House of Fallen Trees (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The moment they were out the door, the dog ran off into the darkness and Karen knew she wouldn’t be back that night, preferring instead whatever little nest she’d made for herself in some safe corner of the surrounding area.
   Karen was sad to see her go and even felt a twinge of fear at the animal’s departure. And betrayal. As if they had already been lifelong friends and Dusty was abandoning Karen to whatever horrific thing that might assault her next.
   She didn’t have long to feel sorry for herself though, because after standing in the dark for no more than five minutes, trying to mentally will the dog to return, the screaming began.
   It was coming from inside the house and Karen whirled, raced up the porch stairs two at a time and burst through the door and back into the living room to find Saul naked and writhing on the floor, stripped of all his clothing, raking bloody tracks over his skin with his fingernails. An instant later, she was at his side, kneeling down, terrified at the sight of what he was doing to himself as well as the obvious agony he was in.
   Rory pounded down the stairs, wearing only sweatpants, shouting, “What’s wrong?”
   Karen shook her head helplessly as Rory crouched beside her. “He just started scratching himself. He said his nose was itchy and now this!”
   Saul rolled around on the floor, tears squirting from his eyes as he shrieked and cried, carving every inch of skin within his reach. His chest, belly, arms, legs, face, neck, feet, buttocks and even his genitals were beading up with blood, the skin accordioned from merciless gouging.
   “Jesus fucking Christ!” Rory yelled. “What do we do?”
   “Do you have any Benadryl?” Karen asked.
   “What? No! I mean, I don’t know. Maybe!”
   Frustrated, Karen rose and ran upstairs, trying to block out the sound of Saul’s screams. She flew through the hall and straight into her room, into the bathroom where she ripped open the small cloth bag she kept her toiletries in. She dumped the contents out into the sink, sifting through all the useless crap until she spotted the foil packet with the antihistamines, each pink and white pill in its own separate blister bubble.
   She snatched it up and sprinted back down to the living room where Saul continued to bellow in misery, Rory scratching him in places the other man couldn’t reach himself.
   “Harder!” Saul screamed. “Do it harder!”
   “I can’t! You’re already bleeding!”
   Karen fell to her knees beside the men, popping pills from the packet and shouting, “Swallow these, Saul!” She pushed two into his mouth. “Swallow them!”
   Saul, probably not even registering what was being asked of him, did it anyway, with barely a pause of his flailing hands as they tried to scratch everywhere at once.
   “Will he need a hospital?” Rory asked, real panic shining in his huge wet eyes.
   “We’d better hope not,” Karen replied. “Let’s try to get him into a tub. We’re going to need baking soda.” As an afterthought, she added, “And oatmeal, if you’ve got it.” She didn’t know exactly what kind of oatmeal was necessary but she remembered her mother giving her oatmeal baths when she was a kid and had sunburns, poison ivy, or particularly bad encounters with insects, usually mosquitoes or bees.
   Twenty minutes later, Saul sat up to his chin in a warm bath seasoned with baking soda, Epsom salts, and packaged instant oatmeal, though Karen doubted the last ingredient would do much good. Rory sat on the closed toilet lid, watching his friend while Karen leaned against the doorjamb feeling inadequate and foolish for not knowing what to do in such an emergency.
   She said as much and Rory responded without looking away from Saul. “You know more than me. I don’t even have the right kind of pills to give him.”
   “Comes from a lifetime of allergies,” she said dismissively.
   For his part, Saul had finally stopped thrashing around and digging burrows into his skin, though he had hissed viciously when his wounds had hit the warm water. Now he lay back, his eyes closed while the rest of his body gave an occasional twitch. His arms gripped the sides of the claw-footed tub and Karen knew it was taking every ounce of his willpower to not continue raking at himself.
   “You think it was the fleas?” Rory asked quietly.
   “I guess it’s possible,” Karen replied. “But I’ve sure as hell never seen a reaction like that, especially since he doesn’t appear to have any hives, except for the welts he gave himself. And if it was the fleas, why didn’t they start biting me too? I was sitting on the couch right beside him.”
   “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Saul said suddenly, surprising them both. “I’m not deaf, you know.”
   “How do you feel?” Rory asked him.
   “Like I’ve been flayed by a giant cheese grater.”
   “Do you feel feverish?” Karen asked, stepping further into the room. When he shook his head, she said. “What about breathing?”
   “I seem to be doing that.” Saul opened his eyes and tried to smile at her, but she could see it was a huge effort for him. His cheeks had not been spared the wrath of his furious fingernails any more than any other part of him had.
