Urban Gothic (6 page)

“What? You think they care about an old man looking out the window? They gonna come up through our basement? Get me while I’m sitting on the toilet? Bullshit, Lawanda. There ain’t nothing supernatural in that house. It’s just crazy, inbred crackheads.”

“Since when did you stop believing the stories about that place? After all the folks that have gone missing?”

“I ain’t saying I don’t believe. Sure, the place is dangerous. Spooky. But it ain’t monsters. Whatever it is that lives inside there, they don’t bother anyone unless folks go sticking their noses inside. It’s just like everything else in this neighborhood—the best way to stay out of trouble is to not get involved. Long as we stay out of it and don’t go bothering them, we’ll be alright. You know how it is around here. You’ve got to watch your back and take care of your own shit. If you don’t, sooner or later the street will get you.”

He pulled back the shade and peered outside again. He noticed that several of his neighbors were looking through their windows, as well—just as worried, just as perplexed.

Just as guilty of inaction as he was.

But what were they supposed to do? Storm in there with torches and pitchforks? It had been tried, and the neighborhood had paid the price in blood. Call the police or the fire department? That had been tried before as well, with even worse results. Picket city hall and demand action? Hell, city hall was part of the problem. They knew all about the house. They just didn’t care. Wouldn’t do to have something like that show up in the press. Not with its history—not with the string of murders and disappearances. No, city hall was content to sweep it under the rug, just like they did with all the other problems down here.

“Now if it was happening in the suburbs,” Perry muttered under his breath, “you know damn well they’d do something about it.”

“What are you mumbling about?”

“Nothing. Leo and them boys are coming back this way. They probably gonna steal the car.”

“You always think the worst of people.”

“Maybe I do, but can you blame me? Leo used to be a good kid, but he don’t come around no more. He’s probably into drugs. You know how all these kids down here turn out eventually. Rotten. Or dead. It’s like this place poisons them.”

“Not always,” she said, even as she nodded in reluctant agreement. “What are they doing now?”

“It looks like they’re … oh, hell no. They’re coming up on our porch. What the hell do they want? I ain’t getting involved in this shit.”

As if on cue, there was the sound of footsteps plodding up their porch stairs, followed by somebody beating on their door. It sounded like the knocker was using their fist. The door rattled in its frame, and the chain lock at the top jingled.

Still muttering, Perry rose from his seat. Lawanda grabbed his arm.

“Don’t answer it, Perry.”

He pulled his arm free. “If I don’t, they gonna knock the damn door down. Now stay here.”

The pounding increased—thunderous blows that seemed to shake the entire house.

“Hold your horses, goddamn it! I’m coming.”

In the corner, next to the door, were a coat rack and a small roll top desk. Perry opened the desk drawer and withdrew a revolver nearly as old as he was. He didn’t have to check to make sure that it was loaded. He never took the bullets out of the weapon. Stuffing it in his waistband, he moved toward the door. The pistol felt snug against the small of his back.

He opened the door and saw Leo with his fist raised, ready to knock again. Behind him stood Jamal, Chris, Markus, some kid they called Dookie (Perry didn’t know his real name) and some other youths Perry didn’t recognize.

“Mr. Watkins,” Leo said. “You sleeping?”

“Does it look like I was sleeping, boy? Why you beating on my door this time a night?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You on drugs?”

“No, we ain’t on no fucking drugs! You know me better than that, Mr. Watkins.”

“Maybe,” Perry admitted. “Can’t be too sure these days, though. I thought maybe y’all was coming in here to rob me or something.”

Leo looked genuinely offended. “Now why would you go thinking something like that?”

“What happened with them white kids? Y’all spook them?”

“We didn’t do shit,” Jamal exclaimed, but fell silent again when Leo glared at him.

“Maybe a little bit,” Leo admitted, turning back to Perry. “But we didn’t mean nothing by it. We were just goofing around and shit. We were gonna help them with their car.”

Perry scowled. “Help them? You ain’t no mechanic.”

“No, I ain’t. But Angel is. We were thinking—”

“The fella who runs the chop shop?”

