IN THE DARK, page 17
But the alternative was to back down, quit, go home, never get any more prize money, lose any chance of finding out who Mog was or why he’d chosen Jane to be his player or what the point of the Game was.
Screw that, she thought.
Then she called out, “Ready or not, here I come.”
Real smart, she thought. Announce you’re here.
Why not? Maybe it’ll scare off…
What if I get an answer?
Only silence came from the house.
“I’m coming in!” she yelled.
Reaching out with one foot, she pushed at the porch floor.
It didn’t feel especially solid.
If it’ll hold for just a split second while I take just one step…
What if this is it? she thought. This might be like the dog last night—Mog’s surprise for me. Maybe I’m supposed to try crossing, and the floor gives out and down I go. And maybe he’s got a treat down there under the porch for me. Like broken bottles or spikes or a pitchfork.
He doesn’t want me ruined, she reminded herself. It’d spoil the Game. He wants to test me, not break me.
Yeah. That’s encouraging. But he can’t control everything. Like how rotten the floor is.
She shoved at it again with her right foot. It didn’t fall apart, so she took a deep breath and swung her left leg forward. The floor squawked. She stepped down close to the door frame, then hurried through.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”
The hardwood floor beneath her feet felt good and sturdy as she took a few strides deeper into the house. Stopping, she swept the area with her flashlight. This was definitely the kitchen. It had cupboards, sinks, an old stove, and the refrigerator she’d seen from outside.
The refrigerator door was rusty, dented, and pocked with bullet holes.
Somebody had used it for target practice.
Wonderful, Jane thought.
Maybe they put someone in it, first.
That was an especially charming thought.
Why not open it up and find out?
There isn’t a body inside, she told herself. I’d be able to smell it.
Depending on how long it’s been there.
I’m not going to look. No way.
But what if that’s where Mog put the envelope?
She stepped closer to the refrigerator. It was the primitive type that hadn’t been made for ages—the kind that had a lever handle. They’d been outlawed. Kids used to get trapped inside and die.
A dreary, abandoned house like this might attract kids. The daring ones. It’d be a fine place for playing spooky games, especially hide and seek.
What if a kid came along and hid inside the refrigerator and his friends couldn’t find him?
There’d been no reports of missing children since Jane had moved into town. But someone might’ve gotten trapped in the old refrigerator a year ago, two years ago, five…
Or it might happen tomorrow, Jane realized.
Somebody should’ve taken this door off its hinges.
To free a hand for opening it, she tucked the flashlight under her right arm. She pointed her pistol at the door, and turned her body slightly until the beam of light also pointed at it. Then, with her left hand, she gripped the handle.
Might be something pretty bad inside. Whatever it is, don’t panic. Stay cool.
Just in case, she switched off her pistol’s safety. She curled her forefinger across the trigger.
Then she tugged the handle. The door swung open, hinges growling.
Nothing leaped at her. Nothing tumbled out. Nothing hideous or dangerous waited for her on any of the shelves or racks.
The refrigerator appeared to be empty except for a single white envelope hanging by a strip of tape from the edge of the center shelf. Handwritten on the envelope was her name.
The first place I looked!
Jane wanted to be elated. But she felt too nervous for that.
It can’t be this easy.
With her left hand, she tore the envelope free. She liked the feel of its thickness and weight.
If this is really it, I can get out of here.
But she had doubts.
She backed away from the open refrigerator. When her rump met a counter, she stopped, switched the safety back on, then bent down and clamped the pistol between her knees. She kept the flashlight pinned beneath her arm. Using both hands, she tore open the envelope.
She took out the packet.
A sheet of notebook paper, as usual, was folded around the bills. She removed the bills and fanned them out. At the corner of each was a big 100.
She counted how many. Sixteen.
She felt a warm swelling of excitement in her chest.
This was easy, she thought. This was really easy. Good thing, too. Wouldn’t have taken much at this point to make me quit. Maybe Mog sensed that, or something.
She folded the money in half and slipped it down inside a rear pocket of her corduroys. The seat of the pants was fairly tight. She could feel the stiff block of the cash against her buttock.
All mine. Incredible. All it took was a little guts.
She opened the note and held it up in front of her flashlight.
Dearest,
The Game remains afoot, so carry on. Hotfoot it upstairs to the Master bedroom.
You won’t be sorry.
Love & kisses,
MOG
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jane read the note again, her elation sinking.
Not a word about the Game being over for tonight and resuming tomorrow night at the usual time. Mog was clearly telling her that it was continuing right now.
“Terrific,” she muttered.
She didn’t want to go upstairs, especially not to the master bedroom. She wanted to go home.
It’s supposed to be over when I get the money!
Not necessarily, she thought. On the first night of the Game, she’d gotten three payments: the fifty at the circulation desk, the hundred inside Look Homeward, Angel, and the two hundred at the top of the Crazy Horse statue. Only on the second and third nights had she been given single tasks and payments. From that little pattern, she’d assumed it would remain one per night.
