Chapter Ten

The hallway was vacant. The psych ward at 2 a.m. was as lively as the morgue, and Ferrill tried to look inconspicuous as he wandered his way to the lobby in plain clothes. He only glanced at the night staff and smiled. And then he was out into the stifling night air. It was easier than sneaking out of his own home. 

Helms’ patrol car was parked right up front, backed-in so he could tear out at a moment’s notice. Ferrill made several broad scans across the parking lot before approaching the vehicle. A jolt of excitement shot through his hands as the key turned and the lock popped. Breaking into a cop car. If only Grant could see this. Could he? Are you in there too, Grant?  

The driver’s seat felt like a jetfighter’s cockpit. Helms was a big guy and the seat was too far back for Ferrill to manage. After adjusting the seat, he instinctively reached for the mirror, but withdrew his hand and decided not to look. He slid the key in and hesitated. If he fires off the siren by accident, he might as well drive into a light pole. Don’t draw attention. You’re almost there. Don’t screw this up.

A turn of his wrist and the engine growled, then purred. He looked out each window once more, not a soul around but the one he was carrying. With a deep breath, he shifted the patrol car into drive and turned to the south side. A thought occurred to him as the city lights shimmered in the distance. He should’ve left a letter for his parents. 

***

Detective Marshall had commandeered the hospital’s chapel to work in solitude. Deep into the night, he had probed the city’s records on the Morris home and the family’s deaths. Growing cold, he revisited his naive profile of the South Street mutilator. Dull in the artificial light of the chapel’s stained glass, the false profile mocked him from the old file. A child’s scribbles. When the murders were fresh, he thought he could snag the killer on his own wit, piecing the signs together until it was whole.

He had drafted features based on the location of the killings, the victims’ similarities, and the ugly coup de gras. A true sadist, no doubt, who preyed on the poor, weak, and easy. It gave him power, superiority. There must be a haunting inadequacy somewhere in his life, maybe a physical flaw. A facial disorder that gave rise to those damned ghost stories. He didn’t like to be seen. The eye gouging could be a retaliatory act against the judging, pitying, superior looks he’d received all his life. Don’t look, don’t see, don’t look at me! 

But it was all wrong. Marshall had no clue what he was chasing. Surrounded by opaque signifiers and a bogus case file, he was lost. Sometime after 2 a.m., Marshall hid his head in his hands, his mind draining into blank space, thoughts going static. The chapel door shuddered, about to open. Marshall leaped alert and froze, watching the door. He wanted to shout them off, but couldn’t find his voice. The shuddering ceased and footsteps faded in the hall. He must’ve locked the door. With the altar to his back, he thought about praying. It was unlike him to ask for help. 

***

Nature had reclaimed the old neighborhood. Vines entangled porch bannisters and poured out through windows. Trees encroached on the abandoned homes, their roots disrupting the cracked sidewalks. Tall grass swayed as the patrol car passed. Ferrill knew where to go although he had never been here before. It was all familiar to the silver eyes looking through his pupils. It would guide him there.  

An awful pang gripped his chest when he saw the house. That’s it, a colorless Queen Anne towering ahead. He parked the cruiser and sat still a moment, trying to calm his pounding heart. This would be the end. The creature would be safely home, never to be seen again. And Ferrill would be its sacrifice. 

Trying to muster the will to act, he looked in the mirror. The thing allowed Ferrill to see himself. His own face looked tired. Dark rings around his eyes, the color drained from his skin. It was the look Grant often wore, strung out and wasted. At one time, it had seemed so glamorous.  

With one last look into his own eyes, Ferrill left the car and crossed over the home’s fallen gate. It was a grim sight in the blue moonlight, but the house must have been very nice once. Jacob Morris had amassed a fortune pioneering the city’s steel industry, and his death was widely publicized. A rotten wooden board lay at the foot of the front steps. Ferrill stopped to read the hastily carved greeting: 

The house of Jacob Morris 

Who left a corpse for us

With gold in his pockets

And silver on his sockets

Bloody rich and dead

With a bandage ‘round his head  

Splintered wood crackled as Ferrill climbed the front steps. Above him, light-blue paint chipped and peeled away from the ceiling. It was “haint blue,” a shade once thought to fend against restless spirits. Across the porch, the large door hung loose on its hinges, its brass knob stolen long ago. He felt electric eels slithering inside him as he pushed it aside. 

***

Tedious years fluttered away in an instant as Marshall shoved his open file off the chapel’s communion table. His wasted efforts came to rest softly on the carpeted floor, leaving only the psychologist’s notes. The boy shows the same signs as all the other victims. But the dreams—those are interesting. I shouldn’t have told him the house was real. “Don’t encourage belief in hallucinations,” the psych said. “Keep him here in reality.” 

“He’s watching you,” she said. “You and Helms are his grasp on the real world. He’s convinced that he’s been cursed with something awful, and may do something drastic to purge it. Show him that you’re not afraid, that there’s no need to act on fear. Avoid condescension. He’ll notice.”    

