and it’ll be over soon, I promise.”

“I don’t want to die, Eric.”

“We’re here with you.”
That’s Emma, the little girl from the bathroom. I recognize her voice.

“You’re not alone
.
”
A dozen or more voice whisper that over and over…
you’re not alone
.

I spent my life pretending they didn’t exist and now, in my moment of need, they’re here for me. Guilt floods me. I ran from them and they are trying to comfort
me
.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you.”

The first hit comes in response to my words. It’s just a slap really, but a hard one. I taste blood. Part of the blow landed on my lip and it split. Another blow lands, this time his fist. Then another and another. He never moves his hand from my hair, keeping my face upturned and immobile. He’s breathing hard now. This excites him. I feel sick knowing my pain is how he gets his kicks.

“It’s almost over
,
”
Eric whispers in my ear at the same time Mr. Olson releases me. Pain explodes in first one hand and then the other. He’s hit my hands with something big like a sledgehammer. The pain radiates up my arms. I can’t move my fingers. I think he broke them. I just want it to stop, please make it stop. There are small sounds coming out of my mouth, sounds I didn’t even know I could make. The pain is unbearable. His hands wrap around both of mine and squeeze. The pain overwhelms me and then the darkness claims me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The cool cloth feels good against my aching face. I sigh in appreciation before I remember why my face hurts. Oh God, oh God, oh God…

“Shh, it’s okay, Mattie. I’m right here, honey.”

Mrs. O? I try to move, and pain vibrates throughout my entire body. I then suck in a breath to keep from screaming at the agony that tears through my hands.

“Be still, Mattie,” she fusses. “I’m trying to clean you up, honey.” Another swipe of the wet cloth goes over my face directly under the blindfold.

“Mrs. O?” I shake my head, trying to clear the last of the fuzziness from my mind. “What…”

“I tried so hard to keep you safe, but you just wouldn’t listen to me,” she interrupts me. “If you’d only left it alone, Mattie, you wouldn’t be here. He’s wanted you in this chair from the moment he saw you and
I
protected you. Why couldn’t you leave it be?”

It takes a minute for me to sort through what she’s just said, but when I do, my mouth drops open. Mrs. O knew about Mr. Olson? They were in it together? The headache from earlier bursts behind my eyes with a vengeance as I try to understand that the person I have grown to depend on is one of the reasons I’m in this chair, broken and bleeding.

“Why?” I ask her, barely able to force the words out of my swollen lips. “I thought you cared about me.” She betrayed me just like everyone else I’ve ever cared about. “You were supposed to take care of me.”

She slaps me hard. “I
have
taken care of you! All I’ve done since you walked in my door is take care of you. I made sure you were fed, had clean clothes, a hot meal, and that you had a decent place to sleep every night. I sat with you in the hospital praying you were okay. I care, Mattie, about all my kids. Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring about you! I’ve worked hard to protect you, but even I can’t stop it now. It’s too late.”

I feel a pinprick in my upper arm and then a rush of fluid. What did she give me?

“You’ll feel better in a few minutes, honey. It’ll help with the pain. Don’t tell him I gave it to you. He likes you alert, but I can’t let you suffer like the rest. I won’t.”

If I could open my eyes, I know the room would be spinning. I feel dizzy. The pain is dulling already. Whatever she gave me works fast, but I’m sleepy. I can’t pass out, not yet, not until I talk to her.

“Please, Mrs. O, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be good. Please, please just get me out of here.” I can hear the tears in my voice. “I’ll do whatever you want me to, just please don’t leave me here.”

She sighs and when she speaks, there are tears in her own voice and my heart sinks. “I can’t, Mattie. If I let you go now, then you’ll go straight to that police officer you are friends with. I can’t let you hurt him. He means everything to me. I’m sorry.”

Her warmth fades and I know she’s stepped away from me. Desperation claws at me. “Please, Mrs. Olson! Please don’t leave me here!”

“I’m sorry. I have to go now, Mattie.”

After the door opens and closes, I give into a fit of tears. I’m going to die down here. The soft scurrying of tiny little feet catches my attention again. Rats.  They must smell the blood. I don’t know if Mary is on the ground or if she’s even alive anymore, but the thought of the vermin munching on her makes me shudder.

The slightest movement of my fingers brings about another round of agony. I breathe in and out slowly to get through the pain. The injection Mrs. O. gave me is helping, but it still hurts like the devil. What am I going to do? All the hopelessness I’d felt earlier swamps me again. No one knows where I am. The Olsons will say they came home to find me missing and that I’d run away. I let out a bitter laugh. I have a track record of running away so it won’t be a stretch to believe it. I’d even called Dan to say we shouldn’t see each other anymore, like I was saying good-bye.

How stupid can I be? I let my insecurities rule me once again and it might have cost me my life this time. Classic Mattie move. I groan in sheer frustration. Mrs. O? I still can’t wrap my head around it. I honestly never suspected her. She seemed to care about us too much. I thought she cared about me. I don’t know, maybe she
does
in her own sick twisted way, but that doesn’t mean I am not going to do some serious harm to her when I get out of this. If I get out of this, I remind myself.