《A Happy Place》


 CHAPTER ONE

    Beth snored in the passenger seat to my right as I pushed my head over the steering wheel of our Ford Fiesta, hoping that would somehow make it easier to see through the downpour.


    Fuck the Jersey Turnpike. Fuck the rain.


    I tried flipping on the radio, totally forgetting that it was broken. My Iphone, mounted to the dash, stood silent¡ª its map informing me that I had many hours to go before I could sleep. The coffee was long gone, my eyes were getting heavy, and the windshield wipers did an awful job even when cranked to the max.


    A stupid thought slipped into my mind in that moment: people always talk about the best time for needing a vacation is right after a vacation and that¡¯s because they spend it driving, and oh-ing and ah-ing and taking pictures of all the places they hike to. There¡¯s little relaxation during a productive vacation. The plan was to make our way north to Maine and stay at a secluded bed & breakfast before slowly returning down the coast, catching the big eastern cities on the drive home, or stopping wherever we felt like. That seemed nice enough¡ª I¡¯d always wanted to see more than what our little corner of the states had to offer. However, nobody informed me that Yanks drive like they don¡¯t want to be alive anymore. I¡¯d almost been run off the road twice and everyone went twenty over on the freeway.


    The car in front of me, a Prius, braked hard¡ª this forced me to give my own brakes a healthy push and that¡¯s when I felt the wheel shake in my hands and the Fiesta groaned as the whole car quaked. The Prius took off again and I tried the gas, but the shaking continued until I nearly felt my teeth rattle.


    Beth let out a noise, rubbed her red puffy face and lifted her head¡ª her dirty-blonde hair clung to her right cheek and crept into the corner of her mouth. ¡°What are you doing?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s the fucking rotors,¡± I said.


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible. I had the car looked over for the trip, just like you said.¡±


    ¡°Did you tell them to specifically look at the rotors?¡±


    ¡°I gave them a list of stuff.¡±


    ¡°Dammit, Beth, did you tell them to check the rotors or not?¡±


    ¡°Could you not? I literally just opened my eyes.¡± She said.


    I shifted my gaze over to her for a millisecond, never wanting to take my eyes from the road for long¡ª not around these crazy drivers. My shoulders slumped and a sigh escaped me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m just really tired.¡±


    Beth leaned forward and popped open the glove box. ¡°Look, I know they left the papers in here somewhere for the different stuff they checked. Brakes were on there. Tires. Oil. All that stuff was on it.¡± She rifled through the papers. ¡°Ah. Here it is!¡± A quietness entered the car as she looked over the bill. ¡°Yup. Rotors are on here.¡±


    ¡°Then I don¡¯t know what the hell¡¯s wrong with it. But it¡¯s freaking me out.¡±


    I felt the cool touch of her fingers tickle around my collar, forcing my skin to break out in goosepimples. ¡°Oh, baby, you really are tired. Would you like to swap?¡±


    Against my exhausted body¡¯s will, my head shook. ¡°I think if we stop off at the next place for gas, I could push on for another two hours.¡±


    ¡°No, no. You¡¯re totally obliterated. Look at you.¡±


    I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, my eyes glistened red, bloodshot, totally manic. ¡°Alright. Alright. You¡¯re right. I¡¯ll just go for a little while longer¡ª until we need to stop for gas.¡±


    The rain continued the further north I went and the hum of it hitting the roof of the car created a white noise that made it impossible to focus, so I pulled off at a Wawa station sooner than I¡¯d expected.


    We filled the tank with the rain still pissing and I leaned against the car, watching the numbers while Beth ran inside for the bathroom and snacks.


    Life should¡¯ve been easier; nobody tells you you¡¯re going to end up in your thirties on a vacation that¡¯s supposed to relieve the stress on your marriage. No one tells you that you end up fighting well past midnight. And it¡¯s no wonder that they don¡¯t, because I don¡¯t think that most people do those sorts of things in good relationships. Beth¡¯s miscarriage took an otherwise perfect marriage and strangled it. The worst of it was for her. The physical toll of carrying a child for seven months only to notice heavy spotting when you go to the bathroom. You rush to your husband in a panic and he tries to calm you but he has no idea what¡¯s going on¡ª he only knows he should hurry you to the hospital to make sure it¡¯s nothing out of the ordinary¡ª all the while he¡¯s freaking out inside. Then you get the news, and they need to take it from your body because it¡¯s no longer viable.


    God, we tried for so long. It was going to be a girl and even though I joked about how if it weren¡¯t a boy I wouldn¡¯t help, I didn¡¯t mean it. That¡¯s the sort of stuff that pops into my head sometimes. Like I somehow willed it to happen. Grief will fuck you up like that.


    Like I said, the worst of it was for her; that¡¯s probably why she shut down the way she did. Then I did something. Something I¡¯ll never be able to take back. There was this young girl that worked the counter at Tastee Freez in our hometown; she was so full of life and so happy and leggy and tan and she laughed at my jokes. And Beth felt so far away.


    There are no good reasons and there never will be. That¡¯s what I told Beth when I confessed. Something like, ¡°I have no excuse for my actions. All I can say is that I¡¯m sorry and I won¡¯t ever ever ever do anything like that ever again.¡±


    I still remember the expression on her face; it hardly changed. Beth was like a zombie. It seemed that she¡¯d been so broken down that she accepted my infidelity like it was the obvious next step in the world falling apart. At least that¡¯s how it was for a moment. Then the crying came; she bawled¡ª I cried too. But she slapped me. A lot. Her arms came so fast I didn¡¯t even feel them; I was stunned and all I could do was take the blows till she fell into my chest and screamed and when she pulled away from me, I could see hurt there¡ª undoubtedly¡ª but I saw anger like I¡¯d never seen before.


    I think there was a constant shift for a while between her hating me and her hating herself. I could take the hate, I think, but her hating herself because of what I¡¯d done hurt a thousand times more.


    The gas pump clicked to let me know the tank on the Fiesta was full and I blinked, cradling the handle before screwing the gas cap closed. Beth ran up to the rear of the car with a bag of goodies in one hand while she attempted to maneuver the minefield of rain puddles in the parking lot.


    ¡°I got those gummies you like,¡± she said. ¡°They¡¯re sour, just like you.¡±


    I stood frozen; the way the overhead lights of the gas station pump roof caught her rain-drenched hair and how she smiled felt good and normal. ¡°I love you.¡±


    She seemed surprised. ¡°I love you too.¡±


    Sleeping in a car is something I¡¯ve never been good at, because no matter how I adjust myself it always seems like I wake up with a crick in my neck; still, I tried slumping my body in the corner against the window in the passenger side of the Fiesta with my right hand against my cheek. Surprisingly, sleep came much easier than expected and I did not open my eyes again until it was full dark out except car lights. Looking to Beth, I could see she was stiff and hypnotized by a long drive.


    ¡°Hey.¡± I rubbed my eyes. ¡°Where are we?¡±


    Beth flinched at my words popping the quiet. ¡°Coming up on Belfast.¡±


    ¡°How long was I out?¡±


    ¡°Quite a few hours. God, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re awake though. You were sleeping like the dead and had me worried. I thought about poking you to make sure you were still alive.¡± This was followed by a small snicker.


    I looked at the time on the dashboard; it read 9:14. ¡°Oh my god. We¡¯re getting there later than I thought.¡±


    She nodded along drearily. ¡°GPS rerouted and took me for a ride while you were out. Brakes are still acting up, but we haven¡¯t wrecked yet, have we?¡±


    ¡°Yeah-yeah.¡±


    The trees lining the freeway reminded me of home. Northern pines were much the same as the ones down south as far as I could tell, and the only real difference was the abundance of scrawny birch trees that stood stark white against the night.


    Beth spoke up again. ¡°You don¡¯t think the bed and breakfast people are going to be upset with us showing up so late, do you?¡±


    ¡°They know we¡¯re from out-of-town. I think they¡¯ll understand.¡± That was more of a hope than a fact. I¡¯d spoken to the woman on the phone¡ª Retta¡ª to reserve our room, but beyond pictures of the place and minor details, I knew hardly anything about them. As far as I could tell, it was a couple of retirees that had settled in Ellsworth, near Lamoine. The bed & breakfast was quaint, directly by a lake, and had amazing reviews online. Really, it was far from all our problems at home, so this seemed as good a place as any other far-off land.


    ¡°I really hope that¡¯s the case,¡± said Beth. ¡°I hate to think that we¡¯re going to wake them up, banging on their door in the middle of the night.¡±


    ¡°Eh. We¡¯re like an hour out. It¡¯ll be before midnight by the time we get there.¡± And then I went on to add, ¡°As long as the GPS doesn¡¯t play anymore of its tricks on us.¡±


    Beth cut her eyes in my direction before sighing and smiling. ¡°Route one is gorgeous. You get to see so much coast on it. I rolled down the windows earlier to catch the smell of saltwater¡ª I¡¯m surprised it didn¡¯t wake you.¡±


    ¡°I really was dead, wasn¡¯t I? My bad. I didn¡¯t mean to sleep that long.¡±


    The rest of the car ride was filled with the hum of the Fiesta¡¯s engine, coupled with an occasional bout of shaking whenever she¡¯d hit the brakes¡ª like all long car rides, we spoke in brief sprints about the most inane, inconsequential things that could easily be forgotten in the next breath.


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    By the time we pulled into the gravel lot of the bed & breakfast, it was sometime after ten and we hurried from the car to stretch our legs and tug at the shirts clinging on our sweaty backs.


    Just beyond the gravel lot was the lake and beside it was the two-story house¡ª dense trees told us we were miles from anywhere. The structure stood against the already dark sky, cut out black and angular it cast its long shadow over us¡ª yellow light coming from just beyond thin curtains in its square windows let us know those inside were still awake. Cat tail plants stood along the edge of the drainage ditch between the desolate street and the wood-burned sign that read: Happy Place B&B. The house was obviously much longer than it was wide which hinted at the fact that an addition had been added, but I could scarcely make out where the old and new met. A porch sat along the front of it, adorned with wooden benches and chairs with kitschy pillows. Beside the parking area was an immaculately kept garden in the shape of a heart; this had not been in any of the pictures online, but it was a welcome sight. Whoever lived here had undoubtedly filled the house with love and maybe me and Beth could learn something from it.


    The parking lot could¡¯ve held at least ten cars, but there was only our Fiesta and a black Chevrolet truck.


    We popped the trunk, and I started the task of slipping straps of luggage around my throat, trying my best to balance out my right side from my left. I grinned at Beth as she rolled her eyes before removing a roller case from the back seat. ¡°I could help with those, you know.¡±


    I reassured her, ¡°I¡¯ve got it, I¡¯ve got it.¡±


    I followed her with a wide gait, taking the small stone path leading to the steps of the porch.


    The door opened before our feet touched the steps and a warm yellow glow traced the outline of two old people¡ª a man and a woman. He stood tall and broad with a gut poking out from beneath his shirt. She looked small and slightly bent with a warm smile beneath her glasses that doubled the size of her eyes.


    ¡°Hello!¡± said the woman. ¡°I¡¯m Retta and this is my husband, John. Would you two like any help with your luggage?¡±


    I shook my head, angling up to the doorway just behind Beth¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ve got it.¡±


    John, grinning, said, ¡°That¡¯s a surefire way to hurt your back, son.¡± I immediately felt like he was the sort of old guy that called everyone ¡®son¡¯ and that felt welcoming after such a long drive.


