Shut The Fuck Up And Die! (14 page)

“
You hear me? I don’t know why ya
killed the girl . . . don’t rightly reckon I care neither. But you
can both step out here right this minute and hang on to some of
your pride. Or ya can wait ‘til the boys get home and they drag ya
out kickin’ and screamin’. Your choice.”

Mary cocked her head as she listened for the
shuffle of movement from the other room or hushed whispers as the
couple planned their course of action. She strained to hear the
softest of breaths or even the rustle of fabric. But there was only
a silence so complete that she could almost believe that the only
occupant of the room really was the carcass dangling from the
table.

“
Fine. Have it your way. I can wait out
here ‘til the cows come home. Or the boys. Whichever comes
first.”

Still nothing. But she knew they had to be in
there. She’d unlocked the door at the top of the stairs herself and
she would have heard something if they’d somehow forced it open
when she was talking with Howarth. And, while freeing themselves
from the ropes was certainly a trick worthy of Houdini, she
seriously doubted the couple had the ability to just walk through
solid walls.

No, they were in there all right.
They
had
to be.

Switching the knife from her left hand to her
right, Mary pursed her lips and fought the urge to storm in after
them. She wanted nothing more than to walk in with the blade
swishing through the air before her, to cleave flesh from bone as
they scurried away from her like cockroaches in the light. To make
them pay for thinking they could actually escape. But the logical
part of her mind knew that wouldn’t do. As long as she was in the
bedroom with its brightly lit window and the only exit squarely
behind her, she had the upperhand . . . and it was an advantage
that she was not about to just foolishly give away.

So she decided to wait it out. Earl and Daryl
should be home any time now. In fact, she’d expected them to be
back before it had even begun getting light out. Where the hell
were they, anyway?

Mary looked toward the window as if she could
somehow will the sound of the truck engine to appear in the yard
outside. And that was when she saw it.

The blade of the knife trembled in her hand
and her shoulders hunched as she ground her teeth together. The
anger that had made everything within her feel like a tightly wound
spring began to slip and her eyes sparked as her sagging breasts
rose and fell with each quick breath.

“
Sons of bitches . . . no good, ass
lickin’ sons of bitches . . . .”

Her feet thudded against the floorboards as
she stomped to the window and her left fist clenched as she fought
the urge to shattered the rippled glass with a punch. Her entire
body seemed to be drawn in now, as if she were compressing into a
seething ball of sinew and veins. How much time had she pissed away
talking to an empty room? Even now, they were probably laughing at
her as they scuttled through the woods, calling her an old fool, a
stupid hick who could be tricked so damn easily.

Every ounce of her concentration was focused
on the edge of curtain that was trapped under the sill and the
little flakes of paint that had fallen when they’d pried it open.
She was only peripherally aware of the footsteps pressed into the
snow that covered the roof outside . . . the same footsteps which
led to the edge of the rusted gutter. At that moment, if she’d had
it within her power, Mary would have set the curtains ablaze with
nothing more than the heat and intensity of her gaze. She would
have beamed all of her hatred and anger into a roaring column of
fire that would have reduced the cheap fabric to nothing more than
ash.

“
Oh, I’m gonna find you, oh yes I will.
I’ll find you and you’ll only wish ya hadn’t escaped. I’ll track ya
down and . . . .”

The house filled with music so suddenly
that Mary jumped just as if someone had snuck up behind her and
tickled her ear.. It was the familiar pop and crackle of the
phonograph, the almost Spanish-sounding horns and acoustic
strumming of Johnny Cash’s
Ring of
Fire.
But the last record she’d listened to had been
Boxcar Willie. Which meant someone had to have changed albums.
Someone had to have turned the record player on.

Someone was in the house.

And she had a pretty good idea who.

Mary giggled as she crept toward the door and
her eyes twinkled as brightly as the knife she held before her. The
damn whelps should have left when they had the chance. Now, they
would pay dearly for making her play the fool. Oh yes . . . they’d
pay with their lives.

She passed through the short stretch of
hallway quickly but then slowed her pace as she descended the
staircase. The steps creaked and groaned every time she’d place her
foot upon one of them, but the blaring music would mask the sounds
anywhere else in the house. But it was still best not to rush. Did
they really think her feebleminded enough just to go rushing into
an obvious trap? Did they really think she was that stupid?

So she continued down the steps as slowly as
a sleepwalker, her eyes scanning the doorways for even the smallest
hint of movement. This would be the best kill yet, the sweetest
blood she’d ever spilled.

By the time she was halfway down the
stairs,
Ring of Fire
had
faded out only to be replaced by the plodding bass of
Walk The Line
. But still no signs of
life in the house. No traces of her pray what-so-ever.

Her heart pattered within her chest and her
breath was so shallow that it was practically non-existent.

“
Mary Gruber . . . .”

The whispered voice seemed as if it were
right beside her and Mary spun quickly as she jabbed the knife into
the darkness between the railings of the banister. The blade,
however, passed harmlessly through the empty air from where the
voice had originated.

She froze in place and watched for a shadow
moving in the darkness. But there was nothing. Almost as if it had
been the voice of a ghost calling her name.

From behind her, a child-like giggle bubbled
through Cash’s ominous baritone and she pivoted sharply with the
knife raised above her head, ready to strike. But again . . .
nothing.

She took the stairs even more slowly than she
had before, swiveling her head in all directions before committing
herself to the next footfall. Though her heart was now thudding so
heavily that she could feel it pounding against her chest and
adrenaline made her feel as if she’d had one sip of whiskey too
many, she reminded herself to stay calm. To stay focused and
alert.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a dark
blur as it streaked past the doorway to the back bedroom. By the
time she snapped her head toward the movement, it was too late to
tell if it had been the man or the woman. But it had definitely
been one of them.