   “Cute,” she said. “I mean, are you having any trouble? Your airways don’t feel swollen or anything?”
   He shook his head again, closing his eyes once more.
   Karen noticed Rory staring at her in bug-eyed horror. “Why are you asking him that?”
   “Trouble breathing is a symptom of allergic reaction.”
   “Shit. Why didn’t you mention that before?” Rory asked.
   She shrugged. “I guess I assumed you knew. Not to mention, I didn’t want to think about it unless we really had to. I don’t know about you, but giving someone an emergency tracheotomy isn’t something I have a lot of experience in.”
   Rory’s face darkened with anger, though Karen was fairly certain it wasn’t directed at her. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. “Everything is all fucked up now. This house…” He trailed off, unable—or unwilling—to finish the thought aloud.
   “What about the house?” she prodded.
   “I don’t know. I just know I’m sick of all this weird shit that’s been happening. It makes no sense.”
   “Well, I wouldn’t disagree with that,” she replied.
   “Nothing’s been right since you got here,” he said. Karen looked at him, startled he would be so blunt. He saw the look and said, “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
   “How did you mean it?”
   “It’s just that…I don’t know. Like the powers that be don’t want you here or something. And I know how crazy that sounds but…there it is.”
   “I would never have been here in the first place if you hadn’t called me.”
   “What?” he said sharply. “You called me.”
   Karen stared at him. “Um,
no
,
you
called
me
.”
   Puzzled, he almost smiled, but at the last instant frowned instead. “Are you kidding me?”
   “Rory,
you
called me and told me about Sean’s papers. Don’t you remember?”
   He got to his feet, stepped towards her. In the small bathroom, he didn’t need to take many steps before he was in her face. “What the fuck are you trying to pull?”
   She could see he meant it. He really didn’t remember calling her.
   “I…” She had no idea what to say.
   “You’re the one who called me,” he insisted. “Saying that
you
found his papers. A handwritten will, you said.” Now the anger in his face
was
directed at her, making her more nervous by the minute. “So,” he continued. “I’m gonna ask you again: what the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
   She swallowed a lump in her throat. She licked her lips, which seemed unusually dry. “I guess I’m just a little confused,” she said slowly. “With everything that’s been going on.” She did her best to fake a chuckle, rubbing her forehead. “God, you know, I just can’t believe how exhausted I am. I’m sorry. Of course I remember…calling you, I mean.”
   “Right,” he said, leaning forward until their noses were mere inches apart, his blue eyes fixed intently on hers, scanning for any trace of a lie. After a moment, he pulled back, smiled without showing his teeth. “I figured you’d remember if I jarred your memory enough. No offense but Sean
did
warn me that you were a little flighty.”
   She nodded, almost ready to make an excuse to get the hell out of the cloistered bathroom until what he’d said made her wonder. “He warned you?”
   Rory, who had turned back to study Saul now faced her again. “What’s that?”
   “You said Sean warned you about me. When did he do that?”
   He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, who knows? Probably a couple years ago.”
   “Why would he have done that?” she asked, brows knitting together.
   Rory raised his hands in a half-shrug. “He thought you were a little flighty?” He smirked as though making a joke, but Karen could clearly see the malice he intended with his words. He
wanted
her to see it. But why?
   “It seems strange though,” she went on, determined not to be intimidated by him. “That he would say something like that when he had no intention of us meeting.”
    “Yeah, well, that was Sean. Always pulling stuff out of his hat for no apparent reason.”
    “Uh huh.” She glanced around him to see if Saul was having any kind of reaction to this odd conversation, but the other man’s eyes remained closed. She decided to give him a prompt. “How you doing over there, Saul?”
   Without so much as flinching, without even opening his eyes, Saul replied, “I think you two need to get a room.”
   Rory laughed, a harsh, barking sound that was much too loud in this small space. “I have a room. And I think I’m going to head up there right now, if it’s okay with everyone. I mean, if you think you’ll be okay, Saul? No midnight treks through the woods and to the nearest hospital? Think you can handle that for me, buddy?”
   At this, Saul
did
open his eyes, giving Rory an odd look. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m feeling better. I’ll be okay.”
   “Good to hear.” Rory grinned predatorily. “Because, like our good friend Ms. Lewis here, I’m beat. I just don’t want to get dragged out of bed because someone is screaming again. You know what I mean?”
   Saul miraculously pulled a smile out of somewhere. “No worries, man. I’m fine. Have a good rest.”
