Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (42 page)

But all that wasn’t nearly enough.

Mal shifted, slowly so he didn’t scare her, letting Deb know they were both in the same boat.

“Need another Xanax?” Deb whispered. “I’ll be up. I can watch you.”

Often the only way either got to sleep was when one offered to watch over the other.

“Gotta work early. But you can take one, and I’ll watch you.”

Deb turned, rolling against him, the weight of her body both reassuring and confining. She trusted him enough to hook her thigh over him—a thigh missing the calf below the knee. Years ago, a fall while mountain climbing had taken Deb’s legs.

But that wasn’t the fear that kept her awake.

Mal knew it was something far worse.

A fear he also shared.

The Rushmore Inn.

He resisted her touch, wanting to push her away, hating himself for the feeling. During the daytime, he couldn’t get enough of touching her, holding her, caressing her.

But nights were different. At night he didn’t want to be touched, held, or otherwise confined. He couldn’t even use heavy blankets. It made him feel trapped, helpless. As if he were still tied to that table and…

Mal shuddered.

Nights were a bitch.

“You up for something else?” Deb asked, trailing her fingernails down his belly, to his boxer shorts. Mal closed his eyes, tried to live in the moment, tried to push away the past. But the only part of him the alprazolam seemed to relax was the part Deb was rubbing.

“Sorry, hon. The pill.”

Deb pulled her hand back.

“I could do you,” he said, reaching for her. “Maybe my body will get the hint.”

Mal moved his left hand down, stroked her. Deb didn’t respond.

“Damn Xanax,” Deb breathed. “Turns us into a couple of eunuchs.”

Mal stopped his efforts. Stared at the ceiling fan.

He sighed. “Our lives would be perfect if we didn’t have to sleep.”

“I hear someone is working on a pill for that.”

“I’m sick of pills, but sign me up for that one.”

He thought about having the nightlight discussion again. Mal found it damn near impossible to fall asleep with the four nightlights Deb had in the bedroom. There were practically bright enough to read a book by.

The problem was Deb had panic attacks in the dark.

Or maybe that was just a way to blame Deb for his insomnia, because Mal hated the dark, too.

“We can get up,” Deb said. “Play some rummy.”

They’d done that the previous two nights. But Mal knew Deb was as exhausted as he was. And with exhaustion came crankiness, frustration, misery. Yesterday, they’d both gone to separate parts of the house because of some stupid fight over how to best shuffle cards.

“We need sleep, hon. You take another pill. At least one of us should get some rest.”

“It’s not rest with the pills. It’s more like a coma. I hate them.”

“So do I. But…”

Mal didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both knew how it ended.

But I hate the nightmares more.

They’d been to doctors. Specialists. Shrinks. Mal knew his wife shared his condition.

PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder.

The newest research revealed brain chemistry actually changed in response to traumatic experience. And at the Rushmore Inn, Deb and Mal survived the most traumatic experience imaginable.

“We got a little sleep on Saturday,” Deb said.

Mal grunted
mmm-hmm
. He didn’t mention that during one of her night terrors, Deb’s moans and cries kept waking him up, even though he’d taken several pills because of the weekend off.

“Maybe we’re doing this wrong,” Mal said. “Maybe we need to take speed instead.”

His wife laughed, breaking some of the tension. “Speed?”

“Or some coke. Instead of sleeping, we party all night.”

“I tried speed once when I was training, to boost endurance. I finished a marathon, then cleaned the house top to bottom. It was awful.”

Mal smiled. “Awful? We should both take some, clean out that basement.”

“Do you even know where to get amphetamines?”

“I work for a newspaper. We newsies know all the lowlifes.”

“So we should embrace our insomnia. That’s your solution.”

“It isn’t a solution, hon. Just a silly idea.”

Deb didn’t respond right away. And when she did, her voice was so sad it made Mal ache.

“There are no solutions.”

They laid there, in silence, Mal unable to come up with a solution. Deb was correct. They were broken, both their bodies and their minds, and there didn’t seem any way to fix them.