“Yeah. We figured those kids had money, right? I mean, they were wearing nice clothes and it was pretty obvious that they ain’t from around here. We’d hook them up with Angel, get him to fix the car, and then we’d get a payment—you know, like a finder’s fee and shit.”

Perry threw his head back and laughed. “A finder’s fee? Boy, you ain’t Triple fucking A.”

Leo ignored the taunt. “Can we use your phone, Mr. Watkins?”

“For what?”

“To call the police. Tell ’em about those kids.”

“Ain’t y’all got cell phones?”

The youths shrugged and shook their heads.

“No,” Chris said. “We can’t afford them.”

“Well, I ain’t got no phone either,” Perry lied. “The damn phone company shut it off two weeks ago. Said I—”

He fell silent as Lawanda crept up behind him and gently pulled him away from the door.

“You boys come on inside. But mind your shoes. Take them off at the door. I don’t want you tracking dirt up in here. I just cleaned this morning.”

Smiling, Leo stepped into the house and did as he was told. The big toe on his left foot stuck out of a hole in his sock. One by one, the other kids followed him inside and removed their shoes.

Perry groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lawanda …”

She shushed him with a stern look. “Leo and his friends want to get involved and do the right thing. That’s a sure sight more than anyone else wants to do around here these days. If they want to use our phone, then you darn well better let them. A fine example you’re setting, Perry Watkins.”

Leo beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Watkins.”

“Never you mind, Leo,” she scolded, turning her attention to him. “Not that I think that calling the police will do a lick of good, but I ain’t about to stop you from doing the right thing. But none of y’all should be out this late. You know what these streets are like after dark. The phone’s in the kitchen. Leo, you go make your call. The rest of you sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

While they got settled, Perry shuffled toward the refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer. Before popping the top, he pressed the cool can against his forehead and sighed. It was going to be a long night. There was nothing Lawanda liked more than playing den mother to a bunch of teenagers. They’d never been able to have kids of their own, and she absolutely doted on all the kids who lived on the block. Every week when they went to church, Lawanda asked God to watch out for them all.

Perry shook his head again and wondered if God was watching out for the kids who’d run into the house at the end of the street.

He hoped so.

But he had doubts. Serious doubts. He’d lied to Lawanda before. He believed everything that was said about the abandoned house.

Like most other people, God didn’t have any business inside of that place.

But if you listened to all the neighborhood rumors about the place, the devil sure did.

SIX

Heather felt like her heart was going to explode. She sat in absolute darkness, unable to think or move—barely able to breathe. She shivered—partly from shock and partly from the cold wetness soaking her underwear and jeans. She’d peed herself at some point, and hadn’t even realized it until now. Her foot still hurt, but at least it had stopped bleeding. She’d been afraid to look at the wound, but she had to. It wasn’t deep, but it was long and filled with dirt and debris. She knew she’d have to clean it soon or risk infection.

Heather shook her head, exasperated with herself. Infection was the least of her worries right now.

She listened intently, expecting to hear the heavy, plodding footsteps of their pursuer, but the bizarre house was quiet. Somehow the stillness was more disconcerting than if she’d heard screaming. When she was younger, Heather used to play hide and seek with her two older brothers. She’d find a good hiding spot—the shrubs in front of the house, the toolshed down by the garden, the basement—and hunker down, but then her brothers would stop hunting for her and go play video games instead. It used to frustrate her, and she’d end up shouting, trying to lure them to her hiding place. For a brief moment, Heather considered yelling now—just standing up and hollering,
You’re getting colder!
like a game of hot and cold.

But the only thing growing cold was Tyler’s corpse.

Heather bit the inside of her lower lip to stop from braying nervous laughter. Why was this happening? She felt a sudden surge of anger for Tyler. Dead or not, this was his fault. He had to come out and get his fucking drugs. He couldn’t wait for another time. No, he had to screw everything up again because he was an asshole. What had Kerri ever seen in him?

She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, shivering. She felt a twinge of guilt over that thought. Tyler was dead, after all, and no one was supposed to talk ill of the dead, at least not according to her mother.