    The old woman pushed the glasses up on her nose. ¡°You two must be awfully tired from the drive. Why don¡¯t you come on in and I¡¯ll give you the tour before we head off to bed.¡±


    Beth¡¯s voice came small and apologetic, ¡°You¡¯ve not been waiting up for us, have you?¡±


    ¡°Oh, honey,¡± said Retta, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. John¡¯s arthritis normally keeps him up most nights anyway.¡±


    Retta led us in, and John shut the door behind us before locking it. The first thing that struck me was just how cozy everything felt. Stacked from floor to ceiling were books of varying sizes. Most were by famous authors like John Grisham, Dean Koontz, and Patricia Cornwell. But some of them looked like they were religious, spiritual, or otherwise informative field guides on Maine¡¯s wilderness. Ornaments dotted the shelves; a few of them were model cars, but the bulk of them were small porcelain children milking cows or leisurely sitting around a picnic basket or doing some other uneventful activity. Vintage automotive sheet-metal posters hung in some odd spaces of the walls, each one dedicated to a piece of Americana gone-by.


    ¡°This is the common area,¡± said Retta. ¡°Although you two probably won¡¯t be sharing it with any other guests¡ª things have been uncommonly slow around here these days.¡± A self-reflective sigh came from the small woman. ¡°Just on the other side of this door,¡± she motioned to a door leading toward the rear of the house; a piece of white paper was taped to it that read: PRIVATE. Strangely enough, I caught the scent of a bitterness waft from it, but I shrugged this off as old-people-smell. ¡°Is where John and I live, so if you have any inquiries, just give us a knock and we¡¯ll help in any way we can.¡± Then she nodded at the innumerable piles of books. ¡°Also, feel free to read any of the books you see here. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve seen the lake; our house sits on twenty acres so feel free to explore the property. It doesn¡¯t seem like much, and you probably didn¡¯t see it in the dark, but just by the lake, there¡¯s a trail that leads into the woods. It¡¯s quite peaceful. Now, do either of you drink coffee?¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± I said.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Retta as she pointed to a small nook with a table and chairs that looked out over the porch. ¡°We serve breakfast every morning at about eight thirty, but we should have the coffee on by seven. Upstairs.¡± She pointed up and led us by a pile of old crime novels, before slowly taking the stairs one at a time. She went on, ¡°We keep plenty of board games on one of our bookcases and you are more than welcome to them. Everything from Boggle to Monopoly.¡±


    The second-floor landing was also piled with books and hardly an inch of wall was left blank. Cutesy scarecrows smiled at us, and ragdolls filled portions of unused space. Retta took us down a hallway by a small limp clown in a child¡¯s rocking chair.


    ¡°And here,¡± said Retta, pushing in the nearest door, ¡°Is your room.¡±


    Beth entered first, rolling her case around to the far side of the bed, and I stumbled in after her with the other luggage, gratefully slipping the bags off me and settling on the bed. The room was small¡ª perhaps a foot of room between the bed and the walls remained on all sides¡ª and it too had what I might call ¡°grandma things¡± on the walls; most notably, there was a small chipped wooden plank hanging over the inside of the doorway that read: Happy Are Those That Share Their Toys. It had the same wood-burned lettering as the sign that hung outside; it was homemade.


    ¡°Do you have any questions?¡± asked Retta.


    ¡°No, I think we¡¯ll be fine,¡± said Beth.


    ¡°Alright.¡± The old woman closed the door, but just before it latched, she got in a quick, ¡°Goodnight.¡±


    I went to the door and locked it. Scanning the room, I saw there was a door at the foot of the bed, I moseyed over to it and pushed it in to reveal a small bathroom with hardly enough room for the shower, toilet, and sink contained therein. ¡°It¡¯s cozy, isn¡¯t it?¡± I asked Beth, but as I turned, I saw she¡¯d already splayed out on the bed with her face down on one of the pillows. I smiled and moved to her. ¡°Tired?¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± she muffled.


    I nudged her over and took the place next to her. She scooted in close to me and put her head on my shoulder; I could feel her breath on my neck while I stroked her hair. Physical intimacy was a rarity, and it was gone in a flash as she shifted to kick off her shoes then her pants before curling into a ball facing away from me. We clicked off the lamps and I sat in the dark, totally wired, as Beth began to snore next to me.


    Me sleeping on the drive in made it difficult to close my eyes and keep them that way, so I slid from the blankets and rummaged through a bag by the light of my phone; once I¡¯d found my deck of smokes, I crept into the hallway, shutting the bedroom door behind me as slowly as I could manage. With nothing more than the dim light of my phone¡ª I didn¡¯t want to accidentally blind either John or Retta if I happened upon them in the dark with the flashlight¡ª I made my way down the stairs and found the door leading outside. I heard the faint sound of music, but it wasn¡¯t coming from their PRIVATE area of the house, it was instead coming from the porch. I pushed the front door open and stepped outside to find John sitting on a wooden chair with an old fold-out record player next to him on a side table.


    He acknowledged me with a comfortable nod as Nat King Cole¡¯s soothing voice exited the speaker of the player. ¡°Can¡¯t sleep?¡± asked the old man. He took a few quick puffs off a fat cigar.


    I nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡± Removing a cigarette, I lit it and joined him in an opposite chair. ¡°Good music.¡± I nodded at the player.


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s alright. Would you care for a drink? It might help you sleep.¡± John craned over in his chair and removed a small bottle of vodka from behind the opened top of the player.


    I probably shouldn¡¯t have. It seemed somehow inappropriate, but something about John¡¯s relaxed demeanor encouraged me. ¡°Sure.¡±


    He produced two glasses and poured us each a glass before taking a hefty swig from one of them and passing me the other; looking at his outstretched hand I could see his knuckles were swollen and my mind returned to what Retta had said about his arthritis. I sipped mine before placing it between my knees.


    John took another puff from his cigar then held his arm limply off to the side, allowing a bit of ash to fall before he rubbed it into the slats of the porch boards with his shoe. ¡°You¡¯ll like it here. It¡¯s nice. Acadia¡¯s only a stone¡¯s throw away, you know. And if you never make your way over there, we¡¯ve got lots of scenery here too.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ve wanted to come to Maine for a long time.¡±


    ¡°Where are you from originally?¡±


    ¡°North Carolina.¡±


    ¡°Carolinas are nice. It¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve seen them.¡±


    There was a long pause in the conversation that neared on awkward. ¡°You guys have a nice place here.¡±


    John nodded, as though this were an obvious fact and not a compliment. ¡°We try. It¡¯s always been our dream to have a little place like this.¡±


    I idly smoked my cigarette and attempted drinking my glass to match his; it burned.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a nice wife, mister.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you can call me Greg.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a nice wife, Greg. You two seem like a really sweet couple. But you know when you¡¯re in a relationship, there¡¯s going to bumps in the road.¡±


    This felt immediately too personal for a stranger. ¡°Uh-huh,¡± I said. It also took me to my affair. Bumps in the road. He was not wrong about that. But sometimes that bump felt like a mountain.


    ¡°That¡¯s why you¡¯ve got to share every bit of yourself with the person you love. And never be afraid to share them with the world.¡± John blinked slowly then shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He held up the bottle. ¡°I¡¯ve had a little too much, I think. It¡¯s none of my business. You two are young; you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡± I must admit, in that moment, I felt a soft spot for the old codger. Under different circumstances, I might have shared a few more glasses with him and chatted the night away. Once my cigarette was gone, I drank my glass empty and stood; a warmth overtook me, and my steps were a little out of my control. He wasn¡¯t wrong about it helping with sleep. My flushing face felt like it needed a cool pillow. With some luck, I¡¯d be able to catch some z¡¯s after all.


    ¡°Goodnight, Greg.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight, John.¡± I handed him my glass and moved to the front door.


    Passing through the cave of books and dolls and model cars, I pushed my way upstairs and into our bedroom.


    Shuffling in the dark, I removed my pants and slide under the sheet, throwing an arm around Beth. I¡¯d guessed right, the cool pillow felt nice. I felt my mind begin to drift off to sleep.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to apologize?¡± asked Beth to the open black room.


    ¡°Huh?¡± I said.


    ¡°Well? Aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°You tried to get fresh with me a few minutes ago and you wouldn¡¯t stop until I slapped your hand. Then you stormed off.¡±


    I tried remembering if I¡¯d done anything like that. ¡°What? I didn¡¯t try to ¡®get fresh¡¯.¡±


    I felt Beth roll over in the bed to face me. ¡°Yes, you did. You kissed my neck and tried putting your hand up my shirt.¡±


    My heart skipped a beat and panicked understanding took over. ¡°That wasn¡¯t me. I did not do that, honey.¡±


    She clicked on the lamp on her bedside table. ¡°Why are you lying?¡± Her face begged me to tell her that I was.


    I swallowed hard and sat up in bed. ¡°I stepped out for a cigarette and came right back.¡± I left out my drink with John because it felt unrelated. My mind shot to who the culprit might have been. John? No. He couldn¡¯t have been that fast and I¡¯d just seen him. Retta? Surely not, she seemed too nice for something like that. Was there another guest on the premises that we didn¡¯t know about?


    There was a pause as Beth¡¯s gaze drifted across the room. ¡°You must¡¯ve.¡±


    I shook my head. My heart pounded till I could hear it in my ears. Then my rational brain took over, hoping to quell the sick thought that someone had snuck into our room while I was out, and she was half-asleep. ¡°Did you dream it?¡±


    ¡°Maybe? Maybe. I might have.¡± She sounded unsatisfied with this idea but continued trying to convince me and herself of it; it did not work. ¡°Yeah. I probably dreamed it. Gosh, I really hope I dreamed it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s got to be it. Probably.¡±


    I double checked that our door was locked, and we turned out the lights, but both of us were too shaken by the possibility of an unknown prowler to go directly to sleep. We laid in the dark breathing, sweating, but not speaking a word in hopes that we may at some point forget the ordeal. The longer I stared at the black ceiling, the more I believed it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

 CHAPTER TWO

    Eventually, her slow heavy breathing matched my own and we fell to sleep.


    My eyes opened at light coming in through the window by the bed; as I pushed the blanket off and slid my feet to the floor, I saw Beth was still sleeping. The drive had really done her in. I went to the bathroom and shut the door so as to not disturb her then urged my bladder to empty itself while I fought through a series of yawns.


    After fidgeting with the shower to get the right temperature, I received approximately two minutes of hot water before I bit my tongue through the shock of a sudden icy cool shower. Giving up after a quick wash, I swiped my body with a towel and stepped out of the bathroom wearing nothing. Beth¡¯s drooling face slobbered down the side of her pillow. That. That right there is the woman I love.


