Pain explodes in my head the second I become aware again. The back of my skull throbs like nobody's business. It feels like someone took a hammer and hit me as hard as they could and then decided it was not enough to hit me once, but continued to do so over and over. I groan and reach up to rub the agonizing pulse point.
But my arms won't move.
I pull at them, hard, but they are frozen in place. Well, not exactly. I can move my fingers. I stretch them and then mold them to the surface they are lying on. Wood. It feels like the arms of a chair. I glance down to see and realize that I can't open my eyes. Panic creeps in and I take a deep breath to calm myself, but find it doesn't work when I can't move my legs or stand up.
Panicking is not good, Mattie, I tell myself and try to remember what happened. Had I been in an accident? Am I lying in a hospital bed right now hooked up to tubes and wires stuck in coma-land? That would be just my luck, especially since I found Sally... oh HOLY CRAP!
Sally. She'd shown me Mary's bike and then... then... I'd heard someone whisper and...THEY HIT ME! HOLY CRAP!
No, no, no, no, no. This can't be happening. Had the killer nabbed me? Please not that. Not me. I try again to move, but can't. I rotate my arms a little and feel the abrasive texture of a thick rope around my wrists. I'm literally helpless.
Don't panic, Mattie, I tell myself. Calm down, focus. You will get out of this.
But how? A bitter laugh bubbles up. I try taking a few deep breaths and gag. The smell of mildew and stagnant water invades my mouth. Don't throw up! For just a moment I am back in that New Orleans apartment with my Mom, fending off water and the occasional rat that floated in. I hated that place. You're not there, I reassure myself and shove that memory to the back of my mind. I have worse things to concentrate on right now.
"Hello?" I call out, grateful that my mouth hasn't been taped shut. I am not sure why, but then the killer hadn't taped up Mary's mouth either. It was only Sally I saw with tape over her mouth now that I think about it. He hadn't taped up any of the other kid's mouths. Strange.
Silence greets me. I expect that anyway. Psycho killers tend to play with their victims. At least they do in the TV shows I love to watch. I listen instead, but the only thing I hear is the sound of my own breathing. There's a slight shuffling off to the right of me and I flinch. It's a sound I know well.
Rats. I hate rats. When I was seven, my foster family decided that I needed to learn to do as I was told. They locked me in the basement for two days with no shoes or socks. It was dark, cold, and infested with those little beady-eyed monsters. For two days, I fought them off, felt them make a meal of me, crawl all over me. I'd had nightmares for years, still do sometimes. The scars on my feet are a constant reminder of them and it's a fear I've never been able to shake. I can hear them now, scuttling back and forth. I can't fight them this time if they decide I'm supper. I'm tied down to a chair and no one knows I'm here. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life.
No. You are not helpless, Mathilda Louise Hathaway. You are stronger than this. I tell myself this over and over, making myself breathe in and out slowly. I calm down and take stock of my situation. Okay, my hands and legs are tied to the chair. I lean forward and much to my amazement, find that I can lean forward. While I might have my appendages tied up, my attacker didn't see fit to strap a rope around my upper chest. This could be good. He'd tied a rope around my chest right at elbow level only to keep my hands and arms from moving. I lean forward as far as possible. Almost! I can almost reach the ropes around my wrists. If I can get to them, I can pull at the ropes around my wrists hard enough with my teeth to loosen them – and pull one of my hands loose.
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.