The Inn (29 page)

A
nnabel screamed as Richard suddenly went flying against the wall.

Jack had come charging into the room through the open door, shoving Richard hard, taking him by complete surprise.

“No!” Annabel screamed again.

Richard was quickly back up on his feet, hauling off and landing a hard punch against Jack's jaw. Annabel's husband staggered backwards, but regained his balance quickly. He lunged at Richard, just as the chief was going for his gun.

“You're not going to destroy my success!” Jack shouted.

With superhuman swiftness, he lunged at Richard, sending him toppling out of the open window. The gun in his hands went flying through the air, clattering across the floor and coming to a stop under the bed.

Running to the window, Annabel watched in horror and disbelief as Richard plunged to the ground, smashing headfirst into the snow. Only his feet remained sticking out from the surface.

“Nooo!” Annabel screamed into the wind.

She saw Richard's feet twitch once, and then go still. The snow around him slowly turned pink.

Annabel turned around to face her husband. “You killed him,” she said in a low voice.

“I had to,” Jack said. “He was going to destroy everything we've built up here, sugar cakes. He was going to prevent us from getting the success we deserve!”

“You're insane!” Annabel shouted, running over to him and beating her fists on his chest. “You have gone completely insane!”

She didn't care anymore what he might do to her. In that instant, Annabel lost control, giving vent to all her fear and despair. Richard had been her last hope. No one was going to save her now. She dissolved into tears, covering her face with her hands.

Jack grabbed her by her arms and forced her to look up at him. “It's up to you, Annabel,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You can join me in a successful life, or you can turn your back on all the house has to offer us. I'll forgive you for your indiscretions with these other men—”

She yanked away from him. “There have been no indiscretions, Jack! Why do you talk that way?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “That policeman—he meant nothing to you?”

Annabel started to cry harder. “He was trying to save me.”

“Save you from what? From a glorious life here, with me, at the Blue Boy, where everything we touch will turn into gold?”

Annabel wanted to scream. “Who told you that, Jack? Why do you believe that?”

He smiled. It was a terrible, frightening smile. “The house told me,” he said simply. “Once I learned the secret, I could listen to the house. I could understand what it was telling me.”

“You're mad,” Annabel spat out.

She just couldn't pretend anymore. She couldn't make it seem that she was going along with Jack's demented plans. She just had to get out of there. She had to find a way. Her mind started to race, to calculate.

She'd make a run for it. Yes, that was what she'd do. She'd go out the window in her room. It was a longer drop from there, but Annabel had seen how Richard had trudged through the snow. It was passable, not so soft that she'd sink. And the window in her room opened easily. Annabel began to believe that she could run in there, throw open the window, and be outside in less than a minute. She had to believe she could. It was her only hope.

And in her pocket she had the keys to the snowmobile. She would have to believe that she could drive it. She would have to believe that she could save herself.

But for her plan to work, she'd need to incapacitate Jack, even temporarily, just to give her enough time to get out the window and run—or, rather, trudge—to the snowmobile. Otherwise, he'd be out the window right after her, and there was no question he'd be able to catch her. Annabel had just witnessed how strong Jack had become, sending Richard flying through the window with very little effort. Her husband was a tall, well-built man, but in recent years he'd grown a bit squishy from too much time on his hands, watching sports on television, and drinking too much beer. Where had this sudden burst of power come from?

The house, Annabel realized.

The house was making him strong.

Now I'm thinking crazy like Jack
, Annabel admonished herself.
What we have here is one very deranged man—nothing supernatural about that.
Those visions of little men, Annabel told herself, were just her mind playing tricks, her hallucinations coming back under stress.

But then how to explain the woman with the knife? Annabel was certain she was very much real, after watching what she did to Chad.

For the moment, what was real and what was illusion didn't matter. Annabel just needed to get out of there. She needed to gain some kind of power over Jack so she could get away.

The gun. Richard's gun. It was under the bed. She needed to get it.

But Tommy Tricky was under there.