    A draft met my exposed skin, and my eyes went to the door leading to the hall. It stood open no more than a crack, but my stomach twisted at the thought of someone peering in. I rushed to the door and pushed into it, locking it. Beth telling me about the way ¡®I¡¯ tried ¡®getting fresh¡¯ with her the previous night flooded my mind and my extremities went cold as a dizzy spell forced me to the bed. Were the old couple playing a sick joke on us? If so, it wasn¡¯t funny. Could I have somehow forgotten to lock the door the previous night? Had I even shut the door? I was being forgetful, surely. The drive must¡¯ve sapped me so badly¡ª plus I¡¯d drank a bit of liquor¡ª I¡¯d totally forgotten to shut the door last night. I knew that was a lie. I knew I¡¯d locked that damned door. My skin crawled at the thought of someone looking in on us while we¡¯d slept. Had they tried ¡®getting fresh¡¯ after we¡¯d gone to bed? Had someone touched us in our sleep without us knowing? I felt sick, but more than that I felt scared; even if I tried to pretend that I wasn¡¯t.


    My gaze drifted to the plank hanging over the doorway. Happy Are Those That Share Their Toys. The most creative and absurd part of my brain insisted this meant something. What? I couldn¡¯t be certain.


    I shook Beth awake and she groaned, pushing me away to bury her head beneath the blanket. ¡°Honey, wake up. It¡¯s a blue sun shiny day!¡± I tried that last sentence in a mock falsetto.


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you,¡± she said, whipping the blanket down.


    ¡°You know, if you tried caffeine once in a while, it¡¯d help.¡±


    ¡°If you tried not waking me up, it would help you in living longer.¡±


    ¡°Yeah-yeah. Did I lock the door last night?¡±


    Her eyes shot wide open, and she propped herself against the headboard. ¡°I¡¯m sure you did, didn¡¯t you? What¡¯s the matter?¡±


    ¡°The door was open this morning. I¡¯m probably being silly, but it gave me the creeps.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s pretty creepy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking we should get a hotel or something.¡±


    ¡°Do you really think so?¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    She rubbed sand from the corners of her eyes. ¡°We¡¯re probably just being silly, right?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I agreed without believing it. ¡°But what if we¡¯re not?¡±


    ¡°It was a long drive. That¡¯s probably the reason for it. It¡¯s just got us on edge.¡± She pushed herself off the bed and stood by the window, removing a band from her wrist to wrangle her hair into a sloppy bun. ¡°Besides, I¡¯m hungry. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s just our mind playing tricks on us.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± An unwilling sigh escaped me. ¡°But if we keep getting the creeps, we¡¯re leaving ASAP, right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    I got dressed as she showered¡ª her initial squeal at the cold water forced a laugh out of me¡ª and waited for her to blow dry her hair before I would leave the room. I would never have admitted it aloud, but I did not want to leave her alone again¡ª I also did not want to go downstairs by myself.


    From somewhere below, I could hear the faint sound of a woman¡¯s voice¡ª a voice that I was sure belonged to Patsy Cline¡ª John had undoubtedly placed his record player somewhere in the common room.


    Once Beth was dressed, I cracked open the door to the hallway and nudged it open centimeter by centimeter. My stomach dropped into my shoes. It took me a moment to realize I was staring into the still face of a circus clown. My breath caught in my throat, and I flung the door open in a burst of energy, ready to confront the thing. It took a full second of staring at it before I realized it was the clown doll that we¡¯d passed in the hall the night prior. Its dead eyes stared blankly up at me from its seated position in that small chair. I walked to it and flipped the thing backwards. Just then, a ludicrous thought entered my mind. Old couple. Secluded house. Lots of dolls. What if the dolls were alive? I laughed at myself for being so ridiculous. ¡°Whoever thought clowns were cute? Fucking weird.¡± I was just angry it¡¯d startled me.


    The smell of coffee met me, and I momentarily let me guard down; it smelled good! Me and Beth held each other¡¯s hand, moving around the corner to the second-floor landing; we took the stairs slowly, on our tiptoes so as to make as little noise as possible. By the time we met the common area, the voice of Patsy Cline belted out the lines to ¡°Sweet Dreams¡±. Two glass bowls sat on the table in the nook; we timidly approached them like we expected them to leap from the table. They were yogurt with a healthy sprinkling of granola and blueberries. Our hands relaxed in one another¡¯s.


    The door marked PRIVATE slammed open, and we were greeted with the grinning enlarged eyes of Retta. ¡°Good morning!¡± she said. ¡°How¡¯d you sleep?¡± She wiped her hands down the front of a white apron.


    Before I had a moment to tell her, Beth spoke up, ¡°It was wonderful.¡± She shot me a look.


    ¡°Oh! I¡¯m happy to hear that. Coffee.¡± She pointed at me and then Beth. ¡°And would you like some OJ?¡±


    ¡°Yes, thank you.¡±


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll be right back with your drinks. I¡¯m still working on the waffles, but I put out some yogurt for you two.¡± She nodded at the bowls in the nook.


    It was delicious and I finished the bowl off in less than five or six scoops. Beth picked at hers, chewing on each individual blueberry.


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    The waffles looked divine, the coffee was good, but the thing that really bothered me was after Retta had returned with a syrup container and a third chair. The only thought I had was something along the lines of ¡®please don¡¯t sit down with us¡¯. She did not. Instead, she delicately placed a ragdoll in the third chair and pushed the glasses up on her nose.


    ¡°I hope you two don¡¯t mind if Maggie joins you for breakfast. She¡¯s not a big eater or much on conversation, but she¡¯s a really good listener.¡± Maggie merely slumped in her seat, staring me down with her glassy black eyes.


    ¡°Uh,¡± I started.


    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± said Beth, touching my leg under the table with her foot.


    Retta returned behind the PRIVATE door.


    In a hushed whisper I craned over the table, ¡°She¡¯s fucking crazy.¡±


    ¡°Oh, c¡¯mon,¡± said Beth, ¡°She¡¯s just an eccentric old lady.¡±


    ¡°This is fucking creepy, and I hate it. You said if things got too creepy, we would leave. I lifted the doll by one of its mitten-shaped hands. ¡°Is this little shit creepy enough for you?¡±


    ¡°Alright. I admit. It¡¯s a little off-putting¡ª but if you pretend it isn¡¯t there, it¡¯s not so bad.¡± Beth offered a meager smile, but it felt empty.


    ¡°Really? For all we know, Retta¡¯s the one that snuck into our room last night.¡± I couldn¡¯t admit the weird thought I¡¯d had about the dolls coming to life.


    ¡°Well, what do you want to do? Pack up our things and find a hotel? Don¡¯t you think they¡¯d feel like we were leaving because of them? You want to leave over what was probably a dream I had?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I¡¯d rather be alive than rude.¡±


    ¡°Relax, Greg. It¡¯s not that big of a deal. It¡¯s just a doll. It¡¯s just a couple of weird old people.¡±


    I dropped Maggie into her seat but couldn¡¯t bring myself to eat the waffles with the doll watching me. Feeling defeated but hoping to pivot the conversation to leaving, if only for a little while I said, ¡°I was thinking we could go up to Acadia today. I heard it¡¯s supposed to be great this time of year.¡±


    ¡°That sounds fine to me.¡± She sliced into her waffle with a butter knife and slammed a bite into her mouth.


    The thought of leaving the bed & breakfast made me feel better, if only a little.


    Once we finished, we stepped out onto the front porch; it was a perfect summer day¡ª windy and sunny.


    As we approached the car, my stomach knotted and sweat broke out across my forehead; I felt physically ill by what I was looking at. The two front tires of the Fiesta sat under the weight of the vehicle, totally deflated. ¡°What the fuck?¡± I panicked and charged over to the nearest tire, touching it with my fingers. I had to be sure it was real.


    ¡°Oh my god,¡± said Beth.


    In my mind, I knew immediately it was them. One of them had come out and slashed our tires the previous night. That¡¯s the only thing that made a lick of sense. This wasn¡¯t a joke, this wasn¡¯t our mind playing tricks on us, we had irrefutable evidence.


    ¡°I-I can¡¯t believe this,¡± I stammered. My eyes locked with Beth¡¯s as I stood and dusted off the knees of my jeans. The absolute horror of being stuck in the middle of nowhere creeped up my body and I imagined my expression matched that of Beth¡¯s: shock, panic, grasping for rationality. ¡°These psychos slashed our fucking tires.¡±


    ¡°N-no,¡± she hushed.


    ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°The rotors?¡± asked Beth. I knew what she was doing; she was attempting any other option. Anything besides the obvious. I believe that for the first time in my life I understood the willful ignorance of characters in horror flicks.


    ¡°Hey!¡± We both whipped our head over to see John poking his head out of the front door. He offered a big grin and a questioning nod. ¡°Everything alright?¡±


    ¡°Uh, yeah!¡± said Beth.


    ¡°Looks like you¡¯ve got a flat,¡± he said. Like he didn¡¯t know!


    ¡°Uh, yeah.¡±


    John swaggered onto the stone path leading to the gravel lot, leaning over to get a better look at the tires. ¡°Wow,¡± he said, ¡°Imagine that! You¡¯ve got two duds at once. I¡¯ve never seen anything like that. Talk about bad luck,¡± He chortled. ¡°Welp, there¡¯s no helping it. Why don¡¯t you two come back in and I¡¯ll dial a mechanic?¡±


    My skin tingled and my mouth was dry, but I managed the words, ¡°H-how do we know you didn¡¯t do this?¡±


    He cocked his head. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°You two are big time-time weirdos. How do I know you didn¡¯t sneak out here and pop our tires?¡±


    John swiveled his head in bewilderment. ¡°Why in the Jumping-Jesus would I do something like that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Why would you?¡± My eyes darted to Beth for support, but she remained stone frozen.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± he asked, ¡°Listen, I told you, I¡¯ll call a mechanic and he¡¯ll come out and pick the car up, alright? Hell, if it makes you more comfortable, you can just as well wait out here for him. No skin off my nose. We open our home, and you go on acting foolish. Bah!¡± He threw up his hands and stomped to the front porch.


    I nearly believed him. Nearly.


    Me and Beth waited in the yard, with me sitting against the hood and her admiring the heart shaped garden. Flies buzzed around our heads as the sun made its full crest the trees. It became miserably hot. Forty minutes passed with me constantly checking my phone¡¯s time and Beth sporadically commenting that I¡¯d probably overreacted and that stranger things had happened. The look on her face paired with the way that John had acted forced even me to second-guess myself. Could it have been that this was all a misunderstanding? Could I have blown all of this way out of proportion?


    Someone had possibly snuck into our room, opened the door to watch us last night, and now our tires were as flat as pancakes. No, these geriatric gremlins were up to something; we were leaving and if that meant we¡¯d leave behind the bags we¡¯d packed, then so be it.


    I tried my data, getting only a single bar. ¡°I think I¡¯m going to try and call a tow truck myself. I don¡¯t think John¡¯s actually called them¡±


    Beth, red faced, nodded along.


    I paced back and forth with my phone over my head, trying to Google the number to any nearby garage that might have a tow truck.


    A high-pitched womanly shriek jolted my whole body so that I dropped my phone¡ª the scream echoed from the house and a row of loons escaped the lake and took flight. I scrambled for my phone just as the scream came again, much more desperate, anguished. Pulling my phone up to my face, I saw it was cracked down its left side; Beth darted towards the house before I even had a moment to realize what happened.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I said.


    ¡°She might be hurt!¡± Beth pleaded.


    She¡¯d reached the porch and disappeared within before I had the time to even start moving. I was angry, sure, and I did not want to go back into the Happy Place B&B, but I was also confused, hot, and worried.


