I push the envelope of safety for the entire ride to Maidstone. Night is falling, and the cars on the road are starting to thin. I’m getting closer. I can feel it.
Maidstone is a small town that sits near the border with New Hampshire. The sign by the road welcomes me to the town, and announces a population of two thousand, two hundred and twenty-seven. Below that reads, “+1 now that you’re here!” There is no downtown, or any sign of a town, for that matter—just scatterings of buildings.
I follow my GPS down roads that twist and turn through the trees. Occasionally, a gravel driveway pops out of the woods, connecting to the road.
The GPS announces that my destination is up ahead. The only possible option is a red mailbox sitting at the end of a seemingly random driveway reaching out of the forest. I turn into the drive and can see lights burning amongst the trees. I roll forward, and just as the view of the road is obstructed by the trees behind me, the house comes into view. It’s a split-level with gray siding and a red roof. All the lights in the house are on. It would be charming if I weren’t so on edge. There’s a detached garage next to the house. The door of the garage is up and I can see a Chevy Malibu inside.
I park the car in front of the garage. I’m having déjà vu from my trip to Laura’s mother’s house in Thistleton. I remember the wind whipping against the side of the house, but here in the woods, it’s total silence. There’s no chirping of insects or call of birds from the forest. It’s too cold.
I walk to the porch and look through the window, into the living room. The lamps on the end tables next to the couch are on. There’s a painting of a ship at sea above the mantel of the fireplace. There’s a television in the corner, but aside from the lights being on, there’s no signs of life.
I go to the front door. I’m about to press the illuminated doorbell button, but stop when I see the door is slightly open.
I knock, and gently push it in.
“Hello? Is anyone h—?”
As the door opens, the smell washes over me. I know that smell. I know it from the basement of a warehouse. My eyes burn with tears. I turn and wretch. Had I anything in my stomach, it would have come up. I move away from the door, lean on the porch railing, and take in large gulps of air. I can still taste it in my throat and nose—the smell of rot and decay.
A horrible thought takes hold—Murphy.
I press my sleeve over my mouth, take a few deep breaths, and step through the door. My heart is pounding in my chest. Even though I’m taking short, shallow breaths with my sleeve over my mouth, the stench is still overpowering. To the left is a set of stairs that lead to the second floor. The living room is on my right. Straight ahead is the kitchen. Through the kitchen opening, I can see a window looking out at the forest. In front of the window is a table, upon which rests a piece of paper. I slowly walk into the kitchen. I make as little noise as possible, and dart my eyes from left to right, remaining alert for any sudden movements.
The kitchen is spotless. The counters are bare. The sinks are empty. There’s no sign of the source of the smell.
I keep my sleeve pressed over my mouth as I take the piece of paper from the table.
I watched you walk into that place and I came here. I’ve had to speed up my plan. I don’t know how you found me, but if you found that place, then you finally know. You understand everything. My parents tried to stop me from doing what’s right. They’re upstairs, asleep. You know what you took from Laura and I. Now, you understand what you’ve done, and what I’ll do to make it right. You killed us, and left us in that room. I’ve brought Murphy home. He’s waiting, and it’s time for you to sleep.
—R&L
I race out of the house. I’m not going to check on her parents. I’ll take her word that they are “asleep” upstairs.
*
The drive home should have taken an hour. I cover it in thirty minutes. I have no regard for speed limits or double lines. The burner phone sits on the passenger seat. I keep willing it to ring.
I reach the edge of my driveway and swing the car in at a dangerous clip. All the lights in the house and cottage are off. I skid the car to a stop next to the porch, grab the burner phone, and leap out. I vault the porch steps, practically kick in the front door, and throw on the lights.
“Murphy!”
I race through the house, hitting all the lights, and frantically shouting Murphy’s name. I do a complete circuit, and wind up back in the living room. Every room has been searched, every light is on. There’s no sign of him or Rachel. I go to the windows and scan the trees.
The burner phone rings in my hand. I quickly answer.
“I played your stupid game! I know who you are, Rachel! You said you brought him home.”
“I did bring him home,” she whispers.
A light in the cottage comes on.
“It’s time to sleep.”