She considered pulling out her cell phone and calling for help, or at least using the display pad’s light for illumination, but she was worried that if she did, the killer might hear the tones as she dialed or see the light from under the door.

Her thoughts turned to Javier. She hoped he was okay. Instead of following her, he’d stayed behind to help Kerri. Despite her fears, Heather felt pangs of jealousy. Why would he do that? Javier was her boyfriend, not Kerri’s. Kerri’s boyfriend was dead. She didn’t need to get Heather’s boyfriend killed as well.

Heather rocked backward and something soft brushed against her head. Stifling a scream, she batted at it. Her hand came away sticky. A spiderweb.

She wondered what else was in here with her in the darkness.

Out in the hallway, she heard a floorboard creak. Heather froze, holding her breath.

The sound was not repeated.

Heather’s fingernails dug into her palms, drawing blood. She barely felt it. She imagined the killer waiting outside the door, standing in the hallway, foot poised over the creaky floorboard, waiting for her to come out. She waited, expecting at any moment to hear his terrible cry, or for the big hammer to smash down the door.

Instead, she heard somebody start laughing—a high-pitched, frantic sound, almost veering into crying.

Kerri?

It sure sounded like her.

The laughter came again, followed by a harsh, male voice that, despite the whispered tones, was familiar.

Kerri and Javier! It had to be. Heather was sure of it.

She jumped to her feet and stumbled toward the door, flinging it open. Even though the hallway was dark, it was still lighter than the room she’d been hiding in, and at first, Heather couldn’t see anything. Before her eyes could adjust, she was greeted by screams.

***

Brett held his breath and crept across the old sagging floorboards, trying to tread as lightly as possible. He’d lost count of the number of rooms he’d fled through, running headlong, not stopping to examine his surroundings, just trying to lose his pursuer. He was left with the vague impression that the derelict house wasn’t laid out like a normal dwelling. There were too many doors—some of them leading to nowhere, as he’d soon learned, much to his chagrin. There were hallways that seemed to double back and rooms that served no logical purpose. A bathroom with a loveseat propped against one deteriorating wall. A bedroom with shattered porcelain shards from a toilet strewn across the floor. Perhaps most bizarre was the absence of windows. From the outside of the house, he’d noticed many boarded-over windows on both the first and second floors. But here, inside the abandoned dwelling, all of those windows were missing. Someone had constructed walls over the panes. He’d also noticed that some of the rooms and hallways had makeshift lighting installed—a rough series of lightbulbs connected by a frayed power cord. So far, he’d found no way of turning them on.

As baffling as the layout was, he hoped his pell-mell dash through the labyrinthine construct would confuse the killer as well.

He peeked his head through the open door in front of him and found a kitchen. Quickly verifying that the room was clear, Brett ducked inside the kitchen and shut the door behind him. The hinges groaned, and flecks of rust fell onto his hand. The door had no lock, and the doorknob itself jiggled in his hand. Brett felt for the light switch. It was sticky. He pulled his fingers away in disgust, reprimanding himself for forgetting that there was no power in the house anyway. He’d tried the light switches in the other rooms and none had worked. He fumbled for his cell phone, flipped it open, and used the meager light of the display screen. At least it was good for illumination; he’d had no signal since entering the house.

He scanned the shadowy corners, looking for something to blockade the door with. He spotted two other doors. One looked like it led into a pantry. He assumed that the other door led out of the kitchen, unless it was another false door, opening up into a brick wall. The kitchen counters were cracked and warped, and covered with inch-thick layers of dust and grime. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like party streamers, and the corners and sink were full of rat droppings and dead flies. The air was thick with the smell of mildew. Brett stepped closer to the sink. The stainless-steel basin was encrusted with brownish-red stains and there was some sort of shriveled organic matter in the strainer over the drain. Wrinkling his nose, Brett turned his attention to the oven. The door had a brown handprint on it. Brett assumed it was blood, but long since dried. His eyes settled on an old, dented refrigerator. If he could move it over to the door without making much noise, it would serve as a decent blockade.