    Beth and I should¡¯ve been more levelheaded than that. Should¡¯a would¡¯a could¡¯a.


    I nearly tripped over the welcome mat and fell into the wall. Standing there in the common area was Retta with her face disappeared behind her hands. She was crying. ¡°Oh my god, he¡¯s dead!¡±


    My eyes moved to the old man on the floor, John¡ª he was face down while Beth knelt by him, shaking his shoulder. A tower of books had fallen over beside him, like he¡¯d attempted to steady himself against them before he¡¯d tumbled.


    Retta continued with her strangled caws, ¡°His heart! Oh god, his heart! You¡¯ve killed him!¡±


    Hot illness kissed me¡ª had I gotten the old codger worked up enough for his heart to shut off?


    Beth motioned me over. ¡°Help!¡±


    What I was supposed to do, I don¡¯t know. But I went to her. ¡°I-is he breathing?¡± It was the only thing that came to mind.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Beth. ¡°I can¡¯t tell.¡±


    This is when I noticed Retta¡¯s sobs had stopped; I felt cold fear slide down my body as I twisted around to face her. The old woman pressed her back against the front door; she wasn¡¯t crying¡ª she¡¯d never been. Her hand reached deftly to lock our only escape.


    A clammy hand pinched my forearm and I jumped, letting out a yelp. I was certain I was about to die, but it was only Beth. She¡¯d fallen onto her bottom.


    John shook with laughter. Shallow at first. Then deep, sick, maniacal.

 CHAPTER THREE

    The old man¡¯s maddening laughter filled the room; it was unreal. This wasn¡¯t happening. No, I was far away somewhere. Beth and I should¡¯ve been looking at the sheer rock faces around the coast of Acadia. This wasn¡¯t real life.


    Beth gave my arm another squeeze, ripping me back into reality so hard that I took a great big breath like I¡¯d just broken the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning. My joints froze and refused all input from my brain. Try as I might, I couldn¡¯t move quickly to my feet¡ª instead, I wavered to a standing position, trying my best to bring Beth with me. I took a step backward, nudging another set of books to the ground so that they fell across John¡¯s legs. This seemed to snap Beth from the spell she¡¯d been placed under, and she too stood. She was shaking; or maybe that was me.


    For seconds, the only noise that could be heard were his nasty laughs, even as he lifted himself to his knees and made the universal old-man groan of bringing himself up, he wiped at the corner of his right eye. ¡°They always fall for that, don¡¯t they?¡± said John.


    Retta, smaller, but not necessarily less intimidating, stood beside her husband so as to block our path to the front door completely. Her big eyes through the windows of her glasses once seemed comical¡ª now they looked ready to burst from contained insanity. ¡°They do,¡± she agreed.


    ¡°Hey now,¡± I said, ¡°There¡¯s no reason for any of us to do anything hasty, is there? We¡¯ll just go. You can have our money and all of our stuff. You just take whatever you want.¡± I was bargaining. I surprised even myself with the words. All I knew was that I wanted us to be out of this situation.


    ¡°We intend to take whatever we want,¡± said John. ¡°We promise.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Retta.


    Beth spoke up, ¡°We won¡¯t tell anyone anything. We promise, right?¡± I felt her elbow nudge me, but I couldn¡¯t bring my eyes from the wild intensity of those old codgers.


    ¡°You won¡¯t have the opportunity to tell anyone anything, ever again,¡± said Retta. Those words made the air pass right through me.


    ¡°Please.¡± The word left me before I¡¯d even comprehended it. I begged. I was begging. I said it again, even smaller than the first, ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°Please what?¡± asked John. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you something, young man, you¡¯ve gone straight to the ¡®pleases¡¯ faster than most. I would¡¯ve thought you¡¯d have put up a fight before all of that nonsense.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± I said, ¡°You can have me. Just please let Beth leave. Just take me.¡± I was surprised.


    So was John; he raised an eyebrow. ¡°And what? Split up such a young and happy couple as you two? I don¡¯t think so.¡± He kept his bearish hands at his hips, forcing his shoulders out even more. Old or not, he looked as solid as a wall.


    I would have no other option but to go for Retta; even now it seems like a shitty thing to do, balling up my fist and punching an old woman directly in the nose, but I had a fairly good feeling that she¡¯d go down after only one hit. And I was right, she did¡ª Retta stumbled backwards, foot sliding across an open book cover, and landed directly on her bottom, producing a pained squeak as her hand shot up to her nose. John, on the other hand, was on me immediately; both of those massive hands had my throat in their grip, and he squeezed so hard that I thought my head might come clean off like a Barbie¡¯s. I could feel the energy leaving my body with each passing second. He was fast¡ª in a moment, he straddled me. The cool surface of the hardwood floor on my back; the ceiling; his intense eyes lusting with murderous rage.


    My hands shot out, scratching at his face, swinging my fists¡ª each one less effective than the last¡ª until finally they spasmed in all directions around me, hoping to find an unseen item to strike him with. My hand felt something solid, and I yanked; another set of books came piling down, this time directly over my head. I¡¯d made it worse. But whatever the books had been sitting on was hard and I still had it in my hand. I was totally blind¡ª flapping pages of dime-store novels covering the entire upper half of my body. With everything I had, I shoved whatever was in my hand directly into his face. I felt a crunch and he let go.


    I gasped and shouldered the books away, rising into a sitting position. In my hand was a flat decorative rock. John wiped at his face, strings of blood adorning his mouth. ¡°You fucker,¡± he spat a red loogie and it struck my chest. I flinched.


    The shrill screams of Retta met my ears and I looked to find her with her knotted fingers wrapped in Beth¡¯s hair; the old woman was slamming her head into the table in the nook.


    My free hand found a book¡ª surprisingly, hardback¡ª and I lobbed in her direction; the book struck her in the side of the face, giving Beth enough time to free herself from the crazed woman¡¯s grasp and shove her into the stair banister. Retta¡¯s ribs landed squarely into the bottom post of the staircase, and she stood there a moment.


    John lunged at me, but I held up the rock and he stopped short, locking eyes with me; they were intense, deadly.


    All four of us were at a standstill. I felt the urge to negotiate our safe passage once more. ¡°Let us go,¡± I said, ¡°If you let us go, we won¡¯t tell a soul.¡± A part of me actually believed I wouldn¡¯t¡ª if only we were allowed to go free.


    Retta crowed, ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡± As if in a delayed response, she snatched up a book and launched it at me.


    I put up my arm to deflect, the one with the stone. In a second, my shoulders struck the wall¡ª more books went falling and a few of the ornaments and metal-sheet posters skirted from the wall. John had me pinned, both hands. He was slamming my hands into the wall, trying to get me to let go of the rock; I wish this is the part that I could tell you that I fought back¡ª might against might¡ª and bested the old bastard, but him pinching my wrists paired with the repeated slams forced me to let go of the rock and it clattered somewhere unseen.


    Once more, his fat fingers met my throat, digging in; this time there was nothing to reach for, no hope, no lucky placed objects. My hands palmed at the flat wall, sometimes reached out to shove at him in futility. He was too strong, and my vision went to pinholes. The last thought I had before I lost consciousness was that he was going to crush my windpipe and I¡¯d never breathe again. No more fight, no more strength, no more willpower, the last thing I recall were those eyes, those eyes that had once seemed warm and inviting were only cruel¡ª emotionless as anyone of the dolls¡¯ decorating the Happy Place B & B.


    He did let go of me at some point, but I felt brain dead and time passed in incomprehensible blinks of knowing. I saw him turn his attention on Beth and both he and Retta held her down while they handcuffed her. There was screaming, biting, spitting, but John struck her. Then they were gone; the common area was empty, but I still heard screams¡ª they came from outside somewhere, muffled through the walls, twisting me in knots. The next thing I noticed, I felt, was soreness around my own wrists. Metal, cool and hard. I jerked and kicked, and my eyes came open, gasping came hard; I lay on my side with books strewn all over.


    My hands remained pinned behind my back; I felt with my fingertips to the small chain connecting my handcuffs. I wanted to cry. We were so fucked. So unequivocally fucked.


    I tried pulling my arms free, more out of frustration than logic, and when that proved fruitless, I angled myself awkwardly to my feet. My neck was sore¡ª obviously¡ª I heard the sound of a car door slamming and I staggered over the fallen books in the floor to the nearest window overlooking the gravel lot. The big black truck sprang to life and drove across the grass, rounding the heart shaped garden. John sat in the front seat¡ª in the truck bed I could scarcely make out Beth¡¯s hair. She wobbled to peer over the edge of the truck bed. She seemed to wager the moving ground, debating whether she might break her legs from the jump. The big black truck disappeared around the edge of the house. Sick misery and anger rose is what I felt as Beth¡¯s scared expression disappeared from view.


    Then I heard footsteps on the front porch, and I awkwardly moved to the door, stepping over the mess. My heart raced. Without that monster, John, surely his wife would be easier to deal with. The handle twisted and as I watched it slowly turn, I lived a lifetime. Each new second was a year, and every breath was a century. It shifted, clicked, and pushed inward. Adrenaline made it so that when I lifted my right leg, it felt stiff and uncooperative.


    There was Retta, standing in the open doorway¡ª unsurprised by me being there. I kicked with my leg, and it landed. In her hand. She¡¯d caught my shoe and lifted it. The welcome mat under my one grounded foot slid and the fall brought with it pain as my head struck the hard floor.


    I hadn¡¯t a moment to clear the stars before a new pain met me¡ª it burned like hell and took away my breath. All of the sudden I was crying and couldn¡¯t see a thing. Red and black. Nose, mouth, eyes¡ª all was on fire.


    Then came Retta¡¯s voice. ¡°How¡¯s that mace feel? Not too good¡ª I can imagine. You¡¯re probably thinking about how badly you¡¯d like to kill me right now, but if you make a move, I won¡¯t hesitate to stab you in the gut. That¡¯d make things less interesting, so let¡¯s agree to keep things civil.¡±


    I squirmed. I couldn¡¯t help it. I imagined I was an ant beneath the beam of a magnifying glass. ¡°Fuck you!¡± I screamed in the dark.


    ¡°You will do exactly as I say, unless you want me to hold your eyes open and hit you with this mace again. Do we understand?¡±


    Vitriol pumped through my veins. I tried looking at her through slits, but it was too intense, so I squeezed my eyes shut again, concentrating on what she¡¯d said. ¡°Yes. I understand.¡±


    What were their plans? Were they going to kill us? Were they going to bury us? Would we be forgotten? Who would believe that a sweet old couple running a bed & breakfast would torture two strangers?


    ¡°Good,¡± said Retta, ¡°I¡¯m glad we understand each other. Now, I¡¯m going to reach out and grab you, I don¡¯t want you spitting or biting. You know the rules, right?¡±


    I tried nodding. ¡°Okay.¡± Talking through the pain was difficult.