That’s when someone pounded on the door.

The sound paralyzed Mal, adrenaline ripping through his body making his heart seem ready to pop. But his arms and legs locked as surely as if they’d been bound there.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

After the initial startle, his mind went haywire with possibilities. Who would be at the door at 3am? Had those terrible people from the Rushmore Inn finally found him? Had they come to finish the job?

Unable to suck in any air, unable to turn his head, Mal’s eyes flicked over to Deb and saw she was similarly frightened stiff.

A second ticked by.

Another.

I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to—

The pounding sound came again, even louder, a white hot spike of adrenaline snapping Mal out of his catatonia. He immediately jerked upright in bed, reaching for his nightstand, for the 9mm inside the drawer. But in his fear and haste he reached with the wrong hand, the one missing above the wrist. He quickly switched, pulling out the gun, as Deb clambered for her artificial legs, propped next to the wall.

She squeaked out, “Do you think it’s—”

“Shh.”

Holding his breath, Mal strained to hear more sounds. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was one of his frequent nightmares. But they always revolved around him being strapped to the table, watching those horrid videos. He was always at the Rushmore in his bad dreams. He’d never had a nightmare that took place in his house.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was really happening.

He quickly switched his thoughts to other, safer possibilities. A drunk neighbor, mistaking their house for his. Local teenagers, pranking people by knocking on the door then running away. A relative, maybe his brother from Florida, dropping by unannounced. Police, coming over to tell Mal he’d left the headlights on in the car parked in the driveway.

Anything other than
them
…

Deb was trembling so badly she couldn’t get her legs on.

“Mal… help me…”

But for Mal to help, he had to drop the 9mm—he only had one hand. And he didn’t think he’d be able to let go of it, even if he tried.

“Mal…”

“Deb, I…”

Then the phone rang.

Deb screamed at the sound, and Mal felt his bladder clench. He looked at the gun, clutched in his trembling fist.

If it is them, I know what to do.

Deb first. One in the temple while she’s looking away.

Then me.

Because there is no way in hell they’re taking us back
there.

Grand Haven, Michigan

Sara

Something awoke Sara Randhurst from deep, intoxicated sleep.

She peeked an eye open, confused, her bleary eyes focusing on the clock radio next to the bed.

3:15am.

Without thinking, she grabbed the glass next to it, raising her head and gulping down the melted ice, savoring the faint flavor of Southern Comfort.

Okay. Focus, Sara. Why am I awake?

She had no idea. In fact, she had no memory of how she’d gotten into bed. The very last thing she remembered was…

Was what?

FedEx. The damned letter from the bank. Then opening up the bottle and crawling inside.

She snorted.

Sure. Blame the bank. As if I need another excuse to drink.

A banging sound startled Sara, making her yelp.

The door.

Who could be at the door?

She thought, fleetingly, about the letter. Could they be kicking her out now? In the middle of the night? Weren’t there laws against that?

Sara immediately dismissed the idea. Tipsy as she still was, she knew banks didn’t foreclose at three in the morning.

That left… who?

Sara had no family that would be visiting. The only people who still cared about her, Tyrone and Cindy, had moved to LA years ago. The last contact she’d had with them had been a Christmas card this past year. Or maybe the year before. The holidays all blended together.

Another knock. Loud and urgent.

Sara flipped on the bedroom light. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Jack’s empty crib in the corner of the bedroom, a blanket draped over the top because she couldn’t bear to look at it. At the same time couldn’t bear to throw it away. The blanket looked like a shroud.

Then she searched around for the bottle of SoCo, hoping she’d brought it into the bedroom with her. Sara found it, on the floor.

Empty.

Shit. That was the last one.

One more bang on the door. The big bad wolf, trying to blow the house down. Or in this case, the trailer.

Fuck him. There were scarier things than wolves.

Much scarier things.

Sara pawed at the nightstand drawer, pulling it open, digging through magazines for the snub nosed .38 she kept there. A gift from Tyrone. Not registered, but it wasn’t like she could get into any more trouble than she already was in.

