Lydia rises slowly, the weight of her grief like a great stone inside of her, and returns to the body of Finley Devere. She gives him a kick just to make sure, then retrieves the knife from his trouser pocket.
She cuts Alex free of the chair and lays him down flat on the floor, covering his bloodied chest with his own leather jacket. The softness of it beneath her fingers reminds her of their kiss on the rooftop, and she has to fight to hold back more tears. There will be a time to grieve, but she needs to draw a line under this saga first.
Lydia looks around for her clothes and phone. Both are gone. Finley must have hidden them somewhere she realises. Her clothes were not essential, not right now, she could manage the draping dress, at least until she found a phone. Maybe the one in the hallway works. She turns around to find the way out of the attic and freezes, her blood running cold. Where Finley’s body was a moment ago, now there is nothing but a pool of blood, and footprints leading to an open hatch in the floor.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she whispers. She could wait up here for help to arrive, or… “No,” she says out loud with a shake of the head. “Enough.” Picking up the gun from the floor near Alex’s feet, she follows the footprints to the hatch and begins to climb carefully down the wooden ladder attached to it. As she begins to take her first steps down below, she feels a slight tug pulling her back. It’s the damn dress, caught on a nail from the ladder. Still pointing the gun with steely determination and on high alert, Lydia proceeds to pull and tear the bottom of the dress, allowing her to hunt with absolute free mobility.
The first floor corridor is straight, and narrow, with doors on either side. Lydia looks down at the carpet for signs of blood, but the trail ends at the bottom of the ladder. “How did he manage that?” she mutters, irritated. No matter. She will be methodical, as she always is. Lydia reaches for the first door handle and grips it, the cold metal sending a shiver from her fingers right the way up her arm. “One,” she counts in her head, “two, three.” She turns the handle and pushes the door open. Beyond is a bedroom; neat, pale, dusty. Unused for many years by the looks of it. Jason’s parents’ room, maybe? She is about to move on, when a thin, rattling voice carries through the air.
“I will break you, Tune…” it hisses. “I will make you quiver with fear. I will show you exquisite pain. I will cut that mask from your face and show the world what you really are. Only then will you be allowed to die.”
“You blew it,” Lydia calls out, scanning the room for the source of the voice. “It’s over.”
“Your arrogance is the most predictable thing about you,” Finley whispers. It’s coming from the bed. Lydia shoots the duvet twice. Silence, then hoarse laughter fills the air.
“Come out, you coward!”
“Come and find me…”
Lydia edges to the bed and rips off the covers. Underneath, a two-way radio. She clips it to her thin shoulder strap, then checks the en-suite cautiously. Nothing. She moves to the next room, takes a deep breath, then bursts in, gun first. This looks like a boy’s room; small bed, blue curtains, baseball pictures on the wall. Random items dotted over surfaces. It doesn’t know whether it wants to be cluttered or tidy. Jason’s room?
“I have big plans for you,” hisses the radio.
“I’ve got plans for you too,” Lydia murmurs, hefting the pistol and moving to the next room.
Three doors later, the first floor is cleared. Lydia creeps to the staircase and begins to descend, eyes wide and alert.
“We could have been something beautiful,” Finley breathes through muffled static. “We could have had a future, but you ruined it.”
Lydia edges along the wall, peering into the living room opposite. It looks just as she remembers; window smashed, chair broken beneath it, creepy doll staring accusingly at her from the floor. “You asked for it,” Lydia mutters at the doll, creeping carefully through to the kitchen. It’s a large room, traditional, wood and tile. Everything clean and orderly. Everything in its place, from gleaming pans to wooden chopping blocks. Atop the central island sits a vase of fresh flowers… and a telephone. Lydia glances around, pistol held high, as she inches towards it. She picks up the receiver. The line is dead.
“Are you really just going to leave your boyfriend up there?” asks the rattling voice. Finley sounds breathless. Maybe if she just leaves, he will die. No, Lydia thinks. She doesn’t want to take that chance. This has to end tonight. She retraces her steps back to the hall. There’s only one room left to check. She takes a deep breath, turns the handle and pushes the door gently. Beyond is a large dining room table bearing a single bowl of fruit. Wooden cabinets either side loaded with fine china and cutlery, but nowhere a grown man could hide.
“Where the hell are you?” Lydia mutters. The soft thump of foot on carpet behind her makes Lydia flinch and spin around, firing off a round in the process. Finley lunges towards her, eyes wild, a mixture of blood and saliva foaming between his lips. In his hand is a large kitchen knife, and he swings it in her direction, stabbing and flailing frantically. His waistcoat is undone, his shirt torn and bloody, a single strand of lank, greasy hair stuck to his face. Lydia backs up, firing off two more rounds and then two hollow clicks. “Shit!”