    I felt her hand grab me around a bicep. I leaned on her to try and get to my feet. It was strange being led blind by Retta like that, totally in the dark, jumping at every book I accidently kicked with my wide steps. I barely realized that she¡¯d taken me through the threshold of the door marked PRIVATE. Some part of me expected the place to look like a torturer¡¯s dungeon¡ª some macabre place with instruments of rusted evil. But this was not the case, from what I could tell, it was a normal living room with a couch and TV and in the far corner there was a kitchen with a small dining area; a hallway led deeper into the house where I can only guess these horrid people slept. Beside the couch there was a high-backed wooden chair. She scooched it so it sat against the wall, and this is where she told me to sit. I sat slowly, pulling my shoulder up to my eyes as best as I could to try and wipe some of the mace away; snot came from my nose in heavy strings.


    I should¡¯ve run. I should¡¯ve fought. But half of my limbs were pinned and every time I opened my eyes, I could only see through kaleidoscopic tears for a brief second before the burning forced me to close them tight. Spit pooled in my mouth; I dribbled it down the front of my shirt, trying to remember her rule of no spitting. Oh, I was in a world of hurt and things only got worse when I felt her threading something around my leg; my initial instinct was to kick but getting hit with that mace again scared me. It was rope or twine. She secured my left leg to the chair¡¯s leg then my right and I was officially useless. For good measure, she pushed a loop through my handcuffed arms. Once she had me totally harmless, I heard her footsteps recede somewhere; I pinned my eyes open to see her move to the kitchen.


    If it hadn¡¯t been for the fact that I was being detained by an absolute psycho, I would¡¯ve thought she looked like any other old woman, putting on a kettle of tea, searching the fridge¡ª I blinked. I hate her. I hate that woman.


    Retta returned with a carton of milk and a washcloth. She pulled up a dining chair to sit opposite me in my high-backed seat. ¡°Oh, you sure are a helpless little thing. I think I¡¯ll call you Penelope; that¡¯s a pretty name. If I ever had a daughter, I think that¡¯s what I would have called her. I brought it up to John once and he said he liked it too, so Penelope it is.¡± She touched the washcloth to the mouth of the carton, wetting it before she took the cloth to my face; I flinched. ¡°Don¡¯t be scared. Now¡¯s not the time to be scared,¡± she said, ¡°That¡¯s for later.¡± At those words, my heart tried escaping my chest. ¡°For now, I want you to relax. You¡¯re not going anywhere anytime soon, so let me clean you off.¡±


    She brushed the mace from my face carefully with the cloth. It helped, but not by much. Although the cool touch of the milk was met with initial gratitude, it did not take long for the burning to return. I believe at that time I would¡¯ve preferred if my eyes solidified into marbles and rolled out of my head.


    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± Those words. Why would I say those stupid, horror-movie words? ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this.¡±


    ¡°Shh,¡± she said, ¡°We¡¯re going to have some tea and watch some stories. Do you like scones? I¡¯ve never much cared for them. I can¡¯t make them without them being overly dry, but I¡¯m feeling lucky today.¡±


    ¡°Soap operas?¡± I felt my bottom lip quiver. She wanted to watch soap operas with me?


    ¡°That¡¯s right, but first I need to get you cleaned up, so the others don¡¯t think I keep bad company.¡±


    ¡°The others?¡±


    ¡°My other guests.¡±


    I inched my burning eyes around to fully examine the room. There were dolls. The front end of the house was covered in books and the back end was covered in dolls, my god. Rag dolls, clowns, babies, human-sized scarecrows adorned with straw hats or cloaked in spring dresses. Some of them sat lining the wall or on any free surface and others sat on the laps of larger ones. They all stared at me blankly and each of their expressions said the same thing: you¡¯re going to die here.


    I could hardly smell a thing beyond the burn, but I could pick up on a subtle smell of bitter decay. There was no way I was the first person to be put in this chair like this.


    She smiled, those jam jar eyeglasses bringing her total madness into stark focus. ¡°You two are such a sweet couple¡ª you really are. Honestly, you remind me of me and John when we were about your age.¡±


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Yeah. Except we¡¯ve never killed anyone.¡±


    She pressed her thumbnail into the soft tissue beneath my eye¡ª hard¡ª then released to continue wiping my face. ¡°Everyone has their flaws. Wouldn¡¯t you rather share the woman you love with the world? You should share the things you love. Share your wife; share yourself. It¡¯s the way of the world. It makes everything better. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I don¡¯t know who it was that said that originally, but they were a genius. It¡¯s a universal philosophy.¡±


    I swallowed hard. ¡°It doesn¡¯t need to be that way.¡±


    ¡°John is a smart man. He knows what he¡¯s talking about when he says that.¡±


    ¡°I-Is he making you do this?¡±


    She stopped moving the cloth against my face and I could sense an unsteadiness in her demeanor. The air changed. ¡°It¡¯s really not like that,¡± Retta insisted, ¡°It¡¯s not like that at all.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? You don¡¯t need to live this way.¡± Even I could hear the sense of hope grow in my voice.


    She sat the cloth and milk to the side and stood, one of her knees letting out a protesting pop. ¡°I love him. You don¡¯t understand. He¡¯s really a wonderful man.¡± A palm came to her cheek, and she pushed her glassed up on the bridge of her nose; her shoulders slumped.


    ¡°You can let me go!¡± I said, ¡°You can let me go and I¡¯ll tell them¡ª I¡¯ll tell the police you were stuck with him, and you had no choice.¡±


    Her voice changed; it sounded of longing, of escape. Then she looked off to the kitchen where a window stood over the sink, a gentle sigh flared her nostrils. ¡°Do you really think they¡¯d let me go if I turned him in?¡±


    ¡°I know so! Of course, they would! They¡¯d understand! I know they would, because I understand, Retta. I understand!¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡± A look of sadness fell across her face, one that perhaps told the story of abusive years, of years that had broken her down and rebuilt her into the maniacal old crow I saw before me¡ª for a blinking moment I could even see what she must¡¯ve looked like when she was younger, fuller of life, and not stuck.


    ¡°Retta, please, listen to me!¡± I could escape, this was my chance. Just over the horizon I could imagine me and her calling the police, rescuing Beth, and I could go home.


    She covered her eyes with those knotty old hands, and her shoulders shook; high pitched crying moans left her body. I was so close.


    ¡°Please. Just untie me. Let me go. We can go to the police and tell them together. I promise!¡±


    The crying¡¯s rhythm changed, and she removed her hands from her face to expose a malicious grin¡ª wet and horrendous was her cackle. ¡°Are you fucking stupid?¡± She asked.


    My jaw clenched. I pressed my tongue hard to my teeth. ¡°Retta?¡±


    ¡°You got riled up, didn¡¯t you? Gosh!¡± She straightened her glasses. ¡°I was doing this well before I met John, dum-dum. That¡¯s why we¡¯re a match made in heaven.¡±


    I wanted to throw up. The panic of escape jumped into my body; there was no way I¡¯d be able to talk myself out of this situation.


    She returned to cleaning my face and once she¡¯d finished, the burning sensation remained but I could see clearly enough.


    Retta returned to the kitchen with the carton of milk in one hand and the washcloth in the other. Her voice had the cheeriness of a grandmother. ¡°Now, don¡¯t you feel much better? I know I feel better looking at you.¡± She closed the fridge and eyed me over from across the room. ¡°You¡¯re still a bit puffy, but that¡¯ll go down with time.¡±


    The tea kettle on the stove whistled and I jumped, letting out a gasp.


    She chuckled. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, honey, it¡¯s just the tea. I asked you before whether or not you liked scones, but it¡¯s too late for that now, I think.¡±


    ¡°W-what do you mean?¡±


    The old woman moved to the kettle, removing it so its whistling halted. After pouring two cups, she returned with them on a platter of lady fingers. She sat the platter on the coffee table in front of me. ¡°Do you take it with sugar or cream?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like tea,¡± I said, dumbfounded.


    ¡°That¡¯s right!¡± Retta legitimately displayed the expression of a courteous host¡ª one that had forgotten her guest¡¯s request. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    I remained silent, watching her return to the kitchen to remove a mug before pouring a cup of coffee from the pot by the sink. When she came to me with the ceramic mug¡ª it had Kermit the Frog¡¯s face on it¡ª a straw protruded from the top. She placed the straw to my lips, and I took a big, long drink to fill my mouth, ignoring the intense burn; it was too hot. My eyes watered and I was certain I¡¯d blister my tongue. Retta did not seem to notice me suffering.


    ¡°There. It¡¯s not so bad. John prefers coffee too, but tea¡ª I enjoy the relaxing properties of it,¡± said Retta.


    Trying my best to hold the scolding liquid in my mouth, I pulled from the straw, Retta sat it next to the lady fingers on the platter. She swiveled around to face me with a cheery look on her face. I puckered my lips and squirted the drink, so it struck her in the face and spiderwebbed down her wrinkled face.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± screamed Retta.


    I ran dry, with the remainder hitting the front of my shirt.


    The old crow wiped her face with the back of her forearm. Faster than I realized, she reared her hand back, collapsed it into a solid little fist and rang my bell so hard it bounced off the back of the chair; I felt blood on my tongue¡ª whether it was from the heat or her striking me, I couldn¡¯t be sure. Maybe both.


    There were no more negotiations; I¡¯d been stupid. The thought crossed my mind in those seconds where I sat dazed in that chair that I was in a situation where it was either kill or be killed.


    She hit me again. Blood sprayed from my nose. I was rattled; adrenaline pumped through my body, but my tied limbs were totally useless. I blinked and shook my head, trying to rouse myself; the rope afforded me little movement, but I tried moving to sit up straighter. Retta returned to the kitchen. I blinked. She lifted the pot of coffee. I blinked. She held the coffee pot¡ª half full¡ª over her head. I blinked.


    It burned; I shook violently in the chair, trying my best to slide from the handcuffs pinning my arms behind my back. I wanted to defend myself, but I couldn¡¯t. It rained down on me as I squalled; it wasn¡¯t until later that I recalled her girlish screams of delight at my misery¡ª in those haunted moments where I am alone in the dark, I hear Retta. Everyone has dreams where they feel like they¡¯re falling before they jerk themselves awake; I jerk myself awake because I try to free myself.


    The cuffs cut into my wrists as I tried slipping out of them. My legs kicked, my feet stomped, and I rocked the chair back and forth. ¡°Stop!¡± I pleaded.


    The pot was empty; Retta sat it on the table beside the platter of lady fingers. ¡°We¡¯ve only begun.¡±


    I could feel the skin around my eyes swell in response to the heat. My chest heaved. ¡°Let me go!¡± It should¡¯ve sounded like a demand, but it sounded like begging. ¡°I want to live!¡± And I did; I wanted to live.


    Retta went quiet then returned to the kitchen. The glint off the blade she pulled from the drawer by the sink made me want to empty my bowels. She removed my left shoe; even while I tried fighting her by contorting the shape of my foot in awkward ways, she chucked the shoe to the side and peeled away my sock.


    The cool wooden floor beneath my sole. Her pushing the knife down so as to break skin then wiggle it to slice into the tissues holding bones together. Me being so full of crazed adrenaline.


    I bit my bottom lip and flared my nostrils; tears rolled down my face.


    She stood, holding the knife in one hand¡ª along its edge was my blood¡ª but in her other hand she held something smaller; this, whatever it was, she tossed onto the platter sitting on the table. My pinky toe bounced between two lady fingers. I do not think my brain comprehended everything in the appropriate measures; I think my mind swung pendulously between the mind of the normal Greg to some other dark place where everything stood against absurdity. My toe¡ª a gentleman toe¡ª mixed in with the lady fingers. Please! Help me, waiter. Yes, excuse me, there¡¯s a gentleman toe in my lady fingers. Help me.