But the gun wasn’t there. Sara had a fleeting recollection of being at the kitchen table, crying and drunk, the gun in her mouth.

Shit. I left it in the kitchenette.

Funny, how she routinely contemplated suicide, yet now that her life might actually be threatened she wanted the gun for protection.

Maybe she had some fight in her after all.

Sara gripped the bottle by the neck, holding it like a club, and eased her feet out of bed. She stood up, wobbly, but a pro at walking under the influence. Two steps and she was to the bedroom door. Two more and she was next to the bathroom.

Movement, to her right, and Sara screamed and swung, the bottle connecting with the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.

It spiderwebbed with a tinkling crunch, and Sara saw herself in a dozen different triangles, hair wild, eyes red, wearing a dirty sweatshirt crusted with old shrimp chow mien that she’s apparently eaten while drunk. Once upon a time, she’d been clean and pretty. Looking at herself now, Sara guessed homeless shelters would turn her away for being too gross.

Another knock, so close it felt like a full-body blow. The SoCo bottle had survived the impact with the mirror, and she clutched the neck even tighter as she made her decision.

There is no way in hell I’m answering that door.

Instead she backed away, turning in the other direction, heading for the phone on the wall. Right before she snatched up the receiver, it rang.

Sara stared, the lump in her throat making it impossible to draw a breath. She remembered the fear she’d felt on the island, and the same sick, familiar feeling spread over her.

Terror.

Pure, paralyzing terror.

Hand shaking so badly it looked like a palsy, Sara’s finger hovered over the speakerphone button.

The phone rang again, making her whimper.

Do I press it?

Do I?

She jabbed at it, hitting the wrong key. Then she tried again.

The speakerphone hissed at her, and a deep male voice barked,
“Open the door, Sara.”

Sara wet her sweatpants.

Mililani, Hawaii

Josh

Josh VanCamp gasped, drawing air through his mouth because a tiny hand was pinching his nose closed.

He opened his eyes, staring at the capuchin monkey sitting on his chest. Josh brushed the primate’s paw away from his face.

“Mathison, what are—”

The monkey put a finger over Josh’s mouth, telling him to be quiet. A moment later, Woof began to bark.

His warning bark. Strangers were near.

“Someone’s here,” Josh said.

The monkey nodded. Josh glanced at his wife, lying next to him. “Fran?”

“I’m up.”

She was already swinging her legs out of the bed, pressing the intercom button on the wall.

“Duncan,” she said, “panic room. Grab Woof.”

Her son responded instantly. “Meet you there.”

Josh placed Mathison on his shoulder, and the monkey pulled Josh’s hoodie around him. He was frightened.

Josh wasn’t. He had too much to do.

He slipped on the boat shoes he kept next to the bed—thick leather and tough rubber soles—and reached for the closet door.

“Hon?” he asked.

“Ready.”

Josh reached inside, grabbing one of the Browning Maxus autoloader shotguns, tossing it over his shoulder like they’d practiced so many times, not bothering to see if his wife caught it as he reached for its companion.

They walked the hallway in standard two-by-two cover formation, Josh favoring the left, Fran the right. The air conditioning kicked on, normal for nighttime in Hawaii. Other than that the house was quiet. Still.

Josh passed one of the burglar alarm panels, not bothering to punch in and access surveillance, confident the animals’ senses were good reason enough to get into the panic room. Since they’d moved here five years previous, the monkey and dog had had far fewer false alarms than the ten thousand dollar system they’d installed. If this turned out to be another, no harm in it. They were due for a late night drill later in the week anyway.

Depending on your past, one man’s paranoia was another man’s common sense. And after what the trio had lived through in Safe Haven, Wisconsin, Josh couldn’t think of a single thing they’d done to keep themselves safe that qualified as paranoia.

They reached the door, and Josh stared at the fake light switch. In the up position, meaning Duncan was already inside. He swiveled the switch to the right and punched in the numeric code on the revealed keypad. The door latch snicked opened, and Fran went down the stairs first, Josh locking and sealing the door behind him, tight as a bank vault.