Killing (And Other Games)

(Eight)

(Eight)

The hulking mass that is One Jackson Street looms before me and I take it all in. Putting everything into perspective, this is just a little bump along the way. So I didn't get along with my housemates, so what? So I didn't figure out what was actually their problem, so I didn't get to see what was in the pool room. So what. The only thing that bothers me is the way that they treated me, especially Ryker. It makes me sick and cold just thinking about it.

But he threatened me so I'm out.

In the morning Mum had been gone, her bed made and everything in order. Yet another weird thing to add to the ever growing list. I went to university, came home and found her still gone so I called Joan and borrowed her car, promising to drive it back before dark. It's six now, the sun still shining high, and the last interaction I have to have with this house and these people awaits.

The downstairs area is deserted, I find, so I dart into the kitchen for a glass of water. The creaking of the stairs and voices startle me, my first instinct, for some reason, to hide. I dash into the kitchenette, hiding around the side of the wall. Logically, I'm asking myself why I'm hiding but my instincts tell me that I can't be seen.

"Do you have all your stuff?" Danika asks as she comes into view. She's wearing a black cocktail dress with lace shoulders and an open back. Her black high heels are like needle points, clicking as she walks in her ever graceful manner.

"I think so," the frog-mouthed, Maybe Zane boy says. "I always forget something though."

"I know," Danika emphasizes as she glances at the cup I left on the sink. She frowns for a moment, a brief second, looks up at the wall to the right of me and then looks away. I clench my fists, the palms slick with sweat.

"Tonight will be good. First of the season is always good."

Danika rolls her eyes, flicking her glossy hair back. "Says you. I'm forced to mingle with the bottom feeders of the world."

"Oh yes, the Dark Ministers and the one percent-the bottom feeders," maybe Zane snorts, his face partially coming into my range of sight. He's good looking despite his huge mouth; dirty blonde hair, shortly cut, and little green eyes suit his smaller build. With the sharp, suspicious look of his he almost looks like me with different colouring. And a different mouth. He'd be around my height-average unlike Ryker or even Danika, especially when she's wearing ridiculous heels.

"They're all so grabby, you know, they always try to touch me, hold my arm and stuff," Danika sighs, tapping the marble kitchen bench with her nails. Clearly they're waiting for someone.

"No wonder," he mutters, looking at Danika pointedly, glancing at her figure-hugging, second-skin dress. She smiles for a second, the most genuine emotion I've ever seen cross her face, and then she looks away, a cloudy expression filling her face. Maybe Zane just stands there watching her, very obviously dying to be with her.

Ryker bursts into the room just as the sexual tension gets awkward. He's dressed up in a suit and tie, just like Maybe Zane, which looks particularly good on him. His hair is combed back and his face cleanly shaved-he looks like he could play James Bond. Still, the frown is ever present on his otherwise eight out of ten face.

"Ready?" he demands, no time wasted with pleasantries.

"I forgot something but I can't remember what it is," Maybe Zane admits, grinning up at Ryker. Ryker rolls his eyes.

"Okay, let's go," he announces, and instead of turning down the hallway to the front door he goes to the backdoor. Stepping into the backyard, he walks beside the house, to the little alleyway between the wall and the fence, and disappears. Maybe Zane and Danika follow, disappearing along with Ryker. I wait five minutes before I go outside.

The tiny passageway ends in a wall. Dead end. But they're gone, all three of them, and I doubt they jumped the three metre high fence to the neighbours backyard. I tiptoe down the passage, looking for a door back into the house and find nothing except bushes and stones.

Then I see it. A patch of floor, maybe two metres long and half a metre wide, with stones seemingly glued on. Almost indistinguishable from the rest of the ground. A little copper hook sits between two smooth white stones and when I pull it up the floor comes with it. Pushing the tile back like a bin lid, I realize I'm holding my breath. The trapdoor reveals a steep staircase leading into complete darkness.

No. Way.

The crazy half of myself must've taken over because instead of turning away, instead of questioning everything, I step down into the darkness. Leaving the door open, incase I'm walking into something weird and dangerous--okay, because I'm walking into something weird and dangerous--I put a hand out on the wall and slowly go down the steps. The wall seems to be made of stone, the stair edges still sharp from being carved from some raw material. The deeper I go, the colder and darker it gets, until eventually I'm feeling for the next step in complete darkness. I begin to count how many stairs I'm going down-thirty five, thirty six, thirty seven-until the floor levels out suddenly.

Squishing the ground with my foot, I can feel the concrete. Is this some kind of sewerage system? What the hell are they doing going down into the sewerage? I'm not completely stumped for ideas, I must admit. Underground party, underground cult, underground drug den. But why underground? And why is the access point in my mum's property?

Carefully and nervously, I take steps forward. I've gone this far I may as well find out what this is all about, I tell myself, but the notion of an underground serial killer's club keeps popping up in my mind. This is the sort of thing you see reenacted on true crime TV shows. They'll get some whiny teenage actress to play me, no doubt. They'll say I came down here because I was obsessed with Ryker, because I was jealous of Danika, because I was desperate for friends. Tragedy, they'll call it. Greek tragedy. Hey, maybe they'll make a movie about it. David Fincher might direct it if my dead corpse is lucky.

After what seems like a long time walking down the pitch black hallway, I remember my phone. Pulling it out of my pocket, I pray for service. My prayers aren't answered but the light from the screen does give me a better look at the underground passageway. Spinning around in the blue glow of the my screen, I see that the walls and floors are concrete but not the type you'd expect in a sewerage tunnel. They're new, not cracked or dirty. I take a photo, for evidence sake, and continue on.

It's about a minute after finding my phone that I hear the roaring. It's a soft sound, like the roar of water. Like a buzzing, a dull hum. That's it exactly-a hum. It doesn't sound particularly dangerous so I continue on, my phone in front of me like a shield.

Soon, I see the light at the end of the tunnel. A speck of light, a rectangle, then a door frame, then an archway, then almost the entire view in front of me. My pace is faster, the dependency on my phone weakening. I hurry towards the light, the soft hum turning into a full roar. Every inch of my skin tingles and all five of my senses overreact to every stimulant.

A step away from the door of light, I stop. Do I want to go further? Do I accept the repercussions of stepping through this door? Do I understand how idiotic I am just being down here? Yes, probably not and maybe, but I'm going through no matter what I tell myself.

Slowly, to preserve the moment, I step through.

My mouth drops and my hand flies to cover it, an involuntary act. A little voice inside me remembers where that familiar hum and roar comes from. Back when I was living with my dad, I used to go to the football every weekend. It's the roar of a crowd.

I'm in a stadium.