    Her voice was solemn. ¡°I told you. No spitting. I told you!¡± Retta shook her head.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whimpered. My resolve was broken but not all gone.


    Smug, self-assured, she said, ¡°Good.¡± The blade clattered to the platter, sending my pinky toe bouncing away, to roll under the couch. No! Not the gentleman toe!


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you didn¡¯t take more of them, bitch.¡± I collected spit and shot it onto her chest. ¡°Just do it already¡ª you¡¯re going to kill me. What are you waiting for?¡±


    Retta clenched her jaw, looking at the spot on her chest. Then her eyes met mine. She leaned in, placing each of her hands on the arms of my wooden chair, so close that I could smell Polident. ¡°I just want you to share yourself with me. Don¡¯t you understand? Sharing yourself with another person is the most important thing you can do in life. Open yourself up. Expose yourself.¡±


    A million thoughts raced through my mind, but only one remained when the smoke cleared: I¡¯d better not let go.


    I lurched forward in the chair with my head cocked and my mouth wide open; I clamped my teeth down, hard. The rubbery texture of her nose caught in my mouth; Retta squealed, and I felt her press against my shoulders with her palms. She began screaming, ¡°Let go! Let go!¡± but it came out in such quick hisses it sounded like she was saying, ¡°Lego lego lego lego!¡±


    A fire rose in my stomach; the anger, the fear, the confusion, the torture¡ª I was done. I clenched my jaw as hard as I could. Until I felt the cartilage split in my mouth. Until I was grinding my teeth together. Until I tasted her blood.


    Retta pulled back and I went with her, falling on top of her, still secured to the chair¡ª with my arms tied, I had no other choice but to head butt the old woman.


    Then something miraculous happened. I felt the structure of the chair come loose; I began fighting against the rope, against the cuffs. The metal dug into my wrists, the seams of the chair screamed, my muscles protested. It was a dream, that sweet release from confinement. I rolled off Retta, slamming into the coffee table; the teacups spilled over me. I fought against the rope caught around my legs. Hunks of the chair clung to me, and I kicked them away, trying to worm out of the rope. I rolled until I collided with one of the oversized, scarecrow dolls sitting along the wall by the TV; something about it was off; its foot was too solid. I reeled around and it careened forward, looking over my prone face. One of its glass eyes fell from its head, landing by my shoulder; a spurt of insects spilled from within, and I screamed. It wasn¡¯t a doll; it was human.


    I wavered to my feet, first kneeling, then pouncing into a standing position. Retta, scrambled blindly around, feeling on the floor, undoubtedly searching for something to throw at me. Her glasses lay by the crumbled remains of the chair; I stomped them with my right foot and stumbled backwards.


    What came next would require concentration. I hunkered down onto my bottom, watching Retta sling her arms around madly, and tried slipping my cuffed hands under my feet. My wrists popped, I cried out, but I was able to pull my hands in front of my chest; just as I¡¯d guessed, the cuffs had cut into my wrists.


    Retta¡¯s hand clapped the flat side of the knife. The old woman slipped to her feet, swinging the blade in a blind fit. Blood ran down her chin; I could see I¡¯d taken off the end of her nose. Good.


    I tried giving her a wide birth, but as I shifted to circle her right, her unfocused eyes came to rest on me. She lunged, I ducked, sidestepping the arch of the blade. With a thud, the knife lodged itself in the wall and I found myself behind her. She tugged on the handle of the knife, attempting to free it.


    An electrical shock went up my body; I could¡¯ve left her there. She was obviously blind without her glasses¡ª I could¡¯ve left and called the police. I probably could¡¯ve ran.


    I slipped my pinned hands over her head, tugging the chain connecting my wrists against her tiny throat. A gargle escaped as I pulled her onto me. The floor met my back, nearly taking my breath. Her hands flung around wildly while her panting matched my own. The ceiling. I studied the ceiling. The off-white space broke open infinitely till it ceased being a solid object and refracted into a light beam¡ª I did not feel the strain against my wrists as she fought. Her legs kicked and pulled tighter. The ceiling. It took me away like a dream. There was only that. I bit my tongue as her finger attempted to snag my hair. I pulled tighter, promising that I wouldn¡¯t let go until her head came off; that¡¯s unrealistic¡ª I¡¯m not that strong. The ceiling and nothing else; I blocked out her gasps.


    I lay there on the wood floor, staring at that ceiling till she went still and when I returned to the earth, I was unsure how long she¡¯d been limp. Without looking at her, I slipped my arms from around her neck and threw her off me; her head met the floor with an audible thump. Moving to my feet, I found my sock and shoe and fought against the pain to put them over my left foot. The space where my pinky toe had once been felt empty and stung as I slid the shoe over it. With it covered, it looked better, normal. Maybe this wasn¡¯t real; my gaze shifted to Retta¡¯s still form, her on her side, facing away from me. It was real and everything was silent.


    Moving to the sink, I caught my reflection in the window in the wall above it. Swollen red face, blue around the neck, miserable expression. I held my face beneath a cool stream of water, forgetting I¡¯d been sprayed with mace; the burning came again, and I cussed, kicking the foot of the cupboard. I forced my whole head under the water, washing myself down; it became easier. I rubbed dry with a dish towel slung over the oven handle. I spied an overcast midday through the window.


    Taking stock of the room, I counted the ¡®scarecrows¡¯; fourteen. There were fourteen dead bodies in the room. Scratch that. I looked at Retta, unmoving. Fifteen dead bodies. So that¡¯s where the rank smell of the place emanated from. That subtle stench of decay. How long had they been doing this? Years? Decades? Some silly part of me thought that we¡¯d stumbled into an ancient evil that had always been but knew stuff like that didn¡¯t happen; this was real life.


    I stomped¡ª hobbled really¡ª through the Happy Place B&B, searching for a phone, my phone, a landline, any godforsaken phone. There were none. No computers, no wifi, nothing. Me and Beth wanted to get away and we had surely found the place for it. Hoping that Retta had the keys to my cuffs on her, I patted down her pockets and found them totally empty; her purse sat on the dining table, and I dumped that. Nothing. A sad chuckle came from me, startling me in my otherwise silent shamble through the house.


    I rummaged through drawers in the kitchen.


    ¡°Bingo.¡± Sitting in the junk drawer beside the sink was a thin screwdriver; being careful not to drop it, I angled it through a loop in the cuffs and used the kitchen counter to apply force to the link. Closing my eyes, grunting as the metal dug in, I gritted my teeth. Finally, I heard a pop and wiggled the loop loose. It felt good having free motion over my arms again. I flexed my shoulders.


    What was I going to do?


    I stepped out on the porch, scanning the road then the Fiesta with popped tires. I could run, flag down a car, or find a house. How long did Beth have? Had John already killed her? I wanted to run¡ª I¡¯m ashamed to admit that, but it¡¯s the truth. Some part of me told me that I¡¯d suffered enough, that I could run and make it out alive. I looked to the trail opening up in the forest by the lake. A set of tire marks impressed on the grass led straight to it. That¡¯s where he¡¯d taken her. Somewhere in those trees. How far? Was I even in the shape to fight? Could I stand by the road and wait for someone to come by?


    Running back into the house, I searched for a weapon, but came up short. I took the canister of mace from Retta''s pocket and yanked the knife free from where it was planted in the drywall; it was partially lodged in a stud.


    Shaking, scared to go on, but knowing I needed to, I took the steps of the porch down the stone path and cut through the yard, passing that heart-shaped garden; somehow it looked less lovely than it had the day before. My vision went with blinders¡ª I could see only one thing: the opening of trees, just large enough for a truck to squeeze through.


    Walking was hard work, each step on my left foot sending a tingle up my leg because of the missing toe. Part of me thought I should¡¯ve gone back to find it. It had rolled under the couch; maybe I could put it in my pocket, and they¡¯d be able to put it back when I made it out of this. Another chuckle escaped me. This was no laughing matter, but it came all the same. I sure was assuming a lot. I assumed I¡¯d make it out of this alive. I assumed I¡¯d make it to a hospital.


    I met the trail and the canopy of northern pines and birches cut the light in angles. The air was damp, and my shoes stuck in the wet trail. It seemed I¡¯d started walking into marshland. I¡¯d take a step and go into the ground up to my ankle so I tried finding spots where tree roots rose, hoping that it would prove better ground. Nausea overtook me with the rising temperature paired with the day¡¯s events; a mugginess clung in the air.


    Thunder bellowed through the trees, startling me so bad that I nearly slid in the mud again. Peering up through the canopy of leaves, I saw deep gray clouds overhead.


    It began to rain, and I couldn¡¯t see how it could get much worse, but then I heard the crystal-clear voice of Patsy Cline.


    She was getting closer, her voice screaming down the trail with the hum of an engine.


    My heart pounded in my ears, and I slid completely off the trail, stepping directly into a mudhole, losing my right shoe. I dove into pine needles and leaves littering the forest floor; they clung to my wet body. The truck came closer. I peeked from around a tree trunk, holding my breath as though he¡¯d be able to hear me over the music, the rain.


    The black Chevy roared by, and I tried to see if Beth was with him. He had his window rolled down, hand out flat, palm surfing the wind. I saw John and no one else. Was she dead? Was she lying in the bed of the truck? Was I too late?


    The truck disappeared and the forest was silent save the patter of rain.


    I scanned the ground for my shoe and slipped it from the mud before I staggered back onto the trail. Should I go back to the house? Should I continue on?


    A strained scream echoed from deeper in the forest; it had to be Beth. I hoped.


    I shlepped on, flinching at the sound of every insect, at every bout of thunder, and every time the tormented scream of my wife met me on the trail. But I was getting closer.

 CHAPTER FOUR

    You would think that it raining like it was, it would¡¯ve cooled me down, but it did not. It made moving down the trail on foot miserable and with the dark clouds blotting out the sun, the lightning of the storm illuminated the surrounding trees in such a way that the old wiry croon witch¡¯s eyes, Retta, followed me through every open space. I saw her and expected her to reach out and snag at my collar, breathe down my neck, plunge those knotty fingers into my eyes so I¡¯d be more blind than she was without her glasses. Thunder sounded like the pitch of the black Chevy, and I constantly looked over my shoulder, waiting to see John driving down the trail, hoping to run me down. A shiver tickled up my spine like I was a human-shaped tuning fork. I moved like a spirit, wishing for rest.


    Beth¡¯s screams sounded closer, if hoarser. The trees thinned, and I began to see evidence of John¡¯s hobbies. I passed by an Oldsmobile, rusted completely through with mildewy seats and glassless windows. A model of Ford I couldn¡¯t decipher sat between two birches with a bush springing out from its engine block. John collected old cars, but it didn¡¯t seem like he did much with them. Then it struck me. These were the cars of those that came before; a chill pushed through me, and I felt more like a ghost than ever before. Would the Fiesta end up among them? I imagined each old vehicle I passed with its occupants still sitting inside, faceless, nameless, forgotten to time. My previous hypothesis that this had been going on for decades felt surreal coming to life. Who were these people? Couples like me and Beth? Whole families? Why? Why did they do it? I could pick at the reasons like scabs.


