WEBCAM (16 page)

Nothing happened.

Being in someone else’s house never ceased to be a creepy experience. Trespassing didn’t feel nice. Tom always felt sneaky, and a little ashamed, when he was in a stranger’s home uninvited. Even though he was legally allowed to be there, it made him nervous and he didn’t like it.

Blame his childhood. Tom was raised on a diet of 1980s VHS slasher movies like
Don’t Open the Window
and
Don’t Go in the House
and
Are You in the House Alone
; titles that seemed oddly appropriate at that moment. In those scary dark house movies you always knew that some crazed maniac would leap out of the shadows with a meat cleaver. It didn’t help Tom’s imagination that, in this particular case, they were actually chasing some crazed maniac. He recalled the last victim, her eyelids sliced off, intestines tied in a bow, and he considered drawing his firearm. But there was protocol against doing that, and Tom didn’t feel threatened. Just on edge.

He passed a door, peeking his light inside. Bathroom. Sink. Shower. Toilet. Towels. Seemed ordinary enough.

Further down the hall was another bedroom. Tom peeked inside. This one belonged to a boy. Batman sheets. Star Wars and GI Joe figures on the dresser. A poster above the bed with Batman punching Two-Face. Harry Potter and Tolkien on the bookshelf. No TV. No computer. No stereo. But there was an older model iPod with headphones on the floor next to the bed.

Just like the girl’s bedroom, this one looked like time stopped ten years ago. But it was dust free. And the bed was unmade, the covers pushed down.

Recently slept in?

Next to the bed, on the nightstand, was half a glass of water.

Tom felt an adrenaline surge, and all the tiny little hairs on his forearms went erect. Roy had done a background check on this homeowner, but there hadn’t been any mention of kids. It was Saturday, so no school.

Where were they?

It was creepy.

Something else was creepy, too. Except for the toys and posters and color scheme, this room was exactly like the girl’s room. Beds and dressers and bookcases all the same type, in the same spots.

Maybe the children were strange, fraternal twins who imitated each other.

More old horror movies from Tom’s youth flashed into his head. Movies with weird kids.
Children of the Corn. The Brood. The Shining.
What weekly allowance Tom didn’t spend on comics, he spent renting fright flicks at Blockbuster Video. As an adult, Tom had seen enough real-life horror to make all of those old films seem trivial. But for some reason, as he walked through this house, he felt like there should be eerie violins playing in the background, raising in pitch until the shocking monster revealed itself.

Tom realized he was freaking himself out a little. He needed to let Roy in to help search the place.

He walked past the bedroom and froze.

Ahead, in the hallway, was a dark, huddled shape.

Someone was squatting next to the stairs.

One of the children?

“I’m Detective Tom Mankowski, Chicago Police Department,” Tom said, using his authority voice, pointing his light at the figure while automatically reaching for his gun with his free hand.

There was no response.

It took Tom a second to realize why. He’d just announced himself to a pile of dirty laundry.

He blew out a breath, walked past the dirty clothes—a combination of male and female items—and slowly descended the staircase, watching his step.

The funky smell grew stronger. The stairs ended at a living room, and Tom saw a large desk with three computer monitors set up on it. Flat screens, up-to-date. All were off. But underneath the desk, in a large snarl of cords, there were blinking router and modem lights. The computer tower’s cooling fan hummed softly.

Besides the desk, there was a well-worn sofa, an older model TV from the era before flatscreen, and a blanket hanging up on the wall. Tom guessed it was covering the window. He walked in the direction of the front door, and was reaching for the handle when an abrupt knock startled him.

“You in there, Tom?”

Tom let out a small, nervous laugh—stress relief—and tried to open the door to let his partner in.

The door didn’t budge.

“Deadbolt on this side needs a key,” Tom said, flashing his light at it. “Key’s not here.”

“You find anyone?”

“Not yet. You didn’t tell me there were kids here.”

“I didn’t know. You found kids?”

“Their bedrooms. Boy and a girl. Teens or younger.”

“Cissick is twenty-one. Couldn’t have children that old.”

