The Ghost Files

Chapter Twenty Five

How stupid can I be? I let my insecurities rule me once again and it might have cost me my life this time. Classic Mattie move. I groan in sheer frustration. Mrs. O? I still can't wrap my head around it. I honestly never suspected her. She seemed to care about us too much. I thought she cared about me. I don't know, maybe she does in her own sick twisted way, but that doesn't mean I am not going to do some serious harm to her when I get out of this. If I get out of this, I remind myself.

My head is getting fuzzier by the minute. There's no way I can loosen the ropes if I fall asleep, but I can't just sit here and do nothing, either. Where are the ghosts when you need them?

Maybe if I call for them?

"Eric?  Emma?" My voice is little more than a whisper. One of the blows had caught me in the throat. I'm guessing it's swollen and that is part of why it's so hard to speak. I'd noticed

the tenderness earlier when I'd been talking to Mrs. O, but it seems to be getting worse now. The talking probably aggravated it.

"Please," I try again. "Are you here?" A cough escapes me. The more I speak, the worse it gets.

The cold slams into me, seeps into my bones. The suddenness of it leaves me breathless. I'm so cold it hurts. My mind goes fuzzier and I know I'm so close to passing out it's not even funny. I don't know if it's because I'm in that between sleep and awareness or something else, but I can feel them. It's not just Eric and Emma. There are more here, so many more that I can feel the ache settle in my bones and stay there. My teeth start to hurt from the sheer cold that is seeping into my body. I can separate them in my head. There has to be over a dozen ghosts here. Dear God, how many people have they killed.

"Eric?"

"Hush," he whispers. "They're not gone. Don't make them come back and hurt you again."

"Eric, you have to help me," I say, desperation clear in my voice. For once, I don't care how pathetic I sound. I need him to help me.

He sighs. I feel it against my ear. "I don't know how."

"You have to get help," I say. My throat burns.

"How?' he asks. "No one can see me but you. How can I help you?" He sounds as miserable as I feel.

"You're a ghost, Eric. Ghosts are made up of energy. All you have to do is focus that energy to make someone see. Find Officer Dan. Use the computer, something to tell him where we are. Tell him we are at the Hartford House."

The door opens. I can hear the thud of boots. He's back. "Please, Eric!"

The cold intensifies and I understand why. They are afraid of Mr. Olson too. They are manifesting their fear as the cold.

He comes to stand beside of me. His hands lift up my face. He's wearing gloves. Heavy work gloves made of that scratchy material I hate. His fingers brush lightly over my swollen face, admiring his handiwork. I spit at him.

"Don't," I hear the ghosts wail in unison. Too late. He hits me again and then caresses the spot, almost apologizing with his touch. One hand trails down my face, my neck and then to my arm. The arm that has a needle mark on it. He pauses and I can feel the anger radiating off of him. He's figured out Mrs. O. gave me something.

He moves away, going behind me. His torture rack must be back there. It's where he'd gone earlier to find his tools. There's no noise though. He's not rummaging around. Maybe he's looking at them, trying to make up his mind about what to use? I wish I could see. At least then I'd know what was coming. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I'm so sleepy, but must stay awake. I don't know he'll do to me while I'm passed out. Please, God, I pray, please don't let me pass out.

The thud of his boots move again, only away from me. They are heading toward where Mary is. At least where I think Mary is. What is going to do her? I hear the sound of sawing, but nothing else. She's dead. My heart sinks. If she is alive, she'd be making some kind of noise. It isn't fair. I tried so hard to find her, to save her, and I couldn't.

I hear a loud thump. I want to gag. It's the sound of a body falling. He's just throwing her away, like she's yesterday's garbage. I hear the sound of running water, no wait. It's spraying like the water hose we have outside does when Mrs. O. waters her flowers. He's cleaning something. Maybe whatever he had Mary tied down to? Why would he be cleaning it? The answer pops into my mind as soon as I ask the question. He's cleaning it for me.

The water shuts off and then I hear the sound of a knife being sharpened. I recognize it because I'd seen Mr. Olson sharpening the kitchen knives last week. He's going to cut me. I know this, I try to prepare myself for this, but I can't. I'm terrified of knives. Ever since my mom, I can't bring myself to even pick one up for longer than a few seconds. Fear coils in my stomach, knotting it up. Not a knife. Anything but a knife.

He walks toward me; the steps are slow. My breathing is ragged, labored from the intense terror the thought of the knife is causing. He cuts through the bonds on my hands and then moves to my feet. I try to kick out, to hit him, but I can't. My body is stiff and sore, my muscles refusing to work. I'm not sure how long I've been tired up or if the shot Mrs. O gave me is helping to keep me docile, but there is nothing I can do as he hauls me up and drags me by the hair over the floor. I'm hoisted up onto a table. It's cold like steel. He grabs my wrists and wraps rope around them both, tying them tightly. I scream at the pain it causes me. He pulls my hands above my head and then secures them to something I can't see, but when he's done, they are pulled so tight I can't even move them. The pain is agonizing.

My feet are next. He ties them spread eagle to the table. Is he going to rape me now? My mind shudders away from that, but then I feel the tip of the knife. It's pressing against my throat. He skims it up my face, traces my lips with it. I can't move, I can't breathe. Panic is choking me. The knife blade moves down, the edge catching on my tee shirt, slicing it open. I feel the cold air against my skin. The blade presses down, making a shallow cut right above my left breast where it peeks out of the top of my bra. I scream. I can't help it. I'm terrified. I haven't been this afraid since I saw my mom swinging a knife at me. Please pass out, please pass out, please pass out, I chant.

The blade continues down my abdomen, making little shallow cuts as he goes. I'm crying now, begging him to stop, to please stop. He ignores me, the knife continuing its exploration of my body. He stops to inflict a deeper cut above my right knee. His fingers probe the cut, pushing deep so it bleeds more. I twist, trying to buck him off, but there is very little I can do. He has tied my hands and feet so I can barely move. He seems to know that it is driving me past the point of fear into cliff-jumping terror.

Then he stops. I hear him step away. What is he doing? Where did he go? Music fills the room. It's dark and somber. I'm not prepared for the jet of cold water that hits me square on the belly. I jump, causing more agony to tear through my hands as I pull at them. The water pressure is on full force and it hurts as it makes contact with my skin. It stops then another blast hits me on my thighs and then another on my chest. He continues until I'm soaked, shaking from cold, bleeding from over a dozen shallow cuts, and crying.

I rear up as far as I can when his hands clutch mine and squeezes hard. The pain is intense, more intense than my body can handle and for once I welcome the darkness that swallows me.