   Rory nodded, moving past Karen, but stopped in the hallway and turned back to them. His smile reminded Karen of the shark in
Jaws
. “You kids be good now. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He pointed at Karen. “Especially you. I haven’t been able to get in his pants for six months and I’d be pretty devastated to find out you’d stolen him from me while I was sleeping.”
   Feeling herself bristle at this uncalled for crap, Karen almost opened her mouth to tell him off, but ultimately decided against doing so. At least for now. Instead, she did her best to return his smile with an obnoxiously sour one of her own. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said.
   “Excellent.” And then he was gone, his footsteps fading off down the hall.
   She waited a moment, then quietly went to the doorway and poked her head out to be sure he was really gone, half expecting him to lunge out from around the corner, wielding a knife and a maniacal grin. But the hall was empty and she released a long-held breath that had been beginning to make her chest ache.
   She closed the door before turning to Saul. “What the fuck was that about?” she whispered.
   Reaching for a face cloth hanging from the soap dish on the wall, Saul dunked it into the water, soaking it, before draping it over his face, giving absolutely no indication he’d even heard the question.
   “Saul?” she said, louder this time.
   “Mmm?”
   “I asked what that was all about?”
   “What?”
   She couldn’t believe this. Had he really not been paying attention to the exchange that had just happened less than six feet from where he sat? “That shit with Rory,” she said, not even attempting to hide her exasperation. “Saying I called him. Was he serious?”
   Beneath the damp face cloth, Saul laughed softly.
   “What’s so funny?”
   “I was just remembering what he said about you trying to get in my pants.”
   “Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “That was hilarious.” She ran a hand through her hair, dismayed that her fingers encountered so many snarls. She looked down at the bath tub enviously for a few seconds before saying, “So, was that his idea of amusing? Saying I called him up out of the blue, claiming to have Sean’s papers and all that nonsense? I mean, come on. What kind of game is he playing?”
   Saul laughed again, sounding very far away. “Isn’t that what he said about you? That you’re playing a game?”
   “Yeah, but I’m not. I’m not the one making shit up for who the fuck even knows why. Because he thinks its funny, I guess.”
   “But you did,” Saul said.
   She sighed loudly. “Did what?”
   “You did call him first.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Karen paced her bedroom, fists clenching and unclenching, wishing she could punch or kick something. Anything would do, but mostly she was wishing she could kick those two assholes in the fucking teeth. Why were they doing this to her, fucking with her this way? Was it some insurance scam? Some revenge plot? But against who and why? She’d never even met Rory before so she knew whatever was going on couldn’t have anything to do with her. Unless…
   Unless he thought he was avenging Sean somehow.
   But what had she ever done to Sean? Nothing she could think of that warranted this kind of insanity. Just typical brother/sister shit every person with a sibling goes through. And all of that stuff was ancient history. She’d barely even seen her brother in what…five years? Maybe more?
   Of course, she supposed it was possible that was the problem right there. Though Sean had never said anything to her about wishing she’d visit, had never asked her to, maybe Rory thought she should have. Hell, maybe Sean actually complained to Rory that his family never made the trip out west to see him. For all she knew, it was a big deal to Sean. She went over to the dresser and took a sip of the whiskey she’d helped herself to before coming to her room. She’d gone back down to the living room and taken her glass and the bottle back up with her and now she was just beginning to feel its effects. The booze was taking a bit of the edge off which was exactly what she needed right now.
   How dare Rory have said such things to her, all but accusing her of…of what? Screwing up his plans for the B&B somehow? He probably thought she’d brought a jar of piranha fleas smuggled in her suitcase and then released them while she’d been in the basement, knowing full well they could eat a person alive.
   She felt like bellowing a loud maniacal laugh, loud enough for him to hear from his room down the hall, letting him know how evil she was and how well her plan was working.
   The thought amused her a great deal as she sat down on the edge of the bed, sipping her drink and smiling to the empty room. Imagining herself as an evil villain was kind of fun, she thought. Perhaps she should write a story from a super-villain’s perspective. The prospect was entertaining.
   She considered it for a while, but knew before she could write anything enjoyable, she had to get back to her journal about this visit to Falling Trees. Setting the glass on the night table, she crossed the room and brought the bottle back, putting it beside the glass so it would be within easy reach. No longer particularly tired, she made herself comfortable on the bed with her laptop, opened the document, and sat there chewing her lower lip for a while. After drumming her fingers lightly on the keyboard for several minutes, she reached for her glass and took a long swallow, draining it. As she removed the glass from her lips, she looked up to see a figure across the room. The empty glass clattered onto the computer before rolling off onto the bed.