Finley seizes his opportunity, hurling himself forwards and knocking Lydia to the ground. She kicks out at his face and crawls desperately through the nearest door, finding herself awkwardly positioned on her stomach at the top of a set of hard, stone steps leading down to the basement. In the second Lydia hesitates, wondering whether to crawl down or try to stand up, Finley seizes her by the bare ankle and raises his knife, grinning and exposing a bloodied set of teeth. Lydia thrashes around frantically as Finley tries to slide on top of her, pinning her down. With a sickening crunch, her knee connects with his jaw, and as she scrabbles to get away, they both go tumbling down the stairs, landing at the bottom with a painful thump.
Lydia recovers her senses first and scrambles to her feet. The lights are working down here, bright bulbs hanging loosely from the ceiling, illuminating the sheer, brutal horror of what she now sees. Seven bodies, intertwined in sick, unnatural ways, eyes gouged out, faces torn away, bones protruding from their rotting skin. A wave of nausea surges through Lydia and she gags hard, while on the ground nearby Finley stirs.
Lydia dashes to the stairs, but as she reaches the top, she feels that bony hand around her ankle again. She kicks out hard, connecting sharply with Finley’s face and his neck snaps back with a sickening crunch. Lydia stares for a second. Is he dead? Then slowly, horrifyingly, he turns his face back towards her with a broad grin, eyes bulging. Lydia kicks out again and wrenches herself free, reaching the top of the stairs and slamming the door behind her. It traps Finley’s groping fingers with a crack, then begins to swing back again. Lydia sprints straight ahead towards the broken window at the far end of the living room, but half way there a huge weight collides with her, knocking her to the floor.
The carpet burns her flesh as Lydia squirms and fights, desperately trying to break free of Finley’s grasp. But he has the advantage now. Using his sheer weight and strength he straddles her and pins her down, grinning maniacally as his good hand slides up her body and tightens around her throat, bony fingers slowly choking the life out of her. Lydia’s nails sink into his flesh, but to no avail. Her face glows pink, then red hot, her lungs burning, brain swimming. She knows she is about to die.
As Lydia’s weakening hands claw desperately at her attacker’s face, something crimson ignites in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her mother’s ring. Summoning her last remaining strength, Lydia clenches her fist and slashes at Finley’s face, opening a gushing wound over his cheek and eye. Finley screams and releases her. Gasping and fighting for breath, Lydia rolls onto her side and spots the iron poker on the floor just a few feet away. Stretching out with her fingertips, she grasps hold of it and swings it around hard, connecting with Finley’s head and sending a spray of blood cascading through the air. He collapses like a sack of potatoes, and Lydia raises the pointed iron implement high in the air to deliver the fatal blow. But something makes her hesitate. If she kills Finley, she will never know the whole truth. The world will never know. She won’t be able to finish her book.
She stares down at him, the monster that killed her true love, and the deadly weapon trembles in her hands as she fights every impulse she has to smash his brains into pulp. Is that who she really is? What she really wants? Finley believed so. If she kills him, does she not prove him right? Where would she go from there?
Lydia grits her teeth and screams as the darkness within swells and churns, and threatens to overcome her. She fights it so hard she feels like she will black out. But then it subsides, and she feels as calm as she has ever felt in her life.
Hating herself even as she does so, Lydia drops the poker. She reaches down and takes hold of his wrist. His skin is cold and clammy and the touch of it makes her shudder, but he still has a pulse. He’s alive. Then she notices the handcuffs, dangling now from his trouser pocket. Lydia snatches them up and rolls him over with her foot, pinning his arms behind his back and cuffing his wrists together. She drops the key into her bra, grabs him by the collar and hauls his limp body to the front door.
Outside the snow is still falling. Lydia heaves Finley through it and, with a huge effort, packs him into the trunk of her car. Then she stands, still in that awful dress and stares at what she’s done. This is a terrible idea. What if he comes around before she gets to the police station?
What are your options? asks the voice in her head. You need him. You need this.
“Right,” she mutters to herself. “Screw it.”
Lydia slams the trunk shut and throws herself into the driver’s seat. The roar of the car’s engine is the sweetest sound she has ever heard. She drives furiously through the open fields, wheels spinning and brakes screeching, through the twisted woods towards Traveller’s Bridge. Only when she sees its low, grey walls ahead does she allow herself to slow down, to take a breath and think. Don’t slip on that ice now and go sailing into the river, she thinks to herself. Don’t you dare mess this up now.
She flicks the heater and a blast of warm, welcome air begins to return her to life. The horror of what she has just experienced already starts to feel like a bad dream. She relaxes a little, hands loose on the wheel, gets comfortable in the seat, and reaches for the radio dial.
In the split second that she is distracted, a huge grey wolf looms out of the darkness on the bridge ahead. Lydia screams and wrenches the wheel hard to one side. A violent crash sends the car tumbling over and over, landing each time with a sickening crunch. Her head thuds, and spins, and cracks… and finally comes to rest inside the battered metal coffin. And all is silent again, as the gentle snow continues to fall in the peaceful winter night.