“Maybe a brother and sister?” Tom asked. “Did Walter have more kids?”

“Not that I know. Dennis was an only child.”

Tom’s imagination took him for another unpleasant ride. Deformed siblings, hidden from the public, raised behind closed doors. Inbred and homicidal. Probably cannibals. The stuff of B-movies, but reality as well. Tom had known real life instances like that. He knew a couple named
Deb and Mal
who had gone through it.

“I’ll go around back,” Roy said. “Meet me there. And don’t shoot any kids. Maybe they’re the ones made the noise.”

It was possible. Kids home alone, playing in the basement. Roy had called to them, and they yelled back as a joke. And now a cop had broken into the house and they were freaked out and hiding. Though Tom still could cite probable cause as his reason for entering, if an angry homeowner called Tom’s boss—or worse, some reporter—it could cause a lot of trouble.

But that cry for help hadn’t sounded like kids goofing around. It had sounded genuine.

Tom walked back through the living room, into the kitchen. The smell had gotten worse. Like someone was keeping a large animal in the house and not cleaning up after it. Tom went through the kitchen, into a utility room with a washer and dryer, and to the back door.

Another deadbolt without a key.

Now the only way to let Roy in was to break down a door or window. And if it was only children…

POW POW POW!

“Tommy, you there?”

Tom flinched. It was just Roy, pounding on the door.

“Door is locked here, too,” Tom said.

“Shit. Team will be here in a minute. But if those are kids in there, and we break down the door…”

“I had the same thought.”

“You check the basement yet? That’s where the sounds came from.”

“I’m doing that now.”

“Well, move your ass. It’s about to turn into a circus out here. You want Fox news to show up?”

“I had the same thought,” Tom said again.

“Stop thinking, start searching.”

Tom played the flashlight around the utility room area, saw a heavy door with a steel security bar going across it. That eliminated the
children playing around
theory; there was no way they could lock themselves into the basement and then drop the bar back down.

He went to the door, lifting up the metal barricade, setting it next to the jamb, wondering who would lock a basement in such a way, and why.

Tom reached for the knob slowly, like it would give him an electric shock when he touched it. More videos from his misspent youth clouded his thoughts.
Beyond the Door. The People Under the Stairs. Don’t Look in the Basement.

Just dumb movies. Tom was overreacting. He grabbed the knob, and just as he was ready to turn it—

POW POW POW!

—his partner banged on the door again, making Tom jump a few inches.

“Team is here.”

“Hold up. I found the basement.”

“What you waiting on?”

“It’s spooky.”

“Spooky? You serious?”

“There was a big metal bar over the door.”

Roy didn’t answer.

“Roy? You still there?”

“How about you get out of there, let the team go in.”

A few years ago, Roy wouldn’t have said that. Their ongoing bromance insisted they pick on each other’s weaknesses, and in the past Roy would have mercilessly teased Tom for being a coward. But after what they’d gone through in
South Carolina
, and the PTSD that followed, neither man played the action hero anymore. If things got scary, they both knew to wait for back-up.

Except back-up was already here. And even if this was getting scary, what did Tom have to fear from something locked in the basement?

“I’ll just do a quick check,” Tom said. Though the words felt weak coming out of his mouth.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Put your cell on speaker phone, so I can hear what’s going on. Say the word and the cavalry will rush in.”

“Got it.” Tom slipped his cell phone out of his jacket, speed dialed Roy, and hit the speaker button.

“You hear me?” Tom asked.

“Loud and clear, partner. Be careful.”

“Roger that.”

Tom held his iPhone in the same hand as his penlight, and with his other he turned the knob and pulled. The door swung open with an obligatory, creepy creak.

The smell that wafted up was awful; garbage and sewage and rot surrounding him like a foul breeze. Tom put a sleeve over his mouth and coughed.

“You okay?” Roy, through the phone.

“Bad smell. Going down now.”

“Maybe announce yourself first?”

“Good idea.” He cleared his throat and yelled, “This is Detective Tom Mankowski, Chicago Police. Is anyone down there?”