   Karen gasped as her lungs seemed to freeze inside her chest.
   The figure appeared to be a frail old man, his back to her, kneeling before the cedar hope chest. His back heaved gently; he was weeping, though Karen heard nothing. Face in hands, the old man’s bald and spotted head bobbed slightly with each silent intake of breath.
   Feeling a trembling beginning in her hands, Karen wanted nothing more than to cover her face, will this apparition away, snap out of it goddammit! She closed her eyes, opened them again, but the old man remained, seemingly oblivious to her presence and now the hope chest wasn’t a hope chest at all anymore. No. No, it was a coffin now. A coffin just like the ones she’d seen in the basement and the old man’s body shook and shook, devastated by the death of…
who
?
   Without even thinking about it, on the verge of tears, she reached for the empty glass beside her on the bed, wrapped her hand around it and screamed aloud as she threw it across the room at the old man’s flannel back. The glass passed right through him and shattered against the coffin which was once again a hope chest and then he was gone as though he’d never been there at all.
   She raised a shaky hand to her mouth, biting down hard on the knuckles to keep herself from screaming again.
   Her heart felt like a machine gun shattering her ribcage in an attempt to escape her body, her eyes wide and unblinking, ears pricked for a sound, any sound, but most especially the sound of approaching footsteps from the hall.
   Surely, Rory had heard her scream. Why wasn’t he coming to investigate? Saul could have been knocked out from the Benadryl or just plain exhaustion, but where was Rory? Why was he not responding?
   She considered the possibility her cry of terror hadn’t been as loud as it had sounded to her own ears, in her state of paralytic fear.
   Still in her lap, the computer chirped. She glanced down, the screen flashing so blindingly bright she brought a hand up to shield her eyes. A second later, she dropped the hand to see a scene playing out on the screen, a scene from a movie. A scene starring her brother Sean, who was naked in a bright patch of sunlight, surrounded by trees.
   Sean was down on all fours, another naked man behind him, fucking him, pounding him hard enough to make him cry out in pain. The man pressed his face into Sean’s back, concealing his identity, one hand on Sean’s hip while the other held a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back with every thrust.
   Dirty, covered in pine needles and patches of sticky sap, Sean opened his eyes and appeared to look directly at Karen, his eyes pleading.
   In the blink of an eye, his entire agonized face filled up the screen, battered black in places, and he spoke, his voice amazingly calm, his teeth smeared red with blood, as he said, “
Two men have the carcass
.”
   Karen choked down a cry as the camera pulled back again, showing the same scene, Sean being fucked, possibly raped by the unknown man. She grabbed the laptop by the screen, intending to throw it across the room the same way she’d thrown the glass and then another figure stepped into the scene, entering on the right, closer to the camera than her brother and his assailant.
   A cloaked figure in a dark robe, hood raised, immediately bringing to mind the Grim Reaper. An instant later, as if reading Karen’s mind and playing to her thoughts, the head raised up, revealing a skeleton face, just bone, empty black sockets where eyes and nose had once been.
   She felt something inside her mind snap and her mouth moved wordlessly as a single trickle of blood began to ooze its way down from the top of the screen, thick and slow and so unbelievably red. Unsure if it was part of the movie—if it
was
a movie—or actually coming out of her computer, she reached out, fingers shaking worse than any palsy victim’s ever had, but at the last instant she drew her hand away, not waiting to know for sure, certain that if her fingers came away red she would disappear so deep inside herself she would never again know reality and be forever locked away in the dark.
   Hissing, she tossed the computer away, off her lap, off the bed. It crashed against the dresser and hit the floor with a heavy thud. She was dismayed to see it remained open, though the screen had gone dark. “Jesus,” she gasped. “Jesus. Fuck.” Breathing hard as hot tears spilled down her cheeks, she again willed herself not to scream, not to cry out in any way, though she had no idea how she was managing it.
Insane
, she thought.
You really, truly are insane
.
   No, another stronger voice shouted from somewhere inside her head. Remember the photographs. Rory and Saul saw them too. It’s not you, it’s this…place. It’s cursed, haunted. But by what? By who? And why?
   The answer was there, of course. Had been there all along. It was the Captain. Captain Frank Storm. That’s who she’d just seen, kneeling before the hope chest/coffin.
   She waited until her heart had settled into as normal a rhythm as she thought she was going to get out of it, swung her legs off the bed, never taking her gaze from the computer on the floor.