    I stepped around a minivan, just off the shoulder of the trail, leaning against a rare oak tree. Before moving on, I peered into its rear passenger window and saw a stuffed bunny lying beside a Gameboy Color on the bench seat. I swallowed. These sick fucks. They¡¯d been luring people out here and killing them.


    This was some kind of awful.


    Finally, the trees thinned to a point that I stood in a circular clearing alongside rows of dilapidated vehicles¡ª some half covered in gray tarps and others with rippled sheet metal propped against them. Near the center of the clearing there stood an old building¡ª wrapped in similar metal¡ª that might be large enough to house a semi-truck; it stood at an angle like it could collapse at any moment. I kept expecting to see the dead, but I never did. I knew what happened to them; Retta would dress them up, preserve them, add them to her doll collection. That could be me. It could be Beth.


    I held the knife out in front of me as I rounded the corner of each old car like I expected Retta to jump out and grab me. Beth let out another scream¡ª it was close. My heartbeat accelerated as I began jogging as best I could through the rain. ¡°Help! Somebody help!¡± Her voice wore out at the ends of words, rattled like she had dry wool stuffed down her throat.


    ¡°Beth?¡± I said.


    ¡°Help!¡±


    I moved around the back end of a Pinto but before I had a moment to say a thing, my voice caught. Seeing her that way will stick with me forever; the image of her muddy black bare feet kicking to pull herself to a standing position, the way her hair hung around her downturned face, or the way blood ran from her wrists down her forearms. In the center of the clearing, just at the open entrance of the building, was a large wooden post nearly fifteen feet tall. Protruding from the top of the post was a metal arm with a hook on the end. Dangling from the hook was a thick rope that tethered Beth¡¯s cuffed wrists to the post; she¡¯d been given plenty of slack for standing, but the back of her shirt ran off her shoulders in strips like streamers; there was blood. I blinked. He¡¯d tied her to the post and repeatedly beat her while she dangled from her cuffs like a Christmas ornament.


    I took a few steps forward, shaking, crying. ¡°B-beth? Are you alright, honey?¡±


    I don¡¯t think she heard me¡ª she seemed delirious¡ª so I moved to her, slipping in the mud till I reached out with my hand to touch her on the shoulder. The smell of blood was strong around her. She flinched and pulled her face around to look at me. Beth looked miserable. As I shifted her shirt around, the deep tissue damage beneath exposed itself. She¡¯d been sliced all down her back; the skin protruded in places, swollen, open. ¡°Greg? Greggy?¡± she asked.


    Putting my arm around her waist, I hoisted her so as to relieve the stress on her wrists. ¡°A-are you alright?¡±


    ¡°I thought I was going to die.¡± Her foggy eyes met mine as I tried swiping her hair back. ¡°I really really thought I was going to die here. I¡¯m so happy to see you.¡± Beth¡¯s words came hard. ¡°How long¡¯s it been?¡± Touching my palm to her forehead, it felt like she had a fever. Exhausted, she lowered her face, eyes unfocused.


    I tried shifting the rope overhead so that it would slip off the hook, but this proved to only dig the cuffs into her wrists; each shift forced a groan or hiss out of her. I held her up with one hand and began running the edge of the knife against the rope. ¡°We¡¯re going to get out of here, honey¡ª I promise you we¡¯re getting out of here and everything¡¯s going to be just fine.¡± I believed it. I really did. Escape wasn¡¯t that far away. We¡¯d run. We¡¯d never look back. ¡°I love you.¡±


    ¡°I love you too,¡± said Beth. ¡°We¡¯re going to be okay.¡± Her words came slow, far away¡ª as though she tried to calm me. She even nodded along and followed it with a shh sound. Beth was delirious.


    The rain came down. I tried cutting the rope as quickly as I could, but my hand kept slipping in the rain and I didn¡¯t want to drop Beth, because that would apply more pressure to her wrists.


    Then came the screaming voice of Patsy Cline; I ran my tongue against the inside of my teeth. ¡°Fuck,¡± I said. I continued sliding the knife against the rope. The sound of the black Chevy¡¯s engine roared through the trees to meet us in the clearing; I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth, pressing the blade as hard as I could. We had it. It was within reach. So close. Yet so far away.


    I heard the sound of the Chevy¡¯s door open; Patsy Cline belted out from the interior speakers, singing ¡°Crazy¡±. Just beneath the crooning, there was the audible repetitive beep to let you know the door was open and needed to be closed. I didn¡¯t hear his feet hit the ground over the rain, but I knew he was there; he certainly knew I was. My eyes sprung open; the rope was still intact. I wanted to fall down, cry, scream.


    ¡°Hey,¡± said Beth, still dangling, still looking at her mud caked feet, ¡°We¡¯re going to be okay. Okay? I know we¡¯re going to be fine. We¡¯ll be safe.¡± Her tired body swung as I let her go and turned to face John. She hissed through her teeth, but continued on, totally feverish, ¡°Greg, I know we¡¯re going to be okay, because you¡¯re here now. I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re here¡ª I thought I was going to die, but now I know I won¡¯t.¡±


    John stood in front of his truck, perhaps thirty feet away, arms stiff by his sides; a long leather belt dangled from his left fist. He may have been crying, but through the rain it was impossible to tell¡ª did he even care for Retta? Was it possible that I was giving him more credit than he deserved? ¡°She¡¯s dead,¡± he said through a quivering voice¡ª I was surprised¡ª I didn¡¯t know that monsters could cry.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. My own voice scared me. I didn¡¯t know what to do. I was lost. Game over. It all came to this.


    ¡°You did it.¡± John pointed a fat finger at me. Who else would¡¯ve done it? The fucking tooth fairy?


    I remained silent, shifting around to stand between him and Beth. I brandished the knife.


    His voice sounded tired. As tired as I felt. ¡°What are you going to do with that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you,¡± I said. ¡°I swear, I¡¯ll kill you if you come any closer.¡±


    John¡¯s huge chest heaved in a massive breath; he was totally soaked through but turned his face to the open sky. He closed his eyes.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I screamed, ¡°I¡¯m serious goddammit! If you try anything, I won¡¯t be afraid to use this.¡±


    Everything went still. Somewhere through the dense foliage I think I heard the call of a loon¡ª perhaps it was sitting out on the lake of the Happy Place B & B¡ª cut short by a growl of thunder. John didn¡¯t flinch. He didn¡¯t move. I didn¡¯t move. The sky spilled open jagged white, blinding, followed by another belt of thunder. Still, he remained. It felt weird. It felt totally fantastic in the worst sense of the word. More than anything else, it felt like I was falling. Maybe I¡¯d been wrong all along. I kept telling myself that the horrors we faced there at the Happy Place were the furthest thing from reality, but maybe there had been only that and nothing else. It was infinite.


    I wagered a step forward in the cold rain, the knife handle wedged between my fingers, pointed directly at him. ¡°Hey!¡± I said, ¡°Are you listening to me? Don¡¯t ignore me!¡± No answer. I felt my heart drop. John didn¡¯t look human. He was a monster. An unmoving, unfeeling monster, standing in front of me.


    A groan escaped Beth and I hastened a look over my shoulder at her. Nothing was different. She still remained¡ª beaten bloody, but alive. When I looked back to John, his eyes met me. I nearly fell over. Those piercing eyes¡ª the eyes of a mad man¡ª could kill me, I was certain.


    His expression was set in stone, and if I were to guess, there seemed to be injury there. I¡¯d hurt him. Retta was dead and I¡¯d done it. ¡°Why is it always so hard for you?¡± Asked John.


    I was totally baffled at this question. ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡± I had to keep myself from shouting the words out in rage. ¡°Why is it so hard? You¡¯re the one that did this. This is all your fault. This isn¡¯t hard for you! It¡¯s hard for us!¡±


    John took the belt in his left hand and held it out in front of him, stroking it out straight with his right hand before letting it fall against his jeans. He did this on repeat. ¡°You could have opened yourself. You could¡¯ve let us know you. No one ever wants that. No one ever wants to open themselves up to the possibility of showing their most inner selves, their vulnerabilities, their truest essence. Retta did. She opened herself to me. And I did the same for her. But you people always fight it. And now Retta is dead.¡± John held up the belt and threw it at me; I flinched. The belt landed a few feet from my shoes.


    Bewildered, I took a few steps to lift the belt.


    ¡°Use it,¡± said John.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You heard me. Use the belt.¡±


    My stomach churned. ¡°No.¡±


    John¡¯s eyes¡ª goddamn those eyes that burn and freeze. ¡°Do it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    John shifted around, removing something from the back of his pants. ¡°You will use it.¡± He lifted a six-shooter pistol, pointing it directly at me. ¡°You will.¡± His confidence made me weak in the knees.


    ¡°No. I. Won¡¯t.¡±


    The gun fired, a flash of light exploded from his hand. I jumped. I thought for a moment that I¡¯d been killed. Surely, the blood should pool from my chest, and I should fall to my knees. That¡¯s it. I should be dead. No, he¡¯d angled the six-shooter over his head. ¡°Do it.¡± He swiveled the gun so that I could see the hole of the barrel.


    The leather belt in my hand felt heavy, thick, coarse. I ran my fingers over it. Across its surface there stood small bronze studs. ¡°Please stop this.¡±


    ¡°Do it!¡± He screamed.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    With the knife in my left hand, the belt in my right, I turned to look at Beth there, dangling like fruit from the post. The tears came. I didn¡¯t want them to. I didn¡¯t want to do it. I swear, I didn¡¯t. I moved to her and touched her head. She was so far out of it that I wasn¡¯t even sure if she¡¯d feel it. God¡ª I crimped my right hand around the belt, put it over my shoulder, and brought it down across her back. She barely moved in response.


    ¡°Harder!¡± said John. ¡°Harder or I kill you both right now!¡± Fuck him.


    ¡°I-I can¡¯t!¡± I could and I did. I brought the belt down harder. Me. I did that.


    The belt met the exposed skin on her back, sending a shiver through her body and a yelp from her mouth.


    ¡°Again,¡± said John.


    I did it again. And again. And again. I did it again until I¡¯d fallen in the mud alongside Beth, my warm breath catching on the cool air. I held the belt across my knees, sitting in the mud, crying.


    John¡¯s footsteps sounded like they were underwater as he approached us, the wet shlep of his boots were a thousand leagues away. I felt the cold metal of the gun barrel push through my hair into my scalp. My shoulders were shaking¡ª I couldn¡¯t believe it; I couldn¡¯t even look at him. This was it. I was going to die. Beth was going to die. I¡¯d come so far, fought so hard, but this was what it amounted to.


    I looked at Beth, but she was so fevered and broken¡ª I hoped she could understand me in whatever place she was. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I love you. I-I¡¯m so sorry.¡±


    As subtly as I could, my hand crept to my pocket. There was the canister of mace I¡¯d recovered from Retta¡¯s corpse. I tried hiding my activity with a sob.


    ¡°This is it,¡± said John, calmly. It was like he¡¯d done it a million times before. ¡°It will be faster than you deserve.¡±


    I moved as quickly as I could, slapping the gun away from my head and spraying the canister at him¡ª I hoped it would work well enough in the rain. He screamed, putting up a forearm to his brow. The stream shot out and fizzled. Just enough. He hacked and swung the gun around, firing it off in haphazard directions¡ª I dove to the ground in response, hearing the whiz of bullets strike the metal sides of old vehicles.


