The Ghost Files

Chapter Twenty Four

I'm mere inches away from the ropes when I hear the footsteps. They are heavy and loud, coming toward me. I sit up, not wanting him to realize what I'm up to. A door creaks open somewhere near my left and he's in the room moving about, not saying anything and then he stops. The utter silence is deafening. I can't even hear him breathing. Where is he? I strain my ears, trying to pick up any sound, but there is nothing. Why did he stop moving? Is he behind me? In front of me? I can't see and I can't hear anything. It's driving me a little mad the longer I sit here trying to hear any sort of sound.

A thump sounds directly to my right and I jump, trying to shift in that direction. The ropes prevent me from moving very much, but I try. The silence is driving me a little insane. It's the not knowing. That is what is terrifying me. I can't see him or hear him. I don't know what he is doing, or what he's planning. Why isn't he talking to me? Shouldn't he be laughing or taunting me? This isn't like the shows I watch on TV. This is scary and he's not behaving like the psychotics on those shows I watch. He's silent and this is a torture all its own, not knowing what he is going to do or when he's going to do it.

"Mr. Olson?"

Maybe if I talk to him, he'll talk to me. Anything is better than this silence.

"I know it's you, Mr. Olson. I heard... I heard the message your friend left you on the answering machine."

I can hear the message playing over and over in my head...

"Hey, Henry, it's me. I need you to do me a favor. Clock in for me tomorrow like I did for you a couple weeks back. Lynn wants to meet up and the wife can't know. Thanks, buddy."

I hadn't been able to get that message out of my head the entire time I followed Sally. I still can't quite believe it. Sure, Mr. Olson is quiet, and has a temper sometimes when the kids don't pick up their toys, but this? A cold-blooded killer? I never suspected. Then again, it's always the quiet ones you have to worry about.

I hear something scrape across the floor behind me. What is he doing?

"Mr. Olson? Please talk to me. You're really scaring me."

I strain my ears and that is when I hear it. It's so soft I would have missed it had I not been listening so hard. Just behind me and to my left, I hear a soft whimper. Mary? Could she still be alive? I hear a heavy thud and the soft whimper turns into a low muted scream. Her voice is hoarse and barely above a whisper but I can hear it. Dear God, what is he doing to her? Footsteps walk away from the whimpers and then I can hear him rifling through metal. I know its metal because I can hear the clanging. He has to be looking through his torture tools. They always have torture tools. Remembering all the dead kids that came to me the last few weeks and their mangled states, I don't want to think about it, but I can't stop thinking about it. Images of broken, bloody body parts keep flashing through my mind. Mirror Boy's mangled unrecognizable face has a starring role. Is he doing that to Mary? Is he going to do that to me?

I have to get out of here. I pull futilely at the restraints holding me. They are tied very tight. He knows how to tie a knot.

More screams assault my ears and I cringe. I yank harder, but to no avail. I can't take the screams anymore. She won't stop. What is he doing to her?

"Stop it!" I yell. "Leave her alone!"

But it doesn't stop. I can't block it out. All I want to do is put my hands over my ears and cry. Her screaming is hoarse, low, and barely recognizable, but I can hear it. My ears are picking up the smallest sounds now that my eyes can't see. I can smell the tinny fragrance of blood as well. How much more can she take? I scream in sheer rage. There is nothing I can do and it makes me furious.

"You are nothing but a coward!" I shout, anger and bitterness dripping from my voice. "Why don't you hurt someone who can hurt you back?"

Silence.  Dead silence. It's as if all the sound has been sucked out and I'm left in a vacuum. Even Mary's whimpers have ceased. Guess he didn't like hearing the truth. Then he moves, his footsteps carrying him behind me. I can hear the metal clanking of tools being sorted through. My throat tightens. I think I made him really, really mad. At least he stopped hurting Mary.

I feel it then, the icy cold that accompanies a ghost, only this time its magnified, the cold so deep it seeps into my bones, filing me up. I can feel them around me, whispering softly, but I can't make it out. The temperature in the room has to have dropped a good twenty degrees or more. It's freezing. I wonder if Mr. Olson can feel it or if it's just me? I hope to God he can feel it and he knows it's the ghosts of everyone he's murdered.

He's moving again, coming closer to me.

I tense and the cold intensifies. They can see what he's doing and I can't. It's almost like they are trying to help me, to comfort me. Oh, God, what is he going to do to me?

He stops next to me and I cringe. Why can't I learn to keep my mouth shut? I can smell the bitter scent of his sweat mingled with Mary's blood. It makes me nauseous and I try to control my gag reflex. He runs a gloved finger down my arm and I flinch. The leather is warm against my cold flesh. The finger retraces its path back up my arm, my neck, and finally coming to rest against my lips. I move my head away, but he grabs my hair and yanks it hard, holding my head still. I can't turn away from the exploration of his fingers against my face.

"Don't touch me you filthy, nasty pedophile!" I scream. I can hear the fear in my voice and I hate it. I can't stop him and I hate it.

"Shut up," I hear the whisper. "Don't make it worse."

Mirror Boy? He's here? "Eric?" I whisper.

Mr. Olson's hands still at my whisper. His hand in my hair tightens, his grip beyond brutal.

"Hush, Mattie. Just stay still and it'll be over soon, I promise."

"I don't want to die, Eric."

"We're here with you." That's Emma, the little girl from the bathroom. I recognize her voice.

"You're not alone." A dozen or more voice whisper that over and over...you're not alone.

I spent my life pretending they didn't exist and now, in my moment of need, they're here for me. Guilt floods me. I ran from them and they are trying to comfort me.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry I didn't help you."

The first hit comes in response to my words. It's just a slap really, but a hard one. I taste blood. Part of the blow landed on my lip and it split. Another blow lands, this time his fist. Then another and another. He never moves his hand from my hair, keeping my face upturned and immobile. He's breathing hard now. This excites him. I feel sick knowing my pain is how he gets his kicks.

"It's almost over," Eric whispers in my ear at the same time Mr. Olson releases me. Pain explodes in first one hand and then the other. He's hit my hands with something big like a sledgehammer. The pain radiates up my arms. I can't move my fingers. I think he broke them. I just want it to stop, please make it stop. There are small sounds coming out of my mouth, sounds I didn't even know I could make. The pain is unbearable. His hands wrap around both of mine and squeeze. The pain overwhelms me and then the darkness claims me.