Shouldn’t go assuming, she told herself.
Anyway, Mog’s the Master of Games. Which probably means he can make up whatever rules he pleases. And change them when he likes.
Doesn’t mean I have to go along with it. I can quit.
She looked again at the note.
The Game remains afoot, so carry on.
Which ought to mean, Jane realized, that another envelope would be waiting for her upstairs in the master bedroom.
So far, Mog had remained consistent about doubling the amount of money.
If I carry on, she thought, I’ll get twice sixteen hundred dollars. Three thousand, something.
In her mind, she doubled the sixes. They added up to twelve, making two hundred after you carry the twelves one over for the three thousand. Giving a total sum of three thousand, two hundred dollars that should be somewhere upstairs in an envelope for her.
“Man,” she whispered.
She tucked the note into a pocket of her shirt, then shut the refrigerator door.
She started to turn away, then faced the refrigerator again.
I can’t just leave it this way, she thought. Someone might come along.
In the morning, she could make a few phone calls—notify the authorities. They’d send people out to remove the door, cart the whole thing away, or whatever. But what if a kid should come along tonight and climb inside and…
“Fat chance,” Jane muttered.
Besides, nobody was likely to suffocate in there—not the way it was riddled with bullet holes.
Still…
She frowned. There must be a way to make the thing safe. She opened the door and studied its hinges.
I’m procrastinating, she realized. Anything to keep me from going upstairs.
But this is important. It might save a life.
Yeah. Maybe.
She didn’t have the tools for removing the door from its hinges. She supposed she could shoot the hinges off. That’d be awfully noisy, though, and a waste of ammo. She might be able to turn the refrigerator around, shove it door-first against the wall. Or tumble the thing forward onto its door.
Yeah, drop it onto me. Great plan.
Then she found an idea that seemed just fine. She spotted the old sheet of newspaper that she’d noticed earlier, picked it up, ripped it, crumpled it, and stuffed a thick wad into the refrigerator’s latch hole. After making sure it was packed in tightly, she swung the door shut.
A soft bump, and the door swung back open again.
“Brilliant,” Jane whispered. “If I was any smarter, I’d be a threat.” She laughed softly, then felt her bowels crawl.
Gotta go upstairs, now.
“Oh, man.”
Hey, she reminded herself, it’s for three thousand, two hundred bucks. For money like that, I’d walk through Dracula’s Castle blindfolded with a bloody nose and my period.
“Or maybe not,” she muttered.
Flashlight in her left hand, pistol in her right, she stepped out of the kitchen and entered an area that had probably been the dining room. Before going farther, she swept the room with her light.
She saw nothing capable of attacking her.
The room was empty of furniture. Wallpaper hung in tatters like shredded rags. In some places, the walls had been bashed and torn open. Glass from the shattered window was mixed on the floor with broken slabs of drywall and old boards of various sizes, some with nails jutting, points up. Odd pieces of clothing were strewn about: a sock here, a pair of pants there, a boot, a stiff wad of boxer shorts. She spotted a crushed cigarette pack, part of a potato chip bag.
Being careful what she stepped on, Jane walked across the room.
The air smelled like old, wet books.
What a charming place, she thought.
In the next room, she whispered, “Ah, this one’s furnished.”
The furniture consisted of one skinny, stained mattress over in a corner. On the floor near the mattress were smashed beer cans, broken liquor bottles, and dark mounds that Jane supposed were blankets and an assortment of clothing and rags.
This room smelled worse than the other. Mixed in with the musty aroma were scents of booze, urine and feces.
Jane felt an urge to gag, so she held her breath and quickened her pace.
As she rushed along, she kept her light and eyes on the dark mounds. They were probably just blankets or clothes or rags, but she worried that one of them might be covering things—things that might start to come at her.
Soon, they were behind her.
She found the foyer, the front door, and the foot of a stairway that led to the second floor. Still holding her breath, she shone her light at the top of the stairs.
Nothing coming down at her.
She turned around.
Nothing coming at her from behind.
She tested the first stair. It creaked, but felt good and solid. Those that she could see above her looked all right, so she climbed. When she reached the sixth stair, she let out her breath and filled her lungs.
The air didn’t seem quite so bad, here.
She supposed that she would need to go back through that horrible room on her way out, though.
Unless she could leave by the front door.
None of the house’s doors or windows seemed to be boarded up.
I should be able to get out that way, she thought. Unless it’s nailed shut, or something.
She wished she had tried to open it before starting up the stairs.
Find out soon enough, she thought.
She aimed her light again at the top of the stairway.
So far, so good.
If I was in that horrible book, she thought, I’d have a monster bounding down at me. One of those slimy white ape-things with teeth in its cock.
It wouldn’t take one of those to scare me witless, she thought. Wouldn’t take much of anything at all.
But nothing appeared.