    I was in disbelief! The six-shooter fired one last time then clicked empty.


    My triumph was short lived. Time ceased to exist. Everything ceased to exist. There was only infinite black space and Beth. That last bullet proved lethal. Her head jerked once¡ª her back arched. Then she hung there from the post, heavy and motionless. Dead.


    I swallowed. The world came back.


    John wiped at his face. It seemed I¡¯d only gotten him a little across his forehead. His eyes, red, bulged with murderous rage. Not totally understanding, he pointed the empty gun at me and fired it. It clicked.


    I rose to my feet and stumbled through the mud, holding the knife over my head. I brought it down just as he through up a forearm. He dropped the six-shooter. I pulled the knife over my head once again.


    ¡°Hey! Wait a second!¡± said John. I know what he wanted to say. Something akin to, ¡®Hey! Wait a second, this isn¡¯t how it¡¯s supposed to happen. This is all wrong!¡¯ But I didn¡¯t wait for it. I brought the blade into his chest; it met with a thunk like I¡¯d driven it into wood. I looked in those eyes¡ª those eyes that could burn or freeze¡ª they were dying! Dying! I was spitting with rage.


    It took a full second with me holding the knife in his sternum before he said anything else. When he did, it came with a gargle. ¡°You got me.¡± No anger. No resentment. No surprise. A statement merely explaining a fact. Just, ¡°You got me.¡±


    I pushed down with all of my might on the handle, ripping through cartilage that held bone. Once the edge of the blade met intestines, it moved like heat through butter.


    I let go. John, barely hanging on to life, removed the knife and dropped it beside him; a small bit of bulging tissue escaped his wound and he clasped one of his fat hands over it, fumbling, slipping.


    He faceplanted in the mud.


    Patsy Cline sang in the rain and echoed.


    I grabbed the knife and cut Beth down. She slammed into the ground, and I shook her shoulders near violently, not believing. Please come back, I wanted to say. Please don¡¯t be dead, I thought. Please. Please. Please. John¡¯s words came back to me. ¡®I¡¯ll tell you something, young man, you¡¯ve gone straight to the pleases faster than most.¡¯


    And it was true.


    I did.


    I begged for her life.


    And waited.


    And cried some more.


    Someone was listening.


    Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed; in a panic, I put my forefinger under her nose¡ª there was a rush of breath from her nostrils, weak but alive. I yanked her up and began fighting with her dead weight, dragging her through the mud. I slung open the passenger door of John¡¯s Chevy, sliding her onto the bench seat. Her head slumped over onto the center console. I rounded the front of the Chevy, taking one last look at John to make sure he¡¯d not gotten back up. It felt like he would. It felt like him and Retta both would haunt me for the rest of my life.


    I pulled myself into the cab of the truck and slammed the door before turning the music off. It was dead quiet except for the hum of the engine. I pushed Beth so that she sat upright against the interior of the passenger side door. We took the trail leading back to the Happy Place B & B slower than I wanted. Each dip in the road caught water and threatened to slide us into a tree. I pushed my head over the steering wheel, hoping that would make it easier to see through the downpour.


    Tires met grass and the Chevy slid along it. We hit the gravel lot, then asphalt, then I slammed on the gas¡ª the engine screamed.


    With one hand on the wheel, I ripped open the center console, looking for a phone. Bingo. There was mine and Beth¡¯s. I lifted mine. It was cracked from where I¡¯d dropped it; only a black screen met me. I pulled up Beth¡¯s and dialed 9-1-1. As the phone rang, I looked in the rearview mirror, catching sight of the sign hanging in front of that house. And then it was gone. I took a right.


    ¡°9-1-1, what is your emergency.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m driving down Finemilk Drive in Ellsworth. My wife is badly injured. Please help me. Please.¡±


    Being in the hospital was like no other visit I¡¯ve ever had; the police were full of questions and approached me with a level of scrutiny that I did not care fore. Repeatedly, they asked me the same questions over and over. Who were the people that ran the bed & breakfast? What were we doing so far from home? It felt overwhelming. Especially when I couldn¡¯t sleep.


    Posted outside of my door during the night was an officer; she was nice and chatty, but overall nosy. She¡¯d let me visit Beth¡¯s room at night. My wife laid in her bed with all manner of tubes coming from her¡ª I¡¯m surprised she made it at all. The bullet had passed directly through a lung.


    The officer would let me linger in Beth¡¯s room till the tears came, then she¡¯d shuffle me out, telling me not to make too much noise. She was nice enough; sometimes we¡¯d sit in my hospital room and play cards across that table they normally put food on.


    ¡°Why are they having you watch me?¡± I asked the officer.


    ¡°This is going to be the most high-profile case to come out of this area if the media gets ahold of it. They¡¯re hoping to investigate before that happens. We¡¯re talking about forty or fifty dead bodies.¡±


    ¡°Forty?¡± I was flabbergasted¡ª I¡¯d only counted fourteen in the room behind the door marked PRIVATE. My mind went to the building in the forest, the one large enough to store a semi-truck¡ª could there have been more bodies there?


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Then the officer acted as though she remembered she should not have told anyone that. ¡°But, you know, it could be any number, really.¡±


    ¡°When are they going to let us go?¡±


    She looked at me solemnly. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Are they both dead?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The officer knew who I was talking about.


    I¡¯d ask that a lot. I wanted to be sure both John and Retta were gone, because I dreamt of them often. I¡¯d be lying in my hospital bed and through the muddied state that dreams take you in, I¡¯d awaken to threaten some orderly that had come in to simply change my sheets.


    Sleeping was hard, but when it happened, it was hell.


    Among the questions I had on my mind, the one that stood chief among them was when Beth would wake up. Some of the doctors gave me an understanding smile that said it would be weeks while others believed she might not make it. She was comatose; she wasn¡¯t out of the woods yet. What a funny saying, ¡®out of the woods¡¯. Well, not funny, but you know what I mean. Beth wasn¡¯t out of those woods. I¡¯d escaped them, but some part of her was still there, glued to the spot.


    But maybe I speak too much about how scarred she is from the ordeal to ignore the things I brought with me. Night terrors. Insomnia due to said night terrors. Jumping at loud noises. I guess there¡¯s a piece of me stuck in that place too.


    They removed nearly sixty corpses from that place; some of the bones dated back to the nineties. Several cold cases were closed, so I¡¯m glad for the families.


    But I still had mine to think of.


    Beth wasn¡¯t moving. She wasn¡¯t in a vegetative state, but I felt that she was gone. Her body was there, but her spirit felt freed from it. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s the best way to put it, but I¡¯m trying.


    Once I¡¯d been discharged, I started going to the hospital every evening to visit her. The nurses would see me coming at the HELP desk and smile, but there was a subtle look behind the kindness that said, ¡°She isn¡¯t gonna¡¯ wake up, chief.¡±


    Then she woke up.


    The doctor called me; I rushed to the hospital. She wasn¡¯t totally cognizant, but I was bursting with excitement. I showed up with chocolates and flowers and when I flew through the door to her hospital room, the doctor spun on their heel to let me get to her.


    She smiled.


    I smiled.


    I reached out and touched her hand, saying, ¡°I know I¡¯m going to be okay, because you¡¯re here now.¡±


    It felt like she knew what I meant.


    With time, she recuperated. Faster than expected. The doctors said she had a ¡®fighting spirit¡¯. I knew she did.


    Her recovery, even once she¡¯d come home, was arduous at times. She would get frustrated with herself, with her exercises, and even me¡ª if I entered a room too quickly. Beth grew weary of things moving too quickly, of the dark¡ª I bought a nightlight¡ª of people walking in front of our house down the sidewalk. Funnily enough, the people outside made me feel safer, but I shared her fear of the dark.


    When we¡¯d lie together in bed I would stare at the black ceiling and I would see the faces of those two codgers, full of rage, of hate. They wanted me dead. They wanted to know why I wasn¡¯t the one in the ground. With a record of sixty, how could they lose to someone like me?


    Killing a person¡ª no matter how much they deserved it¡ª has the fucked up side effect of seeing them sometimes where they aren¡¯t.


    I was in a Lowes Foods and followed this old guy around for the better part of fifteen minutes; everything from the way he carried himself to his haircut looked the spitting image of John. He eventually spun around, basket in hand, and asked, ¡°Excuse me, can I help you?¡±


    I ran from the store and sat in the car, trying to figure out a way that I could call Beth and tell her that I¡¯d be late because I needed to go to the Aldi instead.


    Beth took up cycling; it¡¯s really something the way that almost dying will make you savor life. The group of girls she cycles with are all big on keto and getting biker highs. Honestly, I took up weightlifting. In the beginning it was fear; I never wanted anyone to man-handle me the way that John had. As time went on, I became a regular at the gym and lots of the guys started giving me tips on building my core. It¡¯s helped a lot and I hardly recognize the man in the mirror these days.


    Every afternoon me and Beth cuddle on the couch and watch Netflix. Often times we¡¯ll fall asleep like that. I cherish that.


    Sex is better than it¡¯s ever been. I never thought we¡¯d get there, but time heals. Sometimes, when we¡¯re lying in bed afterward, we trace our fingertips across one another¡¯s scars. The amount of comfort we¡¯ve found is startling, but welcome. I think it¡¯s brought us closer.


    We¡¯ve settled into being a pair of boring suburbanites. No kids¡ª we¡¯ve thought of adopting. No pets. And the trauma from Happy Place is far behind us. It feels like things are getting better all the time.


    I¡¯ve gotten into the habit of waking early to cook some breakfast for the two of us. Eggs, strips of bacon, sometimes toast. I¡¯ll sip on my coffee and the smell of food will eventually rustle Beth from her slumber. She¡¯ll come down the hall in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear, hair standing on end.


    We¡¯ll nibble on breakfast, scrolling through social media on the couch.


    ¡°Did you check the mail yesterday?¡± asked Beth, a bit of bacon wedged between her teeth.


    I had not.


    I slipped into a pair stretchy pants and went to the front door, greeting the cool morning air with little more than an undershirt. The driveway was cold under my bare feet as I scampered to the mailbox down the driveway. I rubbed my hands together before opening the flap. A fat square box wedged inside greeted me. I fought with it for a moment, tearing the corners.


    Upon returning inside, Beth caught sight of the box and I move over to set it on the cushion between us.


    ¡°What did you get?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t get anything.¡±


    I moved the box around in my hands, looking for any writing; there wasn¡¯t any. I sat the box down again. ¡°It¡¯s not mine.¡±


    ¡°Are you fucking with me?¡± She smiled. ¡°Did you get me a present or something?¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t know what this is.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s probably a mistake,¡± she said, confidently.


    ¡°There aren¡¯t any shipping directions. Whoever put this in our box did so personally.¡±


    ¡°Uh,¡± she started.


    I took a finger and pressed into the tape running the length of a side. It popped in and I tore the flaps out.


    I sat there in confusion for a moment, but red-hot terror crept up my body soon enough.


    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Beth.


    I lifted the small, child-sized clown from inside the box and held it up to show her.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably a prank!¡± hushed Beth.


    I wished it were. I really do.