In the living room, the record had
become stuck and a single line kept repeating over and over:
because you’re mine, because you’re mine, because
you’re mine . . . .

Four steps from the bottom of the stairs,
Mary paused. The knife now felt warm and slick and she switched
hands again while she wiped her moist palm against her dress.
Somehow, it felt as if her windpipe were growing smaller. Like
there was some sort of valve attached to her throat that was slowly
being turned, allowing less and less air to flow into her
lungs.

And still, Cash continued to chant on.

Because you’re mine,
because you’re mine
. . . .

The repetition rubbed her like sandpaper on a
raw wound. She clenched her teeth and flinched every time the
scratchy record looped back. Why the hell couldn’t it just finish
the damn song?

Something soft and warm slide over her bare
ankle and a sharp shriek burst from the old woman’s mouth as she
hopped backward.

A hand.

It had definitely been a hand. The brush of
fingertips against bare flesh, the slight tickle of unexpected
contact.

But where had they gone? There was no
movement from the other side of the stairs, no trace that anyone
had ever been there at all

These people moved like phantoms, like evil
spirits made of nightmare and fog, slipping in and out of reality
as if it were no more solid than a memory.

Mary tried to listen for sounds but the
recurring snippet of song drowned out everything . Other than the
swish and thud of blood coursing through her temples. Other than
her own, irregular breathing.

In a flurry of movement, she ran down the
remaining stairs as quickly as she could and pressed her back flat
against the wall. She held the knife in both hands now, as if it
were a talisman that could protect her from dark and malevolent
magic. Edging along the wall, she made her way toward the entrance
to the living room. Bent nail heads snagged and ripped at her dress
like the clawing fingers of demons . . . but it didn’t matter
now.

Because you’re mine, because you’re mine,
because you’re mine . . . .

All that mattered was getting that damn
record to stop playing. To regain her sense of hearing so she would
have one more tool with which to defend herself. And there was no
doubt in her mind now that was what she was doing.

The hair on the back of Mary’s neck bristled
as she craned her neck around the doorway and peered into the
living room. She’d expected a face to appear in front of her like
an apparition . . . but the room appeared to be empty.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped around the
corner and braced herself for the impact that was certain to
follow.

But nothing happened.

She’d taken three steps into the room when
she heard the whisper behind her again.

“
Mary Gruber . . .:”

So close that she could feel the warmth of
the breath on the back of her neck. Or was that just her
imagination?

This time, however, she didn’t spin around.
It wouldn’t do any good anyway. They were playing with her, toying
with her head, and she’d be damned if she gave them the
satisfaction of hearing her gasp again. She would spin around and
no one would be there . . . so why even bother?

Instead, she padded quickly across the room
until she stood in front of the sewing desk that the record player
sat on. This close to the speakers, it sounded as if Cash had taken
up residence in her head and she flung open the transparent lid
that covered the spinning vinyl disk. With a quick swipe of her
hand, the needle raked across the album and there was finally
silence.

She closed her eyes for a fraction of second
as she relished the blessed stillness of the house and immediately
realized her mistake.

Her eyelids snapped open and she saw his
reflection in the opened lid of the phonograph. A cruel sneer was
spread across his face and, even though he appeared as transparent
as a wraith, she could see a cold light glint in his eyes. His
hands were formed into claws and he was reaching out for her, mere
inches from the back of her neck but still so silent she never
would have known he was there had she not caught his
reflection.

Her wrinkled hands gripped the sides of the
record player and she twirled around with enough force to send her
glasses flying from her head. The speakers were pulled from the
sewing desk and crashed to the ground as the chunk of metal and
plastic smashed into the side of the man’s face.

Stumbling backward, he tripped over his own
feet and the entire house rattled as he thudded to the floor. Mary
sprang like a mountain lion, her knee burying into Matt’s groin as
her full weight fell upon him. He tried to instinctively cup
himself as his face twisted with pain and Mary’s voice shrieked so
loudly that her words were almost indecipherable.

“
Fuck with me, why dontcha? Fuck with
me, boy? I’ll fuck with you, I’ll fuck with you good!”

She raised the knife above her head as if it
were a trophy she’d just won and cackled as it began it’s deadly
descent.

SCENE ELEVEN

As Daryl crept closer to the police officer,
he felt the demon loosen its grip on his skull. The pain and
pressure still bulged behind his eye, but now it was more of a dull
ache than a series of excruciating jabs. With every breath of cold,
crisp air, the pain faded even further and, at the same time, it
almost seemed as if something were welling up within him. He felt
as though his chest was as broad and firm as the trunk of a mighty
oak and his arms were like thick branches capable of withstanding
centuries of abuse from the elements. Even the scars, which he
usually kept hidden beneath long sleeved shirts, felt as if they
were shrinking away to the point that they were nothing more than
scratches.

But it made sense, didn’t it? Mama had tried
to teach him, ever since Daddy died, what it meant to be a man. A
man had to be strong . . . the slash of a knife against bare flesh
was nothing compared to what the world would do if it had half a
chance. And a man had to be fearless. Only babies were afraid of
the hidden things that might lurk in the darkness, of the unknown
nightmares that slithered and crept in pools of shadow. But, most
importantly, a man had to respect and care for his mother . . .
even if what that mother demanded with the blood from his very
veins.

As a child, he hadn’t understood. All
he’d known was that the blade hurt, that his skin opened far too
easily, and that the sight of his own blood leaking from his body
made his head feel as if he’d spun around too quickly on the
merry-go-round. He’d cried when Earl would hold him down and Mama
leaned over him with what looked to be the biggest knife in the
world. He’d squirmed and thrashed and begged to be let go:
no Mama, please Mama, no, no, no
. .
. .