At the top of the stairway, she halted. She swung her flashlight this way and that, spotted no assailants coming at her from up or down the long corridor, but glimpsed plenty of shadows and debris.
What’m I doin’ here? she thought.
We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here…
Three thousand, two hundred bucks, she reminded herself.
And more after that if the Game goes on.
If I don’t drop dead.
I’m too young to drop dead.
Sure.
I’ve probably felt worse, she told herself.
She was having a difficult time catching enough breath. Her heart was slamming. Her mouth was parched. Her face dripped sweat. Her hair felt soaked. So did the sides and back of her shirt, and the seat of her panties. Soaked and clinging to her skin.
This isn’t so bad, she thought. At least I’m not getting hurt by some damn dog—or bums. Not yet, anyhow.
She just wished that she hadn’t worn such heavy clothes. A long-sleeved shirt on a hot night like this? Not to mention corduroy pants?
They’re cooking me.
Should’ve stayed in my running shorts.
But she would be grateful for the shielding clothes if things turned bad.
She glanced at the side of her pistol to make sure the safety was off. The red dot showed. All set. Keeping her forefinger straight out alongside the trigger guard, she began to search for the “Master bedroom.”
Why did Mog use the upper case M? she wondered. He’s so big on hints and clues, it must mean something.
Master is what he calls himself. Is he saying it’s his bedroom?
What if he lives in this place?
She probed a bathroom with her flashlight beam, then backed away until she met the wall at the other side of the corridor. With the wall against her back, nothing could sneak up on her.
What if Mog lives here?
Maybe this is it, she thought.
She’d supposed from the start that Mog’s scheme had a special purpose. She couldn’t be sure what its purpose might be, but maybe the Game was designed to lead her, step by step, toward a particular destination—a place she would normally shun.
Such as a creepy old house by a graveyard.
Such as Mog’s bedroom inside that house.
Envelopes of money like a trail of cheese for the rat to follow.
I’m not a rat, she told herself.
And then gasped as something scurried over the side of her neck, something with legs that tickled. Spider! Shuddering, going prickly with gooseflesh everywhere, she sprang away from the wall and swept at the creature with the head of her flashlight.
Got it!
But a moment later, she felt a tickle underneath her shirt, just below her collar bone.
God, no!
Fast as she could, she shoved the flashlight between her thighs. While she did that, the spider scampered downward onto her left breast.
She slapped it through her shirt.
Felt it crumble and squish.
After the sting from her slap faded, she could feel the body like the weight of a coin on her breast. It was stuck to her skin, mashed into the moisture of her sweat, glued there with its own juices.
The feel of it disgusted her.
She had to wipe it off. Fast.
So appalled she could hardly think straight, she tugged open the top of her shirt. She had to do it one-handed. It came undone, and a moment later a button clicked on the floor.
The barrel of her pistol would only smear the mess, so she jammed her hand down into her corduroys and brought out the switchblade knife. Tonight, she hadn’t bothered with a rubber band to keep the blade shut. She’d decided to take her chances rather than slow things down—and snap her lips.
She thumbed the button and the blade sprang out.
She wished she could see what she was doing.
But the flashlight was between her legs, pointing into the bathroom. She could see nothing of her breast.
Maybe just as well, she thought. I don’t want to see whatever’s left of the damn spider.
Just be careful. Real careful.
Quickly, she lowered the edge of the blade until she felt it against her skin just above where the mess was. Then she scraped. One quick stroke as if shaving the top of her breast with a straight razor. She felt the small gob skid along in front of the blade, and hoped it wasn’t leaving much of itself behind.
Bending at the waist, she gave the blade a flick.
That should’ve gotten most of it.
She wiped both sides of the blade on a leg of her trousers. Clamping the handle between her teeth, she lifted the untucked end of her shirt and scrubbed at the trail left by the spider.
Then she took the flashlight from between her legs and inspected the damage. Her flushed skin was landscaped with countless goosebumps. The knife, however, had left no visible mark. The spider had left no trail of juice or pieces; the blade or the vigorous wiping with her shirt had gotten it all.
Except that!
It looked like a thick black whisker.
Jane knew it was part of a spider leg.
She tucked her chin down and blew on it. The leg trembled slightly, but stayed. Wincing, she brushed it away with the edge of her gunhand.
She checked her breast once more with the flashlight.
It looked as if it had been dipped in ice water.
No traces remained of the spider, so she clamped the flashlight under her right arm and closed her shirt. She kept the flashlight where it was, and took the knife from her teeth.
She held on to the knife.
Let’s find that envelope and get out of here, she thought. Before we meet another spider.
Turning, she followed the pale beam of light down the corridor toward another doorway.
One more spider and I’m gone. Rather face fifteen Rottweilers than…
The door was shut. Jane nudged it with her knee. Squalling on dry hinges, it swung open. Her light stretched into a large room.
She caught a whiff and quit breathing.
What the hell died in here?