   The blood was gone, so it had been part of the show after all. Knowing there was no way in hell she’d be able to sleep tonight, she retrieved the glass from the floor, relieved it hadn’t broken, and poured herself another shot. The whiskey scorched her throat going down and almost came back up again. She coughed and sputtered, but managed to keep the burning fluid in her belly. She needed to get out of here, out of this room. She grabbed the bottle and left, hurrying downstairs, thankful the hall lights were still on. As she hit the bottom step, she heard an odd creaking sound that made her pause, ready to run back up if she had to.
   The creaking came again, slow and lazy, as if something were rocking in a relaxed, leisurely way. But what? There was no rocking chair in the living room, which was what immediately sprang to mind. She stood stock-still, listening to the sound as it reached its listless crescendo before fading again, never growing very loud.
   It was, she realized, as if the walls themselves were creaking under some unknown weight and the sound beneath the creaking—a very gentle splashing—gave it all away.
   She was listening to the slow easy sound of waves splashing sleepily against the hull of a ship, the ship itself creaking under the pressure of the water sloshing against it. She sank down into a sitting position on the stair. The whiskey was threatening to come up again and her head had begun to pound like a new hangover.
   “You hear that?”
   She nearly jumped out of her skin, leaping to her feet and spinning around to see Saul at the top of the staircase. The sight of him both relieved and frightened her.
   Wanting to proceed with caution, she asked, “Do I hear what?”
   He smiled crookedly at her, a painful sight that went beyond all the ugly scratches covering his skin. “It was a dark and stormy night,” he said as he began to descend the stairs, one hand grazing the banister absently. “We were standing on the deck. The ship was sinking and the Captain said to me, ‘Tell me a story, my son.’ And so I began. ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ We were standing on the deck. The ship was sinking and the Captain said to me, ‘Tell me a story, my son.’ And so I began. ‘It was a dark and stormy night—’”
   “Stop it,” Karen snapped.
   Saul stopped, that half smile still on his face but Karen could see his dark eyes were haunted. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, she had already backed across the living room, trying to keep her distance.
   “Sorry,” he said. “I guess all this,” he gestured around the room and she knew he was referring to the ship sounds the house was now making, “is getting to me.”
   “What’s going on?” she demanded.
   He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He peered at her, as if noticing her body language for the first time. “Are you afraid of me?”
   She suspected a trick question and had no idea which would be the right answer, so she said nothing.
   “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Karen,” he said. “Look at me.” He held his arms out to her, turning them so she could see the fronts and backs. “Look what I did to myself. I’m just as much a victim here as you are.”
    Watching him carefully, she said, “I’m not a victim.”
   Dropping his arms to his sides once more, he said, “No?”
   “No. Sean was a victim though and I
will
find out what happened to him.”
   “This is all so strange, don’t you think?”
   Again, she didn’t know what the preferred response would be and remained silent.
   “I guess my grandmother was right all those years ago,” he continued, crossing the room to sit on the couch, taking care to give Karen a wide berth, almost as though he were just as afraid of her as she was of him. “She used to spout on about all that hooey. Angry spirits getting their revenge, lost souls wandering the earth, not even knowing they’re dead.” He sighed heavily, as though he’d never been so tired in all his life. “Do you think that’s what’s happening here? Angry spirits?”
   “I don’t know,” she replied, impressed with how steady her voice sounded as the house creaked and groaned around them. “But obviously it all has something to do with the Captain who built this place.”
   Saul smiled weakly again. “Yeah, I think you’re right about that. But what does it have to do with Sean? And even more importantly, what does it have to do with you?”
   “I don’t know,” she said again. “What makes you think it has anything to do with me?”
   “Because the house wasn’t like this until you got here. That’s what Rory was trying to say in his not-so-elegant way.”
   Karen folded her arms over her chest.
   When he realized she wasn’t going to reply, Saul asked, “You’ve been having hallucinations, haven’t you?”
   Her eyes narrowed. “Are you talking about what happened in the basement? Because that wasn’t a hallucination.”
   “Yes, it was, Karen. You know it was. Rory and I went down there, remember? No caskets, no coffins, no candles. Just a bunch of junk.”
   “Junk and fleas,” she corrected.
   He pointed a brown finger at her. “Exactly. The fleas.”
   “What are you talking about?” she asked impatiently.
   “You hallucinated coffins, I hallucinated flea bites. Or something. I’m not totally sure what that itching attack was about, but I think it had something to do with the fleas.”
   Karen was getting tired of standing and walked slowly to the lounger to sit down. “You’re saying you think the allergic reaction was just in your mind?”
   “Yes. Like the coffins were in yours.”
   She didn’t bother to argue with him about it anymore. “So, what’s your point?”