Silence.

Followed by silence.

The seconds ticked by, and Tom could feel every single one of them. He searched for a light switch on the wall, didn’t find one, and shined his light on the staircase.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m going down,” Tom told Roy.

The stairs were wooden, old. They curved to the left, so Tom couldn’t see the bottom. He went down a step, letting it take his weight, then paused to listen.

There was a tinkling sound, coming from below. Like a chain being dragged along the concrete floor.

“Hello?”

More silence.

“I’m here to help,” Tom said. Though he felt as if he was the one who needed help.

Then came a response. Of sorts. A soft, high-pitched, protracted yipping sound rose up from the darkness below.

Tom shivered, his arms mottling with gooseflesh. The appropriately-sounding technical term was
horripilation
; hair standing on end from fear. Tom knew the word because it had been a question on a game show he’d just seen.

“What the hell was that?” Roy said.

“Hello?” Tom called again.

The ghostly voice got louder. It resembled a sound effect straight out of a haunted house; off-kilter and manic and insane. It might have been a sob. It might have been a giggle. Either way, it was scary enough to make Tom tug out his Glock. He held it with one hand, his flashlight and cell phone with the other, his arms outstretched like he was warding off vampires with a wooden cross and a wreath of garlic.

While Tom did not believe in the supernatural, he had total faith in the depravity of human nature. Whatever was in the basement may not have been paranormal, but it was still damn far from normal.

He went down another step, every muscle tense, finger on the trigger, his breathing matching his increased heart rate. Tom forced himself to take deeper breaths; it wasn’t a good time to pass out from hyperventilation. But this was the first truly scary thing to happen to him in a while, and the fear was asserting its dominance over him.

“I’m here to help,” Tom said to the darkness.

Another step. He could see the concrete floor.

“I’m a cop. I’m armed.”

The acrid smell seemed to double with every stair he descended. Piss. Shit. Blood. Body odor. The stench became so thick Tom was tempted to fan his hand in front of his face, like he might waft away smoke. But he kept both arms fully extended. Gun. Light. Phone. All of them potential life-savers.

While fear of the unknown was common to most of humanity, Tom’s fear was more primal. He was afraid of pain and death. The fight-or-flight response activated in his reptile brain had historical precedent in his life. Tom remembered all-too-well what it was like to be hurt. To almost be killed. Even worse was helplessly waiting to be hurt and killed. Being restrained, to be vivisected like a lab rat. No mercy. No hope. Tom knew that feeling, intimately, and it was the same feeling that crushed him now.

But this time, Tom wasn’t bound. He was free to get the hell out of there. Which is what every cell in his body ached to do.

I’m safe. I have a gun. I have back-up outside. I can get away if I need to.

He tried to take another step.

His feet didn’t listen.

From the darkness came another giggle.

“I’m frozen,” Tom told Roy. His ears reddened in shame.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“In danger?”

“No.”

“I feel you, brother. Been there. We can come in. Just say the word.”

Tom thought of the engagement ring in his pocket. He thought about Joan. About the many happy years ahead. Was his job worth risking all of that? He was willingly marching into a bad situation to prove…

What exactly am I trying to prove?

“We’re coming in,” Roy told him.

“Gimme a second.”

“Tom—”

“A second, Roy.”

Whenever a police officer shot someone, professional counselling was mandatory. If you didn’t get a pass from the district shrink, you didn’t get to return to the streets. Tom had been through the process before, and he understood its purpose. The point wasn’t to make the cop feel better. The point was to make sure the cop could still shoot someone if the situation warranted it. A version of getting back on the horse that threw you.

Tom knew, if he called for help, he’d never be able to get back on the horse. He either had to face the fear now, or hang up the badge.

A soft giggle wafted up the stairs.

Hanging up the badge seemed like a pretty good idea.

He was about to tell Roy to send in the cavalry when the voice in the basement spoke to him.

“Is… heeeee…. dead?”

The voice was hoarse, a high tenor. Tom couldn’t tell if it was male or female.