Annabel was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that if she reached under the bed, a little blue clawed hand would grab her.

She tried to calm herself. What she needed to do, she knew, was buy a little time from Jack. She took a deep breath and looked over at him.

“All right, Jack,” Annabel said, wiping her eyes and looking over at him. “I have no choice but to go along with you. I don't understand what you mean about the house, but maybe . . . maybe you'll teach me.”

“That's it, baby cakes. That's the spirit!” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. “We're going to be very successful here, you and I.”

She gently extricated herself from Jack's grip. “I feel so light-headed,” she said. “All this blood . . . this death, Jack . . . I don't know how to deal with it.”

“You've never known how to deal with bad stuff, angel sweets,” Jack said. “Sit down. Take a few breaths.”

That was just what Annabel wanted him to say. She sat down on the bed.

Please let the gun be within reach
, she prayed.

“I feel like I might faint,” Annabel said.

“Bend down and put your head between your legs,” Jack told her, as he walked over to the window with a blanket, trying to find a way to block the snow blowing into the room. “Let the blood run to your head. That will bring you out of it.”

Perfect. This was perfect. He had just told her to do exactly what she needed to do to be able to look under the bed. And his back was to her. Perfect. This was working perfectly.

Annabel leaned over. She peered into the darkness. What she saw made her gasp, though she retained enough presence of mind to suppress it.

The gun was right there, all right. Within reach.

But lying right next to it, on his stomach, his chin in his sharp little hands, was Tommy Tricky. He smiled at Annabel, licking his lips with his blue tongue.

She steeled herself.

You little fucker,
she thought.
You're not going to keep me from getting this gun
.

She reached under the bed. The imp's eyes followed her hand.

He's going to bite you,
Annabel heard Daddy Ron tell her in her mind.

But she didn't pull back. She closed her fingers around the gun. Tommy Tricky watched her. His eyes were all that moved.

Annabel sat up all at once, the gun in her hand.

To her great relief, Jack was still at the window, trying to stuff the blanket into the space between the broken wood frames and shards of glass.

“I've got to get a piece of plywood and patch this thing,” he was saying. “Else we will have a foot of snow in here before long.”

He turned around. Annabel saw the surprise and disbelief on his face when he saw her standing there, pointing the gun at him.

He knew she could use it, too. In New York, she'd taken a self-defense class. She'd learned how to fire a gun.

He stood there, mouth open, staring at her.

“You threatened to kill me, Jack, but I'm not going to kill you,” Annabel told him. “At least, I don't want to kill you. I will if I have to. I could as easily aim this at your head or your heart as your leg. So come on along with me. Put up your hands.”

Her husband sneered at her, but he obeyed.

“Come on,” she said. “Walk in front of me.”

“Where are we going?”

Annabel smirked. “Let's see how you like being locked in a closet.”

“If you lock me up,” Jack asked, “you won't have to shoot me, too, will you?” He shuffled slowly across the room, Annabel behind him, the gun pressing against the small of his back.

“Sorry, Jack,” she replied, “but I'm not taking any chances. You've got an accomplice running around here somewhere, and she could let you out. So unfortunately you'll have two legs full of gunshot wounds in addition to being locked in the closet. But don't worry. I'm heading back to town, and I'll send an ambulance for you.” She shoved him toward Cordelia's closet. “As soon as the storm lets up, that is.”

“Annabel,” Jack said, “don't so this. We can be so happy—”

At that moment, a wail came from above them. From the attic. It was a terrible sound, a cry of grief and despair. It was enough to distract Annabel for half a second—which was just enough time for Jack to spin around with that superhuman speed he now possessed and knock the gun out of her hands. It fell to the floor with a thud.

Annabel saw the rage that suddenly filled Jack's eyes.

She ran. She bolted out into the hallway, but Jack was fast on her heels. She'd have to go past him if she were to try jumping from the window or running downstairs. There was only one option for her, and she took it without even consciously realizing she'd done so.

She ran up the stairs to the attic.

The door was open. She bolted inside, no longer thinking, just reacting, driven solely by an instinct to survive.

