Somewhere close.
Roy stumbled backward, his bladder constricting, and then fell as his foot stepped into a hole in the floor.
He landed on his ass, strained to get his foot free, and the pain came hard and fast.
Sharp points. Stabbing through his pants, into the flesh of his calf.
A punji trap.
The hole contained spikes, pointed at a downward angle, trapping his foot there. The harder he tried to pull away, the deeper the spikes dug into his leg.
“Hee hee hee.”
Roy swung his flashlight beam, locking onto the sound.
The giggling man who had been stalking Roy through the house for the last two hours was standing only a few meters away. Roy could see him clearly now, for the first time. He was tall, over six feet, wearing a black rubber gas mask that obscured his face. His chest was bare, covered in dried blood. All he wore was stained white underwear, and combat boots, their laces untied.
In the man’s hand was a meat cleaver.
Roy reacted viscerally, immediately trying to scramble away, the spikes digging further into his calf. He cried out in pain, then stared at his stalker.
“Hee hee hee.”
The Giggler didn’t move closer. He simply stood there, swaying slowly from side to side. The BO coming off him coated Roy’s tongue.
Roy pawed for his sidearm, drawing it and pointing the weapon at the man.
“Get the fuck away from me! I swear I’ll kill you!”
The man stared.
“I said get away!”
He continued swaying. Staring.
“Hee hee hee.”
Roy hadn’t signed on for this. It was supposed to be simple. A way to get ahead, provide for his daughter. But the nightmare of the last few hours, the horrors he’d been through, was almost beyond comprehension.
“Someone help me!” he shouted to the house.
The house didn’t answer. But the Giggler did.
“Hee hee.”
Roy reached up, grabbed the sticky electrode on his temple, and tore it off out of defiance. Did the same with the one on his chest.
The giggling man watched, his expression hidden behind his gas mask.
“What the hell do you want?” Roy pleaded.
The man raised the cleaver—
—and placed it against his own chest.
What the hell is this guy going to…?
He drew the cleaver downward, splitting his skin open. The blood flowed, fast and red, soon drenching the man’s soiled underwear.
“Hee hee hee.”
Roy watched, slack-jawed, as the man continued to cut himself, making Xs on his abdomen. Over his nipples. Across his belly button. It wasn’t long before his upper body looked like a dropped plate of spaghetti.
Pain be damned, Roy pulled his attention away from the freak and began to tug on his trapped leg, trying to free himself. His heart was beating so quickly it felt like it was going to break his ribs, and the man’s giggling got louder the more he mutilated himself. But try as he might, Roy couldn’t get his leg out of the hole.
Then the giggling stopped. Replaced by wheezing.
Fast, wet wheezing.
Not wanting to look, but unable to stop himself, Roy once again directed his flashlight at the man.
He’d stopped cutting. And instead, the giggling man had a hand inside his underwear, using the blood as a lubricant while he stroked himself.
Roy shook his head, like a dog after a walk in the rain.
No. Oh no no no no. This is not happening. This is NOT happening.
But it was happening. This wasn’t some elaborate prank. Some gag where a TV crew was going to jump out and shake his hand for being a trooper. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a hallucination.
He’d watched people die tonight. Die horribly. And he was going to be next.
Roy adjusted his flashlight, staring into the hole that refused to release him. He saw five metal rods, digging into his leg from various angles. With a trembling hand, he lowered the KA-BAR knife and tried to cut the first rod free.
The steel was too thick.
Roy took a breath and held it.
Then he gouged the knife into his leg, trying to pry out the bar.
Soon Roy’s screams drowned out the moans coming from his stalker, but even after slicing his calf almost to the bone, the rod continued to hold him.
“Hee hee hee.”
Roy looked up at the Giggler, who had moved several steps closer. He’d apparently finished playing with himself, and was now rubbing his hand across his chest, digging his finger into the cuts and following their lengths, over and over. Like a child finger painting.
Roy aimed the Glock at him, trying to steady his shaking hand.
One bullet. Make it count…
He squeezed the trigger, deadeye on the man’s center mass—
Felt the gun kick—
Got him! I got him! I—
But the giggling man didn’t even flinch. It was as if the bullet passed right through him.
Like he’s a ghost.
He giggled again, “hee hee hee”, and Roy giggled as well. He thought of all the other rounds he’d fired that night, sure he’d hit targets, and now finally understood what had happened.
Bullets can’t kill ghosts.
He raised the KA-BAR like it was a crucifix warding off vampires.
“You want me! Come get me!”
But the giggling man—or whatever it was—just stood there. Watching.
“You gonna just stand there?”
“Hee hee hee hee hee.”
“DO SOMETHING!”
It stopped swaying, and through the damper of its gas mask said, in a deep, wet voice,
“Iiiiiiiiii wiiiilllll.”
The throb in Roy’s leg began to abide, replaced by a tingling numbness. His head began to cloud.
Blood loss? Exhaustion?
Roy closed his eyes. He knew if he passed out, things would only get worse. Being at the mercy of that thing was unthinkable, and there were others in the house even worse.
Roy closed his eyes.
He thought about his ex-wife. Their daughter. She only saw her daddy twice a month, due to his wife’s overzealous lawyer.
Now she’d never see him again.
The image in Roy’s head was fuzzy, growing fuzzier.
“I’m sorry,” he told his child, his eyes brimming with tears.
Then the Giggler pounced.
FOUR DAYS LATER
Cleveland , Ohio
Mal
Mallory Dieter knew by his wife’s breathing that she was also awake.
He thought about reaching for her, holding her close, but she didn’t like being touched while trying to sleep. It startled her, even made her yell sometimes. At three in the morning, even a whisper from Mal could make Deb jump.
Mal understood this. Intimately.
Because he felt exactly the same way.
The bed was the best money could buy. The kind where each side could be adjusted for maximum comfort. No bedframe, so nothing could hide under it. Expensive pillows, some with goose down, some with memory foam. Sheets with a 400 thread count. A ceiling fan that provided a gentle breeze, and calming white noise.
But all that wasn’t nearly enough.
Mal shifted, slowly so he didn’t scare her, letting Deb know they were both in the same boat.
“Need another Xanax?” Deb whispered. “I’ll be up. I can watch you.”
Often the only way either got to sleep was when one offered to watch over the other.
“Gotta work early. But you can take one, and I’ll watch you.”
Deb turned, rolling against him, the weight of her body both reassuring and confining. She trusted him enough to hook her thigh over him—a thigh missing the calf below the knee. Years ago, a fall while mountain climbing had taken Deb’s legs.
But that wasn’t the fear that kept her awake.
Mal knew it was something far worse.
A fear he also shared.
The Rushmore Inn.