A sharp knock stole his attention. “You in there, Marshall? It’s Helms. Urgent.” 

The detective hustled up the aisle. He tightened his tie and unlocked the door. He loaded “What have you done,” but holstered his attitude. “What’s the matter?” 

The officer’s big, shaken frame filled the doorway. “The kid’s gone.”    

***

The dream, the investigation photos, it was all as he had seen before. Ferrill had brought a spotlight from the cruiser, a column of dust floating through its white beam. His sneakers padded silently over the foyer’s chessboard tile. There was a massive staircase by the door, but he imagined himself falling through it, disappearing in a burst of splinters. The churning in his gut was becoming unbearable, and looked for a place to lie down. 

Down a hall, he found the lavender parlor from his dream. Where the face was first taken. There would be a sofa here, where he could rest until the time comes. Something in him was ravenous, undeniable, more physical than ever before. He braced himself against the parlor doorway and lowered his beam to the floor. 

Ferrill was overcome with the sense of someone waiting for him in the dark. Growing weak, he raised the light to the fireplace mantel. Above it was a portrait of a young woman. Her face was smeared blank. Focused on the image, Ferrill set the spotlight on the sofa, projecting its beam upon the painting. His insides were roiling in a desperate rage. He approached the portrait and drew his knife. 

***

Marshall rocketed his unmarked car down South Street, Helms riding shotgun. He nearly lost control turning the corner into the old neighborhood, his palms slick with sweat. Let the boy live. Please let him. 

“There it is,” he growled to himself as they arrived at the crumbling house. Helms felt apart from himself as he rushed past his own cruiser, already at the scene. Ferrill had left the keys in the ignition. Two flashlight beams cut across the overgrown lawn, no sign of the boy. The front door was open. 

Helms entered first, pistol drawn and trialing the light. “Ferrill!” He called. “Can you hear me?” Marshall followed, watching the officer turn circles in a panic. “Don’t hurt the boy!” Helms shouted, the veins in his neck pounding. “If you hurt him, I’ll burn your damn house down!” 

“Cool it,” Marshall’s voice was low. He angled his light to the tile and illuminated footprints. In urgent silence, they followed down the hall. Breathless, they reached the parlor, decades of dust freshly stirred in the stale air. The cruiser spotlight lay by the sofa, casting white against the ceiling. 

Dread bathed Helms in icy cold as he shone his light upon the sofa. Ferrill lay on his back. His leather jacket was draped over his face. His shirt was shiny with blood. “Oh damn it,” Helms broke down, sobbing on his feet. 

Marshall approached and looked into the light. He stood frozen in place for a moment, then braced Helms by the shoulder. “Wait, step back.” He drew his gun and motioned Helms away. His hand shook as he reached for the leather jacket. Holding his breath, he pulled it away.

The boy was breathing. His jaw was intact. Something was on his face. Helms recognized Grant’s bandana, tied around to cover his eyes. “He’s alive,” Marshall whispered to himself, holstering his gun. The boy convulsed once and coughed red mist. His hands were over his stomach. Marshall pulled back the boy’s shirt and discovered a deep wound under his ribs. Ferrill’s switchblade fell to the floor. “I cut it out,” the boy spoke. “But I didn’t look.” 

“Get him back to the hospital now,” Marshall ordered with a shudder in his voice. “He can make it. I think he can.” 

Helms took the boy in his arms and bolted to the door. “You’ve done it, Ferrill. You’re free.” The boy strained to breathe. “I hope you can hear me now. You were a lot braver then me.”

As they crossed the foyer, the hair on the back of Helm’s neck froze like needles. In the rising light of the doorway, he turned to look into the house. Fully manifest, the creature was standing on the stairs, gripping the banister, eager to see them leave. Its face was hidden in the retreating shadows, but Helms caught an awful look at the body. Distinctly he saw it, the blackened, oozing, burnt skin. The boy was fading, but he stood still. He could kill it. Draw his pistol now and end it. He looked for its face, the body shining in light. As the sunlight climbed the stairs, the figure faded. No claws, no face, and the house was silent.  

The morning was warm at his back. Snapping aware, Helms turned and bounded across the porch to his patrol car. He laid Ferrill in the back, fired off the siren, and burned rubber toward the hospital. He wouldn’t know how to explain the night’s violence to Ferrill’s parents, but they should know he’s a good kid. 

*** 

In the parlor, Marshall kept his coat open, a hand on his pistol. After two years, he was in the killer’s lair, and he wouldn’t leave empty-handed. “I’ve been looking for you,” he called into the dark. “Show your ugly face. I’d love to see it.” 

His anger echoed in the tomb-like quiet. He dredged his flashlight through the shadows, ready to close his case. The light found a curious thing above the fireplace. He thought he saw a portrait of a woman, her face fair and beautiful. In the blink of an eye, though, the face was gone, just a smudge on the painting. The sting of fear flushed his veins and he turned to leave. He stepped into a heaving figure, towering tall over him, its skin dark and stiff like a body bag.