She didn't even realize that Jack had not pursued her up the stairs.

Yet despite her desperation to get away, Annabel came to a skidding halt when she came upon the scene in the attic.

The woman with the long gray hair stood there. Her white dress was now soaked with blood. In front of her various body parts were scattered around the room. Legs and arms, a portion of a torso, with the rib cage sticking out. And Chad's head, looking up at Annabel with lifeless eyes. At the moment, the woman was sawing an arm off a shoulder.

Annabel screamed, and then got sick, before fainting this time for real.

Z
eke heard Annabel's scream from the attic and, with a heavy heart, started up the stairs. He was unprepared for the gore that he found there.

“Oh, what have you done, Cindy?” he asked, in utter despair and horror, looking around at the carnage. “I have told you and told you that you must not do this. . . .”

“But I must,” the woman in the bloody dress told him. “I promised them. You know I promised them.”

“It is too much,” Zeke said, his face a mask of anguish and grief. “We can't go on.”

He saw Annabel slumped on the floor.

“I must get her out,” he said. “And then . . .” He looked back at the woman. “Then we must all pay the price for what we have done.”

“I promised them,” the woman said, sulking now. “They let me go, because I promised them.”

Zeke walked over to her, cupped her face in the palm of his hand.

“It's not your fault, Cindy. You were just a little girl. It destroyed your mind. You poor sweet little girl.”

“I promised them,” she said, a broken record.

“They get nothing more,” Zeke said, angry now. “Nothing more.”

He bent down to Annabel. “Wake up, Miz Wish. Come with me. Can you walk?”

She stirred.

“Get to your feet,” Zeke said. “It's all a bad dream. You'll wake up in the morning and it will all be gone. But come with me now. Walk with me.”

“What—?” Annabel mumbled, as she got to her feet.

“Don't look over there,” Zeke told her. “It's just a bad dream. Come with me. You'll be safe with me. Walk with me down the stairs.”

Annabel, like a zombie, obeyed.

He took her all the way down to the first floor, into the kitchen. He sat her down at the table.

“Listen to me, Miz Wish,” Zeke said. “I've cleared a path from the back door. You can get out that way. I've also cleared the way to your car. Here are your keys.”

Annabel looked at him. The old caretaker could see that her mind had shut down. It was a defense mechanism against the horrors she'd seen upstairs.

“Listen to me, Miz Wish. Annabel. Here are your keys.”

He pressed them into her hand.

“You are to walk out and get into your car. Do you understand? The snow is stopping, but you still can't drive out. But I've cleared the snow off it, and you can start it. You can keep warm there. Keep the window cracked, as I left it for you. That will keep you safe from any fumes. But just a crack.”

Annabel said nothing.

“Do you understand? You will be safe there until someone comes for you. Someone will be coming. The police will come looking for the chief, and they'll find you.”

Annabel stared at him blankly.

“Do you understand, Annabel?” Zeke asked, growing concerned.

“I . . . understand,” she finally said. “I can go to the car . . . and wait there . . . be safe . . . someone will be coming soon.”

“Yes, yes, that's right. And Annabel. Do not come back inside the house, under any circumstances.” He shivered. “No matter what happens. I think, when you see it, you'll know it's for the best.”

Annabel's eyes moved around the kitchen. She seemed to smell something.

“Yes, that's gasoline you smell,” Zeke told her. “I've sprinkled it all over the house. Upstairs and downstairs. Every room.”

He walked across the room and lifted the can, shook some more of the liquid onto the floor.

“It's the only way,” he told Annabel.

“The only way,” she echoed dully.

He heard the scuttling then. The sound of dozens of little feet running toward him.

“No!” Zeke shouted, frantically running across the kitchen for the box of matches.

But the old man couldn't run very fast, and he slipped on the floor, falling flat onto his stomach, knocking the wind out of him—just as thirteen little men came scurrying around the corner from the parlor and crawled all over him.

“Nooo!” Zeke screamed.

But it was too late.